SPRING FUNERAL

“The darkness of death is like the evening twilight; it makes all objects appear more lovely to the dying.” - Jean Paul

Poets and Storytellers this week is asking us to take inspiration from what we like about the dark. Darkness is a state of mind that can manifest itself in the full sunlight of Summer or in the flowery extravagances of Spring. It can be felt amidst a happy gathering at a party or the joyous shouts of children playing. If the dark is within us, it can be difficult to escape from it. I remember an interview that Reba Mcintire gave and she said something like: “For me, singing sad songs often has a way of healing a situation. It gets the hurt out in the open into the light, out of the darkness.” Here is my dark, sad song:

Spring Funeral

A funeral in Spring,
Much pain will bring;
Spring comes, nears,
Raining bitter tears…

Spring wakes deep in earth the sodden seeds
Making more acute my pressing needs;
The rain that gently falls will wash me clean
No more will I my painful memories glean.

I loved you such a long time ago
And yet I chose dreams to forego.

The greenwood leaves unfurl and open fresh
The breeze still cool, tempers my burning flesh;
Desires, passions, loves I bury deep in earth
Path chosen, heart dies, mind more is worth.

I loved you such a long time ago
But now allegro turns to largo.

As flowers fresh are laid by a new dug grave
Your thinly disguised betrayal I forgave;
The falling night will usher in the stars
Silence – except for mournful cries of nightjars.

I loved you such a long time ago
Now where to turn? To whom to go?

The poem is set to music, and you can find an index of all my music in my “Otidorchestre” Instagram channel or listen to it on YouTube, Spotify,  Amazon, Deezer, Flo, Pandora, and other music sharing sites.

Please note that there is delay between my uploading the music and your being able to access it. YouTube is generally the fastest to release the song.

POETS UNITED - AUTUMN

“How can I be reasonable? To me our love was everything and you were my whole life. It is not very pleasant to realize that to you it was only an episode.”
― W. Somerset Maugham 

After a break from Poets United due to life and work getting in the way of poetic musings, I return with this my offering for the Midweek Motif theme of “Autumn”. 

Autumn Adieu 

An autumn afternoon,
Mellow, golden, crisp;
You and I, smiling, whispering
Our arms lightly touching.

Our glasses full of wine,
Mellow, golden, crisp;
You and I, sipping, savouring,
Our feet entangled below the table.

The garden room deserted,
Quiet, serene, intimate;
We two, the last lunch customers
Make the most of this perfect afternoon.

Our eyes meet and our looks
Quiet, serene, intimate;
The silence between us comfortable
As violet evening approaches.

An Autumn evening,
Cold, dark, drizzly;
The silence broken finally, by your words:
Friendly, logical, final, delivered with a smile.

Alone, now as night falls,
Cold, dark, drizzly;
The silence now, ominous, frightening –
And a long, frigid Winter surely follows a golden Autumn…

ART SUNDAY - ALEXEI SAVRASOV

“Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.” ― FyodorDostoyevsky 

Alexei Kondratyevich Savrasov (Russian: Алексе́й Кондра́тьевич Савра́сов - May 24, 1830 – October 8, 1897) was a Russian landscape painter and creator of the lyrical landscape style. Savrasov was born into the family of a merchant. He began to draw early and in 1838 he enrolled as a student of professor Karl Rabus (1800-1857) at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture (MSPSA). He graduated in 1850 and immediately began to specialise in landscape painting. In 1852, he travelled to Ukraine. Then, in 1854 by the invitation of the Grand Duchess Maria Nikolayevna, President of the Imperial Academy of Arts, he moved to St. Petersburg.

In 1857, Savrasov became a teacher at the MSPSA. His best students, Isaac Levitan and Konstantin Korovin, remembered their teacher with admiration and gratitude. In 1857, he married Sophia Karlovna Hertz, sister of the art historian Karl Hertz (1820-1883). In their home they entertained artistic people and collectors including Pavel Tretyakov. Savrasov became especially close with Vasily Perov. Perov helped him paint the figures of the boat trackers in Savrasov’s “Volga near Yuryevets”, while Savrasov painted the landscapes for Perov’s “Bird Catcher” and “Hunters on Bivouac”.

In the 1860s, he travelled to England to see the International Exhibition, and then onto Switzerland. In one of his letters he wrote that no academies in the world could so advance an artist as the present world exhibition. The painters who influenced him most were British painter John Constable and Swiss painter Alexandre Calame. 

“The Rooks Have Come Back” (1871) is considered by many critics to be the high point in Savrasov’s artistic career. Using a common, even trivial, episode of birds returning home, and an extremely simple landscape, Savrasov showed the transition of nature from winter to spring in an emotional and involving manner. It was a new type of lyrical landscape painting, called later by critics the “mood landscape”. The painting brought him fame.

In 1870, he became a member of the Peredvizhniki group, breaking with government-sponsored academic art. In the late 1870s, he gradually became an alcoholic. The process may have begun with the death of his daughter in 1871, which led to a crisis in his art and, possibly, dissatisfaction with his artistic career. In 1882, he was dismissed from his position at the MSPSA. All attempts of his relatives and friends to help him were in vain. His work suffered dramatically and the last years of his life were spent in poverty. He was usually drunk and often dressed in rags. Finally, he found himself wandering from shelter to shelter. Only the doorkeeper of the MSPSA and Pavel Tretyakov, founder of the Tretyakov Gallery, were present at his funeral in 1897.

The painting above is his “Rasputitsa – Sea of Mud”, painted in 1894. The winter landscape is bleak and despite the thawing of the snow, mud is revealed and no hopeful sign of green. Painted after Savrasov became an alcoholic and after being dismissed from his position at the School, the painting encapsulates the desperate situation the artist found himself in. Three years later he would be dead.

POETS UNITED - SMOKING

“Smoking is related to practically every terrible thing that can happen to you.” - Loni Anderson

This week, Poets United is celebrating the World No Tobacco Day, 31 May 2017. The Challenge for participants is to: “Write a new poem in which you address your experience (or thoughts) about smoking tobacco.” Here is mine:

Solace

That tawny booze in sparkling glass
Promises me forgetfulness;
And I drink it, sip after stinging sip,
Even though it burns my mouth
And ignites the lining of my gullet.
I drink it seeking solace…

That hateful cigarette in elegant packaging,
Promises me comfort;
And I smoke it, puff after stifling puff,
Even though it chokes my breath
And irritates the lining of my raw airways.
I smoke it seeking solace…

That pitiful ageing woman, made up to hide her sins
Promises me intimacy;
And I buss her, kiss after cardboard kiss,
Even though her lips are like sandpaper
And abrade the self esteem of my skin.
I kiss her seeking solace…

That crashing discordant noise, passing off as music
Promises me fun;
And I hear it, chord after jangling chord,
Even though the crashing rhythm deadens me
And rasps my eardrums till they puncture.
I hear it seeking solace…

That medication in the prescription bottle
Promises me sleep;
And I swallow it, pill after sugar-coated pill,
Even though it dulls my intellect,
And gives me nightmares in fitful sedation.
I swallow it seeking solace…

And solace I find not, it is long gone,
Like your promises;
And I seek you and find you not,
For you have disappeared, vanished, gone away,
And left me here bereft, disconsolate,
Seeking the solace I’ll never find
In alcohol, nicotine, sex, rock’n’roll or drugs…

POETS UNITED - NOSTALGIA

“Because I remember, I despair. Because I remember, I have the duty to reject despair.” - Elie Wiesel 

The theme for this Midweek Motif at Poets United is “Nostalgia”. This is a sentimental longing or wistful affection for a period in the past and the word is derived from the Greek nostos ‘return home’ + algos ‘pain’. But is it nostalgia when the memory of the past is bitter and the remembrance of it carries with it only pain? Painful memories of a painful period in the past: Maybe we should call this “Antinostalgia”? 

Antinostalgia 

A flashing neon sign illuminates on the street
The few yellow leaves spinning aimlessly
(In endless circles),
And dead paper carried in the whirls of the wind eddies.
The night air is cold, sharp, clear,
While in the emptiness
Only my hollow steps resound.

Brought to me by a gust of wind,
A snatch of melody
(A few familiar notes),
Just enough to remind me of you.
It hurts me to remember how
That song always used to make me cry,
But now only a couple of half-heard notes
Of just another love song,
Carried pointlessly by the wind...

Acrid smoke stifles my bitter breath
Bringing with it solace;
An opiate to soothe away the pain
(Of your remembrance).
I used to love you with such fire,
Now only ashes and wisps of smoke
From a dying cigarette.
The song that’s drifting in the wind
Meant all that you had silently confessed
But now only a faded keepsake
Pressed tightly between the pages of my closed heart.

A song of love.
An empty street.
A frozen heart.
A never-ending night.
(And as always, my footsteps only
Resounding hollow on the dreary cobbles...)

MOVIE MONDAY - STILL ALICE

“Those with dementia are still people and they still have stories and they still have character and they're all individuals and they're all unique. And they just need to be interacted with on a human level.” - Carey Mulligan 

At the weekend we watched the excellent  Richard Glatzer and Wash Westmoreland 2014 movie “Still Alice” starring  Julianne Moore, Alec Baldwin, Kristen Stewart, Hunter Parrish and Kate Bosworth. This was a touching and emotionally charged movie that despite its melancholy topic somehow made its point without excesses of emotion and without cheap and maudlin appeals to shallow empathy.

Alice Howland (Moore) is a renowned linguistics professor happily married to John (Baldwin) with three grown children, Anna (Bosworth), Lydia (Stewart) and Tom (Parrish). All that begins to change when Alice starts to forget words (the bane of a linguistics professor!) and then much more… When her doctor diagnoses her with early-onset Alzheimer's Disease, Alice and her family’s lives face a harrowing challenge as this terminal degenerative neurological ailment slowly progresses to an inevitable conclusion they all dread. Along the way, Alice struggles to not only to fight the inner decay, but to make the most of her remaining time to find the love and peace to make simply living worthwhile.

The cast is excellent, especially Julieanne Moore who gives a stellar performance. I also enjoyed the supporting role of Lydia, played by Kristen Stewart. I don’t like Baldwin much as an actor, but in this film he plays the role of Alice’s rather “neutral” husband quite well.

Richard Glatzer, one of the directors and co-screenplay writer suffers from ASL himself (ASL = Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, sometimes called Lou Gehrig’s disease, is a rapidly progressive, invariably fatal neurological disease that attacks the nerve cells responsible for controlling voluntary muscles). It is no surprise then, that the film gives such sympathetic and amazingly accurate portrayal of a person suffering from a progressive nervous system illness.

This is a wonderful film to watch, somehow uplifting (Alices speech at the conference about her personal experience with dementia is brilliant!), even though it deals with one of the most dreaded diseases of our society. A must-watch movie!

POETS UNITED - DAY OF THE DEAD

“Don’t send me flowers when I’m dead. If you like me, send them while I’m alive.” - Brian Clough

All Souls Day on November 2nd is a holy day set aside for honouring the dead. The day is primarily celebrated in the Catholic Church, but it is also celebrated in the Eastern Orthodox Church and a few other denominations of Christianity. The Anglican Church is the largest Protestant Church to celebrate the holy day. Most protestant denominations do not recognise the holiday and disagree with the theology behind it.

Poets United this week celebrates All Souls Day and invites participants to write a poem on ways of honouring the dead and commemorating a soul’s passing. Here is my contribution.

The Liturgy for the Dead

The heady smell of burning incense 

And the drone of the priest’s voice

Reciting the liturgy for the dead.

The chanting of the ancient psalms

And the sobs of the family and friends

Under flickering candlelight.

The cheerless black garments

And the long mauve ribbons

Bedecking glittering icons.

The open coffin on the bier

And the corpse looking like waxwork,

No longer the person we knew and loved.

May he rest in peace, may his soul find repose,

May his memory be everlasting,

May his life have made difference.

Brief is our life like a burning candle,

Our youth as fleeting as a blooming rose

And love as transient as a butterfly.

All in vain, and vanity of vanities,

Our existence is over in the blink of an eye;

We forget while we live that our shrouds have no pockets.

Come all and pay your last respects

To the dear departed, for he will be a long time dead

And you will join him before you know it.

Let us celebrate on this day of his death

For our time in the sun is short

And like a dream life’s pleasures are over before we know it.

Here is the first part of the Greek Orthodox Liturgy for the Dead chanted by Theodore Vassilikos and his choir.

COUNTING STARS

“A deep sense of love and belonging is an irreducible need of all people. We are biologically, cognitively, physically, and spiritually wired to love, to be loved, and to belong. When those needs are not met, we don’t function as we were meant to. We break. We fall apart. We numb. We ache. We hurt others. We get sick.” - Brené Brown

Counting Stars

Mars looks angry tonight

Venus hides behind a cloud;

The moon has long since set,

While stars begin to pale.

And I, the heavens scan

Trying to find an explanation,

A reason, perhaps a goal, some illusions,

Or the divine order of things?

As dawn comes gently,

The eastern skies blush;

I start to count the stars

One by one as they disappear.

Even the brightest one soon is gone

The mystery of night slowly dispelled,

By feeble sunlight, birdsong, early morning chill.

And somewhere, I think, a cock should crow...

MOVIE MONDAY - FEAST OF JULY

“Love is when the other person's happiness is more important than your own.” - H. Jackson Brown, Jr

For Movie Monday, a beautiful period movie that seemed to have to ticked all the boxes in terms of writing, acting, direction, music, cinematography and sets/costumes. It is Christopher Menaul’s 1995 movie, “Feast of July”, starring Embeth Davidtz, Tom Bell, Gemma Jones, Ben Chaplin, James Purefoy and Greg Wise. The film is based on a novel by H.E. Bates and the screenplay was written by Christopher Neame. The excellent music score was by Zbigniew Preisner, with exceptional cinematography by Peter Sova.

Right away, let me warn you that the pace is slow and there are no action scenes, no chases nor exciting nail-biting cliff-hangers. The film progresses slowly, but relentlessly, as the action builds up to quite a terrifying and tragic climax. The actors are all extremely good in bringing out the deeper parts of their characters and the direction is subtle and impeccable. The film is set in rural Victorian England and the sets, costumes and overall atmosphere and feel is authentic and believable.

Bella (Davidtz) is a poor girl who has been seduced by a handsome, rakish man (Wise) who leads her to believe he loves her and will marry her. After a month or two, he vanishes and she is left alone and pregnant. She decides to walk 30 miles to the town where he said was his home. In terrible winter weather and rough terrain, she miscarries along the way and the baby is stillborn in a lonely mountain hut. Bella eventually makes it to the town where he said he lives, but no one knows him there. In the town she finds a kind man (Bell) who takes her into his family’s home. The man and his wife (Jones) have three handsome, unmarried sons who are living at home with them. When the poor girl has had a few days of rest and recovery, it turns out that Bella is quite pretty and charming. Slowly, tensions begin to mount as one by one, each of the three sons make it known to her that they want to court her…

Davidtz is excellent as the deceived Bella and she manages to bring out many folds of the character with restraint and with an utterly convincing manner. While all other performances are fantastic, Gemma Jones as the mother of the three sons stands out, while Ben Chaplin playing the youngest son, Con, is fantastic. This was dark and tragic story, but it is set in a wonderful place (even though there are visible signs of early industrialisation), which somehow makes the story even more poignant.

We thoroughly enjoyed the movie and recommend it to all who enjoy a good, melancholy story, period settings, excellent acting and high-end production values. If you primarily like action thrillers this is not for you, I don’t think.

WINTER IS COMING

“People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.” - Anton Chekhov

And what Mr Chekhov implies is that the seasons are much more acutely felt and more likely to affect our mood when we are unhappy… Even in the midst of Spring’s delights a melancholy soul will make of the joyous season a funereal feast, the flowers merely a doleful accoutrement to the hearse. What if Summer’s glorious sun shines bright and hot? If one is sad, the heat’s enough to fever one’s brow and cause one’s brain to run into nightmarish places hotter than hellfire. And Autumn’s bounty and mellow delights will be overtaken by the dejection of the falling leaves, the rampant decay and falling rain. As far as Winter goes, a sorrowful heart may simply be itself and attune perfectly to the season’s frozen emptiness and endless despair.

Winter is Coming

The sun’s trajectory has shortened,

Now that his chariot runs a course

Much closer to the horizon.

The night is quicker to claim

The earth as her realm

And the moon barks orders

At the brilliant (but oh, so cold) stars.

The wind howls at night

And even the wild dogs are tamed

Becoming silent in obeisance.

Rain comes and falls, and fails

To tether the wind who takes each drop

And spins it into long, liquid streams

Until they fall like waving sheets.

The cold freezes puddles solid

And no leaves, no fruits no flowers

Survive the blizzard cruel.

And even colder still, inside,

My heart keeps on beating,

Gelid though it may be

To keep me alive, me who has died.

Like Summer, you have left me

And unlike Autumn you’ve given me

No ripe fruits, no grain, no berries.

My crop was poisoned by bitter tears,

Endless regrets, false promises, nightmares;

My Winter’s deep, bleak and long-lasting

Expecting no Spring’s arrival.

ON DEATH

“Those who have the strength and the love to sit with a dying patient in the silence that goes beyond words will know that this moment is neither frightening nor painful, but a peaceful cessation of the functioning of the body.” - Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

The death of our family friend last week is still uppermost in my mind, but now, after the funeral, even his family is beginning to adjust to the idea that his life has ended. I was thinking as the priest was reading the last rites at the graveside that we all live as though we were immortal, thinking little of our own death. How different our life would be if we realised how temporary our existence is, how precarious, how fragile.

“Memento mori”, the ancients said, “remember that you have to die” and they scattered around their home and workplace reminders of their mortality: Skulls, butterflies, flowers, hourglasses, and other images and symbols of the ephemeral nature of life. We have become estranged from this omnipresent reminder of death, our culture being one of youth and wellness, ignoring death at our peril. We incarcerate our elderly in nursing homes (out of sight and out of mind), we pursue eternal youth in the form of creams, botox, hair dye, exercise regimes and plastic surgery, and we idolise the young and modern.

Death has become a dirty word in our days. Think of the euphemisms we turn to instead of simply saying “he died”: “Passed away”, “slept the sleep of the righteous”, “gone away”, “expired”, “demised”, “gone to meet his Maker”, “shuffled off the mortal coil”, “gave up the ghost”, “resting in peace”, etc, etc… Death is part of life, not just the end of it. We should be familiar with it and not afraid of it – whoever is afraid of death is afraid of life too. Thinking of death (especially our own) makes us respect life more. And when the time comes for us to die, we are ready to do so, peacefully and with resignation.

Long, Long Night

This Winter evening comes too soon,

And the sun weak, pallid, frosty

Hurries behind the dun clouds

To sink below the far horizon’s line.

As violet twilight rapidly darkens

Into an obsidian night,

A lonely candle burns by my bedside

Sputtering with an unsure flame.

The air is frigid but my breath seems colder

Coming in shortening gasps,

My broken lungs submerged

In icy oceans of choking phlegm.

My skin is sallow, like the yellow wall

Where candle flame illumines

Cracking plaster, mirroring

My wrinkled face, my lined hands.

The wind whistles, the timbers creak,

And sounds of dry bones

Rubbing against the flagstones

Tell me the dark rider is nearing.

The night is long, black, cold;

An endless night with a dawn so distant

That it may as well never arrive,

My candle flickers, hisses, goes out.

My heart falters, misses beats,

Trembles weakly, palpitates;

The machine is worn out, faulty,

Damaged by years of constant use.

The door is open now and as the wind howls,

The sombre bony rider enters.

As I draw in my last and laboured breath,

I hope against hope that this darkest moment

Of the cold, black, long, long night

Comes just before a bright new dawn…

A DEATH

“No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new.” - Steve Jobs

For the past few weeks we have had a dear family friend fighting for his life, in and out of hospital. He was diagnosed a couple of months ago with lung cancer, which unfortunately became very aggressive very quickly and did not respond to treatment. His family and friends stood by his side and we were all devastated by his loss last week. His wake was today and tomorrow is his funeral. He was a simple, quiet and very community-minded man who loved his family and would do everything to help his relatives and friends.

Death

“I’ve lived a good life,” said he to me,

“I’ve loved and hated, worked and played.

I’ve lived a full life,” he confessed,

“I’ve left only few things untried.

Experiences varied, broad I have collected,

All those I’ve met I’ve not regretted.”

“I look at death before me, now,” he told me,

“I like the purposefulness in his stony gaze.

I lean towards him with my hands outstretched,” he said,

“I long to live through this, my ultimate encounter;

My mind replete with images and sound

Will welcome this last meeting, sure to astound.”

“I tell you, don’t be sad,” he said to me,

“I think this is a journey that will thrill me.

I tremble with excitement, not with dread,

I taste sweet wine, not bitter gall nor poison.

My heart is restful,” softly, he sighed,

“My soul is free…” he said to me – and died.

POETS UNITED - WITNESS

“My witness is the empty sky.” - Jack Kerouac

For this week’s theme in Poets United, we are exploring the concepts of “Martyrdom/Witness”. Forgive me if I’ve gone on a tangent, but the image of a flowerless gardenia (a martyr-witness) stuck in my mind…

My Words of Love

My words of love
Are taken by the wind;
My sighs of love
Lifted up high in the air
Unheard, unanswered, wasted
They vanish, taken by the wind.

These four walls
Only they hear me
They listen to my sighs
They share my tears
And ever silently
Are faithful witness to my hopes.

These empty pages
Echo my thoughts, my fears
My joyless days.
Pen, paper, ink know me well by now,
And words are self-propelled
While mirroring my meditations.

The virginal gardenia
On my windowsill awaits:
A martyr of lovelessness
Will only bloom
When other sighs except my own
Will it hear within these walls.

My words of love
Are taken by the wind;
My sighs of love
Lifted up high in the air
Unheard, unanswered, wasted
They vanish, taken by the wind.

POETS UNITED - A SONG DELICATE

“Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.” - Noam Chomsky

Poets United this week has as its theme, “Let your song be delicate”. Here is my offering:

At Night

Night fell softly, covering all
As if in flakes of blue-black snow;
Silence reigns, sky revolves.

I fought with sleeplessness
And won – as for my prize:
Your remembrance in a dream.

And it was as though I had drunk
A deep draught of sweet red wine,
Mixed with oleander poison, green.

Stars sparkle like tears falling,
The moon absent, perhaps it has set,
And an owl hoots.

I stir and turn, wakeful once again,
The room cold, dark, quiet,
And by my side, an empty space…

HIROSHIMA DAY 2015

“Japan learned from the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki that the tragedy wrought by nuclear weapons must never be repeated and that humanity and nuclear weapons cannot coexist.” - Daisaku Ikeda

In August 1945, during the final stage of the Second World War, the United States dropped atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The two bombings, which killed at least 129,000 people, remain the only use of nuclear weapons for warfare in history. As the war entered its sixth and final year, the Allies had begun to prepare for what was anticipated to be a very costly invasion of the Japanese mainland. This was preceded by an immensely destructive firebombing campaign that obliterated many Japanese cities.

The war in Europe had concluded when Nazi Germany signed its instrument of surrender on May 8, 1945, but with the Japanese refusal to accept the Allies’ demands for unconditional surrender, the Pacific War dragged on. Together with the United Kingdom and China, the United States called for the unconditional surrender of the Japanese armed forces in the Potsdam Declaration on July 26, 1945; this was buttressed with the threat of “prompt and utter destruction”.

By August 1945, the Allied “Manhattan Project” had successfully detonated an atomic device in the New Mexico desert and subsequently produced atomic weapons based on two alternate designs. The 509th Composite Group of the U.S. Army Air Forces was equipped with the specialised Silverplate version of the Boeing B-29 Superfortress, that could deliver them from Tinian in the Mariana Islands. A uranium gun-type atomic bomb (Little Boy) was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, followed by a plutonium implosion-type bomb (Fat Man) on the city of Nagasaki on August 9.

Little Boy exploded 2,000 feet above Hiroshima in a blast equal to 12-15,000 tons of TNT, destroying five square miles of the city. Within the first two to four months of the bombings, the acute effects of the atomic bombings killed 90,000–166,000 people in Hiroshima and 39,000–80,000 in Nagasaki; roughly half of the deaths in each city occurred on the first day. During the following months, large numbers died from the effect of burns, radiation sickness, and other injuries, compounded by illness and malnutrition. In both cities, most of the dead were civilians, although Hiroshima had a sizable military garrison. On August 15, just days after the bombing of Nagasaki and the Soviet Union's declaration of war, Japan announced its surrender to the Allies. On September 2, it signed the instrument of surrender, effectively ending World War II. The role of the bombings in Japan’s surrender and their ethical justification are still debated.

In Japan, the survivors of the bombings are called hibakusha (“explosion-affected people”). The shock and great suffering in the wake of the bombings caused Japan to seek the abolition of nuclear weapons from the world ever since, putting in place one of the world’s most committed and extensive non-nuclear policies. More than 400,000 hibakusha (258,310 in Hiroshima and 145,984 in Nagasaki) are recorded in Japan.

This is a day to:

• Remember those who died and were wounded by the bombing of Hiroshima

• Remember all people of every nation who died and were wounded during World War II

• Assert the right of everyone on earth to live a life free from the fear of war

• Work for a world free from nuclear weapons

• Work to adopt peaceful use of nuclear power.

IN PACE REQUIESCAT

“I am a part of everything that I have read.” John Kieran

I have been rather busy these last few days and have had to revise my daily schedule several times. Today, I offer you a short story that I wrote several years ago, in response to a challenge that involved writing a story with the requirement that it begin with the last line from a favourite books. I chose as my first line, the last sentence in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado”, which ends: “In Pace Requiescat!” Now, read on!

In Pace Requiescat! On the gravestone a sad memorial, the letters eroded and barely legible. The filmy curtain of falling rain makes the task of reading the inscription even more difficult, the twilight seeming to be darker and gloomier in the moisture-laden air. As the heavens weep, the gentle sound of rain is a distraction, further lessening the sharpness of vision. A sudden noise behind him. Was that a twig breaking? He looks back. Nothing. Only the massive outlines of the cypresses around the cemetery looking at him threateningly - an army of cyclopean dimensions ready to attack. And yet, they stand firm. His jaw clenches tightly.

He stands motionless and looks at the grave, one of many, so many, in the old cemetery. He sighs and despite his urgency he stands his ground and scans the graveyard, struggling to read the faint inscriptions of more gravestones ahead. Time, he needs more time. This will never do. He will not be able to find the grave in time. His hand tears down a creeper that obscures the lettering on a stone. The darkness steals upon him with each passing moment and he kneels to decipher the inscription. Not this one, either. He blinks to free his eyes of rain that clings to his eyelashes and as if they are tears, the drops run down his cheeks.

The sodden earth sticks to his boots as he strides forth to the next group of memorial stones. They rise from the ground as if bleak bystanders turned to rock. His gloved fingers brush away cobwebs that have captured a myriad diamond-like raindrops and he stoops to read. Lichens and moss further hamper the task of making out the old writing on the dark grey stone. Laura… Could this be what he searches for? A ray of hope is lit in the darkness of his heart of hearts. A weight seems to be lifting, but as he clears the lichen away the caption of another life long gone is revealed: Wife of Thomas, here interred… He sighs and sinks into despondency again. Time – time is running out as the last failing light is giving way to night.

Another sharp sound behind him makes him rise and turn abruptly. A shadow dashes into the dark yews, becoming part of them. A faint susurration merges with the sound of dripping rain and quietly disappears as if a snake were disturbed and slowly slithers away. They will be here soon! Time! He runs to the next grave, a large crypt, its gaping maws black and menacing through the half-open grille of the ironwork gate. In the murky wetness he looks up to see what name is graven on the ancient stone, as he pulls down an obscuring creeper: Wexway… This is it! This is the name he searches for! Behind him shadows move, and a fetid odour mixes with the cold dampness of the moist earth smell. Wet moss and decayed wood. He ignores the approaching noise and dashes into the tomb, slamming the gate behind him. He looks for a latch, a lock, and finds a bolt that he draws shut securely. Fiery eyes regard him from the gathering darkness outside and the hissing sounds are clearly heard through the fainter sounds of rain.

He takes a tinderbox from his greatcoat pocket and strikes. The sparks fly ineffectually and he strikes again, this time a flame jumping up. It burns brilliantly and he lights the lantern that he had concealed in his knapsack. The hissing outside increases in volume and the fiery eyes move a little more distantly. He looks around, shaking the rain off him. The tomb is so quiet after the drone of the rain outside. The smell of death and seeming aeons of decay assails his senses and the oppressive weight of stone above him makes him shudder. There is a stairway hewn into the rock ahead leading downwards. The gloom below impenetrable, his lantern light too weak to penetrate the depths. Resolutely he descends. This must be done!

The flickering light of his lantern plays upon the rough walls and shadows dance as he descends the steps. The hissing above him mixes with banging sounds on the ironwork of the gate. It must hold fast! He hurries downwards and enters the burial chamber, his lantern a promise of hope and salvation in the dank shadows that surround him. A dais made of stone is in the centre of the chamber and on it a sarcophagus. This must be she! Laura! The banging on the doorway upstairs echoes down the steps into the chamber. The furious hissing sounds rise in frustration as the doorway remains shut. He breathes heavily as he approaches the platform and his heart all but stops.

On the stone of the cover, her name is carved in simple letters: “Laura”. His Laura? His eyes well up and hot tears stream down his face. They drop heavily on the stone. He hastily wipes them away and rests the lantern on a ledge opposite him. The flame flickers and then begins to burn more steadily. How can she be lying here dead when only last night they spent the night together? No, it cannot be. This is some trickery, the old man was wrong. He misled him. Even if this is her coffin, even if it is his Laura’s coffin, surely it must be empty… He must look inside. Make sure.

He takes the iron bar from his knapsack and he hesitates only a little, aware of the rapid beating of his heart and his raspy breath. Outside the hissing has not stopped and still a thwarted bang echoes on the ironwork. He grasps the iron bar firmly and he prises the tip under the lid. With great effort and a harsh sound, stone grinds against stone and slowly the lid begins to shift. He stops as a thought grips like a vice his whole being. What if she is here, lying motionless within this tomb? His mind echoes with a silent scream that his heart lets out. Laura cannot be here. He pushes the lid determined and it crashes to the floor, breaking and raising a veil of dust. The sounds from above are silenced momentarily and as he opens his eyes he looks inside the coffin.

A white shroud encloses the shape of what could only be a corpse. The cloth shines out in the darkness as if it were phosphorescent. He extends his trembling hand to touch but lightly and withdraws it, as though the winding sheet were white hot. His heart races, as his breath comes out roughly, gasping. His hand slowly extends towards the shroud once again. What would he do if his eyes beheld what he could not bare to see? What if this body were to be Laura, his beloved? Then he had to commit an act that he cannot bear even to contemplate. Laura!

The noises upstairs have started again, this time with the enraged energy that frustration breeds. He glances towards the stairs and then with one swift movement drags the shroud away from the coffin. His blood freezes. Laura in all her beauty is lying there, serene, as though asleep. Her dark, shining hair, her beautiful face, her red full lips… He whimpers and he knows it all is true. The noises up the stairs have reached a fever pitch. Her creatures are almost upon him. He brushes away hot tears and with rapid motion takes a wooden stake and mallet from his knapsack. Her eyelids part and her eyes regard him with a strangely vacuous stare. This must be done, and then In Pace Requiescat…