Sunday, 23 November 2014

let's put this behind us


let’s put this behind us
so we might recall
creaking stairs
ceiling skylight
early morning
rumpled sheets
a scattering of clothes

let’s not forget
how often how much
I’ve called on
your forgiveness
but also the taste
of vegetarian stew
cooked on single hob
left to go cold
in front of the gas fire
mantelpiece decorations
envelopes in primary colours
traffic music muffled

and let’s remind ourselves
that the past
cannot be altered
other than by how
we remember it

Tom Phillips

Friday, 27 June 2014

Princip's Footprints

The Museum of the Austro-Hungarian Period: Sarajevo 1878-1918 had only opened a few years before. Housed, appropriately enough, in an Austro-Hungarian building on the north bank of the Miljacka river, it faced onto Obala Kulina Bana street and the Latin Bridge. It was here that Gavrilo Princip had fired the shots which killed Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sofia. For many years, there had been a pair of footprints cast in a paving slab which marked the exact spot where the Serbian assassin stood on the morning of 28 June 1914. These disappeared in 1992. Shelled, sniped at and nearly starved out by Serbs, the Sarajevans changed their minds about Princip. Before, when every Sarajevan was also a Yugoslavian, the gawky student from Belgrade had seemed, if not a hero, then at least a foolhardy patriot. He had struck a blow for independence from the Austro-Hungarians and set in train the series of events which led to both the demise of the Empire and the unification of the southern Slavs in the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes. During the siege, however, the Sarajevans had come to regard Princip as just another Serbian ultra-nationalist, much like the ones firing on them from the hills and imprisoning them in their own city. Circumstances transformed the assassin. While communist historians had co-opted him as an anti-imperialist and a pre-revolutionary revolutionary, many Sarajevans now bracketed him with Radovan Karadzic and Slobodan Milosevic. Some also pointed out that, even if the assassination had been motivated by a desire for freedom and independence, it had also been the catalyst for the First World War. Restoring the commemorative footprints might reignite the suspicions of those who believed the Balkans to be a ‘powder keg’, a danger to the rest of Europe, a chaos whose conflicts would inevitably spread. In 2009, the only problem with not reinstating the footprints was that Sarajevo was no longer a city under siege in a civil war. It was the capital of a country which incorporated the Republika Srpska where thousands of Bosnian Serbs continued to regard Princip as a hero.

            The museum took a diplomatic line. Outside, a stone in the wall carried an impeccably factual inscription: ‘From this place on 28 June 1914 Gavrilo Princip assassinated the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sofia.’ A screen beside it showed a clip from a TV dramatisation, an English one, with Edward Fox as the ill-fated archduke. Inside, the exhibits attempted to tell the story of Austro-Hungary’s annexation of Bosnia from the Ottoman Empire in 1878 without offending anyone. There was no mention of the chronic economic decay which afflicted the Ottoman Empire in the late nineteenth century. Nor was there anything to suggest that the Austro-Hungarians had annexed Bosnia out of self-interest, expanding the buffer zone which, like a prototype of the Iron Curtain, ran from Hungary to the Adriatic and protected them from the purportedly dangerous East. Instead there were bursts of information about the complex administrative structure and technological advances the Austro-Hungarians had introduced. A caption admitted that trams and electric street lighting arrived in Sarajevo much earlier than in the rest of the Habsburg domains because the authorities wanted to test them on the dispensable Bosnians before they exposed the good citizens of Vienna and Budapest to such potentially dangerous innovations. Beneath grainy black-and-white photographs of the Serbian conspirators was the gun which Princip had used to shoot the archduke: the starting pistol of the First World War. Three other guns used by the gang had ended up in Vienna; this, presumably, was the fourth and ‘missing’ weapon. Beside it was the paving slab with the concrete footprints, as much a relic of the siege as a memorial to the assassin.
Tom Phillips

Ghost Structures


Climbing through densities of mist
around hairpins that seem to sling us out
at nothing, we're to be counted, checked
at this former frontline border post.

Ghost structures, like scratched marks
on thick paper, are watchtowers,
military installations stripped
of wiring, glass, recycled as momento mori.

Where troop movements occupied observers,
customs officers make desultory searches,
complain about paperwork deficiencies,
inclemencies of closing-in weather.

Despite government's stated aspirations,
talk of accession has got no further
than these mirroring symbols,
fenced-off strips of no man's land
caught between flagged territories.

Tom Phillips

Friday, 6 June 2014

New post at Colourful Star: Apples

" ...All I would do to take you there –
to those orchards beside our lane,
their close fruit-heavy ranks ..."
It's time for this week's new post on Colourful Star - and this week it's all about apples ... 
http://msvstp.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/apples.html

Friday, 23 May 2014

Colourful Star: Bilingual Post

Как да пиша, но с букви
от една древна азбука,
със звуци от сърцето?


24 May is both St Cyril and Methodius' Day and Bulgaria's national day of Education, Culture and Slavonic Literature - so for this week's post for the Anglo-Bulgarian collaborative project Colourful Star, we've combined Marina Shiderova's calligraphy designs with my first (public) effort at writing in Bulgarian ... (there is also an English translation). You can link to our first fully bilingual post here.

Monday, 28 April 2014

Shakespeareana

The launch issue of the all-new Shakespeare Magazine includes my piece on Shakespeare and Bristol, while there's a poem and paintings on 'Twelfth Night' at Colourful Star here.

Saturday, 26 April 2014

Lovers in winter

When I picture it now, of course,
I can only picture it in the wrong season:
summer light on shop windows,
dusty pavements, the market’s
mosaic of fruit and veg,
gardens’ modest luxuries.

Not so hard to imagine you, though,
arm in arm on a familiar plaza –
or rummaging bookstalls,
drinking coffee, running for buses.
You’ll be laughing or breathless –
or both. On the bridge where
dual carriageway headlights
flash an eerie glamour,
it’ll be as if past differences
were nothing more than blank spaces
on a map of the constellations.


Tom Phillips 2014