Stukas – for Terry Eagleton

Stukas       (for Terry Eagleton)

Stuka poem

The day we fall in love

with the Stukas of experience

dawns fine: out of a refugee


run sky, the crosses fall.

You bear yourself along

the road with all you


own at noon. The sun seems

somehow German, as the moon

was French last night.


The hour we meet in person

the fascists of conviction

can’t be told: they’ll trial


their new-made weapons on

your ground (they sense a hole

your Fuhrer wants to hide).


In the meantime, it is both

inadvisable and not worth

the candle to avoid what


waits: you just can’t buy

what falls from your personal

sky in the swastika shape.


@ Jeffrey Paparoa Holman   2006



About paparoa

Writer and researcher.
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