AFTERBIRTH 1915
There
is no Gallipoli, Kallipolis,
beautiful town -
too
classical.
There
is only Gelibolu
Yarımadası
under
a dawn blood-red as a poppy,
yellowed
bones sprout from crumbling clay,
wire,
wild thyme and rosemary
(that’s
for remembrance)
on
the wrong beach where the buoys and boys drifted
into
the narrowed crosshairs of peasant soldiers.
New
World and Old World, and modern nations born like dragon’s teeth
at
the end of an adventure, taken around
the
world in imperial puttees, bowled out.
Learned
in school:
“E is for Empire, for which we would
die!”
Hoarse
screams for the Ottoman in a previous century
in
an oxidised landscape.
Fatigue
descended on leg and shoulder
of
those not yet mown down by Turkish guns
and
the sea moved in and out like the shuttle on a loom,
and
those that lived a little longer gave thanks
and
in those few prayers slaughter was forgotten
and
again, for a moment,
they
were bank clerks and farmers’ sons.
A
stone’s throw down the Hellespont
and
five thousand years away:
Troy,
and Achilles sulking in his tent,
no
less nor more futile than that lethal shore,
the
distance inconsequential as Greek and Anzac
push
their way blindly into history.
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