Some six years after the killing of the Rosenbergs
well, it's said their murder
It was in the very heart of Jerusalem that I was born
this Jerusalem of the west
And yet my cradle stood in a cold and darkened north
in this grandparental home
There where my Zeyde and Bubbe taught both their sons
about life, study and honour
In the port of Amsterdam in Brell's sixties I stood at the helm
of that whaler ship Barentsz
And not much later that child carried the sword up ancient steps
of a castle in his young heart
Blond and overly active pulling at my parents hands to go forward
to the exitement of growing up
(how) did I ever get home
Was it aged nineteen or at twenty that I tried to die crossing the road
just in front of the speeding lorry
Or was it that starry, frosty night that I buried myself in a heap of snow
with an alcoholic haze for warmth
As the one thing in me that froze and died (that night) was the cerebrum
but the body kept for another hour
a year
a decade
a lifetime with a heart, yet without a brain
have not both of us in all gone to extremes
(how) will I ever get home
"Somebody's done for" penned Sylvia mulling
( ) and I believe it to be me
Perhaps my dead body will be perfect
© 2024-08-31
Note.
To the memory of the brilliant Sylvia Plath.
Jerusalem of the west a.k.a. Amsterdam.
No comments:
Post a Comment