Jdrduz, Republic of Artsakh
How do I cross the chasm
to understand you better?
What bridge could possibly
connect your world and mine?
My fingertips upon your face
bring us no closer to sense,
but instead a millisecond of
infinity wrapped in never.
Trauma,
it lives in us all;
those of us who can’t
seem to “get it right,”
seeking love and then
demolishing it once
it’s found- deliberately
as if to fullfil
a prophecy.
Trauma,
it makes you blind,
triggers amnesia.
Watching her cry,
your Madonna,
unable to assist
or turn sad tears
into happy diamonds.
He’s gone,
off working or
something very important
and the strands
of sanity grow feeble.
Backs are turned,
they’re back to back.
But none will take
that step away.
And so it scars,
the invisible kind,
on the ones Madonna
sought to save.
Trauma,
it seeps from
generation to
generation,
repeating again
and again,
a cycle of pain.
Producing avoidants
and addicts
who sit and wonder why,
they can’t seem to
“get it right.”
Each generation laments
the loss, wondering
if love was meant to die?
God and his Madonna,
love higher than could
be touched or understood.
But she was left
in that story- Love
invisible. On faith
alone was child raised.
No- Saviour. To save
Madonna and us all.
But a child
born to save creator,
doesn’t make for
stable patterns. So
trauma builds and births
still more avoidants
and addicts who sentence
the other to a deeper Hell
as they try to hide
unseen scars,
looking for victims,
looking for an escape car.
Oh if Madonna never cried,
or yelled…or sought her
God somewhere far, then
we might believe that
Love could live in
faith alone.
But she did cry,
and yell and other things
so now we roam,
bearing burdens
not our own.
Seeking our prey,
too blind to heal…
Avoidant seeks Addict
and Addict falls fast
and bears another child,
…no, saviour…
Trauma reborn.
They say the devil
is simply a
fallen angel,
_
crashing through the
wind as he fell
from heaven.
_
And I can’t help but notice
that we’re all little
devils sometimes,
_
hurting each other
and we don’t quite
know why.
Praga
Sierpień, 2015 Uniwersytet Warszawski, PL
Read about the Schoolroom.
Time passes like an impatient wind,
And as it does, the memories wane.
Like the smoke of a shisha,
the scents hold strong but the vision
slowly disappears.
_
Torrential feelings, icy gusts,
cut through bone marrow and skin
leaving in its anxious haste a
hardened shell, frozen.
_
Time passes like an impatient wind,
And the figurines that used to
play in the mind’s eye so oft
trip and slip and slowly dissolve.
Features dissipate
_
like formations made in the sand,
altered by the eager gale.
Cling to images as you might
but the forms escape.
_
Time is a capricious lover,
Flirting with the innocent with
pledges to stay forever
and heady incantations of
fantasies fulfilled.
_
Then, in the dead of night or in
subtle moments in between
time slips from beneath the sheets and
wrinkled are they left.
_
Wind.
The image that was once the form
that you could just about touch
in silent moments in the dark
chases nimble time.
_
And then one day when you awake
and realize that it’s gone
you’ll spend your whole life searching for
what you can’t recall.
_
Time.
Keen to capture the scents and sounds
To trap Image in your mind
You sprint, too hasty through your life
And never beat time.
Apparently these made it big in NYC but I never actually saw the mythical Cronut until the Christmas markets in London. Now I have to actually try one!
This view punches me in the gut every time. 11-year-old me is doing back flips
Fly to your happy place
XOXO
Monument to the Ghetto Heroes (Pomnik Bohaterów Getta), 1948
Yesterday was the anniversary of the start of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising of 1943 in Warsaw, Poland.
Not to be confused with the Warsaw Uprising of 1944, resulting in Hitler razing the city of Warsaw to the ground, the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising took place a year earlier in 1943 as the Jews of the Warsaw Ghetto revolted against their Nazi oppressors, resulting in the burning of the Ghetto (now Old Mokotów. Stary Mokotów), leaving almost no survivors in its wake.
A commemoration of the event was held at the Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw at Noon yesterday.
Everyone placed yellow daffodils on the Memorial which stands in front of the museum, in memory of Marek Edelman, a Commander of the Ghetto Uprising and one of the only survivors who went on to fight in the Warsaw Uprising, Powstanie Warszawskie, and take part in the Solidarity movement, Solidarność. His children, family and friends were also in attendance as we all walked through what used to be the Jewish Ghetto and commemorated those who were lost in this dreadful period of European History.
The commemorative walk through the Ghetto ended at Umschlagplatz, where the Jews were transported from the Ghetto to the Treblinka death camp by the Nazis.
The commemoration was interesting to be a part of and it was even more interesting to note that the anniversary landed on the Sabbath, preventing many of the observant Jewish community from attending. Furthermore, the date falls on the day before Easter, when most of Warsaw and Poland are getting their Easter baskets blessed at church, known as Święconka.
Altogether the event was an opportunity to reflect on the turbulent history of the city of Warsaw, a city I have grown to love deeply over the years. Jewish history is perhaps one of the most controversial topics in Poland and continues to be problematic in the development of the permanent exhibition in the Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw. The commemoration was an opportune moment to pause and think.
It is now time to get off of this computer and enjoy the beautiful Easter Sunday here in Warsaw.
Wszystkiego Najlepszego!
The Liberated Polyglot
