The End and the Beginning

Source: Daily Mail

After every war

someone has to clean up.

Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we’ll need bridges
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head.
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out,
blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.

~ Wislawa Szymborska

(translated from Polish by Joanna Trzeciak)

The End and the Beginning

Source: Daily Mail

After every war

someone has to clean up.

Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we’ll need bridges
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head.
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out,
blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.

~ Wislawa Szymborska

(translated from Polish by Joanna Trzeciak)

Adjectives of Order

A pretty, little, purple-and-pink paisley pussycat from Grammar Quizzes

That summer, she had a student who was obsessed
with the order of adjectives. A soldier in the South
Vietnamese army, he had been taken prisoner when

Saigon fell. He wanted to know why the order
could not be altered. The sweltering city streets shook
with rockets and helicopters. The city sweltering

streets. On the dusty brown field of the chalkboard,
she wrote: The mother took warm homemade bread
from the oven. City is essential to streets as homemade

is essential to bread. He copied this down, but
he wanted to know if his brothers were lost before
older, if he worked security at a twenty-story modern

downtown bank or downtown twenty-story modern.
When he first arrived, he did not know enough English
to order a sandwich. He asked her to explain each part

of Lovely big rectangular old red English Catholic
leather Bible. Evaluation before size. Age before color.
Nationality before religion. Time before length. Adding

and, one could determine if two adjectives were equal.
After Saigon fell, he had survived nine long years
of torture. Nine and long. He knew no other way to say this.

~ Alexandra Teague

Adjectives of Order

A pretty, little, purple-and-pink paisley pussycat from Grammar Quizzes

That summer, she had a student who was obsessed
with the order of adjectives. A soldier in the South
Vietnamese army, he had been taken prisoner when

Saigon fell. He wanted to know why the order
could not be altered. The sweltering city streets shook
with rockets and helicopters. The city sweltering

streets. On the dusty brown field of the chalkboard,
she wrote: The mother took warm homemade bread
from the oven. City is essential to streets as homemade

is essential to bread. He copied this down, but
he wanted to know if his brothers were lost before
older, if he worked security at a twenty-story modern

downtown bank or downtown twenty-story modern.
When he first arrived, he did not know enough English
to order a sandwich. He asked her to explain each part

of Lovely big rectangular old red English Catholic
leather Bible. Evaluation before size. Age before color.
Nationality before religion. Time before length. Adding

and, one could determine if two adjectives were equal.
After Saigon fell, he had survived nine long years
of torture. Nine and long. He knew no other way to say this.

~ Alexandra Teague

War

The Visage of War/La Cara de la Guerra by Salvador Dali

There are four things you need to know about war. One, every action requires careful tactics. Two, never lose hope and fight only for what is right. Three, be brave but you don't have to be fearless. And four, be willing to sacrifice.

~ Courtney Allison Moulton

War

The Visage of War/La Cara de la Guerra by Salvador Dali

There are four things you need to know about war. One, every action requires careful tactics. Two, never lose hope and fight only for what is right. Three, be brave but you don't have to be fearless. And four, be willing to sacrifice.

~ Courtney Allison Moulton

His God

Photo credit: lucasmalta from morguefile.com

After six days of diligent labour

he’d done it, he’d made his God.

He had a beer in the backyard to celebrate,

wiping the sweat from his brow,

looking up at the stars that he knew his God hadn’t made.

But that didn’t matter, his God was pretty much

about as perfect as he could make him.

Though there were disappointments.

His God spoke with a silly high pitched voice,

almost a falsetto,

instead of the rich, booming, shake ’em in their boots

voice he’d intended.

Also, his God was pretty slack in the miracles department.

He never really got around to actually doing anything.

And there were still wars and pestilence and plagues.

But then again, they seemed to happen

no matter whose God was pulling the reins.

He was a trifle clumsy, and if people gazed upon him at the supermarket

they tended to stare rudely, not fall down prostrate with awe.

They stared as if someone had just trudged in dog’s mess.

His God could be a bit crass at times,

an embarrassment in front of the opposite sex,

burping, boasting, cracking sick jokes,

gawking at bums and breasts.

He had his good side though.

He didn’t put black clouds of conscience in the man’s head.

His idea of hell was a barbecue ruined by rain.

He was nice to have around, though a bit distracted at times.

But he kept his creator company

on all those nights when they snored in front of the TV.

His God wasn’t much of a God, let’s face it.

But he was his.

And they grew old together.

The man and his God.

They grew feeble and his God forgot to do those things

that Gods are supposed to do at the end of life’s strange journey.

The man died.

His God looked down on him,

thought I’ll be damned!

And died too.

~ Bill Fewer

His God

Photo credit: lucasmalta from morguefile.com

After six days of diligent labour

he’d done it, he’d made his God.

He had a beer in the backyard to celebrate,

wiping the sweat from his brow,

looking up at the stars that he knew his God hadn’t made.

But that didn’t matter, his God was pretty much

about as perfect as he could make him.

Though there were disappointments.

His God spoke with a silly high pitched voice,

almost a falsetto,

instead of the rich, booming, shake ’em in their boots

voice he’d intended.

Also, his God was pretty slack in the miracles department.

He never really got around to actually doing anything.

And there were still wars and pestilence and plagues.

But then again, they seemed to happen

no matter whose God was pulling the reins.

He was a trifle clumsy, and if people gazed upon him at the supermarket

they tended to stare rudely, not fall down prostrate with awe.

They stared as if someone had just trudged in dog’s mess.

His God could be a bit crass at times,

an embarrassment in front of the opposite sex,

burping, boasting, cracking sick jokes,

gawking at bums and breasts.

He had his good side though.

He didn’t put black clouds of conscience in the man’s head.

His idea of hell was a barbecue ruined by rain.

He was nice to have around, though a bit distracted at times.

But he kept his creator company

on all those nights when they snored in front of the TV.

His God wasn’t much of a God, let’s face it.

But he was his.

And they grew old together.

The man and his God.

They grew feeble and his God forgot to do those things

that Gods are supposed to do at the end of life’s strange journey.

The man died.

His God looked down on him,

thought I’ll be damned!

And died too.

~ Bill Fewer

Death

Pic credit: Frank Thompson @ All Things Wildly Considered

She was not afraid of death. Death was a thief that always wore a mask. Accident, disease, stillbirths, old age, natural causes, war, murder. It existed in the shivering silence between tolls of a bell. It stole everything away while it left its mark, a dark knowledge that lingered at the back of smiling eyes, a hesitation between thought and action in times of danger, a heaviness that tunneled wormholes into happy memories.
She and death had danced together for a long time now. Sometimes they were partners. Sometimes they were opponents. Sometimes she might cheat him, but hell, that old thief was still bound to win some day.

~ Thea Harrison

Death

Pic credit: Frank Thompson @ All Things Wildly Considered

She was not afraid of death. Death was a thief that always wore a mask. Accident, disease, stillbirths, old age, natural causes, war, murder. It existed in the shivering silence between tolls of a bell. It stole everything away while it left its mark, a dark knowledge that lingered at the back of smiling eyes, a hesitation between thought and action in times of danger, a heaviness that tunneled wormholes into happy memories.
She and death had danced together for a long time now. Sometimes they were partners. Sometimes they were opponents. Sometimes she might cheat him, but hell, that old thief was still bound to win some day.

~ Thea Harrison