It's a Tourist Town, Anne

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Barricade to the Promised Land

County Mayo, Ireland, and Londonderry, Northern Ireland

 

Republican:

 

Right there, where that thicket rises up on the roadside;

that’s where my great uncle and his boys lay in ambush

for the black and tans; and killed two of them dead and sent

a half-dozen more scattering, most of them bloodied.

It didn’t make up for the starvation, never could,

but it kept them at bay a little longer and made

the war more real than anything they encountered

at the Somme. Oh, our boys surely took the fighting’s brunt,

but all that accomplished was to train them to face death

without blinking and dish it out when the country called.

 

But that’s all in the past: Now we’ve come into our own,

and the future is one of peace and prosperity.

We’ve kept our land, our birthright, and unity will come.

Only a generation more, maybe two, before

the deaths on that road are no longer a point of pride,

even perhaps will be as forgotten as the names

of those whose bodies fell and lay in the muddy track

’til retrieved for burial in their own native land

from whence they dared venture with the intent to claim ours.

 

Unionist:

 

My great-grandfather, Hugh, died for his country, gunned down

In a cowardly ambush as he marched the final

leagues to his quarters where his supper and bed would grant

him a brief respite from the terrors perpetrated

by rebels whose sole aim was to wrest lawful control

of the land in the name of their forefathers, men who

had long since abandoned it to the earls and other

competent landlords who had made it prosper for years.

These malcontents were fond of boasting about a past

in which Brian Boru drove the Vikings from their shores,

but they conveniently overlooked the destruction

wrought by their own warring tribes even as they had stood

one by one with foreign invaders promising wealth.

 

But those centuries that have come before are only

found detailed in history books that tout progress

toward unity. And in our schools, our children will learn

to accept religious intolerance as a thing

long past, and they will come to see, as truth, a vision

that one day there will be a single, combined people,

and this will be the new truth. One nation, where distant

stories about our kin are, on occasion, passed down

during family feastings, those tales that contain but

shadowed glimpses of ignominious deaths suffered

at the hands of the murderous forebears of people

who, for generations have proven untrustworthy,

but with whom our grandchildren will learn to comingle.

 

 

Leo Vitae

Lucerne, Switzerland

 

The dying lion says much more for the power of art

than it does the power of historical symbols.

The arrows piercing its stone flesh only tell the story

of a battle lost as the king lays his suffering head

on a shield, matted mane framing a partially open mouth

as the beast gasps for one final breath before the sad eyes

close forever on a moment of a nation’s past history.

 

In the cliff wall above the monument are carved the words:

“HELVETIORUM FIDEI AC VIRTUTI,” attesting to the loyalty and

bravery of the Swiss which would imply selfless devotion to

cause and a sacrifice worthy of the adoration of all those who,

like Twain, regard this sculpture as “the saddest and most moving

piece of rock in the world.” And, perhaps, it truly may be.

 

Except…except…except for that pesky thing called context.

Those devoted mercenaries existed as a steady revenue stream

for wealthy families, and their ferocity in war was their brand.

When King Louis the Sixteenth’s palace was attacked by a mob

that fatal August day, the royal family was not in residence,

even though the frenzied crowd was unaware of that fact.

 

All the same, the hired guards fought to protect royal property

from total destruction; thus they fired on a force many times

their size and were rapidly cut down. Seven hundred fifty men

gave their lives for furniture. Not the best advertising for future

clientele, though with a proper spin, the nobility of a monument

could obtain a pedigree that would justify the public expense

of its commission. And stating the case in Latin lent a certain

gravitas to the political braggadocio needed to excuse an absurd

tragedy whose only victory was to be found in the sculptor’s hand.

 

Sympathy, 2017

Anywhere, USA

 

Dear Sir or Madame,

 

I am sorry this response has been so late,

but I have been out of the country for several

weeks and, consequently, have missed your

pleas for my help in alleviating some of

America’s most pressing problems.

Allow me to respond at this time, lest

you think I am unsympathetic to these causes.

 

I am home at last, and I see on the news

a photo from some other place where

a child displays his severed legs caused

by a bomb dropped on his village.

I switch the channel and am shown

images of people scavenging through

the muck and debris of dumps

where the trash of the wealthy

is piled far from their elite eyes and noses.

But, I am home, and I am grateful

not to be inhabiting such places.

 

Floods and fires and storm-sweep

have taken their tolls among people

who remained in harm’s way,

having no other place to take shelter

or the means to remove themselves

to safe locations. News stories abound

about those who survived only to return

to the nothingness that was once

their place of shelter and community.

But, I am home, and I am grateful

not to be in what’s left of their shoes.

 

The mass shootings continue, yet

the only answer is hand-wringing;

the “ain’t it awful” refrain that accompanies

thoughts and prayers offered by leaders

trying to cover their political asses until

the shock wears off and something new

and shiny grabs the public’s attention.

But, I am home, and I am grateful

not to be living where the gunman was.

 

I know that inequality is inherent in our socio-

economic structure; that where you were born—

and to whom—will, more often than not,

determine your destiny; that successful individuals

are the exception pointed to by those who

benefit from privileges not structurally shared

throughout our unbalanced, pyramidal society.

But, I am home, and I am grateful

not to be at the bottom of the heap.

 

Those who can afford health care, have it,

and I am grateful to be one of those.

Those who can afford decent housing, have it,

and I am grateful to be one of those.

Those who have some reasonable measure

of future economic security, have it,

and I am grateful to be one of those.

Those whom war will never touch, have peace,

and I am grateful to be one of those.

 

There are rumblings against the stacked deck,

stirrings of dissatisfaction and resentment,

and a boiling anger getting ready to erupt.

Maybe the voices calling for a few more crumbs

will be heard this time, but rebellions rarely

succeeds, and I am not worried for myself because

only the underprivileged will try to rise up:

Those who have everything they need, have it.

I am home, and I am grateful my life quite secure.

 

Still, I want you to realize that I am not made

of stone and that your stories have touched

my heart, in part because your repeated petitions

for monetary support have reminded me

that I am fortunate enough to enjoy some

of the blessings God has chosen to grant to me

(while withholding them from others) so that

I might have the opportunity to help

my fellow man in some small way.

Please accept my check for twenty dollars.

 

Sincerely,