Of War Victims, Russia, Bruges: (19 Poems) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.St Petersburg

City of Multiple Identities....
Venice of the North, St Petersburg....
Petrograd.....Leningrad,
Hero City.....St Petersburg again...

At its heart, Big Meadow, renamed Funny Field,
Tsaritsa's Meadow, Field of Mars,

Currently known as Revolution Square
Shedding more masks though time than Mata Hari
The Church on the Spilled Blood also reinvents itself
Cathedral of the Resurrection of Christ,
Where anarchists blew up a mighty Tsar

Topaz, lazurite, mosaics, glorious onion domes
4 million rubles poured into this shrine
After the seige of Leningrad it was a morgue
And then a storage place for vegetables,
Rechristened as 'The Saviour on Potatoes.'

A spinning boat-shaped weathervane
On the Admiralty's spire, is driven by war and snow

Wolves once roamed these streets where serfs rebelled
Streets of white nights and long, cold, eerie winters,
Grey granite buildings tower by frozen lakes

Swathed in fur, People sail by in ice boats
Here is the Winter Palace, green and white
With its onion dome
With its fifteen hundred rooms
Where Tsars ruled over a hundred million people
Here's wealth and power beyond imagining.

The parks and streets are lined with English oak,
Green ash and silver birch,
Norway maple, leafy limes and poplars.
Siberian larch, blue spruce,
And grieving willow

Chirping between their boughs,
Birds hunch and shiver.

Peter the Great, Bronze Horseman, sits forever
Astride his rearing mount, facing the River Neva
Lording the Baltic Sea, high on the Thunder Stone,
Built by the sweat of serfs and Swedish prisoners.

You may choose to consider Laika
The cosmic Barker, imprisoned in Sputnik II
Forever going walkies round the earth

You may visit the Cathedral of Paul & Peter
Grave of the Tsars, in their Altai jasper cells
With its icons, bell tower, and its needle spire.
Where a flying angel attempts to launch itself,
Bearing an orthodox cross to a higher orbit.
Lightning loved to strike its soaring tip

Once, the Dutch bells called 'God Save the Tsar',
Now, they sing the hymn of the Soviet Union.

This town is the home of the great Mariinsky ballet.
Nijunsky, Pavlova, Nureyev, graced its stage
Dmitri Shostakovich wrote his Seventh Symphony
While Leningrad endured the German siege.

In April, you may watch the melting ice
Snow-rocks from Lake Ladoga
Floating along St Petersburg's canals,
In the steps of Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Blok.

This city isn't just a one-trick pony
Its citizens have numbered Marc Chagall
Peter Carl Faberge, the Royal jeweller
Grechko, the spaceman. Kossacks.
Lenin, Putin, Dutchman and Jew, immigrant Swede and Scot
You'll shell out coins like Rimsky-Korsakov
Prokofiev and sad Rachmaninoff,

For beetroot soup, sour cream, and sturgeon pie
Perhaps you'll sit and eat beef stroganoff
Inside a café and hear ghostly music play:
Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker
Moustaches sprouting ice, bent over spoons

A rearing equine statue on Anichkov
Has one ball carved in likeness of Napoleon.
The Russian humour is akin to Scots.

Grandmasters of the game of human chess
Cannily moved pawns to challenge kings
White and Red Terror, chewed the town like a bone
This town is hard to kill, just like Rasputin:
Poisoned by plots, shot many times and beaten,

Drowned by the Neva, yet it still survives
Rising again and again in transformation.


2.The Dust of Life: Bui Doi

The planes flew off,
The shells and napalm stopped.
The break off was not clean, Left repercussions

Amerasian children, dumped on reluctant relatives,
Orphanages, brothels, or back street shacks.
Hands held up like rice ears, begging food or money.

Their mothers worked at military bases
Cashiers, laundry workers, secretaries.
Waiting on tables, chasing the Great American
Gum-chewing dollar-drawn Dream,

Asian women, a source of sex and comfort
For homesick guys from Brooklyn and L.A.
Bi-racial children given the name of half-breed
Or 'bui doi': the dust, the dirt of life.

Some were forced to de-activate the land mines
With just a knife, so cheap their human value
Harvest what your fathers have sown in our country

Shells explode. People recover or die. Villages burn.
Homes are rebuilt or lost
Women weep. Crying does not heal wounds.

Time blows the dust of life into the future
Like grit, like the passage of years,
Like salt-nip to the eyes, unwept for collateral damage
Neither this nor that, like commingled dead
Steaming in the jungle's turned leaves.


3.Victims: Tune: Oh Come Oh Come Emmanuel

Jamaludin was praying in the mosque
Poor farmers groan at every added cost
Word came of tankers stuck in a stream
Free fuel for all, an Afghan peasant's dream
For winter's cruel to those in poverty
And fortune's crumbs they gather zealously

There was a full moon shining in the sky
And then a huge light fell on them from high
Assadullah was blown to the ground
With smoke and fire and terror all around
Through ash and mud he called on village names
Torched and devoured by greedy leaping flames

Men formed a queue. God's handiwork undone...
One took some flesh home, calling it his son
For none could tell by limb, robe or face
Which kinsman had been slaughtered in that place
For men must grieve, above each corpse's head
Due prayer and rites be given to the dead

The women wailed and cried to no avail
Grief is not less though felt behind a veil
While cultures clash in town and outpost
It is the innocent wars injure most
Till East and West can live in harmony
The Lord of Death will stalk both land and sea


4.The Beijing Widow

Two caged songbirds
Hung in a bamboo cage.

The Beijing widow watered
Bonsai trees in her dingy courtyard

The Beijing widow's tortoise
Peered from a green glass tank

Her roof, pagoda-tiled
Dripped dismal rain
Cherry blossom stuck to the tiles
A nervous gecko zig-zagged up a wall

Her children grown and left
All live in high rise flats
Canyons of void, that is the city of glass
Thunder rolls like a stone through troubled skies


5.The Bishop

The apples in the orchard, round and fat —
Emerald-leafed, sweet cheeked and ruby-eyed,
swung just above the bishop's wide-brimmed hat

He'd stretch his arms above him, cassock-wide
to pluck one of these treasures; heaven spread
and chew with pleasure until satisfied

His orchard was his joy. No one else fed
From those rich boughs, `twas a forbidden thing
unless the bishop had expressly said
they may do so. One day, though, wandering beneath the trees,
temptation lingered near
a young cathedral choirboy, practising
His chants, pulled down a lapful, crying 'Here
Are choicest fruits.' He shared them with his friends —
the choirboys laughed and took them with a cheer —

Small sin often in retribution ends,
the bishop cursed the thief. No-one betrayed the choirboy,
but the plague to his door wends
Enters and strikes. A heavy price was paid
the burial was miserable and gray.
A child, for stealing apples, grave-yard laid

Next week, the monks went preaching far away
The bishop stayed behind to guard his fruit,
Alone beside his orchard, miserly
The statues on the walls around him mute,
Watched as he stepped into the cellar cold
Some sweet communion wine to find and loot
It wasn't far to walk — but he was old
And with a clatter tumbled heavily

Then eyes peered from the pantry, sharp and bold.
Rats, who'd been starved of food for many a day.
Gnawed on his bones and stole his soul away.


6.The Wickerman

Tightly pack the wicker bundles
Woven round a wooden frame
To the gods of death and famine
Raise aloft the fatted flame

Fang of wolf and tooth of winter
Take the sacrifice we send
Up into the maw of midnight
Battles win and wounded mend

Claw of raven, clasp of fever
Do not plunder crop nor glen
For we worship god and goddess
Of the bog, the burn, the ben

Tightly pack the wicker bundles
Woven round a wooden frame
To the gods of death and famine
Raise aloft the fatted flame


7.The Dreamer

He lay on a purple sofa, under a chandelier
And closed his eyes to the ticking
Of the clock on the chiffonier

Out from a scarlet rainbow, blood red, the peacocks flew
Over a silken ocean, with the golds of dawn shot through

And a pair of swordfish breached the waves,
Where the balmy trade winds played
Leading to ancient Venice, and a courtier's masquerade

He had lifted Lethe's glass to his lips
He had tossed night's loaded dice
When the cockatrice of sleep awoke
And the brindled cat miewed thrice

Down from the ceiling a feather fell
From the peacock's blood red tail
And the golden ship rolled into dawn
With dreams in each folded sail


8.Rooted

I am deep in the North East knuckle
Not a lighthouse, not a windfarm
Not a climber's crampon
On the face of Lochnagar

Wherever I stand,
Subterranean rivers of ancestors
Run beneath my feet
My people came from Europe
Mercenaries, knights, pirates and engineers.
Shipped over for wars or work
Stayed on, becoming natives
Grafted themselves by marriage
Onto the local shoots of Gaels and Picts.
Root crops, that rarely moved
Outwith their rigs. Like thistledown
Snagged on wire, the North East
Stopped their roaming.

Like a summer swallow,
Echoes occasionally call me
Over the airwaves to sample this and that
To travel different ways by foreign skies
As if to confirm the knowledge
I don't belong there.

At some point in the past
The plumb-line ceased to swing,
The centre of the world spelt Grampian


9.Dear Magpie

Dear Magpie,
I live with a rat
7 shelves of books
And a rusty cooker.

My tongue is dry with silence
My ears drink in the chatter of TV
A child peers out from my eyes when I'm alone
Through the gates of morning
It watches the dew on the grass with starry wonder

Yesterday a black hearse parked on the hill
One neighbour less along our retiring street

We sit like crows on the line
Waiting the next gap

At intervals, we chatter like jays
About important matters like the weather.


10.Troubled Water

By impulse, I'm a jumper
Chained to reason
With rivets that might give
At any time

Mid way over a bridge
By the rail of a tall balcony
At the rim of a cliff

I have to watch my step.

After the launch
Would free fall bring oblivion?

After the launch
Would free fall bring oblivion?

Walking over a bridge
I close the eye that's nearest to the edge
Make it my blind side

Mustn't look over
Must batten down the hatches
Mustn't look over
Must batten down the hatches
I chant a silent mantra
Tighten my jaw

Walk faster, firmer, faster
No hopping
No hopping
Mustn't look over
Must batten down the hatches
It could be so easy
So easy. So easy

The inner scales that monitor my will
Swing up down, up down, up down
At last, the far side reached,
A sigh of disappointment and relief


11.Badger

Under the fir tree a badger was
Grunting and clawing the mulch in the half light

Now and then he paused and sniffed the air
The wind shuffled the beech like a house of cards
Something screamed in the wood

The badger's black-striped face was deeply scarred
He had been battling, not on his own terms
Yet his eyes betrayed no fear.
The queer green light of the woods
Coloured him mythic.

He scratched at his own legend
A grizzled knight. An ancient warrior
Wearing a visor of bristles.


12.On A Late Marriage

Youth sees a wedding as a day of cakes
Of rings and flounces, dresses, presents, lace
Of photographs and favours, guests and gifts
Needing such artifice to give it grace

But older couples take their marriage vows
In quiet ways, needing no pipe or drum
To mark their change of state.
Enough to know Their day began as two, ended as one.


13.Spooning Couple

The spooning couple lie together, apart
Like chalk on a blackboard
Close as skin on skin
Yet distant as constellations

He could be a stool she sits on
Or a table for holding fruit in a cool room
His arm rests on her neck
As if on a sofa,
A piece of convenient padding.

Both are facing the sinister side of the sheet
She's fixed as a ship's prow
The marriage figurehead
Going nowhere, berthed in a safe harbour.

They are not young nor old,
They are not ugly nor beautiful
Divorce would wreck them both,
The bleakness of bed-sit land
Of one night stands with strangers
Numbing loneliness.

Habits, good or ill
Provide small comforts
In great desolations.

They are different books,
Hugging their unread stories
Between closed covers
Their only coming together
The braille of touch.


14.Ferry Terminal

Termagant gulls exhale cold air
Screeching over a paper-bag like vagrants

Monstrous clock-hands tick their remorseless way
Over a bare-faced glass like clipping shears

An embarrassed tree is twisting its twigs
Round denuded boughs

Waves like ripped up chits hold shreds of white
Under the wet sun's cold, myopic glare

A curmudgeonly pensioner wipes a drip from her nose
Blaming the late arrival on council cuts
On anything but the weather.

Solitary cars sulk behind high wire fencing
A ferry takes an age to slide to berth
It's three hours late, and every sick bag full.


15.Crossing

The sea looks lit from below,
Traces of aquamarine, metallic grey
Mother of pearl, with a hint of lemon sorbet
Courtesy of the sun

The ferry entertainer in sequined belt
Gyrates on a tiny stage, a shrunken star
Recycling songs from movies ages old

A red-nosed drunk looks fit to burst from boredom
Perms, nod over outspread hands of patience

The sky is clothed with lace
And smoke from the mouths of dragons
The horizon's sharp as the sudden chop of a guillotine
We may all dropp off the edge of the world like lemmings

I am deep inside the belly of a great steel whale
Ploughing a Viking furrow through the waves
Rising like bare-backed dolphins through the tide

An astonished baby's eyes blink wide
Bewildered by the endless liquid land
People are packed away in cabin beds
On shelves, like folded linen


16.The Swans of Bruges

Swans drift like yachts across dark waters blown
In the canals beneath the tall wind mill
Pristine against the shadows monotone
October's here. Fair-weather birds have flown
The swans remain, impervious to chill

Silent they glide. No urban traffic drone
Disturbs this idyll. From their silvery throne
Each feeds on water weeds with golden bill
In Benedictine cells, black nuns intone

Their vespers. One small feather quill
Floats off on inky waves, the scroll its own
In ancient Flemish churches, skull and bone
Glisten upon black slabs, grotesque and still

They say a dying swan is mute as stone
A wintry gust wails with a plaintive moan
Where blood red ivy drops from window sill
Swans swim in foam like lace around them sewn

Those graceful ballet dancers seem alone
But watch, each graceful Jack must have his Jill
They mate forever. Echo and repone
From Nature's loving cup, they drink their fill


17.The Arnolfini Portrait, by Jan van Eyck

It is summer. The cherry tree outside the window is in fruit
The couple stand in their upstairs reception room
Holding a pose for the painter.

Imagine calling on them, uninvited
`Just passing by, ' you'd say
`Dropped in for a coffee and chat'
And them with the painter in,
Up to their eyes in finery.

This pair would be a dead cert
For the home security salesman
The CCTV cameras never off.

They are richly dressed;
His mauve silk velvet tabard, her green dress,
Are trimmed with expensive fur.
Sable for him. Ermine for her.

He wears a hat of pleated straw dyed black
A doublet of silk damask. Designer gear, the works.
His and Hers monogrammed onto the bath towels.

Their brass chandelier is large, and very costly.
Not one of your standard fittings
The oranges, too, on the window sill and chest,
Are rare, exotic... a conversational coup

The red bed-hangings suspended from the ceiling,
Are open, exposing the bed
The centre point of marriage from time immemorial

The finial carved on the bedpost is that of St Margaret
Patron Saint of childbirth, pre-anesthesia
A rosary all that stood between terror and pain

There is a small Oriental carpet on the floor by the bed
This is a merchant whose credit rating's high

His dog is a Brussels griffon, toy-pet, a prestige mutt
His woman's aware of her role, bed warmer,
Caretaker of the house, pre-feminism
Part of the goods and chattels in his keeping

He stands beside the open window, nearer the outside world.
He stares at Van Eyke, torn between pride and greed
This portrait will immortalize him, at a cost

His wife daren't take her eyes off him for a minute
Though he's no oil painting, with his stem cleft chin,
His candle-wax, cleft-tipped nose
His cold and clever eyes

The cast-off clogs are part of their wedding ceremony
A gift from him to his bride.

She's all submission, a toppled pawn.
Check mate. Her hand is pale as a lily and as limp
He could be a fortune teller, holding her fate in his hand


18.Bruges in October

Bruges in October – winds cut to the bone
The restaurateurs serve fruits plucked from the sea
A carriage driver chats on his cell phone

While geeing up his horse. The tall belfry
Plays Danny Boy, Greensleeves.
A siren wails Far in the distance. Harsh emergency

Seems out of place where windmills turn their sails
Here churches, chips and chocolates reign supreme
The hurdy gurdy man's chipped fingernails

Curl round the handle of his queer machine
The squares are ancient, and the coffee's good
The waitress, like some Frans Hals oyster queen

Is quick and multi-lingual. Like a brood
Of cackling battery cocks, the milling crew
Of tourist males would bed her if they could

The streets are narrow, cobbled. Cars are few
House roofs are steep, like Durer hands that pray
Bicycles circumvent the milieu

Like brown molasses, thick canal waves sway
Passengers disembark when weather's rough
Where autumn leaves like gold stars light the way

Children chase pigeons, toss their heads and laugh
What mother in good conscience could refuse
To share her gateaux, break the treat in half?

Here, where the shops are chic, the Euros lose
Their anchorage in pouch and purse - a pair
Of boots, madam? There is so much to choose
From fashion clogs to fur lined winter wear
The store's cocoon is cosy but outside
The biting winds nip at the flag poles there

Consumerism's like a turning tide
Eventually, austerity, hard mentor
Asserts itself. The weary cyclists ride

As in a world war film, from the town centre
Bruges settles down, to silence given up
Hoping that the next ferryboat to enter
Will fill to overflowing, profit's cup.


19. T'Zand Square

Between statues, fountains play
Beers brood in their tumblers
Fermenting beery anarchy

A chocolate schmarms a smooch on warm lips
At the L'Hotel du Singe d'Or
Couples knit their fmgers over tables
Making cats cradles of the love they hold

In a lip-sticked glass, a slice of lemon lies
A hurt half moon in a sling of Gordon's Gin
A candle performs the choreography of flame

In high-heeled boots
Creaking in skin-tight leathers
A girl with a homburg hat at a jaunty angle
Is crossing the square
Her thick blonde hair
Is fried by shocking peroxide

She thinks she's the bees knees
Mens eyes cup her buttocks as she passes

An empty coffee cup sits in his serviette
Looking forlorn and frothy like Flanders lace
Some cars wink innuendoes to the night
But overall, this Bruges has a clean face.