So there you are, Jannis Ritsos, On that island of pure salt Where it only rains on the dead. * * * Statues of sand statutes Of gall Enormous legends of the Platonic Republic founded on gunpowder. Hush The Colonels are coming The King is Coming Tra La * * * Meanwhile you are dying. And harder than in any poem. Of course we are all trying to keep the frontiers open people are doing desperate things to save you some people read the times and are indignant some people read the past and are indignant some madwoman is reading her personal memoirs personally over WEVD explaining the values of those who put you out there the first time. All's ordnung as Ez sez and let's not forget the poets carefully writing in lowercase and erasing if they hit a capital. * * * Well, there are damn few capitols where they might want you Outside the revolutionary world. I guess The poets and all being what they are you'll die where you're at. A sad thing Because you are the only one in the world who heard Those terrible trains in the heads of widows The trains that carry the conscripts To that bosses' war -- the one Just over the border. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org |