January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
A man came to my door
claiming witness to atrocities
committed on my behalf, but
in places I had never been.
He said I was duty bound
as a citizen beneficiary–
whether on hillsides of poppies
bodies explode, or not–
to stand behind our rightful leaders.
He offered digital images for sale,
un-enhanced, if I preferred.
If I preferred, guilty charges
made first in ancient texts
illustrated by monks, could be had–
actually his biggest seller–all certified.
I sent him away.
I alerted friends to his scam.
But, I checked local news in case;
published articles did appear,
but made no local accusations.
In fact I inferred implicit guilt.
Amazed,
I could not disprove any atrocities
on any dates cited
by any surrogates
killing thousands in my name.
Confused, I went to the mountains.
Heavy snow fell, drew me in,
quietly deep. I shook, although relieved.
The National Geographic
reports deprivations in deep
snow abet atrocities.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
i
Past
images of vulnerability dance
naked eyes blink, shut out
ageless tormenter
held captive on stomach
a small child begs for help
big room no adults
sadist rages human victim
soul broken bones intact
held down sat upon
“I’ll tell Mom” you laugh
my cries unheard despair
When will he finish?
worse when he leaves
unwanted by anyone
even the tormenter.
ii
Today
gentle words embrace
compassion flows as
I face my younger self
Hi, you don’t know me but
I am you all grown up,
we survived.
Eyes wide you whisper
I knew one day you
would awaken.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
I
When the breeze[br] from the gentle side of town[br] strays off[br] into the poor parts of town,[br] it becomes scared,[br] blindly whirling down the street,[br] only to rush back out[br] to the gentle part,[br] to blow as much dust[br] into the eyes of the world,[br] as justice mostly does[br] into the eyes of the lay people…[br] or his honor, the judge,[br] as one of its most reliable[br] representatives.[br]
II
In that unpleasant repository of dust,[br] I am standing[br] and watching the city,[br] along which the echo of the poor[br] reverberates all around,[br] and the boy is silent…[br] the wind makes him even more so[br] – as if whispering to him[br] about his thousand years[br] of silence[br] and solitude.[br] In that dusky hour,[br] it scrutinizes all the world’s secrets[br] he knows,[br] in the secrets tied to the orphanage,[br] on which the night is falling[br] in the capital,[br] and the barren and locked-up homes[br] in the capital.[br] Maybe he’s thinking[br] of a poor, duped fellow,[br] a child of the same kind and faith,[br] who lived the same life[br] as he did[br] until his death.[br]
III
And death,[br] like a motherly shadow,[br] in a night gown,[br] is following the boy.[br] And since that moment, wherever he may go,[br] another shadow shall follow him,[br] equally faithful,[br] equally silent,[br] just like a shadow of death.[br] With an unspeakable dignity, that shadow[br] endures the motherly shadow of death.[br] That shadow[br] is showing twofold value:[br] without a doubt,[br] it is showing the value of the noble side,[br] which is to be served,[br] and the value of the chaste side,[br] which serves.[br] And then the shadow shall certainly say[br] to the human society:[br] “Now, in wintertime, without a coat,[br] and on such a cold day!”[br] My heart is so coldly beating[br] in my chest.[br] I am hungry.[br] Would you be so kind[br] as to give me a spoon[br] and feed me?”[br] And that society,[br] generally careful[br] to distribute all the spoons[br] claims[br] that there are no spoons left for him,[br] because he has been invisible[br] and branded with poverty since his birth,[br] and, as such, not interesting to the papers[br] and television,[br] and where there are no stages,[br] there are no spoons.[br]
IV
The night is gloomy,[br] and the insensitivity of the world[br] penetrates his bones,[br] like cold moisture[br] of a winter’s night.[br] It is a good night to die,[br] and it provides the statistician of death cases[br] with an extraordinary task.[br] Whatever…[br] the boy,[br] whom the world[br] never remembered by name,[br] but rather by his shadow,[br] feels very weak,[br] and death spreads its[br] dark dress,[br] receiving the boy[br] with so much sensibility,[br] as if it was his mother,[br] while the other shadow[br] disappears forever,[br] to the shame of human society.[br] [br] © Walter William Safar[br]
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958. He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including “Leaden fog”, “Chastity on sale”, “In the falmes of passion”, “The price of life”, “Above the clouds”, “The infernal circle”, “The scream”, “The negotiator”, “Queen Elizabeth II”, as well as a book of poems, titled “The angel and the demon”.
