Visit to Lone Pine. ANZAC COVE

Hillside of the Dead.

Contemplate the fallen,
resting body spent
night sky drifts across
the sloping hillside of the Dead.

Cast a gaze at tottering stones
darkened by natures' stains.

Mother, the night sky dances
on the sloping hillside of the Dead.
To bruise death's markers
at sleep's yawning birth.

While the lone pine stands
on the sloping hillside of the Dead.
On lookers stare
with clouded eyes upon the fallen.

Is it  a mirage? Is it a mirage?
On the sloping hillside of the Dead.

To perish under a blazing sun
beneath a carpet of golden flowers.
Mother, the mirage is dancing
on the sloping hillside of the Dead.

Yes, children the storming wind
turns the sloping hillside white.
It is the mirage! It is the mirage!
On the sloping hillside of the Dead.

Like an enraged bull.
It is the mirage! It is the mirage!
On the sloping hillside of the Dead.

Yes, the mirage, the mirage
Crown's our grief
as it dances, dance through
the sloping hillside of the Dead.

ANZAC Day poem, peter kreet.

                     Sacred Site

 

      Standing in the shadow of Lone Pine

      Among whirling flies,

       Sucking,

       dead fags , too fearful to light.

        Red filmed eyes

         puffed, survey the slope,

         Studded with basking corpuses ,

         taking in the sun.

         Air humid and alive

         the song of bullets beat tarnished ground.

         What was the secret

         Still alive,

         not a politician’s promise.

         Nor glory

         This secret search of life,

         fills the soul with burning emptiness.

         Standing now on conquered ground,

         No pity

         Nor compassion

         When they fall

         Eyes do not distinguish them,

         rich nor poor

        dark nor fair

        weak nor strong

        young nor old

        What more does a conquered land desire,

        Apart from bleached bones

Letter from Smyrna.

A few years ago while visiting Izmit [historic Smyrna, Turkey], I became for some reason overwhelmed with emotion. Whether it was because people were identifying me as Armenian is hard to say, I had always felt that I looked fairly international in appearance without any particular racial trait. Little did I imagine that one day I would visit the ancient city of Smyrna, a city filled with all sorts of horror stories from the not so distance past. Memories kept alive by its former Greek and Armenian citizens. A city that witnessed the final expulsion of its cosmopolitan population whose residency stretched back thousands of years to Ancient Greece.

During my travels I fill many sketch books with drawing rather than taking photos, and occasionally am moved to write a short poem or prose impression about a location or experience. Last week I re found the following piece in my cupboard, and on reading it again felt I would like to share it with you.


Armenian letter from Smyrna.


Like any other day,
Seconds draw into minutes,
Minutes into hours,
Mahmud's voice, clear above the minaret's cries
Across echoing stones.
"All are now welcome George".

Armenian, Greek, Turkish blood now congealed in
Creaks around harden knuckles.
My room is white.
White titled floor and walls,
Unstained by history
Still gleaming in half light.

The world turns full circle
Smyrna now filled with youthful laughter.
Girl and boy walk hand in hand
In search of happiness.
Eyes bright without distance memories
To dim their gaze.

This morning
I passed a freighter moored by the quay,
Rusty earthen tints
Blending one with each other,
Like the rich Smyrna delta,
so often soaked with blood.

The city has been rebuilt,
Still decay makes its presence felt.
Behind the old bazaar
Alleyways spread out tangled webs,
Like life, each intent on catching light,
Waiting for springs' brushful
Of white lime, to begin life anew.