The wide, fierce strides
of square-jawed blondes
remind me of Dachau,
German shepherds, Irma Grese--
but that was so long ago
I begin to feel guilty.
The Marienkirche tour guide
nears tears as he tells
the damage to his church
in '44 as countless bombs fell,
but the ivory head and hands
of the madonna and child
were spared--Gott sei dank!
And this ancient and sacred statue,
safe now in a glass booth,
is clothed anew on the first
of each month. It has, he smiles,
as many clothes as a Barbie.
Bombs fell everywhere--downtown
too on the Frauenkirche,
seat of archbishops and a pope.
Last month an unexploded bomb
was found beneath a Schwabing bar.
The controlled explosion
destroyed nearby buildings.
An official explained:
the city can't be liable
for the long-term consequences of war.
Four years after his death,
the tabloid press reveals that
a beloved actor hid his past
in the Waffen-SS.
But did he choose it, they ask,
or was he forced?
Re-runs of his hit series
were immediately cancelled.
At a mini-Oktoberfest
a woman in her sixties
urges citizens to sign a petition
to prevent the building of a mosque
funded by the Emir of Qatar-
"he's a dangerous man, you know."
It's the Freiheit Partei
behind this, opposed to Islam,
"an ideology as well as a religion."
Their webpage features their hero,
Geert Wilders, the Dutch parliamentarian,
and self-proclaimed friend of Israel,
who has compared the Koran
to Mein Kampf. But as he explains,
"I don't hate Muslims; I hate Islam."
In the bookstore downtown,
the featured bestseller is
Er Ist Wieder Da.1
Oh Kleio, my muse,
you relentless scold.
Is it you who won't let go
or we who hold too tight?