At the start of the Covid Pandemic I started to read about plague pandemics from other times. I guess I read enough to hear people talking.
Writers have often written about situations and place them in the future, in the past, on other continents or planets. Anywhere but here and now. But there are clues in 1348 as to where and when. You betcha.
Writers have often written about situations and place them in the future, in the past, on other continents or planets. Anywhere but here and now. But there are clues in 1348 as to where and when. You betcha.
I am sure you'll find them without too much trouble. This virus makes fools of its adversaries
like a diseased dog fox lying in the lee of a front door porch.
At dawn the door opened and a man collapsed into its frame
his lungs given out as if they were ripped bellows.
Some rushed to him, only to catch the last of his breath.
More deaths followed, leaving gargoyle faced bodies
as if this plague, for plague it seemed, was the Devil’s own spawn.
This was a savage and smiling death that took no prisoners.
Unknown before, it came under doors and seeped through walls.
It ascended to the light bringing its own darkness.
This pestilence was everywhere, passing from person to person
like a baton in a relay race, ripping out all sense of smell and taste,
leaving ravaged bodies as if this was a war on mankind.
Houses were locked down, bolted tight and windows blacked.
There were pleas for potions and pills to bleach bodies clean.
The local lord and his lady went to their second home
thinking that it would be safe as a church and as strong as a castle,
leaving young whippersnappers to make decisions for the village.
Being anything but leaders they failed to make the grade.
This virus makes fools of its adversaries.
Father John went round to offer the Host, to no avail.
Old Mary the baby easer, not ready to die, shut herself away.
Young girls, heavy with child, were left to birth themselves.
One day three men went out to mow and never came back.
Only the dead came out to play, fearing nothing.
From time to time news arrived from other places to tell of
nurses, doctors and carers martyring themselves to let others live.
Their names and faces were carved into walls of honour
in church yards and high places on a par with royalty.
More important than politicians.
Death was on a mission to fill the graveyards.
For many there was no chance to kiss, hug or say goodbye.
Everything had changed and there was no normal any more.
Then one morning, one glorious morning, the village awoke
saying enough is enough, enough is enough.
We will never know its end until we understand it.
We can only hope to hold it off and make a fragile peace
by waving a white flag of truce on which
we can colour a new country and rainbow the world.
The way to commemorate the dead is to celebrate the living.
Bill Allison
1348
Some say it started with the all night barking of what soundedlike a diseased dog fox lying in the lee of a front door porch.
At dawn the door opened and a man collapsed into its frame
his lungs given out as if they were ripped bellows.
Some rushed to him, only to catch the last of his breath.
More deaths followed, leaving gargoyle faced bodies
as if this plague, for plague it seemed, was the Devil’s own spawn.
This was a savage and smiling death that took no prisoners.
Unknown before, it came under doors and seeped through walls.
It ascended to the light bringing its own darkness.
This pestilence was everywhere, passing from person to person
like a baton in a relay race, ripping out all sense of smell and taste,
leaving ravaged bodies as if this was a war on mankind.
Houses were locked down, bolted tight and windows blacked.
There were pleas for potions and pills to bleach bodies clean.
The local lord and his lady went to their second home
thinking that it would be safe as a church and as strong as a castle,
leaving young whippersnappers to make decisions for the village.
Being anything but leaders they failed to make the grade.
This virus makes fools of its adversaries.
Father John went round to offer the Host, to no avail.
Old Mary the baby easer, not ready to die, shut herself away.
Young girls, heavy with child, were left to birth themselves.
One day three men went out to mow and never came back.
Only the dead came out to play, fearing nothing.
From time to time news arrived from other places to tell of
nurses, doctors and carers martyring themselves to let others live.
Their names and faces were carved into walls of honour
in church yards and high places on a par with royalty.
More important than politicians.
Death was on a mission to fill the graveyards.
For many there was no chance to kiss, hug or say goodbye.
Everything had changed and there was no normal any more.
Then one morning, one glorious morning, the village awoke
saying enough is enough, enough is enough.
We will never know its end until we understand it.
We can only hope to hold it off and make a fragile peace
by waving a white flag of truce on which
we can colour a new country and rainbow the world.
The way to commemorate the dead is to celebrate the living.
Bill Allison
1 comments:
Very good Bill. The allegorical nature of your poem is most effective. I love the interweaving of the archaic with the contemporary (baby easer is splendid) and was pleased to see you giving the local lord and lady both barrels of your ire.
Just out of interest I read somewhere recently that Ghengis Khan was responsible for spreading the plague to western Europe thus: he was laying seige to a Byzantine port, part of the Genovese expansion east, when some of his men started dying from plague (presumably brought with them from Asia). He had their rotting bodies catapulted over the walls into the city. The Genovesae took fright, evacuated their outpost and sailed with all speed back to Genoa, inadvertently taking the virulent disease with them and triggering the pandemic that would sweep from Italy north and west across much of Europe.
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