David Cherrett

Washing line

Death hangs in these old villages.
It billows up from time to time,
as laundered sheets do when it’s gusting.

These gusts cluster like buses; those buses
they no longer send to quiet
hillside stops like ours; cut off

the saline drip for such terminal
cases. Kinder, really, you see.
Let them go quietly. Besides

The young have mostly upped and gone
to bigger towns; found and lost
their for-the-weekend jobs.

And back home the laundry billows
once again; sheet-shrouds
blossom up. Two last month.

Each easing snuffs out memories.
The place meanwhile, retrenched,
has lost another smile of relevance.

David spends a lot of time in and writes from the Peak District. An
historian by education, he is particularly interested in the identity and relevance of the rural community as we enter the digital age.

Emmaline O’Dowd

O, meine Herren!

This lady’s a rare plant, an exotic parasitic – oh but the
flowers,
meine Herren, the adornments –

the plunging back, the swaying hips,
the cigarette holder at her lips,
the cocktail glass where the cherry dips…

She follows fashion to the letter,
but she’ll always go one better,
out-Harlow Jean, out-Garbo Greta…

O, meine Herren!

This lady’s made of steel and gemstone – oh but the
sparkle,
meine Herren, the enticements –

the challenge of that painted pout,
the languorous lids that leave no doubt
she knows for sure what she’s about…

So much glamour, so much glitz –
the way she stands, the way she sits,
the way that clinging bodice fits…

O, meine Herren!

This lady’s a risker, a chancer, dancing close to the brink –
oh but the poise,
meine Herren, the deportment –

there’s just nothing you can tell this
mistress of the tilted pelvis –
her assets are what she herself is…

Though you might do your best to lure her,
don’t imagine you’ll secure her –
she won’t stop till she’s reached the Führer…

O, meine Herren!

Emmaline O’Dowd, former violin and piano teacher, is a member of Derby City Poets and has had work in various magazines over the years, as well as in the Quaker anthology ‘A speaking silence’.

 

Nikolay Gumilev

War

Like a dog on a chain the machine-gun
Barks out from beyond the wood;
Splinters of shrapnel are buzzing
Like bees as they forage for food.

And that distant ‘Hurrah’, like the song of
The reapers, might tempt you to say
That this is some peaceful village
At the end of a fruitful day.

And in truth, the majestic work of
War is so holy and good
You’d think that behind each warrior
A bright-winged angel stood.

Then bless this day the labourers
As they slowly proceed, oh Lord,
To reap a harvest of glory
From fields which they’ve soaked with blood.

Before you, like those who labour
In sorrow and prayer at the plough,
As luminous as waxen candles,
The hearts of the soldiers glow.

But remember, oh Lord, to grant victory
To the one who before the end
Says to the fallen enemy:
‘Receive this kiss from a friend.’
1914

Translated from the Russian by Stephen Capus

Nikolay Stepanovich Gumilyov was an influential Russian poet, literary critic, traveler, and military officer. He was a cofounder of the Acmeist movement. He was arrested and executed by the Cheka, the secret Soviet police force, in 1921.

Stephen Capus studied Russian at the University of Birmingham and the School of Slavonic and East European Studies in London. He has published poems, translations and articles in various magazines. A number of his translations were featured in the Penguin Book of Russian Poetry, published in 2015.

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