Arts of the Earth
Thundering and lightning crackled without warning in clear blue skies
the silenced old gods and wise men left only indentations, remembrances
Of psalms and words in the places they’d once stood in so many guises.
In the tall aspen trees above the school yard Jackdaws turned into blackness
©RobCullen2017
Love song to Sarajevo.
A love song should be sung with joy not shame
Yes a love song should be sung with joy
But it is with shame that I write
A love song to Sarajevo.
I hear of the deaths and the blood spilled
And the killing goes on and on and on
And it is with shame that I write
A love song to Garasda.
I heard a Muslim child cry
Rescued but leaving her mother behind
And it is with shame that I write
A love song to Mostar.
I heard from the quietness of our radio
A man cry for his Serb sister, lost and unheard
And it is with shame that I write
A love song to Belgrade.
A Serb speaks of his anger that the world
Has simply turned away and no longer listens
And it is with shame that I write
A love song to Tuzla.
A doctor speaks of the death of the wounded
A hospital bombed and riddled by sniper fire
And it is with shame that I write
A love song to the people.
Love songs should be sung with joy
But my heart is filled with pain.
Reading once again through my copy of A season in hell and The Drunken Boat first published New Directions 1961.
“In his delirium Rimbaud thought always of Harar. Before he died on November 10, 1891 , he asked that a legacy of three thousand francs be sent his servant Djami in Harar.”
I bought Ethiopian coffee today, tasted and that aftertaste that could only be Ethiopia and remembered again Arthur. There is much that I have forotten.
“Only a blue radiance
on a pane of glass
a cast pattern
none more beautiful
could be dreamt.”
No I am not afraid
Bloodaxe 1985
It is a matter of recognition, of something older. Perhaps cliff edges. Bridges frighten me. I feel a strong urge to jump.
©RobCullen2017
Give me Arabica – Kenya AA or Ethiopian Harrar preferred.
On the last coffee – Harrar – no wonder Arthur Rimbaud lingered so long in Harrar. I have my New Directions 1961 copy of A Season in Hell in front of me.
The untold stories of men who had been sectioned to “lunatic” asylums and then forced from their hospital beds to enlist in the British Army in the First World War.
Letters to The Times 29th February 1917.
