The Queen

a poem by E.D. Kain

Trumpets over glassy hillsides mourn;
The burning of gazettes and memories
Of Caesar’s fall; of heaving seas.
The jewels and lace, too pale to adorn

The Queen’s collarbone, her face
A paler shade of gray, of chalk.
Too brittle now, she rolls to walk
The slightest fall her coup de grace.

The sound of bells, she’s ripped awake
To shadows ball-room dancing on the wall.
His face reminds her of her life, that’s all,
In every frame and photograph she takes

Down from the pegs. In cabinets,
In drawers she leaves them flat.
Bins of water; saucers for the cats.
Wind catches every eve and bow in pirouettes,

While Fates drift silently from word to word
From death to death, from lips to air.
The people have all gone down to the fair;
They move about in miniature, like promises unheard.

Stalingrad - a Villanelle

by E.D. Kain

A girl in grey, a boy in soldier red;
the dust of summer blurred to winter snow.
The two in pirouettes, the lovely dead.

A star of scarlet rests upon his head.
A sepulcher for children dug below.
A girl in grey, a boy in soldier red.

They marched like toys beneath a child’s bed,
And fell like boys all strung out in a row.
The two in pirouettes, the lovely dead.

They gathered men and boys alike and wed
their wintry eyes with bullets to the snow.
A girl in grey, a boy in soldier red.

She barely slept, though winter was in threads,
and summer woke to darkened streets of crows.
The two in pirouettes, the lovely dead.

The guns like rapid drumbeats filled their heads,
The streets dyed crimson, almost seemed to glow.
A girl in grey, a boy in soldier red.
The two in pirouettes, the lovely dead.

more W.H. Auden - "stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone"

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.