Guernica
I
was in a room full of children
we
were together in a great presence
how
could they know?
what's
ash to them?
it
wasn't the town … or the war
it
wasn't even the man painting
or
the idea in his head
(though
we could all see him
though
we knew his love)
the
name is a truth in itself
… not
forgetting is deciding to be
the
children – how could they know
this
black milk
or
a hand grows thorns?
they
would not recognise
breasts
mechanically contrived
how
can children know
a
certain horse is the past of our terror
that
this sun is only a lightbulb
has
to be thought up of a morning
there
is no daylight here
the
sword is broken or the hand
that
bull we are with
face
almost to face...
confusions,
as in the moment we've come to
is
there a right reading?
right
way up?
democracy
had to be thought of
it
has to be made every day
and
again
and
together
I
was in a room full of children
the
teacher told imagination
she
was all arms
fingers
were pointing
it
was their language
the
town has another
I
am in my own
I'm
with you
the
painting is a manner of speaking
the
town is a people
death
from the air
the
line makes the map
and
the map is re-made
where
there's no colour
there's
line and there's shade
the
bird becomes its scream
hands
are past the sky
even
children can see
it's
only statues lie broken in dust
they're
the unburied
the
past is with us here and again
even
a little is work to remember
listen
for what the teacher will say
where
drips of paint have come still
there
was hope then
…before
it was dry
the
world might have woken
how
little we survivors can tell
we
have to remember why the fallen fell
for
some events there's this language past words
the
painting is a flag
is
a fridge magnet, postcard
carry
this sacred thing in your head
memory!
a
banner is a tear
coiffure
free flown
the
moment standing
is
imagination
it's
we who do the staring
I
from my past
those
children seem all future to me
can
we listen now? do we attend?
the
only anchoring is flesh
bones
shallow
shall
we leave them above ground?
the
only colour is ash
imagination's
democracy
that's
what fascism kills
kills
the colour
the
teacher is trying to tell
the
work is a great expulsion of breath
the
colour of the work is ash
last
breath is what a ghost is
listen!
it's
with your eyes you'll hear them now
be
with them in beyond of words
a
name is not a painting
do
I even conjure an up?
how
is it this work of hands means for me?
and
for the first time for these children?
how
right it is to say our shame
inherited
of those never there
who
wouldn't speak the language
would
didn't come when called
they
were statues
just
a few moments later
death
knocked at their door
but
here was one moment
the
world could have stopped
were
we then? ask where are we now
witness
hands of the dead
in
this heart darkening
the
decades well and spill
like
chocolate
in
the dictator's cup
and
the decades to follow he had
the
hanged and the shot
of
the centuries mourn us
the
face disfigured
under
the boot
is
sorry for us still
and
this was a town
these
were the people
it's
for the children
this
truth is shown
in
the form of these statues
in
ash
left to this wall
portable still
portable still
it's
for them
we
remember now
after
the moment's silence
surely
then we'll know to speak
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.