i
Dmitri Dmitrievich waited for death
the clock ticking
like a spectral harp
in the dark night
of the long vigil
waiting for the bells to keen.

DSCH, DSCH
dead and defiled
jabbed and jarred
with poker words
that burn and sear
the cold dank flesh.

the suitcase packed
clenched
like a wooden smile
all dreams consigned 
to wilful acts of survival.

say those words
and do not mean it!
let your heart
hold your body tight
stretched and fearful.

disease and stillness
make the pulse unclear.
disguised - 
does he laugh or cry?
what does the mad fool mean!

smiling
as the barbs of fear
break upon his head
those eyes
stare beyond tomorrow
and pierce his thick glasses.

ii
o young man
o beautiful soul
o naked Russian
hope and hopelessness
juggle in your fragile shape:

Dmitri Dmitrievich
the soul can still sing
in the darkest night
in the deepest pain
in the hours
when the light will not pass.  

III
all those lost souls
all that incalculable terror.
we remember your coded sounds
how citizens wept
how tyrants died
how music was true unto itself.
 
Dmitri Dmitrievich
saw the shadow
and touched its hand
and held on tight
and bruised his heart
to stay with life:
the unforsaken chronicler.

so harp and flute
foretell our end.
as the children play
in the hard edged ruins
your unbearable beauty washes over us all:
there are no forsaken ones
when dimmest hope begets renewal.


gar jones - April 2008 - dedicated to Mary K

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