Peace on Earth
Basel, 1995
The bells hallo Christmas. Four days back,
The light ebbed.
Today, dawn came
Weak, with a rain
that filled the river
To a soil-filled
roar that still sweeps to Holland.
Now just
mid-afternoon, night falls;
Across the city the
season's lights
Go back on. It's
dark. You're still bearing
Our son, who gleams
through you, cuts the gloom
From the air around
you the way a candle
Glows through its
china church. Miracle fires
Your tale-bearing
face, flesh, bone, O rose window.
March 1, 1996
For Henry David
I.
Pre-dawn, pre-March. Beyond the roof-tops,
The year's first blackbirds were running up
The block as a sound check before building
Their nests as I waited in the spring-starved
air.
March stirred, you stirred, the taxi came.
In the sleep-deprived blur of 5 AM,
We threaded the empty town; the midwife
Waited. Beginnings are hard. The frozen
Ground resists the thrusting tulips. You
Began to climb out unseen towards the light.
Saturday Morning
I.
Milk jugs, grocery sacks and the sun-stoked back
Of the station wagon and the weekly round
Of suburban chores with the obligato
Of the children mingle to dissipate
The hush of the ancients chanting their calls
To time beyond this dreamless present
Where consumption leads not to Palestine
But back to the bank and on to the next
Strip mall neckaced with boutiques and the hum
Of Muzak piping denatured ditties
Whose blood is the call to further purchase
Which is the genius of this sepulcher.
II.
Why should she dream of Chabrier or Chaucer
Who now must move in the world of nurture,
Beset by calls for further sugar-coated
Cereals, skates, the latest shade of Barbie,
Or video games? She'll find no comfort
In the path to Parnassus, the sacrifice
Is hers alone, the ageless code of genes
Programs her so, the blood-bounded choices
For her are no choice, she feels the last pull
Of her will to beauty, then she walks away
Surrounded by children, all pleasure, all pain:
"These are the measures destined for her soul."
III.
She reads much, hears more, contends with voices
That coax her, conn her, cover her with counsel.
Most will turn out useless, disastrous, wrong
In every particular. Still, it's all meant
With the best of intent, it's just that the gods
This season obsess with the falling rate
Of return for investments. The word is
"Buy."
She heeds as much as her circumstances
Allow, alas not much; the promised flood
Of boom stoked by empire won't float all the
boats.
Far from the ocean with its blood seeming tides,
She loads up, drives home. The radio plays.
IV.
Death plays on around her but she contradicts
Its banal scordatura with melodies
She didn't invent, whose white-note contours
Are age-old, more potent than any loss,
Are the pulse of the animal ordering
Death to step aside, to make way for new
Generation. The radio sings voices
That cry out chaos, that stoop down to a dark
Which never seems to happen. She lets it slide
And glides into the driveway, unpacks the kids
Who hoot like starved owlets and swoop indoors
Down to darkened playrooms on urgent wings.
Down to darkened playrooms on urgent wings.
John Shreffler (1951, Oklahoma) has lived all over the place but is especially fond of his years in Basel from 1994-2003. His son Henry was born there in 1996. Currently he lives in Brookline, an inner suburb of the Boston Metroplex. As a poet he is active since the mid 1970's with publications in Us, Uk and Australia. Day jobs have included books and music retail, law and librarianship. Currently at 66 he is retired.
