what must be said

Why have I kept silent, held back so long,

on something openly practiced in
war games, at the end of which those of us
who survive will at best be footnotes?
It’s the alleged right to a first strike
that could destroy an Iranian people
subjugated by a loudmouth
and gathered in organized rallies,
because an atom bomb may be being
developed within his arc of power.
Yet why do I hesitate to name
that other land in which
for years—although kept secret—
a growing nuclear power has existed
beyond supervision or verification,
subject to no inspection of any kind?
This general silence on the facts,
before which my own silence has bowed,
seems to me a troubling lie, and compels
me toward a likely punishment
the moment it’s flouted:
the verdict "Anti-semitism" falls easily.
But now that my own country,
brought in time after time
for questioning about its own crimes,
profound and beyond compare,
is said to be the departure point,
(on what is merely business,
though easily declared an act of reparation)
for yet another submarine equipped
to transport nuclear warheads
to Israel, where not a single atom bomb
has yet been proved to exist, with fear alone
the only evidence, I’ll say what must be said.
But why have I kept silent till now?
Because I thought my own origins,
Tarnished by a stain that can never be removed,
meant I could not expect Israel, a land
to which I am, and always will be, attached,
to accept this open declaration of the truth.
Why only now, grown old,
and with what ink remains, do I say:
Israel’s atomic power endangers
an already fragile world peace?
Because what must be said
may be too late tomorrow;
and because—burdened enough as Germans—
we may be providing material for a crime
that is foreseeable, so that our complicity
will not be expunged by any
of the usual excuses.
And granted: I’ve broken my silence
because I’m sick of the West’s hypocrisy;
and I hope too that many may be freed
from their silence, may demand
that those responsible for the open danger
we face renounce the use of force,
may insist that the governments of
both Iran and Israel allow an international authority
free and open inspection of
the nuclear potential and capability of both.
No other course offers help
to Israelis and Palestinians alike,
to all those living side by side in emnity
in this region occupied by illusions,
and ultimately, to all of us.




                        Gunther Grass
                         tr.  Breon Mitchell






















.....

Cantos 102- 103

And a voice behind me in the street
" Meestair Freer* Meestair ”

And I thought I was three thousand
Miles from the nearest connection,

And he’d known me for three days, years before that,

And he said, one day a week later Woud you lak
To meet a wholley man, yais he is a veree wholley man
So I met Mohamed Ben Abt el Hjameed,

And that evemng he spent his whole time
Queenng the shirt-seller’s busmess.

And takmg hot whiskey The sailors

Come in there for two mghts a week and fill up the cafe

And the rock scorpions cling to the edge

Until they can’t jes’ nacherly stand it

And then they go to the Calpe (Lyceo)



NO MEMBER OF THE MILITARY
OF WHATEVER RANK
IS PERMITTED WITHIN THE WALLS
OF THIS CLUB


’That fer the governor of Gibel Tara
“ Jeen-jah* Jeen-jah’ ” squawked Mohamed,

” O-ah, geef heem sax-pence *'

And a chap m a red fez came m, and grinned at Mohamed
Who spat across four metres of tables
At Mustafa That was all there was
To that greetmg, and three nights later

Ginger came back as a customer, and to<^ it out of Mohamed
He hadn’t sold a damn shirt on the Tuesday
And I met Yusuf and eight men m the calle.

So I sez Wot IS the matter^

And Yusuf said Vairy foolish, it will




Be sefen an’ seex for the summons
— Mohamed want to sue heem for libel —

To give all that to the court ^

So I went off to Granada
And when I came back I saw Ginger, and I said
What about it^

And he said O-ah, I geef heem a
Seex-pence Customs of the sha-ha-reef
And they were all there in the lyceo,

Cab drivers, and chaps from tobacco shops,

And Edward the Seventh’s guide, and they were all
For secession

Dance halls being closed at two in the morning,

By the governor’s order And another day on the pier
Was a fat fellah from Rhode Island, a-sayin’

** Bi Hek’ I been all thru Italy

An’ ain’t never been stuck’ ”

But this place is plumb full er scoundrels ”

And Yusuf said Yais^ an’ the reech man
In youah countree, haowa they get their money,

They no go rob some poor pairsons^

And the fat fellah shut up, and went off
And Yusuf said Woat, he iss all thru Eetaly
An’ ee is nevair been stuck, ee ees a liar
W’en I goa to some forain’s country
1 am stuck

W’en yeou goa to some foram’s country
You moss be stuck, w’en they come ’ere I steek thaim
And we went down to the synagogue.

All full of silver lamps

And the top gallery stacked with old benches.

And in came the levite and six little choir kids
And began yowling the ritual
As if   it was crammed full of jokes.

And they went through a whole book of it,






                               Ezra Pound




















....

tethers of the heart

                                          












                                         The Rope–


                                                by


                                  ...Sinead Morrissey








I have paused in the door jamb’s shadow to watch you
playing Shop or Cliff! or Café or Under-the-sea
among the flotsam of props on our tarmacked driveway.
            All courtship. All courtesy.


At eight and six, you have discovered yourselves friends,
at last, and this the surprise the summer
has gifted me, as if some
             penny-cum-handkerchief conjuror


had let loose a kingfisher . . .
            you whirl and pirouette, as if in a ballet
take decorous turns, and pay for whatever you need
            with a witch’s currency:


grass cuttings, sea glass, coal, an archaeopteryx
of glued kindling from the fire basket.
You don two invisible outsize overcoats – for love?
For luck? And jump with your eyes shut.


And I can almost see it thicken between you –
your sibling-tetheredness, an umbilicus,
fattened on mornings like this as on a mother’s blood,
loose, translucent, not yet in focus


but incipient as yeast and already strong enough
to knock both of you off your balance
when you least expect it, some afternoon after work
            decades hence,


one call from a far-flung city and, look,
all variegated possibles – lovers, kids, apartments –
whiten into mist; the rope is flexing,
tugging you close, and you come, obedient


children that you are, back to this moment,
staggering to a halt and then straightening,
grown little again inside your oversize coats and shoes
and with sea glass still to arrange,
                                    but without me watching


























///

try to imagine

                   










              SILENCE                






I know your footfall hushed and frail,
Fair siren of the snow-born lake
Whose surface only swans should sail
And only silver hymns should break,
Or thankful prayers devout as this
White trophy of a night of sighs
Where Psyche celebrates the kiss
With which a sister closed her eyes.








                                        Roy Campbell




















..