BLITZ IN ESTAIRES

by Constantin von Hoffmeister

a volunteer in (EVROPA) kneels
at key points primitive tanks
(mountains as natural frontiers
not ineffective)
basically quite simple:
frontier year 19—-
barbed border implosions (way back when)
as drawn through Estaires
(Berlin routinely there in fog in
gloom!
the dome damned, too damned!, to
doom!)
—-
trudging stage too slow to grasp
a wind that fails
the border clear
(a tank-led sun positions flashed)
by the roadside:
a grey volunteer in vanguard attire
with his lance aimed in spite
(riding the beast
shedding sleet and blood)
—-

the essence of their stand
(in Estaires gefallene Amerikaner)
now: a small number of followers limp
forced to retire early to bed to the cinema
aghast!, anachronistically!, - to the opera even!
—-
athletic prowess and good looks -
Man beats Death through bravery and incredulity
(“and the gene pool, smiles and waves
to bathe in sacred waters, arrogant blush
wash away soot and decay, skeptically drowning”)
each minute choice
(the grey volunteer yawns and forgets
too easily the curse of indifferent admiration)
blasphemous! rolls down thunder from the sky
in Estaires in hollow hulls
(the primitive tanks)
hides the future the lance cannot reach!
—-
arrogant carcass too sure of beauty
(and physics and space)
be choice meat! - stares a blank space lie!
(into the invitational blue of a ravenous sky)
—-
languish in the hay
(lay with the bitch behind the barn,
the pond glistening in the blistering sun)
the grey volunteer shaves
(one more time before swiftness sets in)
and bullets rage across a thundering sky
(the storm roars indifferent to kin
and all the whores and harlequins cry)
the grey volunteer buttons up
steels himself pretends to never give in
and off with thirst no time to sup
(the razor in the earthen bowl
obscured by clouds of bright white soap)
—-
irrational and condescending
(lust-bred hatred the hot tears suck rivers dry)
a mindgame to play in times of distress
(imposed by imposters who claim to know)
and from high shine rays and false divine
the lance impales the enemy
(the grey volunteer: “Enemy, he was not mine!”)
in the flat fields of Flanders wells shelled
(“La situation de notre ville se r?sume en un mot:
DESTRUCTION! DESTRUCTION TOTALE, ABSOLUE!”)
Pays du Sang - finished to the last drop
—-
in shallow puddles mines exploding immature
too late to check to feel the lie
the grey volunteer blind and ordered to be sure
(when all the rabbits and the hares die)
signs cut off perceptive glares
(and reaping tunes sow solitude)
in lanes and streets and trenches piles
(the stench a growth through circumcision
devised and forced by empty smiles)
——
a more serious subjugation
demonstrating anything but arguments
(to be sent to lie to die
down deep legalized and laughed at)
in Estaires past development
(subjugation cultural and forced -
“they added their own ropes”)
—-
the grey volunteer abiding straying
lost amidst the rubble ruined
(God’s children mercilessly praying
locks rocking back, walls breaking forth)
town fairs empty echoes haloed
and large estates in capture shine
(to govern concepts laws “a-changing”)
haunted by cries: “nevermore mine!”
(soon! privileges gained by waging!)
the mission statement kept divine
—-
nodding in tune with hapless demands
sanguine birds of prey descend
(while ash is blown to heaven sent)
the parties agree and hide and too shy
above, at level zero, triumph strangled
with furious tempers flared by design
(in Estaires, they stumbled across
each other, arms outreached inmidst the noise
and wild stares silenced beneath wet moss
eyes gorged out, deliberately picked by choice)
—-
(not getting the message very clear)
this is the way ignorant armies cheer
after a rowdy march across fields aflame
the grey volunteer inebriated with beer
stumbles back across mares turned lame
(and silent sincere his self not the same
the grey volunteer feels sick and ashamed)
—-
stars still bright and wandering
(not to know the half-way truth)
the discarded or the empty and expired
(“no more ribbons, now a heavy yoke!”)
and in the pallid silent face
(the grey volunteer tells a sad joke)
no more struggling the uphill race
(but sliding down and clinging to hold
but it is steep and there are no more bold)
and the universe cramps up like the bitch
with honor and truth nobody is anymore rich
(in a dusty and debris-covered niche
the grey volunteer looks up through the hole
still, left and right a dim light is blinking)
—-
behind some trinkets, cubicles of past delays
and wayward thinking, off the trodden path
(sell the active words to some submissive
to others shiny golden and justified wrath)
there a time alit with all its memories slit
(deep down gurgling throats the liquid waits
forth with force breaks hate in former mates)
the bitch on her back broke with lust
selfish spent now nothing but dust
(wind-swept dunes replace houses with tunes)
—-
on a trek through mud, sunshine was discovered
(not the name but the reality)
ready to be shipped to distant shores
(where shifty eyes sniff it amidst shudders)
and changed times revert to obedience
(and brothers languish in deceit
hands clasped, asking for “bread”)
a closure will show the beginning a new show
the beginning will screen the “discussed” end
and nowhere in sight a final and martial blow
(that would finally broken spirits mend)
—-
lamenting vices with joyful glee
(with dread the grey volunteer awakes
venturing out into the pit to see)
from Estaires, in-between heavy quakes
the raucous rabble continues to follow
leaders tainted with smears of smiles
(their embellished spirits remain hollow)
invisible to most, enticing to almost all
(but chaos will follow in the great hall)

Posted by Constantin von Hoffmeister on Saturday, September 29, 2007 at 05:11 AM in
Comments (7) | Tell a friend

Comments:

Posted by haemorrhage on September 29, 2007, 08:29 AM | #

Guessedworker…when can we expect a new blog from you?

Posted by Fred Scrooby on September 29, 2007, 09:31 AM | #

The Battle of Estaires was the war’s final turning point against the prospect of success for Germany.

In this poem, Constantin skillfully uses imagery to very effectively convey a sense of hopeless futility and waste, for example, “nowhere in sight a final and martial blow” (the failure of deadlocked, stalemated trench warfare to break through and advance toward a military conclusion) and “but chaos will follow in the great hall” (the great hall is the Palace of Versailles, the chaos the ill-considered injustices and outrages meted out at that conference, mainly at the behest of the French).

I for one am generally left cold by Walt-Whitman-style free verse and blank verse, so I appreciated the many passages where Constantin added rhyme to the poetic devices employed, which were well done.

Overall a well written and powerful poem. But the theme which, knowing Constantin, I understand he wanted to express here, of the futility of intra-European nationalisms — especially, to take the starkest example of that futility, when they lead to war — is not one I endorse, not at all. I think individual intra-Euro nationalisms are essential and need to be respected and preserved.

Constantin, next time you go to a French restaurant and the waiter asks what wine you and your companion would like with dinner, tell him to open a dozen bottles of his best wine, pour them all together in a big container, and serve you from that mixture, on grounds you disdain the unique individual character of each. Watch carefully the look on the waiter’s face.

A bit of imagery I didn’t like so much in this and some other of C’s poems was that which had a flavor of a hint of mysogyny, presumably the result of Negro rap lyrics influencing C’s generation of white guys. Reject that. Reject rap mysogyny. It’s not a white thing; not for white guys.

Posted by Reiv on September 29, 2007, 05:49 PM | #

“A bit of imagery I didn’t like so much in this and some other of C’s poems was that which had a flavor of a hint of mysogyny, presumably the result of Negro rap lyrics influencing C’s generation of white guys. Reject that. Reject rap mysogyny. It’s not a white thing; not for white guys.”

It is also not poetry in the traditional Western sense, although it might be sung to a jungle-like ‘rap’ rhythm and become a huge hit, for all I know. ‘shifty eyes sniffing’ might also appeal to Timothy Leary types, but nobody in their right mind will call that poetry (my apologies to Mr. Scrooby), anymore than a true child of the West will call the daubings of Picasso, art. It is not the Negro who has caused this inversion or distortion of values, but rather another race - one to which the author of the alleged poetry seems beholden.

Reiv

Posted by VLC on October 03, 2007, 12:01 AM | #

is that guy the bard of Majority Rights or something ? or the Loke of the Majority Rights pantheon ?

Seriously I don’t understand

Posted by Constantin von Hoffmeister on October 03, 2007, 03:01 AM | #

“It is also not poetry in the traditional Western sense, although it might be sung to a jungle-like ‘rap’ rhythm and become a huge hit, for all I know.”

So you are saying that T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound did not write poetry “in the traditional Western sense”? What is “the traditional Western sense”? Is it what you personally prefer or is there some real definition? You obviously do not know a whole lot about Western literature.

Constantin

Posted by Melba Peachtoast on October 03, 2007, 12:07 PM | #

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
While I admire the Wallaby
And it admires its owner: me.

Posted by Reiv on October 03, 2007, 11:54 PM | #

Although I did not mention Eliot and Pound, I will say that, at times, Pound wrote poetry in the traditional Western sense. (Perhaps you should google that terminology; I suspect that if you knew a whole lot about Western literature, it would not have confused you in the first place.) Maybe Eliot did, too, and I just never saw any of it. But you have transcended even Eliot’s worst, with your kitsch. If you aspire to being an artist - even a lowly performance artist - then you had better prepare yourself for criticism, because you do not seem to have done that yet. By your question: “So you are saying that T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound did not write poetry “in the traditional Western sense”?” you infer that you are in a league with them. You might better have asked: “So you are saying that I do not write poetry ‘in the traditional Western sense’?” You would have a better chance of learning something, asking questions like that, were your conceit laid aside long enough.

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