This poem was written in 1994 after events in the town of Gorazde: a
Designated United Nations Safe Haven for civilian refugees in the territory
of the former Yugoslav state of Bosnia Herczegovina during that particular
Balkan civil war. I think Srebrenica came next. J
The Theological Virtues
(for Gorazde. Easter. 1994.)
When I was young my grandfather
bequeathed to me his fife and flute:
a catafalque of mystery,
of silver chase and ebon wood,
which, lain beside the ration cards
was soon forgot; the times were good.
And when the bellies grew
so big and black they filled the pulpit,
and when the brand new telly made me weep,
I gave up my Scalectrix for the starving of Biafra,
and the unblown fife and flute,
that they might eat.
Yet, Merciful God, there are now men
would mutilate my daughter.
My son, the young footballer, has no limbs.
Sweet Jesus, no.... Not here, not I,
but someone else.... in some foresaken place
where innocence is culpable as sin.
Oh, what further gift have I to find could salve
these ever deeper wounds, at least could drive
the vision of this slaughter from my head?
The paschal blood runs freely as the comment
on the radio, and faith and hope unravel
like the entrails of the dead.
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