March 20 is World Poetry Day and this month we bring you a very topical poem by Warwick Middleton, which illustrates the way poetry can be used to explore both past and contemporary traumas.
Joseph the priest, Adolf the painter and Vladimir, the spy,
Humanity weeps and seeks to question – the how and the why…
They were the first sibling in their family to survive,
Four of Adolf’s did not make it out of childhood alive…
Joseph and Vladimir were third born, but the first to find their way to adulthood,
Adolf and Joseph, were repeatedly beaten by their enraged fathers, it is understood…
How Vladimir’s parents survived Adolf’s siege is something of a mystery,
For Vladimir, was born into the post-war wasteland of the most besieged city in history…
The bully, the liar, the outlandish thief…
All had mothers whose lives were molded by the black ashes of grief.
Their souls were dry and wrinkled – tainted by the long shadow of death,
Rigidly fixated on being a national savior – until their last breath…
No humanity, no empathy, they set out to condemn…
They created their villains and ordered others to die, in destroying them…
Fueled by the vision of their own uniqueness,
They knew that to care is to expose vulnerability and weakness…
Joseph refused to spare the life of his first-born son.
Adolf ordered the destruction of Paris – enraged that it was not done…
Vladimir blew up a country to rid it of Neo-Nazis who did not exist…
And encountered the wrath of those who chose to resist.
They were ruthless to those who showed resistance.
They wanted to rule forever but paranoia and hatred enveloped their existence…
Time and again, time and again…
Reasonable men made the mistake of thinking they were reasonable men…
That their signature on a document, indeed meant something,
When in fact it meant nothing…
For them, life was black and white, an endless trial,
And they sensed the need of their victims to betray themselves with denial.
Millions experienced the iron glove of Joseph, Adolf and Vladimir…
Their pain and their endless tears are added here…
A dark, deep lake of unending sadness…
Many lie buried in monuments raised by the madness…
The bully, the liar, the outlandish thief…
All had mothers whose lives were molded by the black ashes of grief…
Reality exists for the living, not the dead,
Adolf, newly married, shot himself through the head…
Joseph spread the story that Adolf had fled…
In spite of the millions killed, Joseph died quietly in his bed…
And Vladimir, despite all that he had avowed,
Met his maker in a mushroom cloud…
Joseph the priest, Adolf the painter and Vladimir, the spy…
Humanity weeps and seeks to question – the how and the why…
We speak of freedom, and gently wait for the darkness to reply…