War Poetry

Theatre of War

The entrance bugles its golden welcome
Like a disco. A strange escalator draws you in,
You scarcely notice it, or the framed arms factory cheques
And catalogues of prosthetic limbs. You are blinded,
Deafened by cameras and speeches.

There is a sense of disappointment when you see it:
A cardboard box, a children's theatre where-
On painted sticks-move the aeroplanes, tanks and guns
To the paper rhythms of
Newspapers, tv and election deadlines.

By Michael Brett

Wartime Time

In wartime, time changes as brushwork changes in paintings
From Da Vinci silk to hogbrush; and it seems
That you are entering a time inside -or under- time,
Following Alice's rabbit into a folding time and space
That billow as sails do, filling with sadness
Killing King Aegeus and deepening black upon black,
Louder until eardrums burst and bleed;
And time itself begins to swing as railway tracks
Or firemen's hoses do;

And everyone's hand on your shoulders-their eyes-
Are kindly and say Welcome to the Utopia,
The Blessed Communism of the bomb
That soldiers miss when they leave. Here,
Caressed by its warm wings we are all equal,
-Beloved and cursed alike- folded like tents
Into the Buddha's curving bellies of the shock waves;

And I dreamt I saw you there, poised like a scream
In the instant before bursting; a glissando grace note
Poised, ready for its Beachy Head suicide note;
To strike wingless at the sea below, each wave folded
Like the instant;

And there are so many instants, each folded
Like umbrellas in a gentleman's club;
Like polite caved bats in rows -as bombs in storage-
Clicking as they watch you, as air to air missiles do
When you walk past them.

This is it.

By Michael Brett

Civil War

Tomorrow, the Keeper of the Public Latrines
Again will be Lord of Life and Death and
With stone eyes and a stone hand, I salute him.

My God is a resigned acceptance of the solitary and the pointless.
The graves of my soldiers jostle one another for a place in the sun.

I knew him before he was powerful.
For him, I ordered the dead to canvas the living.

But they never notice us. Our faces are on statues.
Our barracks are the intestines of birds and fish.
Our names are long rebukes on pieces of stonework.

But, in the villages, time is a train you can step down from.
A wise woman is always at hand. Her prophecies always come true.
I know it will all end when his widow stands before his open grave
And asks who shot his enemies.

I'll shoot him then.

By Michael Brett

The Exhumation of the Serbian Dead
(as their forces retreat) 1995

The dead demand our loyalty.
They shout from books and paintings, pose
Fashionably in marble, naked
Or draped in togas, uniforms,
Ostrich feather hats. They blurr
With the living. The religious say
They're still alive,
Looking over our shoulders at breakfast,
Floating above us from operating tables.

And here they come, the beloved:
Love for them sharpens this world to delirium
Even on the backs of trucks,
Below tarpaulins, lurching with shovels.

At dusk, like jewels in a treasure chest,
More towns burn. In the Odyssey, the dead
Crave blood and are able to tell the future.

By Michael Brett

Star Shells over Stonehenge

Stonehenge, right next to an artillery range,
Had its megaliths, lit by star shells. These
Were like the severed halves of giant stone men-
Stomachs vanished- holding hands.

The sky and we- just Army cadets- were worlds intersecting
Like lines in Futurist paintings. The guns,
Were giant curtains and doors opening
And slamming in the sky.

My father saw this in 1940, his father in 1917.

Perhaps time is like this:
Past, present and future don't ease apart like trains.
They collide with one another. They
Are beaten together like heads. Nations
Are engines that thrust all these like pool balls into Ds.

Perhaps that is greatness: giant stone men,
Raising sparks, banging ages together like star shells;

Somewhere a Great Caesar dreams of an existence-
Unbuilt - in the centre of the Stonehenge ring

Lit by lights of wars past, present and those to come.

By Michael Brett

Mad Old Witch: the War in the Former Yugoslavia

The war is old, senile: it is a sullen sustained fury that cannot find itself
Or make sense of things, has no longer a narrative
Or shape to give events. It wanders, helplessly,
Through days that are twisted sharp
And broken things that won't do what you want anymore;

There are rumours of the Americans and Iranians flying in weapons:
The attack already is a kind of giant music
That plays on the strings of us:
Home and rumour, puppy dogs, climb off planes,
Bark in boxes of weapons, congressmen's speeches;

We decipher television like pharaonic script,
Guessing at meanings, filling in gaps,
And the private clocks of myself and the world
Begin to converge in a kind of artist's diagram of perspective:

Time is a camping giant packing us up,
Finishing his holiday, pulling up tent pegs:

All will be interrupted. Lives are half-eaten sandwiches
Left in bars: education, jobs-lives.

And World War memories come back to life,
Like walking on bombed windows;

And fear too is a vast cathedral,
But changed by the young people into something
Modern. It is no longer a dark Catholic or Orthodox welcoming fug
But something bright, noisy that the young people made of glass
Containing everything and everyone.

Outside it, gunners yawn next to besieging guns
And the casual shells are sown next to apartments;
Another Sarajevo day.

In the Bosnia-Herzegovina offices, in London,
45 minutes flying time away
Everything is the same but different, senile, uncomprehending, baffling:
Our homes are burgled but nothing is stolen.

Men in leather jackets are FSB/KGB, not rock fans.
The retired English major with a Terry-Thomas moustache
Who says he has converted to Islam is, I think, MI6.

But somewhere between all the death threats and spies
And the gun runners making deals in airport toilets,
There is a miracle here:

Scruffy Saint Michaels and working class Henry Vs in jeans ride out of London
In vans to fight for people they don't know,
In places they've never been
And talk about the front line as if it were the pub

And a battle, a game of dominoes, a casual win at cards.

by Michael Brett