✎ something a little different - poetry, non-fiction.
Notes: I thought I'd finally post these somewhere where people who aren't me can see them, so... you guys might appreciate a little background, idk. Basically, in October 2008 I had the opportunity to go on a day visit to Auschwitz concentration camp and Oswiecim, the town that it was built near, and obviously I took it. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life - harrowing, yeah, but at the same time? I'm glad I went. Anyway, soon after I came back I penned three poems just to get my thoughts and feelings in order and out of my head so that I could concentrate on my A levels, but I came across them again just now and thought that I might share them with you. They're very much personal to me and my feelings, thoughts, actions and reactions that came out of that day, and everything mentioned/described in the poems is, in that way, true. I'm not looking for concrit or anything with these, really - they're not especially brilliant and all written in free verse - I just felt like finally sharing part of my experience with the world at large.
I: The Cemetery
It is quiet here.
Stones stand in rows among the grass
Keeping watch, the silent sentinels.
Once they marked a place where loved ones
Were buried
Before the stones were dug up
Defiled and broken
To make roads for the murderers to travel on.
Now someone has moved them back
But they no longer mark anything
Except a memory that no one living is left to remember.
One stone has fallen and I,
A trespasser in this holy place,
Reach down to brush the fallen leaves off the memory of the dead.
The stone is cold and dark under my hands
But I cannot read what is recorded there
Not a name, or a family, or a wish for the afterlife.
Only David’s star is clear,
Carved onto the marble.
Why did I do it?
Who can say. I did not know this person. Perhaps
Some feeling, deeper than duty, stronger than memory
Moved my hand that day
Because no one else left cared enough to do it.
II: Waiting for the signal to cross
Waiting for the signal to cross
The death-trap the Polish call a road
I hear someone ask a question.
When someone else, a teacher, answers
It’s very matter of fact.
He mentions Poles
And some word in German that I don’t know.
It’s a harsh word, harsher still when I hear its meaning.
“Inferior humans”
We cross the road
And I pull my hat down
Never before can I remember feeling so self conscious
About my blood.
III: Headphones
With this voice pumped
Into our ears through headphones
We trail like sheep through the squatting buildings.
I am no stranger to being plugged in, and yet I have to fight
The urge to rip the ear pieces off
To mute the voice reciting facts and figures.
The guide’s eyes are kind but her voice is brisk
And unforgiving through her accent.
“And now we will see the punishment cells”
I hang back. I don’t want to see them
But I am drawn, following the group
Into the building.
It stinks. I gag, cover my nose
With my scarf to try and cover the smell.
I don’t want to see them.
We trudge
Down the stairs
And into a corridor where numbers are painted over the doors.
The girl in front peers through a hole in a door.
I don’t want to see them.
I follow suit, standing on tip-toe
Squinting into the room beyond.
There’s nothing there. A small window
With bars on it
Lets in some light.
Footsteps echo through the headphones.
The line moves on, and I follow.
I: The Cemetery
It is quiet here.
Stones stand in rows among the grass
Keeping watch, the silent sentinels.
Once they marked a place where loved ones
Were buried
Before the stones were dug up
Defiled and broken
To make roads for the murderers to travel on.
Now someone has moved them back
But they no longer mark anything
Except a memory that no one living is left to remember.
One stone has fallen and I,
A trespasser in this holy place,
Reach down to brush the fallen leaves off the memory of the dead.
The stone is cold and dark under my hands
But I cannot read what is recorded there
Not a name, or a family, or a wish for the afterlife.
Only David’s star is clear,
Carved onto the marble.
Why did I do it?
Who can say. I did not know this person. Perhaps
Some feeling, deeper than duty, stronger than memory
Moved my hand that day
Because no one else left cared enough to do it.
II: Waiting for the signal to cross
Waiting for the signal to cross
The death-trap the Polish call a road
I hear someone ask a question.
When someone else, a teacher, answers
It’s very matter of fact.
He mentions Poles
And some word in German that I don’t know.
It’s a harsh word, harsher still when I hear its meaning.
“Inferior humans”
We cross the road
And I pull my hat down
Never before can I remember feeling so self conscious
About my blood.
III: Headphones
With this voice pumped
Into our ears through headphones
We trail like sheep through the squatting buildings.
I am no stranger to being plugged in, and yet I have to fight
The urge to rip the ear pieces off
To mute the voice reciting facts and figures.
The guide’s eyes are kind but her voice is brisk
And unforgiving through her accent.
“And now we will see the punishment cells”
I hang back. I don’t want to see them
But I am drawn, following the group
Into the building.
It stinks. I gag, cover my nose
With my scarf to try and cover the smell.
I don’t want to see them.
We trudge
Down the stairs
And into a corridor where numbers are painted over the doors.
The girl in front peers through a hole in a door.
I don’t want to see them.
I follow suit, standing on tip-toe
Squinting into the room beyond.
There’s nothing there. A small window
With bars on it
Lets in some light.
Footsteps echo through the headphones.
The line moves on, and I follow.