REMEMBRANCE

The annual hand wringing

We don’t glorify war – but we do

We talk of ‘The Ultimate Sacrifice’

But sacrifice is voluntary

And Unlike most DIA s

The thin red line has always been maintained

By the prospect of flogging, white feather or firing squad

Selective language

Collateral damage, friendly fire, brutal attack, how do they differ ?

Dachau, Abhus Gres, Guantanamo

Truth is the first, but not the only, casualty

Objectivity, honesty, freedom also

While old soldiers march together to the pub

To remember the friendships but not the horror

The laughs but not the tears

And our media prints similar rose coloured memories

A friend is dying

and suddenly mortality

is centre stage.

She was so vivacious,

so determined,   so

alive.

Insistent that we all would gather

some twenty five years hence

to celebrate her ninetieth birthday.

She knew, of course.

Her rational self

had accommodated the truth,

commenced her familiarly meticulous preparations

for that final Stygian trip.

While her other self was in full speed denial,

throwing out all her clothes

to start a new wardrobe,

more fitting for her next stage

of life.

I see it now.

I did not see it then,

at our last meeting ,

Just one year ago.

And I see the impact on Sue,

normally so controlled,

accepting of the inevitability of death.

Her sense of helplessness,

Injustice, anger, sorrow:

that one so young,

so always optimistic,

should suffer so.

Her husband adores her,

worships even,

and now seeks solace

in the role of protector,

offering what comfort he can

and posting electronic updates

to shocked recipients

of the seemingly endless invasions

of this most malignant growth.

And this awareness of mortality

prods my own consciousness.

Am I ready ?

What if ?

A friend is dying

and our world

lurched.

Memories of Belsen

A beautiful spring morning

In distant skies birds carol and cavort in celebration of warmer skies

But not here.

In local fields lambs, calves, puppies chase their tails in simple joy

But not here

In nearby parks lovers entwine in passion and dream of futures shared

But not here

Here

Birds hit an invisible barrier and dart away

Here

A rabbit, myxomatosis riddled, staggers through grass to a painful death

Here

Echoes of guttural commands, whistles, dogs, muted screams hang in the air

Here

Numbing rows of grass mounds enclose thousands of now anonymous  corpses

Here

Scattered visitors  in solitary thought, stare, stumble, wonder

How

Why

Here.

Les Littleford    June 2010

[In 1965 I visited the  memorial park where Belsen Concentration Camp was once located. No buildings remain, but the open parkland is still surrounded by barbed wire, there are a few memorials, and large mounds each with a single gravestone mark the date and number entombed in each. It was a beautiful spring day, but I noticed that no birds flew overhead, and the only living thing I saw  was a rabbit in the advanced stages of myxomatosis. It was a potent image which has remained with me.]

It’s the noise, the chaos and the smell …

the shrugged shoulders of indifference …

the secret smile of knowing ….

the heat that crushes…

Then the evening rain:

a black cloud that curtained the sky

carving a scimitar of light

bringing a sodden wall of water.

The taxi coughed and spluttered

its ruthless and idiosyncratic way

while I sat, lost, and helpless.

And all those tropical memories

rose from forgotten places

a patina of smiling faces

always just out of reach.

So many servants.

So few guests.

The same old guilt.

Just Thinking

I find myself in a comfortable place

Released from the pressures of work

Happily oblivious to  weekly demands

A new busy is pleasantly relaxing

We share time more often

Enjoy mutual  interests

And because we can

Give each other space

I still dream

Aspire to new goals

Imagine a change of direction

But  sometimes the reflection in the mirror shocks

And when bending is harder and stretching  slower

Realise I am entering the end zone

I do not expect  anything after the end

If I fear at all  it is

Senility

Dribbling incapacity

But there is much to do before then

And the end zone has its own rewards

They came in their thousands

to wait in the sun

and wave their little flags

and cheer.

These descendants of those

shipped here ingloriously,

Their selective memories

excluding the expendability of Gallipoli;

recalling only the pageantry and pomp

of an anachronistic institution;

basking briefly in the glitter

of some passing sideshow;

teaching their children ridiculous curtseys

and going home happy that they have

‘seen the queen.’

And there’s the rub.

They did go home happy.

Against all my logic and expectation

the visit for some was a grand occasion.

So perhaps there are fairies at the bottom of my garden.

          Death of a President

That shot in Dallas did much more than slay

A new world champion , break a nation’s heart.

It shattered youthful dreams and every day

Seemed empty and our futures torn apart.

We’d dreamed of nations energized by hope,

Our confidence knew only that we might

Do anything, push visions past the scope

Of tawdry pessimism, hollow fright.

And then, as bubbles burst, our world turned sour:

Those curdled dreams, bleak truth, our daily bread.

Idealist to cynic: one bleak hour

Had left much more than just a leader dead.

Faith, hope and trust are fragile flowers to raise

And we trudged, older, into darker days.

Les Littleford           1/10/2011

Sometimes the frostbite still tingles

And  the memory clicks into gear

After 44 years I  still hear  the shadowy scream

As Simon flew batlike  over my head

And I

Seconds later

Screamed  upwards.

Fighting  needle sharp

Spiralling swirling Spindrift,

Combating the mind numbing

Finger freezing

Cold

 It was about midnight when time seemed to stop

Wondering when

If

The light would ever come.

My mind played games

As the wind howled 

And we lived our individual  nightmares

Separated by darkness

Connected by fear and rope

Dreaming and dozing

Fighting for balance

Recalling

With horror

The terrifying  roar

Through eighteen freezing

Endless hours until

Like spiders dangling on lifeline threads

The rescue appeared through the mist

To lower us  to the valley floor.

Hot drinks

Suspicious media

Grateful friends

And

Eventually

Avalanche invaded

Restless

Sleep.

I’ve given away the white board markers

emptied the files

shredded confidential pages

which no-one would read

and wonder

what’s next?

Images chase  across my memory

long forgotten students frozen in time

issues now resolved beyond my consciousness

Retirement is a different state of mind

Purpose more difficult to find

Days no longer structured by a role

And meaning  more elusive for the soul

Time, once the enemy,

now lingers generously

and I must control it

not it me

But there’s a butterfly freedom

previously denied

And the challenge is to use it

not watch it

flutter

away.