Oh, Munich! Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It was a gray day in November that I sat
at my Salvation Army desk, so deep in thought,
about the art of reminiscing about life.

An element of selfishness was,
clearly and painfully, present
and the question of disclosure,
to my happy self, returned from,
what can only be described as
some sort of earthly paradise,
was staring quite relentlessly,
its finger raised in mock concern.

There is a rash desire now within
the need to boast to all and now,
there cannot be the very silence
that would surely be required,
lest lifting of the veil would bring about
untold vulgarities into a bed of truth.

Filled to the beating heart with joy
as well as sadness I regress
into the dream that came to haunt
and squeeze its mighty hand
around me in a gesture from those days,
when summer raised its warming rays
and filled young men with lustful thoughts.

It was James Bond, about the life of spies,
surrounded by a thousand Hessian souls,
whose sole routine was first to rest,
and soak into their skins the burning sun,
then to extinguish the excesses in the waves
of Frankfurt's biggest and well situated pools,
where waters did receive their frequent dose
of what was meant to be discharged in smaller stalls,
but folks would swim and dive and often spit
as to discharge the waste of fuels like fat-bound boats.

James had now lured into his bed the Russian spy,
its very ease conferred encouragement to me,
and for a moment there was hope and sheer despair
when eyes were locked across the barriers of the day.
The sun was setting now, the crowd began to stir
she packed her towel and the yellow Piz-Buin,
soon she was gone, I noted tram Krauthausen-4.

There was some doubt inside the mind of the old Dean,
you look quite healthy, must have gone through his big skull,
I was the first to cross the gate the coming day,
and claimed the spot, a fraction closer and in hope.
The sun had blinked it seemed when angels came to town,
she wore a flowered and exquisite Swedish top,
legs flattered and revealed by short bermuda whites,
sunglasses aimed up into God's benevolence.
And then she sat within ten feet, inside my shade.

I spoke, amazed and stunned and well prepared.
Would quick defeat and even ridicule be seen
by all the tight, gross looking trunks of healthy males
who had assembled here to steal my rising star?

There would not be another day, she said to me,
a voice like harpsichord accompanied by flute,
the trip to Spain would be tomorrow, near to dawn,
four weeks, parental chaperones, perhaps a card.

We spent the time to the last tram in Le Chateau,
greased fingers feeding chicken legs and tales
into the eagerness of innocent young mouths,
wheat beer with just a touch of rhubarb juice
and no one dared to spoil the ambience of the night.

Some fifteen years have come and gone, and I return,
a tiny gremlin leads my hand deep to the page
where like a shooting star her name looks up to burn
and give me courage and the nerves of long gone times.

She stays composed though I can tell it is a sham,
'this cannot be', she keeps repeating, 'not for real',
'I kept your letters', says the voice, (Manuka lips) ,
'you could, if time permits come by, say Hi (? ? ?) ,
perhaps a cab, you are not far, not far at all.'

The lift, a modern and Teutonic apparatus is too fast,
I'm not prepared, perhaps the wind messed up my hair,
two jet-lagged eyes and a small paunch, the price of age,
what would she say, would there be ridicule, defeat?

And all was well, words really are so strange,
so full of nothing though we used the words of old,
went back to Le Chateau, she was prepared,
and I could swear, the roasted legs were just the same,
baked in her grill, while we drank Chateau-Neuf-Du-Pape,
and in the end we talked of trams, and number four,
the world at large, it didn't matter anymore.

This was written in 1981.
No further details available.