A week after a week in Auschwitz

 

*Auschwitz is the German word for the town of Oswiecim in Poland.

From ancient times Oswiecim has meant ÒThe Sacred PlaceÓ.

 

 

1.

 

SEVEN MINUTES 

 

Clear eyes,

The train is full of young strong Polish laughter

Kisses and whispers

And muffled music singing loud

in my neighbor's sleepy ears.

Hungry ghosts

fully satisfied.

 

Silver keyboard,

once and future lover

lies at his feet,

Off.

Breathing out

No effort.

Station stop.

 

Breathing in again,

Click clack, creak, crack, croak.

This cabin hurls forward toward Krakow while yours,

through suddenly stirred Autumn air,

speeds forward as well,

to Wroclaw.

Opposite tracks,

Katovitz behind both

bound to meet again

in China.

 

 

 

 

2.

 

 

THE MOURNING AFTER  (Breakfast at The Saski)

 

The tears that now flow are not tears for you.

Houshu's husband still dead

three months after the collision,

her pain echos

all the way from Beijing to Krakow.

Interupted life never will see  five unborn children

gathered on a 99th birthday.

 

Newspaper lies unread beside the soggy cereal,

Chair accross the breakfast table empty.

Missing the ones who are missing.

 

 

3.

 

DANGEROUS BRIDGE

 

To fall in a tumbling river

moving muscles

holding breath

gasping,

grasping,

To swim?

to drown?

Or, perhaps,

to another fate

yet unknown;

then

letting go

to falling,

gravity having it's way.

 

 

 

 

4.

 

 

EVE'S DROPPING

 

Emerging and eavesdropping.

Conversation at the next table in language I comprehend,

Concepts  and meaning,

Suddenly hunger.

 

After a week in the Sacred Place with no desire for eating;

Noodles and gravy, tomato roasted with parmesan,

carrots sautŽed in butter.

Yum Yum.

 

Back in time,

I overhear that  rain and snow are predicted for tomorrow.

I have a future again,

Thanks God.

 

 

 

 

 

5.

 

TURNING ON THE TV (after a week in Auschwitz)

 

Shall I just rub it like the magic lantern it is?

So easy, just press the remote.

But I fear that Genie,

the Seducer who will rob me,

cast a spell,

steal my soul.

.

And what of my new friends,

theh ones that emerged from the soil?

Will those traces of reborn life be smudged out yet again,

their unused joy, borrowed,

clinging to my heart even days after I turned away.

 

Perhaps if I only watch the Polish channels,

clever repartee I don't understand,

advertisements for products I'll never buy,

Certainly not to turn on English language CNN

where the story line just continues and continues and continues,

I fear my delicate souls will shake their heads,

discouraged that it all repeats,

and just go gas themselves once again.

 

To turn or not to turn

That is the question.

 

 

 

 

6.

 

KRAKOW: COFFEE&CANDLES

 

Candles before noon

burning their tops

down to the end.

Cigarettes and conversation

lapping little waves, no surfer's crash here

even the slick guy in a tight blue sweater

on a cellphone,

can't hear a word whatever the language

just an ocean,

lapping lapping.

 

Cappuccino machine steams hushhhhhhh,

Silver spoon clicks on white saucer

Rap groove weaves through the room

Man drops a glass ashtray,

shattered,

no one looks up but me.

 

I pay the barman and tell him, "I'm happy"

I don't think he'd ever heard that before,

He walks away,

but returns to say

"Das Good"

The tables are full, but the barstools hold only me and the winter light,

Kahlua, Campari, and Amaretto

sit on the shelf awaiting their fate,

certain but unknown.

 

Pass the sugar, sweet.

I want to drink.

 

 

 

Peter Cunningham

11/17 2005