This poem was published in
Issue 14
March 2007
In Brezhnev's time I travelled to Lake Ritza
in the Caucasus. As I went up sheep and goats
were coming down for winter in the lowlands,
their bells rang in the valleys sweet as carrillons.
A mile beneath Mount Elbrus' peak I saw
the lake: turquoise water, recent snow, vast
forests. What drew the eye was Stalin's
favourite mansion in this his native land.
Fourteen years since he had died in his own piss.
I have seen home movies shot by Eva Braun
at Hitler's Wolf's Lair, parties so gemütlich,
that for a moment I wanted to be there
with power above the plains of bloody soil
and orchards rich in the bones of Jews.