Constantinople

[Fragments of an unfinished poem, including two false starts – or perhaps middles]

Lost is lost, no griefs could bring it back.

Blood, blood, those faces, broken walls and burning towers,
Jewels scattered in the alley, a wailing mother,
the bearded merchant skewered,

...

Jeweled women flee down alleys,
A bearded shopkeeper skewered, his shouting slaves, a brave
and foolish boy too young to hold his sword,
two smaller sisters scatter. It made no sense,
served nothing – not much new wealth elsewhere,
not increased power, no trade of happiness,
Was only loss: these buildings, even that bright dome,
Will never show again a perfect flower.

Is lost. Chalices that cannot be refigured,
Tiles finally broken, a crumbled wall
And no one can still see the shape it meant to be
No going back, no return to towers,
If God is their defender then he’s dead.

But when the smoke clears, when the blood is washed
From stones, when men with swords and needles
Have left in search of other plunder,
And survivors find their loves and, wailing,
Consign them to kind earth,
Then another city must be built: not the same,
Not that glory or perfection that happens the first time it is created.
But something: still a beauty, an air, a life:
Time continues, people come to live here,
A new house is built in the shelter of what’s left of the wall.

And in the rubble, searching just for stones, one finds:
A bolt of silk, a broken jar of cinnamon, and see:
A golden chalice. Is found.

[London, 6/19/01- ]