A valley in Spain
for Juan Carlos Jiménez
In 1937, during the Spanish Civil War, the Battle of Jarama was fought between the 6th and 27th of February. Insurgent Nationalist troops attempted to capture the Madrid-Valencia road and choke supplies to the elected Republican government whose forces were defending the capital. The battle was a shambles and the outcome a stalemate. The road remained in Republican hands until the Nationalist victory in 1939.
Late autumn. The Jarama is sluggish,
waters low, banks burnt brown. Boys
racing bicycles stir columns of dust.
The river flooded during the battle,
surging so wide, so deep, that two days
of eager slaughter were postponed.
I won't polish away 80 years of tarnish.
The brass cartridge still grips its bullet
just the way you found it while walking
your dogs. A misfire. No mistaking a
firing pin's dent in a detonater cap. No
flesh torn. No bones smashed. Still, I
imagine a rifleman suddenly defenceless,
fingers fumbling to jerk an impotent
projectile from his rifle's breach.
This valley is sown with old ammo,
not all of it spent. Devotees of a dead
despot besmirch belated stones carved
and plaqued for the Republic's dead.
Small finds, such as your gift, turn the
mind to the innominate dead of a war
without a peace treaty, where loyalists
to a traitor's banner lie crossed, blessed
and hallowed beneath their names.
In a visitors' book at the small museum
in the town of Morata de Tajuña is an
entry in the hand of a militiaman from
the Lincoln brigade who returned to the
field in '86. Above his name he writes:
For Justice. For Freedom. For Democracy.
All hacked from the convulsing body
of Spain while high-minded proselytisers
of like ideals stood by and watched her die.
unfunded empathy
On Monday 29 July 2019 the prime minister of Australia declared he would not engage in 'unfunded empathy' by raising the Newstart payment which, at the time, was $277.85 per week.
an astonishing phrase from a believer
particularly an enthusiastic follower of the founder
who commanded us to love one another
even as he had loved us
it's more what you might hear from a Pharisee
or a friend of money lenders
those who made the temple a den of thieves
or perhaps it might be uttered
by an acolyte of the rich and powerful
a group as likely to pass heaven's gates
as a camel to squeeze through a needle's eye
yet even such as these might shorten their paradisiacal odds
by dispersing their treasure amongst the poor
then let those hosannas in excelsis be fully funded
and hallelujahs in their thousands
be franked with the imputed dividends of love
my father laboured
my father laboured in unskilled jobs for 51 years from age 14
he was paid modest wages
he slept away his evenings in a tired armchair
he slept away the afternoons of his holidays
he never complained
he was a reluctant writer
he was adept at mental arithmetic
he surpassed his economist son at mental arithmetic
he offered no advice on career or girlfriends or anything else
he knew little of universities
he neither encouraged nor discouraged my long lingering in them
he never asked about subjects I studied or subsequently taught
he taught me by silent stoic example to avoid hard physical labour
never a day passes when I don't honor his wisdom
your tiny hand
Giacomo Puccini, La Bohème, Angela Gheorghiu, Roberto Alagna, Decca
driving to Melbourne
passing ruins of the pub incinerated for a payout
stereo pumping La Bohème
Roberto Alagna and Angela Gheorghiu
opera’s one-time hottest couple
soon the cooling, falling apart, separation, divorce
but now it's the pulsating duet and aria
My name is Mimi, Your tiny hand is frozen
hope has not died
Mimi hasn't started to cough blood
Alagna’s letting rip for all he's worth
the soaring intoxication of new love
and when his urgent tenor commands those stretched high notes
I can no longer hold back my tears
a sudden outpouring that blurs the road
compelling me to pull onto the verge
overpowered by thoughts of first meeting you
the blind date
those transcendent all-consuming months
thinking of nothing other than you
my desk buried beneath documents I no longer cared a damn for
but so soon the crush of conformity
the lacerations of assorted afflictions
the kindly savageries of life-saving surgeries
the better angels earthbound, wings besmirched in mire
yet the fire of those blazing days never quite gutters
still occasionally and unexpectedly flaring
never mind the rolling storms of sludge
splattering the blades of an ever-swirling fan