TIME PRISONERS

[approx 1139 words]

an orthodox easter

:: exile :: sad yearning for the fatherland :: a glorious fatherland :: when streets
flowed with milk and honey :: yeah right :: but that’s what time prisoners believe ::
everything was good back then :: back in the fatherland :: before they were hunted
down :: like scavenger vermin :: becoming political refugees :: how shameful ::
today their hearts are heavy :: tears chocking every waking hour :: the world they
live in: horrifically alien :: alien people, alien faces, hideous :: these are monsters ::
not the soulful folk of the fatherland :: those loving caring people :: slaughtered by
the revolution :: any revolution – anywhere :: those complete revolutions that
destroy one fatherland and create a new fatherland :: in this case, a bolshevik
fatherland :: out with the czar and his corrupt fatherland :: in with the bolsheviks
and their corrupt fatherland :: like that line in ~sympathy for the devil~: ~i killed
the czar and his ministers, anastasia screamed in vain~:: yep :: that’s the way it
goes ::

:: so, in this city, that other city, any city, a huddled mass of sad-eyed individuals
draped in black mourn the gilded glory of the czars :: during the day they crawl
through darkened rooms, looking for something :: always looking for something ::
they never step out into the sunlit days ::
:: at night they gather :: like clandestine societies :: and every time it’s the same ::
a chilling lament :: their sadness hanging heavy in the air :: heavier than the smoke
from russian cigarettes :: their tears not just for the past but also for the fact that
they are the last :: their children: already dancing and singing under some horrible
alien sunshine :: detestable ::

:: once a year they furtively leave the remains of their fatherland :: they huddle
together in this cold and unfriendly world :: nervously glancing around as they slip
through the heavy solid iron gates :: nestled somewhere in a back street of rome,
protected by a massive wall: the russian orthodox church :: by the time we arrive
the entire interior is packed full with time prisoners :: the air is thickly clouded with
layers of incense :: the priest has already begun officiating some bizarre litany ::
even under the soothing monotony of the priest’s invocations, they still huddle ::
fearful they might be caught :: and massacred :: like so many of their relatives and
friends :: like their fatherland :: an occasional restless child stirs :: but is
immediately shushed ::

:: the heavenly vault of the church is no longer visible through the thick haze of
incense :: the air itself is intoxicating :: it seems we are all evaporating into a state
of stupor :: time no longer is a dimension of anything :: murmuring voices from the
direction of the altar drift through the incense :: this is the only measure to tell one
moment from another ::
:: then :: suddenly :: an uneasy silence fills the church :: nobody speaks :: people
shift to kneel in whatever space is available :: with a mighty explosion of light and
pomp, the curtains by the main door are thrown back :: framed in the portal, a
bizarre appearance: the czar! the legitimate successor to the last czar of russia ::
triumphant :: carried high on a gilded chair :: carried on the shoulders of chosen
men ::

©francis safaie-brown, 1998

francisbrown@yahoo.com
 TIME PRISONERS

:: what follows really defies description :: a kind of hysteria breaks out :: men,
women begin crying unabashedly :: women hold their children high in the hope the
czar might brush his hand against the little fingers :: when his hand barely touches
a finger tip then that child’s family breaks down, sobbing uncontrollably, embracing
the child, as if some of the czar’s immortal touch could pass on to them ::
:: with a sense of overpowering drama, the czar, high on his gilded chair, floats
down the isle :: past hands reaching out :: old, gnarled fingers :: bony relics :: past
sobbing cries :: tears meandering down ancient landscapes of once proud faces ::
those thick black veils, falling – for at this moment, the czar is far greater than any
god could ever hope to be ::
:: the rest of the ceremony passes by in some dream-like fashion :: not even fellini
could compose such a surreal sequence :: with measured steps a procession
forms :: led by the clergy :: followed by incense swinging priests :: and more priests
holding things high above their heads :: important things :: perhaps the blood of the
fatherland :: and priests mumbling an endless drone of prayers :: and then the
czar :: seated high above everybody’s shoulders :: brilliant :: radiant :: the czar of
mother russia :: in a back street :: somewhere in rome ::
:: immediately behind him :: a moving mass of thickly veiled women :: as if one
strange animal :: and behind them, the rest of the congregation ::

:: like a cumbersome prehistoric saurus the procession crawls around the church ::
the incense swinging priests blessing things along the way :: things i can’t make
out in the dark :: things that made their way into exile along with the refugees ::
somehow the mystery from inside has seeped out into the roman night :: the roman
night now a mysterious vault over mother russia :: we are at the very rear of the
procession :: ahead of us the strange noise of shuffling feet :: and mumblings ::
:: even as we round the apse of the church, the procession is already passing the
front portal :: as it begins a second round of blessings :: and chanting :: and praying
:: and blessings :: everything creepingly turns surreal :: way beyond the mere
absurd :: it’s like slithering into a parallel universe :: with eyes wide open :: the
reality on this side of the black-dark walls has absolutely nothing in common with
the reality in the little roman alleyway :: it is here that these shadowy figures are
alive :: where life has true meaning :: where time holds them prisoners ::

:: probably half way through the third perambulation my mind hazes over :: afloat
on the incense ocean of mother russia :: i feel becoming one with mother russia’s
eternal dream :: it’s like the incense soaked night has kidnapped me :: making me
a time prisoner of mother russia :: the blood-soaked soil of mother russia flowing
through my veins like a sticky swamp :: reaching into every corner of my
thoughts :: now i am one with their fatherland ::

:: how whacked out is that :?:!:

:: total review 05/21/2010 ::

:: rome, 1968 ::

©francis safaie-brown, 1998

francisbrown@yahoo.com