Auschwitz ~

Spring came.

The ice melted,

Flowers refused to show,

The birds skirted round.

from: The Auschwitz Poetry

Nazi Concentration Liberated ~ April 15, 1945

Shades of Shoah

One Sunday morning in Munich

Seventy years later

Six suitcases painted white

Stood on a sidewalk

Each with a rose stuck on

And nametags.

People walked past,

Stopped, bent over to read

And continued on

With shoulders stooped—

Wrenched from Sunday calm.

Remembering the Holocaust ~

Seventy Years Later

Auschwitz

One Sunday morning in Munich

Seventy years later 

I saw six suitcases painted white 

Standing on a sidewalk 

Each with a rose stuck on 

And nametags. 

People came past 

Stopped, bent over to read 

And continued on with stooped shoulders— 

Wrenched from Sunday calm.

Holocaust Stones ~ Germany

These are called "Trip-Stones" and are to be found on the sidewalk in front of houses where Jewish families lived who were deported and murdered during the Nazi regime.

 

The Horror of Auschwitz ~

Today I saw a picture of an old woman, bent over, with three small children in Auschwitz. Then I saw myself having to lead my own three grandchildren to the gas chamber.

Holocaust Memorial ~ Berlin

It was evening and dark when we walked through this field of granite slabs. Eventually we were submerged and could not see out over. It seemed as if there was only one orientation to get my bearings from: Auschwitz.

Excerpt from Tamara's Letter ~

Thank you Charles for your letter. What could be more meaningful for a creator than what you have said to me.

I was never thinking about lecturing because I never wanted to talk about the subject. All that I am thankful for is to have the ability to transfer it the way I do.

About the recognition, it may be as my granddaughter once told me, 'people are going to recognize you after your death'. So maybe she is right and if my stories and my creation are strong enough, this is going to be sufficient to transfer a view of this tragic event in history in the twentieth century which was experienced by me.


I have started to work these days on the addresses you gave to me. I hope to have some positive response.

Thank you again. No words can express my gratitude.
Tamara

January 27, 1945 ~ Liberation of Auschwitz

To an Unknown Girl in Auschwitz

by Charles L. Cingolani

I

Who are you who make your way
in the endless lines?
You, Two-Six-Nine-Five-Three,
You, the Flower of Jewry
proud, erect, your denuded skull
that once flowed rich black
with hair that tumbled fountain-like
around a slender neck of ivory
cascading onto shoulders
to fall divided gliding down
over breasts and back.

What noble forehead I see
above dark pools
wherein burn radiant eyes,
your soft sunken temples,
the slope of your regal nose.
Those lips, lightly pursed
above a chin held aloft,
borne with that silent certainty
of being loved already
by one yet unknown to you,
but whose presence now felt
propels your dauntless search.

Your every movement graced,
your feathered step,
your groping hands gliding
those fingers loosely stretched
that have yet to caress
a newborn babe
or cushion a lover's head
from loving spent.

II

On what hidden tether are you
being drawn to him
who has come here
searching for you among the fair,
for you, his longed-for love.

You are his Winter Rose,
You are his Rising Sun
You are his Evening Star,
You are his House of Gold.

He has looked for you in every bower
sought out the lions' lairs,
no latch undone, no hinge unswung
until he ventured through these gates,
searching for you
in one last despairing quest.

Was it not his nearness
that awakened you before dawn
set you on this path in darkness
seeking out his lodging place?

Done with watching, longing,
done with endless dialogue alone
done with patience, pining, waiting.
You move, irresistibly drawn
to juncture, fullness, oneness,
where waiting ceases
where union quenches thirst.

All your visions clung to nights through,
all anticipation that has long beaten
at your love-sick heart
crave for fulfillment, a bringing out
that you know now
will soon come about.

Is that his voice you hear,
your head lowered now
your eyes straining
as you rush in his direction?
Are you about to enter
upon a banquet prepared?
Do you see yourself reclining
in fruits from his trees,
cushioned in down, gazing at
swirling columns of incense rising
as you await his first light touch?

He must see you coming now,
you, so intent, in his direction.
Stands he there behind some board,
some cleft in a wall?
Hear you his words already?
Is he proffering a time, a tryst, a place?
Or is it a room, a loft, a nest—
like orioles make, a flaxen purse
hanging deep in foliage hidden
where union takes place?

Are you asking
if he knows of your longing,
if his will meld with yours
in folds of awareness so hermetic
as to envelop you in one endless ritual
of giving and yielding?
All this questioning but distracts
from your final rush to him
into whose presence you are entering.

III

Go, lift your beauty to him.
All convention, all words, all thought
recede now. There is no fetter.
You are beyond license, sanction, law.
All is assent, oneness, accord.

You are running now,
taking to the wing, gently, lightly.

But he, too, is in motion
nearing, so near
about to catch you up, sidelong, longing,
to envelop you
in the heat of his embrace.


Copyright © 2005

Why Auschwitz?

My Auschwitz poem that has lain fallow for a long time keeps coming back, especially now with Tom facing death. Was thinking about how to make the reader see the location from a new perspective, as a mountain. Tom always comes back to that topic. Talks of circling paths. A sacred mountain.