Pilsner Urquell in West Berlin
It was either in
Kreuzberg or around
Potsdamerplatz.
Even the name eludes
me. A group of us
stopped in to a
place all but me
knew. Die Internationale
was on the
jukebox, the nectar of the gods,
Pilsner
Urquell, permitted
to be sold for
solid DM. While we
waited for it
slowly to pour
from the tap, an acquaintance
of everyone else
(we are about his age now) came
by wearing what
they said was a Peter Alexander
jacket. They
called him by that name, he
laughed and bought
us a round. As the Czech
beer came a con
artist whose name I
shared came for a
chat and tried to hit
us up for a beer.
On the U-Bahn later
someone said he
remembered him from
a few years back.
“Berlin is realy small,
he said.I smiled
in the glow of the Pilsner.
Almost a half
century later we sat at
lunch in
Bratislava. When I tasted
the beer I
remember that pub from long
ago and felt
like came full circle.
VIATICUM
Viaticum sustains
me as I go
on every journey,
to ev’ry place.
When all else is
in doubt, this thing I know.
I see above me,
around and below
the comforting
signs as I run the race.
Viaticum sustains
me as I go.
COVID-18 threw the
world into woe,
Without chalice
and bread, there is still grace
When all else is
in doubt, this thing I know.
Now so many things
have been changed, although
there is something
we cannot replace.
Viaticum sustains
me as I go.
Hours to days,
weeks to months slowly flow.
Yet I am safe no
matter what I face
When all else is
in doubt, this thing I know.
Day after day, my
certainty does grow;
Nothing can e’er
this assurance efface.
Viaticum sustains
me as I go
When all else is
in doubt, this thing I know.
Plot
2 Row 30 Grave 30- PVT Edmond Schollaert
A residence filled
with photographs of
dozens of
relatives. I would hear his name
at times. Years
later on the Internet
I found him among
the Great War’s Fallen
from a town near
where Belgian ancestors
found a better
life. His face resembled
my grandmother’s,
but his hair was blond,
A few clicks later
told me so much more.
Ironies abound in
his three decades: wounded
in the final
offensive, death hastened by
influenza weeks
after the Armistice,
before his wounds
could heal.
He rests in
Picardy with his comrades
in Plot 2 Row 30
Grave 30 of the
Oise-Aisne
American Cemetery
a hundred miles
from the ancestral home,
Otherwise from his
memories I
would have heard
of the Great
War at a family gathering, a young
boy spellbound as
he regaled us
with tales of the
soldier’s life:
No Man’s Land,
trenches, gas
and ear-shattering
artillery behind
and in front of
him, day and night.
Belgian genes
brought the rest peacefully
into their 90s.
Edmond’s shadow
extends across the
water mingling
with so many of
the fallen, the forgotten.
Winning the Powerball
Not that I play
these things
used to get lottery tickets in Christmas cards
from fellow teachers
in Pennsylvania
But supposing for once I
actually did buy one
and played my street
address
or an old Zip Code
…something like
that….
And one night watching before the news
the tuxedoed or
evening-gowned MC
releasing my numbers and the
Powerball!
Even though the cash value of the
$269 million
boils down to $139.8 million
cash
it’s totally fine with
me.
A few calls to our financial people
debts paid off….
trust funds arranged….
tax shelters too…..
I sprinkle money from Zurich to the
Caymans, maybe Cyprus
make a friend or two
millionaires
for a tax write off
in addition to
friendship.
And then what?
Look for an apartment
even a house
maybe a Pension
in
Berlin
The city that has fascinated me
for decades
rejuvenates me always.
Years ago going through the Wall
sightseeing or for research
that
remains incomplete. I sat in
what was and is now again the
Adlon Hotel haunted by von Ribbentrop
and legions of spies. On my last
way out flirting with a blond Vopo
who smiled as I used the du-form.
Now memory tells me what
was West or Ost, so complete
is the reunification rejuvenation.
I walked through the
Dorotheenstadt
Cemetery in silent homage to
Heinrich Mann
and Bert Brecht, a
prayer at the memorial
to Bonhoeffer and von
Dohnanyi whose
long-lost remains merit
the stone here. My
past and present interests
and careers
coincide in this four-acre
space in
the sprawling
metropolis.
A place in Wilmersdorf
or Pankow
maybe in Zehlendorf
where
I could ride the U2
like I
used to above
and
below ground a
sleek
yellow U-Bahn train
hurtling back and
forth
A Weisse Rot at Kempinski’s
Lingering over coffee
or tea
and something to read
enjoying a movie or concert
returning to my place near
a bakery for morning Schrippen
whose warm aromas fill
my nostrils
Arthur Turfa is a Lexington, SC-based poet/writer and leads the Poetry Chapter of the South Carolina Writers Association. His poems have appeared in The Petigru Review, The Lothlorien Poetry Journal, was in the Top Ten for the 2019 Poetry Prize of The Pangolin Review, as well as in other publications. His most recent poetry collection is Saluda Reflections from Finishing Line Press, © 2018.The Botleys of Beaumont County on Blurb, © 2021, is his first novel.
The concept of place figures prominently in his writers. From his native Pennsylvania to Germany, and locations in between, Turfa draws on them to discern how he became the person he became. His careers as a Lutheran pastor, educator, and Army chaplain provide inspiration for his writing.
Currently, he is semi-retired, working on short stories, more poetry, and enjoying life with family and friends.
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