Colin Crewdson

Aleppo
.

outside the bazaar
she stands by the gate, the stonework
banded white and black, the ancient wooden door
decorated with metal rosettes
and spoked sun wheels

.

but time’s a difference you can’t
see: old rubble
has become new rubble
mortared with body parts

.

(we bought a toy horse –
chestnut,  with a white blaze,
red lips
and golden tassels
rearing on bent wire legs –
the true madness of his world
reflected in his crazed eyes)

.

we ask ourselves
(because who else
might be interested?) what became
of our friends Sami and Abdullah?

.

at the madrasa the Byzantine fronds

of Empress Helena’s palms, petrified
for fifteen centuries in the capitols
of her cathedral, wave
a goodbye to all that history stuff
a relief from insanity
in oblivion

.

is there a way back?

.
chants (byzantine)
chants (islamic)
chants (would be a fine thing)

© Colin Crewdson

 

.

.

.

 

like a memory

.

in this flat desert of stones
I heard gunshots

.

the letters that arrived
dog-eared, marked with blue pencil
post restante

.
recounted true stories
blurred with the incompleteness
that told more

.

there is no joy
in this killing

.

© Colin Crewdson