Poems by Bill Charlton
Otocec
A Tale of the War in the Balkans
Red roofed, once white houses line the Valley of the Shadow of Death
And not one breath of humankind oppose the effluent wind of Four Horsemen
Apocalypse now leaves not one bird whisper or dog cry in the wreath
of still-air
Beneath the World stilled bare in freeze-frame shock, time stopped,
the absence of a single soul to mark its
passing
Neighbours lasting call and Welcomes Hall; years built in light, have
fallen in one night of sibling fight
And not one house shows living persons in this Vale of Tears, collapse
of years to unresolved right
Row upon row they line the road that leads to Otocec
Bullet pocked walls with smoky smudge, fudge the quote that "all roads
lead but to the grave"
No grave here, not even dead of humankind to civilise a newly untamed
land with crosses neat
Nor human friend meet, neither Bird nor Animal to forgive man's inhumanity
to them and man complete
Shocking in their silence, popped shocked walls witness the passage
of modern man in limelight
Shocking in the witness that no animal shall inherit men's folly on
this scale, but silent stone itself the
heir, irrelevant to time-flight
Ripe crops unharvested cry with the heavy burden of life, and look
to the future of a world without purpose or
rite
My God! My God! What have we done, we who say, "This is not our fight"
We who site all bad things at your door of Divine cruel inaction,
but not the good action, look now on our
inhumanity with unencumbered sight
Nor Wind nor Sun can bleach this dry, to new start try
And onward leads the road to Otocec,
Past cafe somehow standing still, over the holes that drill, strafed
by Fighter Plane
On to Mountain Plain and Woods that flirt with the dirt of hidden
human killer
Hackles rise at back of neck, in primitive acknowledgement yet, of steel-jacketed
fear
Appear as unconcerned, remote from fray, an inner pray to ward off
assassin bullet, Time Reaper here
In Otocec itself people and Ghost mingle, people shocked with death
and rebirth tingle, upon a promise of
freedom near
Looking expectantly to the hills, not for salvation as the Psalmist
trills, but for the shell of Serbian in the
hills
But life goes on, surprisingly, under the shadow of these guns; months
upon months of fire from hell
No shops of course, but some goods to sell, some remnants of the tourist
trade make poignant memories of a time
of plenty, when all was well
An old man sweeps the streets as if he can erase these shrapnel damaged
bricks of war game
Cries, as he portrays with hands and eyes to friendly Western face
the day the Long Knives came
To follow sharp upon the vote for freedom in the frame
The euphoria of his vote for independence, cast down by killing in the
street
Neighbours armed by Foreign Force meet, primed with fear of ethnic
hate,
Stirred by Agents of that State; "When independence comes they will
kill you; kill them first" they entreat
Don't stop to pray but take this gun, kill at the run, until we come
to save you; look to the hills for help we
send
So teacher kills his pupil, neighbour kills his friends, celebration
turns to fear, a fear that never ends
But in the blood the weapon dropped turns into two and then a few
and miracle lends respite in the rout that
desperate action bends
Tanks turned on village from its army heart and ethnic minors play the
part
Killers in the Dark, assassin role, but not enough to kill the village
whole
Not enough to fully strike a flag of independence pole
Bloody ration turned in faction, to desperate fight and sight of light,
as tanks retreat into the local Hill
But then the pill of shell on shell, for month on month, on house
on house, on family home
Desperation freed to roam and never count the cost, of victories rich
loam
Every building pockmarked with the fire, every family has lost at least
one sire
Save one building alone escapes this pyre, the Christian Orthodox
Church of God is reverently removed from the
line of fire
God's body bleeds at words that say "Kill pupil, neighbour, friend
in mire, but this.... touch not one sod nor
spire"
The Catholic Church is smashed and bombed, the daylight shining in
Somehow the Chancel left intact; altar paintings win over sin
And above the Chancel arch, blackened in highlights, appears a map
of Europe drawn by bomb in flight
And fingers of God's will, writ but not moved on
Come into pilgrim's mind, knelt in awe and still
Voice of Risen Lord, loud and clear infill, "This is My Body drawn
for you here; you crucify it still"
And Otocec spelled "Calvary" just like the burnt out mill
Stood to imitate a cross there beneath the hill,
To feed a town of neighbour's and bid them take their fill
Built over centuries, yet fallen in a night,
Something yet survives to live as humans sight
Of hope to rise, like rope trick in the skies; to climb up clear and
claim again the height
So Otocec survived the push of whore, the rent of very core of moral
right within the span of men
Not so Vukovar, where the push of war killed everyone until there
were no more left then
To pen a tale, or even wail at plain and bloody horror, a Pale beyond
the normal Western ken
Vukovar, whose name spells war, where Horatio did not hold the Serbian
Bridge that, leads to Rome
The fight for Home, down to the last man standing, captured standing,
defiant to death, the last conscious
breath
Then kicked and kicked by gallant Victor, left for dead in blood coloured
picture, of man's inhumanity to man
And onward moves the Van to victim town, to gallant spoils of war and
ripe crops sown
Meanwhile, somehow, our Horace holds the personal bridge, the final
ridge between this world and the next
Crawled on for hours in blood that pours, in imitation of a Lord,
in sweat that scorns the lack of moisture in
this frenzied race
To friendly face, but snail like pace, perseveres so poignantly to win
As Croat Line break out the wine to celebrate their kin
Carried gently on to doctors care and table bared to save this precious
spark of life
And so Horatio safe, loses but one kidney, to add to those lost by his
country whole
Babies bodies carved with the Serbian Cross-, the massed grave loss,
and the National soul
Flag still flies the pole and shows the role
of blood stained ration
Leading to the Birth of Nation
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Biographical sketch: Born and brought up in the mountains of
Wales in the U.K. Career with major
international company as executive. Work now with abused kids.
Bill Charlton recommends:
The Amis Anthology by Kingsley Amis
Reason: A personal collection of poems that stir from the
fifteenth century to present day. A lot of favourites I share, others
he teases me into. It all shows the timeless nature of human thought.
Recommendations for writers:
Write from the heart about things you know and are passionate about.
Do not be afraid.
