Invasion Day +91 Danger lurks in our own complacency, war normalising its own narrative, and we become anesthetised to its daily battering of our senses. But we should not. For Ukraine we must not. For peace across the world we should, we must, show an affirming flame.
We, this wonderful collective of over seventy writers, this community of hope, growing steadily but strongly across the globe, from Ukraine to the UK, from the USA to Germany to Greece, to Turkey, to Poland, Romania, to Hungary, please join us, ask your fellow writers, join our affirming flame. Together we are making a difference. It may be a small part we are playing but peace will come by the sum of the small parts. As Auden says in his prophetic poem sent today from Ulrike Neuhoff in Germany,
Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages:
and
There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die.
We must indeed and our work grows here in continuing to build our community of writers supporting peace, justice and freedom. We must love one another or die. Thank you everyone for keeping the affirming flame alive.
Hoggy
Todays Letters:
From Ulrike Neuhoff, IBZ, The International Education Centre, Gimborn, Germany,
Dear Hoggy,
Good morning all!
'Are we neglective, naïve? Is this a turn of the tides?'
I’m reading Georgi Gospodinov, TIME SHELTER. It is full of very Eastern sadness and wisdom.
While reading I came across this poem by Auden (which he later disowned) and it struck me: 24th of February 2022 - will generations after us talk about this very day as the beginning of something really terrible, not only for Ukraine, but for all of us?
Are we neglective, naïve? Is this a turn of the tides?
'I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can Unearth the whole offence From Luther until now That has driven a culture mad, Find what occurred at Linz, What huge imago made A psychopathic god: I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew All that a speech can say About Democracy, And what dictators do, The elderly rubbish they talk To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, The enlightenment driven away, The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse: But who can live for long In an euphoric dream; Out of the mirror they stare, Imperialism's face And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar Cling to their average day: The lights must never go out, The music must always play, All the conventions conspire To make this fort assume The furniture of home; Lest we should see where we are, Lost in a haunted wood, Children afraid of the night Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark Into the ethical life The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow; "I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work," And helpless governors wake To resume their compulsory game: Who can release them now, Who can reach the deaf, Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.
Best wishes,
Ulrike,
IBZ Germany
Dear Ulrike,
I did not know this poem but thank you. We were tempted to edit it down but every line and word has resonance right now so we have printed it in full.
Hopefully it will bring a sense of deja vu or hope or a realisation that we are our own destructors, and it is we who must stop the slaughter. We have to learn to love one another once again.
In war the dead forget who threw the first stone.
Please let us know about any relevant wisdom by Gospodinov when you have completed your reading?
(And we all loved the use of the archaic word 'neglective', we think it should come back into regular use!)
All wishes as ever,
Hoggy
From Jo Reed-Turner, author, poet and illustrator. Corfu.
Dear Hoggy,
I have a (published) poem written in honour of my Greek friend's
father, who went missing at the start of the Cypriot war - and how strange it
was that he walked out of their lives one morning and never made it home.
His remains were found a couple of years ago by the teams who have been
working tirelessly since then to identify the lost.
When I last spoke to him, he wept as he told me that he had been tortured. He was a farmer, not a soldier.
Rather like the residents of Bucha.
Here it is.
Famagusta Wine
There had been no time for sad good byes,
no proper farewells said.
Others had poured into the land behind
them as they drove away, fled
with photographs, kitchen pots, some hens,
the family dog, canaries quiet in the cage.
Later, going back for fragments
of their broken lives, his cousins,
and his cousin’s sons camouflaged
into soldiers, now men of age,
closed the road home with barrier and gun,
turned them away from all they’d known.
So, with a farmer’s early morning eye,
he walked above the borderline
across the rocks and scented sage
harvest some grapes from the vine, free the goats
tethered beneath the oldest tree
the few still fastened in the pen.
They waited for hours, days, then years - and still
wait for him to walk downhill calling for Feta,
his evening glass of home-made Famagusta wine.
Jo
Dear Jo,
As ever your reach extends.
We are trying hard to keep in mind all war, all loss, all suffering.
You provide a timely reminder.
Ana a beautifully sad poem.
Bless you.
Hoggy
Jo Reed-Turner specialises in fine art, illustration and printmaking, she is a poet and author of the 'Soho Sequence', 'Stone Venus' 'Life Class' ,'Animal Alphabet' 'Becoming Faiaki' and several anthologies, amongst many other works.
And finally for today, the last of Steve Weatherill's current takes on the war in Ukraine:
'Pants on Fire'
Keep smiling wherever you can one and all, we share the pen and the brush, the song and the dance, may these bind us and and bring hope. Hoggy.
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