Yorkist

Beneath a canopy of roofs two rivers
saunter, lanes wind and vanish in
themselves. At either side, opposed,
2 halls, one stone, one iron and glass,
stand for the centuries they span.

Time was slower when they blocked
the Minster up. 10 generations trapped
the silences within. Son handed stone
to son, anonymous, and on until
the air was stopped and held voices
echoed to the Lord. The building does
the maths – a trinity of forces gathers
weight in emptiness above our heads,
while older anarchies persist in corbelled
heads that grin and gesture to a past
still dancing wicked in the woods.

The perfect arch across the rails
took only months to take its spaces in.
Its gods could hurry profits to perform
their work – and oversaw advantages in speed
to bring the word. An age of individuals
and proudly known. In spite, the station
leaves no sign or fingerprint behind
of those whose skill and brain hand-made
this thrilling double curve. Itinerant hand,
or iron engineer – through them, oblivious
with gratitude, the ticketed have passed,
with hurried cases to be north or south.

York 1st and last. A place of purpose
and of pilgrimage. A kingdom and a throne.
Keep coming here in thrall to gods
Who grip and hold quicksilver in their glass.

Red Square

from Prospects of Leningrad

In the square that half the world associates
with blood, we’ve come beyond the confines
of our Cold War fears to stand upon its
rain damped, gloss grey cobblestones.

The red flag streams above a Kremlin tower,
a purpose and a history behind no word
need comment on. The wind that blows us here
has forgotten all those winters that were hard.

Try to see the lines of missiles, bombs,
the bannered crowds, or feel the fall of soldiers’
boots. You can’t. Light pours off cathedral domes.
A limousine with darkened glass makes off, its tyres

hiss it past. People smile for snaps.
Adjust their hats, their furry wraps.
A casual place, run with the minimum of fuss.
The policemen stand as purposeless as us.

Prospects of Leningrad

A visit to the [now former] Soviet Union I made as part of a school party in 1987 took place at the height of Glasnost and Perestroika. Gorbachev was in command and communism was re-inventing itself. Hope was in the air. As yet, the war in Afghanistan had not created Al Qaeda, and Global warming was a long way from cold winters in Britain [or Moscow]. However, Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher still worked to undermine the evil empire, and ultimately they succeeded.

Everything in Russia was swept away, the drunken opportunist Boris Yelstin stopped a tank in its tracks, and the rest is history.

The suicide bomber invented a new sense of secuirity. Former soviet torturers became billionaires and owned football clubs. Gas supplies were held to ransome, and Europe prepared to shiver.

But the Cold War, at least, was over.

Arbeit Macht Frei – background

25 April 2012

Arbeit Macht Frei [Work sets you Free] adorns the gate at Auschwitz. It greeted all new inmates to the camp. It was intended to create the illusion of safety, and hope. It is one of the greatest statements of cynical deception ever written. I have imagined a current world, but one which follows a triumphant Germany, and a museum at Auschwitz-Birkenau that celebrates a different kind of shrine.

Wedding Reception

The guy across the aisle is drunk and nearly spliced.
Engaged in spreading happiness around our train,
he understands the value of an adjectival fuck or two.
Sadly, his rendering of Country Roads, Take Me Home
brings an earnest female guard to remonstrate.
His a capella charm breaks no ground with her,
nor yet the phone call to his girl who’s coming to his aid.

The train deccelerates, points slur the wheels’ straight hiss,
his end’s in sight. He does not see or care what fate this seems
to usher him. His full steam bonhomie may not
fit him best man for the journey, but now we know him
for our long lost friend, we plead he will unpledge
the generous blessing confettied on the “jobsworth” guard.

The journey we have briefly shared draws in to town
and stops. The girl he’s summoned to his early wedding
feast is nowhere to be seen. Only the majesty
of Five Transport Police have come to welcome him.
He platformed stands, ignored and under guard. It’s sad.