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27 July 2022

The NS Poem: Kindertransport

A new poem by Craig Raine.

By Craig Raine

A single cornflake in Vienna.
Brittle dark-gold henna.

Returned from England, her teacher
gave the class one each.

She remembered how it tasted
when, ten years later, she fled

a raft of racial laws
against the Jews,

and came to England.
One suitcase heavy in both hands.

Her father had been President
of the Österreichischer Fußball-Bund.

In Oxford, she was a nursery maid,
grateful to work for food and board.

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After the war, she married Humphries,
older, a dentist, with open eyes.

It wasn’t a love match.
All that was Quatsch.

Two sons later,
no longer slender,

she metamorphosed into a matron,
a widow with a bungee-jump bosom.
I remember her, fearless,
in a bouncing sleeveless dress

and burly sandals,
facing down a vandal,

a skinhead in the University Parks,
tearing the bark

off a sapling. A mountain ash.
She ran to him across the grass.

“You mustn’t. Don’t be silly.
If you do that, you’ll kill it.”

As if he didn’t know. Litter likewise:
“Excuse me, I think you forgot this.”

A year of cancer operations,
of pointless surgical interventions,

left her thin
as a prepubescent girl again.

“This is my proper weight.
Years of over-eating, I’m afraid.”

Thin and humbled.
Humbled, not humble,

as we are at our end. Our flood
a riverbed’s mosaic of mud.

Craig Raine is a poet, novelist and critic, and was the editor of “Areté” magazine

Read more poetry published in the New Statesman here

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This article appears in the 27 Jul 2022 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Special