A poem not obviously related to historic preservation. I was looking for
something else and found this to share. Recent personal events in Poland make
it seem relevant for me to historic preservation. I'm struggling to explain
the connection but am forced to be oblique, as usual. I see that the urge in
Poland to restore the historic past of the built environment is a denial of
death, oppression, tyranny, and the forces of the dark side. It may appear
mystical on my part, sincere apology, but I felt that I touched the anguished
dreams of Poland, late at night, while laying in a hospital bed contemplating
existenz.

One of my son’s friends got himself in trouble a few years ago with the local
school for spray painting a swastika on the ground outside the school. Though
this may easily have been considered an act of biased vandalism, there were
extenuating circumstances. Not too long prior a kid in the neighborhood, a
fellow boyscout with my son and his friend, had been caught in the wheel well
of a local bus and dragged to his death, while the victim’s mother was
standing by. This was tragic enough. The time also coincided with Kurt
Cobain’s suicide.

I understand that Kurt Cobain wore a key on a chain around his neck, which was
being emulated by my son’s friend. The symbolism could be deceptive, as my
mother-in-law, who was visiting at the time, interpreted the token as the key
to his heart. He would neither deny, nor admit the truth.

My son’s friend, out of a state of innocence, was playing with a level of
symbolism that even mature individuals have difficulty dealing with. I’ve been
close enough to more suicides and tragic deaths than I wish to repeat. I’ve
had my own reasons to investigate the other side of the gate.

The poem was a specific communication of warning. A poem was returned to me in
response. The warning was received. At present the incident is in the
background and the kid is involved with girlfriends. No warning poems from me
on that score.

FOCUS on KEY PLAY

Derelected youth forcing to slam the gate open
what silence does the key hung round your neck
unlock,  a play,  or death devouring innocence?
The streets here are painted with bodies of the mad
grotesque insane,  the undefined,  and you
moon through in a boy mask to the dead land.

Go away,  I say, get your butt-end out of here,
gross kid,  do not come this way sucked early to void
the life question why... there is here nothing
nothing for you,  pass by a seductive tail-end breeze,
-- go and seek out a warm hug from other
stay warm and cross arms,  cry salvation
focus daily,  but live.

copyright © Ken Follett 1997