stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 19731
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2018-12-19 16:35:11
    [post_date_gmt] => 2018-12-19 16:35:11
    [post_content] => Germany’s war was waged, we had to make it ours.
It began then, an almost park given to us: a façade
of what it was not, Huts, a family of a hundred
hundred people to trust secrets to;

we began in quiet

and voice never defied us in six – many – years;
the war, at times, did.
In love letters they told us the sites of rendezvous:
every morning, codes that could never be broken;
nights, with those going nowhere:

days, bided away

in uniforms and discipline, by tables – laden with
sheets, and codes, and messages, and more codes –
and by people, from everywhere, with dancesteps
and pints – with more codes; even dances made up
of Roman numerals:

Bletchley was home; home

had alienated: we danced with people never looking
at them, they never knew where we learnt those steps.
The place wasn’t made up of words anymore, we
preferred silence; the death of a dog on the street was
hardly anyone’s concern – we had been busy
counting humans.

On the radio, Churchill:

We shall go on to the end … we shall never
surrender. In the Huts, we knew that people died –
and that wouldn’t be in vain.
Swimmers had been killing the mermaids, but then,
Turing in Hut 8 had been successful in decrypting
the naval Enigma messages; –

the Germans didn’t know

soon, then it changed to Tunny ciphers. Another
year, the answers were found again.
We had been working for the end; it took some
time, but it had begun.
    [post_title] => From Bletchley With Love
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => from-bletchley-with-love
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2018-12-19 16:35:11
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-12-19 16:35:11
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=19731
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2018
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the third-prize winner in the Bletchley Park poetry challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN).

So Mayer, who wrote and judged the challenge, said, “Written in a quicksilver voice that speaks collectively for the many who worked at the Park, this poem samples the oral histories collected by the museum to create a living tapestry dense with the intensity of the work undertaken and how it fed and bled into extra-curricular pastimes, and how the pressure of secrecy continues to shape Bletchley’s narrative.”
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => 3rd prize, Bletchley Park challenge
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 19733
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Jayant Kashyap
            [slug] => jayant-kashyap
            [content] => Jayant is the third-prize winner in the Bletchley Park challenge on Young Poets Network.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 19733
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Jayant Kashyap
    [slug] => jayant-kashyap
    [content] => Jayant is the third-prize winner in the Bletchley Park challenge on Young Poets Network.
)

From Bletchley With Love

Jayant Kashyap

Germany’s war was waged, we had to make it ours.
It began then, an almost park given to us: a façade
of what it was not, Huts, a family of a hundred
hundred people to trust secrets to;

we began in quiet

and voice never defied us in six – many – years;
the war, at times, did.
In love letters they told us the sites of rendezvous:
every morning, codes that could never be broken;
nights, with those going nowhere:

days, bided away

in uniforms and discipline, by tables – laden with
sheets, and codes, and messages, and more codes –
and by people, from everywhere, with dancesteps
and pints – with more codes; even dances made up
of Roman numerals:

Bletchley was home; home

had alienated: we danced with people never looking
at them, they never knew where we learnt those steps.
The place wasn’t made up of words anymore, we
preferred silence; the death of a dog on the street was
hardly anyone’s concern – we had been busy
counting humans.

On the radio, Churchill:

We shall go on to the end … we shall never
surrender. In the Huts, we knew that people died –
and that wouldn’t be in vain.
Swimmers had been killing the mermaids, but then,
Turing in Hut 8 had been successful in decrypting
the naval Enigma messages; –

the Germans didn’t know

soon, then it changed to Tunny ciphers. Another
year, the answers were found again.
We had been working for the end; it took some
time, but it had begun.