Last train for Moscow

“Polonez” train from Moscow to Warsaw departing Beloruskij Vokazal (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Panorama of Moscow, Borodinsky Bridge near rig...
Panorama of Moscow, Borodinsky Bridge near right, Smolensky Metro Bridge far right (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

[ change Niegoreloje.]

Elena,a baby, wrapped in her woollen clothes,

On the last train,Warsaw to Moscow,

1939.Father,mother,brother
You passed through the Arctic Wastes of life.
Still as if travellng on a train
To an impossibly far destination.
As you left the German Army crashed into Poland
Lost,your aunts
Your cousins.
Your culture.
How does God select the damned?
Later,you had your own baby,here in England,
Not lost like all those others.
Your father died by his own hand,
The hand of history;
The fingers twitching,
Not sure where to point.
Then settling into frozen grief
A sculpture only your mother saw.
You saw too,Elena.
You always saw,though you can’t remember;
The long journey,your mother’s breast,
Your father’s silence.
Only the dead know that silence.
Only the dead weep
With the rocks and stones .
And the ice in each eye
Fell like snow down your cheeks
As you held your own infant.
Warsaw to Moscow,
Moscow to Jerusalem.
Always journeying
Looking for what they can never find:
The home they left behind
The presence of the dead
Lying in gaunt heaps
Like rubbish
Your aunts, Elena.
Your cousins.
You never knew them.
But there’s a hole in your mind
Through which the Polish wind blows for ever.

Fish

Fire out,I sit in coat and fake fur collar

My hands cold,

Just caught hake off Flamborough. Head

Know how I feel

A cold winter already came for me.

I am prepared.

I find some hats I knitted.

Fish have no skin

Their eyes look out poignant yet fierce

They think they are sharks

It’s so wrong to display them

Dead in rows.

I knew then in the fish market

What kind of world it is.

Animals have their own holocaust

Well,think about it.

Crabs and mussels boiled alive.

God never wanted human sacrifice

It was some  evil demon  Hitler  worshipped

Himself I think

How do you do it?

Did  Freud get it right.. the death instinct.

Or to be blunt

Would n’t a hot soak in the bath be better?

Cold again.

Is the world worse now?

The wise are brave

We hope for fortune’s smile upon our lives

And work so hard we distort  what is wise.

Husbands   may not please entitled wives.

And women  may not show their tender eyes.

Far better to be willing with our choice

What  fraction of our lives can be controlled?

Need  I say we need to free our voice

And that we   attempt to be more bold?

Braveness is  pure good by wisdom known

We grow it  through the trials of our  lives

Cowardice is common, often  unshown.

There most evil deeds may hidden thrive.

Fortune may not favour all who’re brave

For fortune strangely  favours cruel knaves

In the room

Television on standby

Light like a red eye

The webcam’s eye sees all

I sit like a stiff model

Art class

How to  do it

Live

The fire is not red but orange

I cannot eat  the flame.

My back aches

Bad teeth gnaw at my gut

Auto inflicted

Its motorway  right through me

Below my heart lingers wondering

Is it the music?