Poetry at Sangam



ON ANGELS by George Szirtes

In derelict streets
full of blind houses the eyes
are shattered windows.

When the blind windows
open their eyes they will see.
Their gods will listen.

Here’s the high gable.
Here come the angels, all eyes
and ears and trumpets.

The blind shall open
their eyes and the dumb shall speak,
proclaim the trumpets.

Angels are fallen.
Look at the vacant spaces.
See, they are massing.

Out of the bare street
emerges the thin angel
they’ve been harbouring.

The enormous wing
of one absconding angel
overshadows them.

Here is where we live,
answer the streets, and the walls
are our one defence.

Nor is there an hour
without angels. They become
what the street breathes out.

Here is where we live:
in the breathing of the street,
among the trumpets.