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Refugee blues …. W.H. Auden


Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no place for us.

Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you’ll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can’t do that, my dear, old passports can’t do that.

The consul banged the table and said,
“If you’ve got no passport you’re officially dead”:
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.

Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?

Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
“If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread”:
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.

Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was Hitler over Europe, saying, “They must die”:
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.

Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren’t German Jews, my dear, but they weren’t German Jews.

Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren’t the human race, my dear, they weren’t the human race.

Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

© WH Auden estate

your wise owl eyes, a poem . . . and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

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i belong to the wind, to grandmother moon
to the vision of the hawk, the depth of the sea
i am the heart of a lion drinking the sun
i am the true journey, the undiscovered path
i am the life in the fox, centered and silent,
apparent in the stillness between breaths
i am the flame of meaning that lights the night
see me with your old soul, your wise owl eyes

© 2014, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; illustration: spirit animal with permission by Gretchen Del Rio.  If you have not visited Gretchen’s site, you must.  Fabulous!


WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

What is your vision of that essential energy that is the base of all things seen and unseen? Does your vision lean toward the scientific or the metaphysical? Tell us in prose or poem. If you feel comfortable, share your work – or a link to it – in response to this theme. All writing shared will be published next Tuesday.  You have until Monday evening – 8 p.m. PST – to respond.


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Mrs. G, a poem . . . and your Wednesday Writing Prompt


at sunrise with its schmears of
cream cheese clouds against
the quince-colored morning light,
Mrs. Goldberg is out of bed ~
a military tactician in war-time,
no dust-bunny is safe, every
grease spot is enzyme-bombed,
the wash thrashed by machine,
then hung or folded, put in place,
her windows wiped, her floors scrubbed
and woe betide wee crawling creatures,
so intent is Mrs. G on genocide

© 2016, poem, Jamie Dedes; the 1908 Good Housekeeping cover designed by American illustrator John Cecil Clay (1875-1930) is in the public domain


WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

Neighbors

Mrs. Goldberg lived next door to me when I was first married a hundred years ago. She’s long gone but remains in heart and memory. Think of all the neighbors you’ve had over time, many loved and many who remained friends even when things changed and life and geography separated you. Tell us in prose or poem about a neighbor and his or her signature characteristic, one that you remember with special affection.


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A Puppet Dancing in the Dark, a poem … and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

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I saw you walking through the charnel house,
harvesting the bleached and disarticulated bones
of our ancestors to make our rote Sunday soup
Nights, you hung lifeless prayer from rotting teeth

At dawn you regurgitated the remains and our
foremothers spoke sadly of disease and diaspora
I wept to know how you suffered for your fantasies
We are left spineless and bloodless by our history

Crowned with the prickly thorns of your illusions,
you were greatly given to infusions of wine and bread
and daily rosaries traded for the remission of sins,
the very ones you would indulge again …

Now I know these bargains are Faustian and that
a puppet dancing in the dark has many lies to tell

©2014, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; photo – a Greek charnel house – by Tom Oats under CC BY SA 3.0


WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

Ideals, religious or otherwise, are they a matter of heart or of rote repetition and habit, fatuous fixation or even fetishism? Sometimes there is depth and understanding of history, traditions and traditional wisdom. Sometimes not.  Post your thoughts in prose or poem or a link to your work in response to this prompt in the comment section below. Responses to Wednesday prompts are published the following Tuesday on The Poet by Day.


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