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Pol Pot.

Dawn. Leni Riefenstahl And her cameras slowly inflate the immense Nuremberg Rally. The Colorado looks up in awe at the Grand Canyon It has made. Hitler. European clouds. 1934. Empty Thought-balloons high above Lascaux Without a thought inside. The Fuhrer Is ice that's fire, physically small. They all were. Stalin. Trotsky's little glasses Disappear behind a cloud From which he won't emerge alive. The small plane carrying The Grail to Nuremberg got Wagnerian clouds To fly through, enormous, enormous. Mine eyes have seen the glory, it Taxis to a stop. The cabin door swings open. Leni schussed from motion pictures To still photography after the war. From the Aryan ideal, climbed out In Africa to shoot the wild shy people of Kau, Small heads, tall, the most beautiful animals in the world. Artistically mounted them into ideal Riefenstahl. Riefenstahl! Riefenstahl! Riefenstahl! Really, From blonds in black-and-white to blacks in color. Now Pol Pot came to power. Now in London Sylvia Plath Nailed one foot to the floor; And with the other walked And walked and walked through the terrible blood.
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Author:Seidel, Frederick
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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