What of this ruthless shallowness? history, dries,
lingers like ocean-erosion, then barren.
A photograph of a Polish protest, poignant
in this sermonized-like march.
When officers fire into a crowd, every bullet sweats bullets;
eyes of quizzical heroes-to-be sustain their standing.
On that bloody day, the way melodrama makes
its own rules, demonstrators were driven flippo--
they marched along Poznan fairgrounds
chanting, "We want bread!" Earlier, police
had let their force-field down & in unsustained
suspense, spit fire across the Beckettian landscape
killing a 16 year-old boy. The rioters
dipped their Polish flag in the boy's blood
carrying it high through the streets
as if the land had turned into a suburb
of Transylvania. Attempts to desensitize
the effects of power & violence. To later soak
risk in water to numb the pain.
To weaken the sinews of tyranny,
stretched to the steam of a singed teakettle.
The skeletons of the Innocent belong to limbs & trees,
become balladeers, outspoken, overshadowing lands of malcontent,
understanding everything.
No comments:
Post a Comment