A Sunny Morning in the Square

By Polina Barskova, translated from the Russian by Valzhyna Mort

to T.P.

My half-baked flesh stuffed with its own tricks

finds itself as a leaf or a leaflet caught

in the rush of a train to Bialystok.

Bialystok stuck in 1941 (1939?).

Bialystok padded in fright like a Christmas star

stored away in its box.

People still wake there

alive living ablaze.

They discuss an earlier event

and read an announcement:

“You are to appear in person on the square at six,

bring only your wrist watches, in the amount of twelve,

bring only your greyhounds, in the amount of twelve,

bring only one bolt and one hatch.”

Bialystok grows silent and speaks

stocked with soldiers in the amount of one,

between his brows a swastika shines,

in his mouth a star shuns speech.

“Where should we shovel our hounds, our watches, our hatch?

Our knees bleed dew,

our teeth rake burning leaves,

why, shiny soldier, are we so sweet with you?

The soldier curses at them: we’ll build a circus!

Our circus king will show you his tricks.

A star built of smoke and scream!

History crams a lesson down your throat.

Mercy me/Master me on the square at seven,

greyhounds bark, hatches shine, wristwatches bang,

by eight the square is ready for bedtime

and you crack like a glass Christmas star.

Arrr arrr

A Spellbound Place

Thomas Hardy

On this kindly yellow day of mild low-travelling winter sun

The stirless depths of the yews

Are vague with misty blues:

Across the spacious pathways stretching spires of shadow run,

And the wind-gnawed walls of ancient brick are fired vermilion.

Two or three early sanguine finches tune

Some tentative strains, to be enlarged by May or June:

From a thrush or blackbird

Comes now and then a word,

While an enfeebled fountain somewhere within is heard.

Our footsteps wait awhile,

Then draw beneath the pile,

When an inner court outspreads

As ’twere History’s own asile,

Where the now-visioned fountain its attenuate crystal sheds

In passive lapse that seems to ignore the yon world’s clamorous clutch,

And lays an insistent numbness on the place, like a cold hand’s touch.

And there swaggers the Shade of a straddling King, plumed, sworded, with sensual face,

And lo, too, that of his Minister, at a bold self-centred pace:

Sheer in the sun they pass; and thereupon all is still,

Save the mindless fountain tinkling on with thin enfeebled will.

A Sunny Morning in the Square

Polina Barskova

to T.P.

My half-baked flesh stuffed with its own tricks finds itself as a leaf or a leaflet caught in the rush of a train to Bialystok.

Bialystok stuck in 1941 (1939?). Bialystok padded in fright like a Christmas star stored away in its box. People still wake there alive living ablaze.

They discuss an earlier event and read an announcement:

“You are to appear in person on the square at six, bring only your wrist watches, in the amount of twelve, bring only your greyhounds, in the amount of twelve, bring only one bolt and one hatch.”

Bialystok grows silent and speaks stocked with soldiers in the amount of one, between his brows a swastika shines, in his mouth a star shuns speech.

“Where should we shovel our hounds, our watches, our hatch? Our knees bleed dew, our teeth rake burning leaves, why, shiny soldier, are we so sweet with you? The soldier curses at them: we’ll build a circus! Our circus king will show you his tricks. A star built of smoke and scream! History crams a lesson down your throat.

Mercy me/Master me on the square at seven, greyhounds bark, hatches shine, wristwatches bang, by eight the square is ready for bedtime and you crack like a glass Christmas star. Arrr arrr

Ghosts of War

E Alan Mackintosh

When you and I are buried With grasses over head, The memory of our fights will stand Above this bare and tortured land, We knew ere we were dead.

Though grasses grow at Vimy, And poppies at Messines, And in High Wood the children play, The craters and the graves will stay To show what things have been.

Though all be quiet in day-time, The night shall bring a change, And peasants walking home will see Shell-torn meadow and riven tree, And their own fields grown strange.

They shall hear live men crying, They shall see dead men lie, Shall hear the rattling Maxims fire, And by the broken twists of wire Gold flares light up the sky.

And in their new-built houses The frightened folk will see Pale bombers coming down the street, And hear the flurry of charging feet, And the crash of Victory.

This is our Earth baptizèd With the red wine of War. Horror and courage hand in hand Shall brood upon the stricken land In silence evermore.

Today’s poem continues the nautical theme