Poem of the Month
Iconoclast

By Benjamin Hertwig

Published on April 30, 2018

the war is over
and we are still

…………here.

if the good
angel had told
Faustus to go fuck
himself,
the metaphysical
baggage of war
and peace,
heaven and hell
would have
spilled out on the
dark floor of
the study like
a bowl of
peanut shells.
but the angel spoke
of love and the
pitchforked devils
dragged him
down. the war
is over and we
are stil

…………here.

More Poetry

Postscript(s)

The fall of ’47 I was 25 and still living in Viluta. What made me stay so long? What made me linger in that nothing place, that hamlet of ten houses?

Abundance

The streets of the living are among the streets of the dead, the houses of the living among the houses of the dead – three centuries of dead packed close, stacked twelve deep. On stones, scissors mark a tailor, grapes announce abundance.

AIDS Ward

This is the bed, empty again, next to the man dying. This is the strap that ties down the man that lies next to the empty bed.