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

 

 

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About paparoa

Writer and researcher.
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