Streatham Hill
Looked across the fence
One end of summer afternoon,
Smiled, and met the neighbour:
Secateurs and roses, heavy headed red velvet
Pulsing with life. Her gardening glove
Exposed tatooed numbers: blue-grey
Ink fuzzing with age. Six digits? Seven?
So many deaths in those blurred figures.
In Streatham at teatime on a t-shirt day
Dachau opened its eyes and stared
From behind a fence. Its wires slashed
Between us, electric, uncrossable.
Inside the house
Was a long-dead pre-war Poland, perfect
To the last detail of wooden panels,
Stove and icons - a last defence
Held, somehow, through every horror
And rebuilt.
Those blurred blue-grey numbers
Veiled the house and made it
Holy, a living cenotaph,
With roses.
By Clodhopper.
Streatham Hill
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Streatham Hill
The crowd: "Yes! We are all individuals!"
Lone voice: "I'm not."
Lone voice: "I'm not."
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- Joined: Thu Dec 22, 2005 3:51 am
Streatham Hill
Beautiful.
And so necessary.
And so necessary.
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- Posts: 5115
- Joined: Mon Feb 25, 2008 5:11 pm
Streatham Hill
RedGlitter: The shock of that moment is still with me and I want it to stay. I remember how my eyes tracked what her hands were doing as she cut the roses and how the numbers appeared as she reached slightly forward. I don't recall what I was saying at that moment, but my words stopped as if she'd cut them, not a rose stem and my eyes went wide and snapped up to meet hers. I saw how she knew what I'd seen and was waiting, with a certain grim amusement, to see how I'd react - perhaps to see if I even knew what those numbers meant. I located my bottom jaw somewhere near the ground, and carried on talking as if nothing had happened.
I tried in the poem to get that sense of a lightning bolt coming out of a cloudless sky and that sense of how, fifty years later, it was still literally a live issue. Also that an experience of that sort will always be a barrier between someone who has had it and someone who has not. Shudder. The price for some knowledge is just too high.
I tried in the poem to get that sense of a lightning bolt coming out of a cloudless sky and that sense of how, fifty years later, it was still literally a live issue. Also that an experience of that sort will always be a barrier between someone who has had it and someone who has not. Shudder. The price for some knowledge is just too high.
The crowd: "Yes! We are all individuals!"
Lone voice: "I'm not."
Lone voice: "I'm not."