A few sample poems from 'FROM THE RUHR...'
Poem 2
Everyone else is very tall.
The big ones smile at me. They hold me.
Sometimes they sound angry and sometimes
they sound frightened.
Sometimes they make me laugh.
One of the big people is Father. On some evenings
he comes into the room where I sleep.
Father makes me feel warm all over. His eyes shine
when he looks at me I want to get close
to him, smell him, touch him,
feel the roughness of his suit, creep into his arms.
Father moves to the window. His voice is deep and strong.
Standing by the window, his face is dark
like some of the black cut-out illustrations in my book.
The sun touches his hair and shoulders.
The wallpaper by my bed is covered with little pink flowers
connected by thin little whirly lines. I have found out
where one pattern ends and the same pattern begins.
There is a secret spot
where I can peel the thick paper off.
Almost as nice as peeling off a scab.
Everyone else is very tall.
The big ones smile at me. They hold me.
Sometimes they sound angry and sometimes
they sound frightened.
Sometimes they make me laugh.
One of the big people is Father. On some evenings
he comes into the room where I sleep.
Father makes me feel warm all over. His eyes shine
when he looks at me I want to get close
to him, smell him, touch him,
feel the roughness of his suit, creep into his arms.
Father moves to the window. His voice is deep and strong.
Standing by the window, his face is dark
like some of the black cut-out illustrations in my book.
The sun touches his hair and shoulders.
The wallpaper by my bed is covered with little pink flowers
connected by thin little whirly lines. I have found out
where one pattern ends and the same pattern begins.
There is a secret spot
where I can peel the thick paper off.
Almost as nice as peeling off a scab.
Poem 6
I stand on the balcony. On tiptoes.
I’ll see him any minute now. The tram has
turned the corner, and it’s the tram
on which Father usually comes.
It’s a sunny afternoon
and I feel expectant and happy.
I can see his trench-coated figure,
recognize the way he walks, the way
he wears his hat. He carries his leather case
and something wrapped in paper. He probably
bought two of those flat fish with yellow spots
because it's Friday. We always eat fish on Friday.
I am never quite sure whether it's Friday
because he brings the fish, or whether
he brings the fish because it's Friday.
I stand on the balcony. On tiptoes.
I’ll see him any minute now. The tram has
turned the corner, and it’s the tram
on which Father usually comes.
It’s a sunny afternoon
and I feel expectant and happy.
I can see his trench-coated figure,
recognize the way he walks, the way
he wears his hat. He carries his leather case
and something wrapped in paper. He probably
bought two of those flat fish with yellow spots
because it's Friday. We always eat fish on Friday.
I am never quite sure whether it's Friday
because he brings the fish, or whether
he brings the fish because it's Friday.
Poem 8
Something is wrong. Mother and Father are talking.
They always talk in the kitchen. They think I can't hear them.
They think I’m asleep.
Mother sits by my bed and tells me the story
of 'Rose Red and Rose White' yet again, and my thoughts
are big and fearless. When I wake up, Mother has left.
A little sunlight forces itself through a hole in the curtains.
I trace the beam and blow. That makes the little bits of dust dance.
Then I hear them talk.
Mother says, ‘We have to go. They are after the Ruhr.
They’ll bomb the lot.’
I can't hear what my father says.
Mother: ‘Your precious Führer...’
The voices are getting quieter now. I strain to hear.
Suddenly my father's voice hisses: ‘Don't talk like that,
Mother. They'll lock you up or send you away.
Think it. Don't ever say it!’
Something is wrong. Mother and Father are talking.
They always talk in the kitchen. They think I can't hear them.
They think I’m asleep.
Mother sits by my bed and tells me the story
of 'Rose Red and Rose White' yet again, and my thoughts
are big and fearless. When I wake up, Mother has left.
A little sunlight forces itself through a hole in the curtains.
I trace the beam and blow. That makes the little bits of dust dance.
Then I hear them talk.
Mother says, ‘We have to go. They are after the Ruhr.
They’ll bomb the lot.’
I can't hear what my father says.
Mother: ‘Your precious Führer...’
The voices are getting quieter now. I strain to hear.
Suddenly my father's voice hisses: ‘Don't talk like that,
Mother. They'll lock you up or send you away.
Think it. Don't ever say it!’
Poem 15
The evening sun
is still warm. It paints
golden specks onto the world.
I feel alone and like it. I can hear
Armand's voice from afar.
Armand is one of the French prisoners of war
who help the farmers. He always has a smile
for us children. He sings beautiful
and sad songs. I can see him now,
sitting high up on the wagon, the reins
left loose, the horses walking slowly.
When he comes over the hill
he sings the most beautiful and sad song of all--
the ‘Song of the Normandy’. I recognize it
because Father often used to sing it to me.
Even though I don't understand the words,
I remember Father’s translation. Armand
must be so lonely for his home.
Now he sees me and waves his beret. He is
a pirate. Proud, strong, beautiful. I hope
that he can go home soon, home to his Normandy.
Everyone seems to be in the wrong place.
I have learned French:
‘Bonjour, Armand!’
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle, ma belle!’
The evening sun
is still warm. It paints
golden specks onto the world.
I feel alone and like it. I can hear
Armand's voice from afar.
Armand is one of the French prisoners of war
who help the farmers. He always has a smile
for us children. He sings beautiful
and sad songs. I can see him now,
sitting high up on the wagon, the reins
left loose, the horses walking slowly.
When he comes over the hill
he sings the most beautiful and sad song of all--
the ‘Song of the Normandy’. I recognize it
because Father often used to sing it to me.
Even though I don't understand the words,
I remember Father’s translation. Armand
must be so lonely for his home.
Now he sees me and waves his beret. He is
a pirate. Proud, strong, beautiful. I hope
that he can go home soon, home to his Normandy.
Everyone seems to be in the wrong place.
I have learned French:
‘Bonjour, Armand!’
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle, ma belle!’
Poem 20
My father was due to arrive.
I walk down the empty village road. It was already quite chilly,
promising an early winter.
The road was long and straight. I had walked it
many times before.
What would I do?
What would I say?
Would he lift me up as he used to do?
Would he look different?
Was he as tall as I believed him to be?
I am going to meet my father!
Many people are waiting for the train.
Officially the train is not due
for another 10 minutes, but now trains
just come when they can.
I see the steam before I can make out the train
chuffing over the hill. Now it rolls into the station
and comes to a halt. People are hanging from doors, sit
on the roofs or on any available little platform or foot-plate.
Everyone carries rucksacks, having most likely been to farms
swapping their last precious possessions
for grains or potatoes.
As people stream off the train they fill the tiny platform
and I am getting lost in the crowd, being still so much smaller
than everyone else. One last old man walked
out to the other side of the barrier.
I stood on that platform.
I stood there for many long years.
My father was due to arrive.
I walk down the empty village road. It was already quite chilly,
promising an early winter.
The road was long and straight. I had walked it
many times before.
What would I do?
What would I say?
Would he lift me up as he used to do?
Would he look different?
Was he as tall as I believed him to be?
I am going to meet my father!
Many people are waiting for the train.
Officially the train is not due
for another 10 minutes, but now trains
just come when they can.
I see the steam before I can make out the train
chuffing over the hill. Now it rolls into the station
and comes to a halt. People are hanging from doors, sit
on the roofs or on any available little platform or foot-plate.
Everyone carries rucksacks, having most likely been to farms
swapping their last precious possessions
for grains or potatoes.
As people stream off the train they fill the tiny platform
and I am getting lost in the crowd, being still so much smaller
than everyone else. One last old man walked
out to the other side of the barrier.
I stood on that platform.
I stood there for many long years.
Poem 22
More and more dirty and tired young men stumble
through our village at night. Deserters.
All they want is life.
Tired of killing,
tired of being shot at,
tired of defending the Vaterland.
And most of the women have sons.
So they do for these sons
what they hope other mothers
will do for their sons by hiding
these defeated boys, feeding them
and burying their dirty, torn uniforms
in a deep hole dug at the back
of the cellar, exchanging them for civilian clothes
they have accumulated. Before morning,
after a short sleep, the boy-soldiers
melt into the early dawn.
More and more dirty and tired young men stumble
through our village at night. Deserters.
All they want is life.
Tired of killing,
tired of being shot at,
tired of defending the Vaterland.
And most of the women have sons.
So they do for these sons
what they hope other mothers
will do for their sons by hiding
these defeated boys, feeding them
and burying their dirty, torn uniforms
in a deep hole dug at the back
of the cellar, exchanging them for civilian clothes
they have accumulated. Before morning,
after a short sleep, the boy-soldiers
melt into the early dawn.
Poem 24
The American planes, jeeps and tanks
roll over our fields to 'park' behind the house.
I watch with alarm the damage they do
to the growing corn which is still green and tender.
In my small world this is worse
than killing people... after all, the dead
have been with me as long as I can remember.
‘Gott sei Dank!’ says Mother, ‘I prayed so hard
that the Americans would get to us before the Bolsheviks!”
My brother comes into the kitchen from his nightly
radio listening. ‘They said on the radio that
the Americans are about to take Berlin!’
They are tall, strong, handsome men and
I watch them washing at the pump in the yard.
They have soap that lathers. They brush their teeth
with white paste they squeeze from tubes
and that makes a white foam in their mouths.
They are friendly. One of them even speaks
German. He tells us that he was born in Berlin.
He’d gone to America with his parents when
he was very small.
He shrugs and looks away.
My brother gives us the latest news he’d received
on his cigar box: ‘The Americans will be gone soon.
They have orders to retreat and make way for the Russians.’
The American planes, jeeps and tanks
roll over our fields to 'park' behind the house.
I watch with alarm the damage they do
to the growing corn which is still green and tender.
In my small world this is worse
than killing people... after all, the dead
have been with me as long as I can remember.
‘Gott sei Dank!’ says Mother, ‘I prayed so hard
that the Americans would get to us before the Bolsheviks!”
My brother comes into the kitchen from his nightly
radio listening. ‘They said on the radio that
the Americans are about to take Berlin!’
They are tall, strong, handsome men and
I watch them washing at the pump in the yard.
They have soap that lathers. They brush their teeth
with white paste they squeeze from tubes
and that makes a white foam in their mouths.
They are friendly. One of them even speaks
German. He tells us that he was born in Berlin.
He’d gone to America with his parents when
he was very small.
He shrugs and looks away.
My brother gives us the latest news he’d received
on his cigar box: ‘The Americans will be gone soon.
They have orders to retreat and make way for the Russians.’