Wednesday, December 16, 2020

Christmas Eve, 1914 by Jay Wenk

Christmas Eve, 1914 by Jay Wenk

No big shells swooshing over tonight, no
whining snipers’ shots dopplering away, no
shameless spluttering flares
illumine trenches bordering
no-humans’ land with
its dreaded corpse collection,
draped carelessly
here and there on the wire.
No gentle mustard billows creep over
this frozen field tonight.
The men wait, expecting
mutilation every moment.
Quiet, cold, wet.
Dark now, quiet enough now
to hear, across the endless mud,
a guitar, soft voices;
“Stille Nacht, Hieliger Nacht”.
Germans noting the calendar.
“ay”, Brits call across the field,
“we got Good King Wenceslaus Came Out
and plum pudding. Want some?”
“Nous avon Noel, Noel,
chandelles, le vin.
A bas la guerre”.
Dancing across eons,
singing, the oldest art, is
embraced in that field of curdled shame.


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