Anastasia rises
Her family home is blood-soaked rags and rubble
when Anastasia rises from her cot.
At first she’s pleased she’s suffered not one cut,
then shrieks: she wears an iridescent bubble
like those of the saints in Mama’s picture Bible
and the doorway to her life she finds slammed shut.
Though Mama won’t come now to quiet her shouts
she howls her anguish dry, then with the pliable
mind of an infant examines this strange revival:
80 unlived years were blasted out,
her clan of descendants also took the hit,
and all that underpins her soul’s survival
is a burning desire to comprehend what evil
would shell a child and blow her all to bits.
She floats above her block - now smouldering bricks -
absorbs the force of life from dying people
trapped beneath, then drifts toward the lethal
silo whence her killers launched the attack
with confidence she’ll learn what sets alight
the will of men prepared to wage illegal
warfare, but draws blank in this chill locale.
The minds she finds are cowed, afraid not to fight.
They’re trained to kill their qualms and never fret.
Feeling she has not acquired a total
knowledge of what lets men feel entitled
to murder children, she next seeks out the set
of brass who chivvied troops to such conceit.
Here once more she turns up nothing vital:
the generals live in thraldom to a brutal
czar who deems democracy defeat.
Rocketing flame in her zest to establish facts
she plummets like a comet through the brittle
substrate of the nighttime sky, sees battles,
rape and looting, a million outlawed acts
of atrocity her nemesis let out the box.
She skins his onion domes, pulls plug on his babble
of media brainwash, bores through his mind’s high gable
and figures out - just as her spirit’s stocks
of substance run dry, and as the tyrant starts
to sweat, exposed despite his long white table -
she might’ve saved her fading soul the trouble:
within the mind that ripped the world apart
a vacuum of conception operates.
There’s nothing there but blood-soaked rags and rubble.
Tim Ellis
Thu 18th May 2023 13:15
Thanks Keith. I was googling popular Ukrainian girls names and Anastasia was near the top of the list, and also had the right number of syllables for where I needed a name. Then I discovered that it means “resurrected one”, so I knew it was perfect for this poem.