Auschwitz unter allem

[PrinceMyshkin]

Portrait of a Man Reading about Auschwitz

The snow has been falling for days on Montreal.
It’s beautiful but a nuisance and a hazard.
I sit in my café and read an account
of an album of photographs
discovered by a prisoner in Auschwitz,
but you cannot read an account
of what went on in Auschwitz
and continue to believe in snow
let alone God, or love.

During the Harvest Festival in November, 1943,
the inmates from three camps were gathered in Majdanek.
42,000 were shot in two days.
“In the fifty-four days between May 15
and July 8, 1944...four hundred and thirty-four
thousand people were put aboard trains to Auschwitz
–so many people that the crematoriums,
which could dispose of a hundred and thirty-two thousand
bodies a month, were overrun,
and bodies were thrown into pits dug by prisoners
and set on fire.”*

Against such facts even the most noble
of selfless human acts--a hand raised
to spare a child from being struck
–is like a flake of twice-burned ash
rising desultorily toward the heavens,
and falling back.


*Alec Wilkinson, “Picturing Auschwitz,” The New Yorker, 17/3/08, pg 52

[blp]

The last strophe is great. No poetry after Auschwitz? Think again, Mr. Adorno!

Well done for stepping into the viper's nest. If you don't mind, I'll try mapping it a little. To be serious, Adorno's dictum seems oddly applicable here because, when it comes to describing the horrors, you've pretty much abandoned poetic strategies, other than line breaks. But the blunt description doesn't close the emotional distance the way poetry does. Or, if you think it does, then why ever write poetry?

The whole thing might come down to something like Denise Levertov's debate with Robert Duncan over her Vietnam poetry. Levertov felt that she couldn't stay silent in the face of the horrors. Duncan felt that, in writing about things of which she had no direct experience, she was squandering poetic gifts that he felt had been dependent on transmission of her direct sense impressions (and, I think, felt this stood as a good guideline for all poetry).

I don't know who's right, or even whether I've given a fair representation of the debate. The Auschwitz problem goes further anyway. It seems necessary to retain the memory of it, necessarily through writing or speech, but almost anything we can say looks inadequate.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I think not
The last strophe is great. No poetry after Auschwitz? Think again, Mr. Adorno!

Well done for stepping into the viper's nest. If you don't mind, I'll try mapping it a little. To be serious, Adorno's dictum seems oddly applicable here because, when it comes to describing the horrors, you've pretty much abandoned poetic strategies, other than line breaks. But the blunt description doesn't close the emotional distance the way poetry does. Or, if you think it does, then why ever write poetry? Adorno meant, surely, no poetry whatsoever after Auschwitz? A question one could in good faith debate for hours... And, though this is not the point of your argument, I do firmly believe that one (Jews in particular) should never use Auschwitz, maybe not even to make a point but certainly not to call attention to themselves. Here, it may be that I should change the title to Portrait of a man reading about Auschwitz. See what I mean? The poem is about me reacting to what I read. As such, does it seem to you less controversial?

The whole thing might come down to something like Denise Levertov's debate with Robert Duncan over her Vietnam poetry. Levertov felt that she couldn't stay silent in the face of the horrors. Duncan felt that, in writing about things of which she had no direct experience, she was squandering poetic gifts that he felt had been dependent on transmission of her direct sense impressions (and, I think, felt this stood as a good guideline for all poetry).

I don't know who's right, About poetry, surely, ALL are right - and none!or even whether I've given a fair representation of the debate. The Auschwitz problem goes further anyway. It seems necessary to retain the memory of it, necessarily through writing or speech, but almost anything we can say looks inadequate.

Oh yes to the last! And is it possible, even now, even as time perhaps blurs the horror of it, is it possible to take it in, to be - in the Christian sense of witnessing Christ's story - is it possible to be a witness to it - and live?

Once with my technically non-Jewish older son, I visited Dachau. But while I encouraged Rafael to enter if he chose to and join the crowd that was milling about, I remained outside, walked the perimeter, but felt I should not enter unless I did so as an inmate.

[PrinceMyshkin]

And further to the above:



“Auschwitz,” one says,
and wonders how to go on
except by saying “Auschwitz”
again and again...

[blp]

I agree with your suggestion for a title change. I think this goes part way to identifying how we might talk about this subject now, acknowledging our distance from it and all the stuff that mediates it for us, cushioning it for us and, in that, slowly stifling it.

Do you know Paul Celan's Todesfuge (http://www.celan-projekt.de/todesfuge-englisch.html)? Not directing you to it to make a point; it's just a great poem by a death camp survivor. For some reason, I couldn't find the German original, but this translation is good.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I agree with your suggestion for a title change. I think this goes part way to identifying how we might talk about this subject now, acknowledging our distance from it and all the stuff that mediates it for us, cushioning it for us and, in that, slowly stifling it. But I cannot make that change here, not at least to the header, but I will do so within the body of the text. Thank you.

Do you know Paul Celan's Todesfuge (http://www.celan-projekt.de/todesfuge-englisch.html)? Not directing you to it to make a point; it's just a great poem by a death camp survivor. For some reason, I couldn't find the German original, but this translation is good.

Yes, I know it and have it in my file of poems I value, and yes it is a great (terrible) poem. Perhaps our resident Germanicist, die barimte Frau Pepperkakehaus, could locate the original for us?

[symphony]

I dont know/care if the poem is great or if its just me and my south asian instinct but i just LOVED that last stanza.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I dont know/care if the poem is great or if its just me and my south asian instinct but i just LOVED that last stanza.

Thank you, my sweet South Asian friend.

And for blp:


Paul Celan - Todesfuge

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift
seine Rⁿden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor lΣ▀t schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde
er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz
Schwarze Milch der Frⁿhe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lⁿften da liegt man
nicht eng
Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf
Schwarze Milch der Frⁿhe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen
Er ruft spielt sⁿ▀er den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng
Schwarze Milch der Frⁿhe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er hetzt seine Rⁿden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und trΣumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus
Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith

English translation: http://www.celan-projekt.de/todesfuge-englisch.html

[blp]

Thanks, Prince.

I memorised this last year to surprise my German teacher.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thanks, Prince.

I memorised this last year to surprise my German teacher.

Ah, the site on which I found the original offers it as well in Neiderlandisch, Danisch, Rumanisch & Ungarisch. Just as well you didn't memorize it in one of those as that would surely have surprised him or her.

Was this, I wonder, your introduction to the pleasures of learning poems by heart (even in boring old English) so that one can then recite them to oneself at one's pleasure (while others are nattering away ontheir cell-phones)?

[blp]

Was this, I wonder, your introduction to the pleasures of learning poems by heart (even in boring old English) so that one can then recite them to oneself at one's pleasure (while others are nattering away ontheir cell-phones)?

No, that started with a homework assignment when I was 11 to learn the Jabberwocky. I was the only one in the class who did it and no one else was in trouble for not doing it, which I thought was a bit weird. After that I learned Casey at the Bat!

[blp]

This Celan poem employs a similar strategy for talking about horror to Plath's Daddy and Adrian Mitchell's To Whom it May Concern. They're all a bit nursery-rhymish and dancey, right down to Mitchell's riff on the old 'You put your left leg in, you put your left leg out' motif.

[PrinceMyshkin]

No, that started with a homework assignment when I was 11 to learn the Jabberwocky. I was the only one in the class who did it and no one else was in trouble for not doing it, which I thought was a bit weird. After that I learned Casey at the Bat!

Well, if you like it even half as much as I do, you might want to commit to memory http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171512

Trouble is that after stanza two, he doesn't always follow the pattern of beginning a new stanza with the last rhhyme of the previous one. And do you find, as I do, that in the final couplet his wit takes a little away from the darkness the poem might (should?) end with? The wit, that is, to me becomes mere cleverness...

[SleepyWitch]

Yes, I know it and have it in my file of poems I value, and yes it is a great (terrible) poem. Perhaps our resident Germanicist, die barimte Frau Pepperkakehaus, could locate the original for us?

ooops, sorry, I'm late. but here's some letters for you to paste into the quote: ü, ä, ß



Once with my technically non-Jewish older son, I visited Dachau. But while I encouraged Rafael to enter if he chose to and join the crowd that was milling about, I remained outside, walked the perimeter, but felt I should not enter unless I did so as an inmate.
:eek: you mean you didn't go inside at all? we went there with school once and believe me, some of my class mates had better stayed outside (a NeoNazi, and a jerk who can't behave even in a place like this).

[ampoule]

Portrait of a Man Reading about Auschwitz

The snow has been falling for days on Montreal.
It’s beautiful but a nuisance and a hazard.
I sit in my café and read an account
of an album of photographs
discovered by a prisoner in Auschwitz,
but you cannot read an account
of what went on in Auschwitz
and continue to believe in snow
let alone God, or love.

During the Harvest Festival in November, 1943,
the inmates from three camps were gathered in Majdanek.
42,000 were shot in two days.
“In the fifty-four days between May 15
and July 8, 1944...four hundred and thirty-four
thousand people were put aboard trains to Auschwitz
–so many people that the crematoriums,
which could dispose of a hundred and thirty-two thousand
bodies a month, were overrun,
and bodies were thrown into pits dug by prisoners
and set on fire.”*

Against such facts even the most noble
of selfless human acts--a hand raised
to spare a child from being struck
–is like a flake of twice-burned ash
rising desultorily toward the heavens,
and falling back.


*Alec Wilkinson, “Picturing Auschwitz,” The New Yorker, 17/3/08, pg 52

The horrors of it all. My father, who served as a military policeman in WWII, who guarded German prisoners aboard the Queen Mary, has a hard time believing in God after seeing and hearing about so many atrocities. He, himself, is of German descent.
Our book club just finished reading "Suite Francaise" by Irene Nemirovsky. It was amazing. Her daughters held on to her manuscript for sixty years! She died in Auschwitz in 1942.
I think your poem is amazing also, Prince.

[Pendragon]

"Auschwitz" has to be a term of horror—
spoken only in very hushed, reverent tones
to honor those who died in that
anteroom to Hell—
otherwise, the word "Auschwitz"
has no meaning at all...


I also urge Native Americans not to forget... or you will loose everything!

Ay-Ya-Ee-Yo-Ha-Ye-Ho-Ya
Sand Creek, Wounded Knee—
They were not Braves, Warriors—
They cut down children, squaws, old men—
They committed atrocities on our people.
They called them battles.
We won at Little Big Horn.
They called it a Massacre.
Grandfather Sun was a witness.
Blood cries from the ground still...

[asilef73]

Portrait of a Man Reading about Auschwitz
but you cannot read an account
of what went on in Auschwitz
and continue to believe in snow
let alone God, or love.

truer words were never spoken.

you did an excellent job conveying the hopeless horror one feels when confronted with what the human race can inflict upon itself. very powerful.

[sparr0w]

Whell, I guess I'm coming into this a little late, but I havent been around this week. As always, Prince, you blew me away. This is a difficult topic to write on, and most writers will shy away from such a challenge, but you pulled it off with grace and tact. Seems I'm not alone in this, but to mirror what seems to be everyone elses opinion, I was especially impressed with:

"Against such facts even the most noble
of selfless human acts--a hand raised
to spare a child from being struck
–is like a flake of twice-burned ash
rising desultorily toward the heavens,
and falling back."

It pulls away from simply the "facts" and gives it all a human face, kind of a peephole into the morale of the prisoners. Also, the way you started out not by jumping streight into some terrible imagery, but working towards it from the reflections of an "outsider" (simply meaning written from the perspective of someone who was admittedly not there, as opposed to writing from the first person, as most on the topic of Auschwitz seem to be) sitting in a cafe in Montreal on a drab winter day. For me, at least, that made it a much easier vantage point from which to "relate". I could go on for pages complimenting you, but I'll simply close by saying that works like this exemplify the reasons for which I have always valued your advice so deeply. Thank you for being a writer! Peace- Chris

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thank you for being a writer! Peace- Chris

And thank you for being the sort of careful, attentive reader that every writer wants. I feel as if we're brothers, or given the half-century between us, that you're a beloved grandson.

[islandclimber]

Against such facts even the most noble
of selfless human acts--a hand raised
to spare a child from being struck
–is like a flake of twice-burned ash
rising desultorily toward the heavens,
and falling back.

Prince, this is absolutely beautiful! This is a poem that can draw tears to one's eyes, one you read over and over, the images elicited, the emotions brought forth, becoming more and more powerful until one feels powerless and can be swept away by tears...

I love the way it winds from the streets of Montreal, and snow falling relentlessly, both good and bad, into the depths of a human created hell, and then back into the abstract and the powerlessness of us all to ever change what happened, to ever understand why or how... It is beautiful... the image of snow, brought me back to Elie Wiesel's "Night" and his image of ash from the crematoriums falling like snow.. and the tears start again and again... It reminds of another story I read of a camp survivor though I've forgotten the name...

but it is sad that human's learn nothing from these occurences... for one just needs to look at the early 20th century (highly debated) armenian genocide and they see nothing was learned for the Holocaust was allowed... and then Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia and the world just watched, from a safe place... and the most recent, somehow most efficient genocide ever to occur, Rwanda... for though only about 1 million were murdered it was done in less than 100 days... and without any degree of technology, the most popular weapon was a machete.. I've read several survivors stories of Rwanda, and I don't think I've ever been inspired to more tears than in some of them...

This is a crushingly beautiful poem, and you have my tears to attest to that...
it is sad, desperate, desolate, tragic, and draws forth so much emotion, so many questions, but it is so beautiful all the same...