D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: history

Smiling Stellar Shapes Shown in Eyes Like Reflecting Pools Drained Dry (or The Great Nothing)

Time’s passage in perpetuity
struck such staggering
blows
to youth—
all hope, our hope—
all faith in the future

and the seconds slid slowly as centuries when
we shattered;
beliefs beaten, butchered
ideals broken up into
short shimmering shards sharp as
straight razors, slung across
searing stellar streams of screaming smoke and steam,
like shell-shot slivers set to shred souls into strips—
strewn stiffly about, shouting in stark stuttered
shock
all shining under skies stained with stilted
steely starlight of silent
solar spheres, smiling
dead across the
wastes of
time and
space—
dead smiles
dead lips and dead eyes
twisted into hideous smirks of caustic mirth
gazes fixed in the black.

Those staring stars are turned toward us,
we civilized machines of carbon
we who bow before our own brilliance, our antibiotics and our
diesel-electric locomotives and our intercontinental ballistic
missiles;
we who poison ourselves to pass the time,
we the sole manifestation of an empty universe in possession of the
capacity to conceive its utter emptiness,
we who tried to fill it with our follies
we who—we—who’d been so sure, whose salvation was
so certain—
or so we shouted as
we slaughtered ourselves—
so certain, so certain,
but we’d merely mistaken for sparks of cosmic affirmation
that we might have indeed been significant
that dead sneering scorn of dead distant suns
which fell upon our fields of forty thousand felled
before batteries of rifled artillery pieces;
but their bitter grins aren’t real
and there is nothing.
Because the folly of men oft felled folly itself, clear-cut forests of fallacy
in our pursuit of salvation
eternity, infinity
but in the end
it wrought only ruin.

Oh, man’s forlorn delusion-obscured impotence

And the stars all strung up in their sockets
each whose dead fixed stare touches nothing
do not exist
just illusions of our own illustration
and we too are illusory, and our being is
much too fleeting to be—
for the stars and the seas could switch and we might
tumble through the earth toward cerulean skies and
we might fall upon the heavens from below
and then out here, like the rest,
out here where the weed decays,
we might have long been
already but rust
and stardust.

 

This means nothing.

Second Sun: The Atomic Bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki

In observance of today’s historical significance, here is something a bit different from my usual work.


Seventy years ago, the sun rose early above the barren New Mexico desert, bathing the pre-dawn landscape in brilliant blinding light before burning it to ashes.

In an instant, any sign that life had once existed in this place was immolated by searing hellfire. Devastation swept outward, as ripples caused by a stone dropped into a pond do, from a single point—a gaping crater where, seconds earlier, a steel tower had loomed menacingly before the cacti and sagebrush.

At its apex, this tower had housed the product of one of the most ambitious scientific endeavors in human history—years of toil by the world’s brightest minds made manifest, shut up inside a flimsy tin shack suspended a hundred feet from the desert floor.

It was here, over a rural and desolate region of the American Southwest, where the course of history was irreparably altered, forever damning the notion of total industrial warfare to the pages of history—or rather, consummating the marriage of post-Second World War global conflict to the certain annihilation of modern society.

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With Artful Cruelty

Fyodor Dostoevsky observed in his final work The Brothers Karamazov that, despite our alleged civility, human beings possess a capacity for cruelty far beyond that of any other creature—his specific phrasing was that we humans are “artistically cruel,” if I correctly recall.

When I first read Karamazov, I had been at that time taking an intro-level philosophy course. My professor, a kindly 77-year-old Korean War veteran of significant academic distinction, relayed to the class a story pertaining to Nazi Germany’s conduct in rural Russia, Dostoevsky’s homeland, during the Second World War:

Germany began her colossal conquest of the Soviet Union during the summer of 1941. German forces often came across villages buried deep within the Russian countryside: villages which had maintained so little contact with the outside world, it was as though they had been preserved from progress and the passage of time—a pristine glimpse into the age of Peter the Great, perhaps. So isolated were these tiny towns that their inhabitants had hardly ever before been exposed to the power of music.

German unit commanders became quickly aware of this fact.

With the artful cruelty that so deeply pervaded Nazi hegemony, Wehrmacht armor and infantry would surround one of these anachronistic villages, whose residents had in all probability never seen so much as an automobile before. The tankers, their massive machines running idle in place, would then begin playing a recording of Rossini’s William Tell overture in unison—and at a deafening volume—through loudspeakers mounted to the tanks’ armor plates.

Nearly halfway through the piece, the Panzers would begin to inch toward the village—almost imperceptibly at first, but soon accelerating, gaining speed commensurate with the music’s mounting intensity—tracks turning faster and faster, engines roaring louder and louder—as though Rossini himself had composed a part specifically for those armored machines, penning it into his score nearly a century before the tank was invented.

At this point, the piece’s recording began to approach its final measures. The sound grew maddeningly loud as the orchestra played to a cacophonous crescendo.

Then, at long last, the finale’s first notes rang out. The order was given to take the village.

The 75mm guns fixed to each Panzer’s turret spoke with burning breath—horrific hellfire percussion echoed behind the climactic close of William Tell. Engines of decimation roared with demonic rage; the full fury of modern industrial warfare struck the village like lightning. Within minutes, the life which existed there unmolested for centuries was obliterated.

And the music did onward play, an encore for which no request was made, when the Panzers again happened upon similar places.

Just as Dostoevsky once noted, over half a century before those lands which he has immortalized in literature were ravaged by the Nazi war machine, we humans are indeed imbued with a unique capacity for cruelty—such awful, artful cruelty.