Lit blog

[Anschul]

LeBroz,
Thank you from me too. Deeply moved. I did not know that story. I am touched.

 

[Eluard]

That story about Sendler is incredible — true courage: amazing!

 

[Angeline]

LeBroz,
Thank you from me too. Deeply moved. I did not know that story. I am touched.

Same here. I read it earlier today, and it was too painful for me to reply at first. My grandfather and his brother were the only two of their family who made it out of Poland and on to America. They tried to find their family after the war, but there wasn't a trace. I have an old photograph of my great-grandparents hanging on my bedroom wall. My grandfather brought it to America with him. I read my poems to them sometimes.

There are many incredible stories of faith and courage from that time, many that no one will ever know. It seems rather sad to me that Al Gore won the prize instead of this woman. But global warming is timely and I suppose one could say she already won.

 

[Anschul]

Same here. I read it earlier today, and it was too painful for me to reply at first. My grandfather and his brother were the only two of their family who made it out of Poland and on to America. They tried to find their family after the war, but there wasn't a trace. I have an old photograph of my great-grandparents hanging on my bedroom wall. My grandfather brought it to America with him. I read my poems to them sometimes.

There are many incredible stories of faith and courage from that time, many that no one will ever know. It seems rather sad to me that Al Gore won the prize instead of this woman. But global warming is timely and I suppose one could say she already won.

My maternal family came from a little village near Kiev in about 1906, and their story is exactly the one told in Fiddler on the Roof, so I have always felt more connected to that horror story than that of Eastern European during WW2. However, as a student of history, I have heard many stories of unknown local heroes who did NOT simply look the other way, but rather did what they could do in that time to save whoever they could save. There were a lot of small heroes whose stories may never be told. Whenever one comes to light, it must be told and cherished, over and over. Angie, I know you feel connected to these stories as I do, and we do what we can to keep the light alive. It must never be forgotten.

 

[Angeline]

My maternal family came from a little village near Kiev in about 1906, and their story is exactly the one told in Fiddler on the Roof, so I have always felt more connected to that horror story than that of Eastern European during WW2. However, as a student of history, I have heard many stories of unknown local heroes who did NOT simply look the other way, but rather did what they could do in that time to save whoever they could save. There were a lot of small heroes whose stories may never be told. Whenever one comes to light, it must be told and cherished, over and over. Angie, I know you feel connected to these stories as I do, and we do what we can to keep the light alive. It must never be forgotten.

Yup.

My grandfather and his brother were the two oldest children of a large family outside Lodz. The boys were sent out of Poland at the ages of 13 and 16 in 1916 to avoid being conscripted into the army, where, as Jews, they likely would have been placed on the front lines. They walked across Poland into Germany and made their way to Hamburg where they worked on the docks until they got enough money for steerage passage to America. One of my cousins still has the documents my grandfather took through Ellis Island.

I often think of my own two children (not so far from those ages) and try to imagine what it must have been like for these two little boys. I know people must have helped them, but they had to have been incredibly resourceful to survive. That kind of desperation and courage is something I hope none of our children ever have to experience. And my grandfather and great uncle were both incredibly kind-hearted and gentle men. They never really talked about their experiences--or their losses--but they weren't bitter people that I ever saw. My children know the story well and have promised to pass in on. And my daughter has promised me she'll take care of the photo of her great-great grandparents when I give it to her. So yes, no cursing the darkness here.

 

[Anschul]

Yup.

My grandfather and his brother were the two oldest children of a large family outside Lodz. The boys were sent out of Poland at the ages of 13 and 16 in 1916 to avoid being conscripted into the army, where, as Jews, they likely would have been placed on the front lines. They walked across Poland into Germany and made their way to Hamburg where they worked on the docks until they got enough money for steerage passage to America. One of my cousins still has the documents my grandfather took through Ellis Island.

I often think of my own two children (not so far from those ages) and try to imagine what it must have been like for these two little boys. I know people must have helped them, but they had to have been incredibly resourceful to survive. That kind of desperation and courage is something I hope none of our children ever have to experience. And my grandfather and great uncle were both incredibly kind-hearted and gentle men. They never really talked about their experiences--or their losses--but they weren't bitter people that I ever saw. My children know the story well and have promised to pass in on. And my daughter has promised me she'll take care of the photo of her great-great grandparents when I give it to her. So yes, no cursing the darkness here.

Poetry and porn site aside, Angeline, you are a lovely, lovely woman, and I can't begin to tell you how happy I am to have made your acquaintance. I swear some day our paths will cross, and I will give you a hug. You fill my heart with joy. A shaynem dank!

The sappy part is over now, a tequila-fueled blurt. Occasionally real feelings slip out. Sorry (not)

 

[Angeline]

Poetry and porn site aside, Angeline, you are a lovely, lovely woman, and I can't begin to tell you how happy I am to have made your acquaintance. I swear some day our paths will cross, and I will give you a hug. You fill my heart with joy. A shaynem dank!

The sappy part is over now, a tequila-fueled blurt. Occasionally real feelings slip out. Sorry (not)

Ir gefelt mir zaier!

 

[PandoraGlitters]

SIGH...[/QUOTE


Ya know what Anschul? We need a thread that is primarily devoted to "pics of places we love" whether they are our own photos or not.

That's a great idea! A lit poets' Photo Album? That might even get me to find my camera.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Yup.

My grandfather and his brother were the two oldest children of a large family outside Lodz. The boys were sent out of Poland at the ages of 13 and 16 in 1916 to avoid being conscripted into the army, where, as Jews, they likely would have been placed on the front lines. They walked across Poland into Germany and made their way to Hamburg where they worked on the docks until they got enough money for steerage passage to America. One of my cousins still has the documents my grandfather took through Ellis Island.

I often think of my own two children (not so far from those ages) and try to imagine what it must have been like for these two little boys. I know people must have helped them, but they had to have been incredibly resourceful to survive. That kind of desperation and courage is something I hope none of our children ever have to experience. And my grandfather and great uncle were both incredibly kind-hearted and gentle men. They never really talked about their experiences--or their losses--but they weren't bitter people that I ever saw. My children know the story well and have promised to pass in on. And my daughter has promised me she'll take care of the photo of her great-great grandparents when I give it to her. So yes, no cursing the darkness here.

Wow, what an amazing story! It sounds like you've inherited some of their fine qualities, too, Angeline.

 

[Angeline]

Wow, what an amazing story! It sounds like you've inherited some of their fine qualities, too, Angeline.

Thanks, Dora. I only wish. My grandfather was the coolest guy. He had this stupid (but really smart) game he'd play with his grandchildren when we were little. He'd ask us "Is it better to give or to receive?" You very quickly figured out that if you said, "Give," he'd say "That's right, always better to give," and give you all the change in his pocket. Kinda silly, but it was a wonderful lesson that I've thought about alot now that I'm no kid anymore.

I think we all have some relative or ancestor who's done something very poem-worthy. Maybe that's a future challenge!

Here's a poem I wrote about him (and me).

Florida Mornings

Most mornings we walk
from Scott Street to the beach.
Grandpa holds my hand,
he slows his pace,
measuring himself
to my shorter steps.

My pigtails swing.
A pail and shovel
bump my hip.

It's warm already
in the squint bright sun,
it's golden as honey.
The morning feels sweet,
creamy as a waxy bit of hive
sunk like a ship in an amber sea.

When we walk
Grandpa never says
don't drag your leg
or complains that my flip flops
scrape the sidewalk.

He says there are friends
at the beach. Young people!
Moyshe Kapoyer!
Too much with old heads.
He smiles, squeezes my hand.

It's not so hard to make friends.
Grandpa crossed a whole ocean
to be in America, he knows
finding friends where great waves
are tamed at edges of wet sand
is no more than crossing a puddle.

The air smells clean,
and sea birds harmonize
with shore rhythms.

It's not so hard to make friends,
but we stop at a fruit stand anyway.
I look at hives in honey jars.
He buys a newspaper and oranges.

 

[Anschul]

Thanks, Dora. I only wish. My grandfather was the coolest guy. He had this stupid (but really smart) game he'd play with his grandchildren when we were little. He'd ask us "Is it better to give or to receive?" You very quickly figured out that if you said, "Give," he'd say "That's right, always better to give," and give you all the change in his pocket. Kinda silly, but it was a wonderful lesson that I've thought about alot now that I'm no kid anymore.

I think we all have some relative or ancestor who's done something very poem-worthy. Maybe that's a future challenge!

Here's a poem I wrote about him (and me).

Florida Mornings

Most mornings we walk
from Scott Street to the beach.
Grandpa holds my hand,
he slows his pace,
measuring himself
to my shorter steps.

My pigtails swing.
A pail and shovel
bump my hip.

It's warm already
in the squint bright sun,
it's golden as honey.
The morning feels sweet,
creamy as a waxy bit of hive
sunk like a ship in an amber sea.

When we walk
Grandpa never says
don't drag your leg
or complains that my flip flops
scrape the sidewalk.

He says there are friends
at the beach. Young people!
Moyshe Kapoyer!
Too much with old heads.
He smiles, squeezes my hand.

It's not so hard to make friends.
Grandpa crossed a whole ocean
to be in America, he knows
finding friends where great waves
are tamed at edges of wet sand
is no more than crossing a puddle.

The air smells clean,
and sea birds harmonize
with shore rhythms.

It's not so hard to make friends,
but we stop at a fruit stand anyway.
I look at hives in honey jars.
He buys a newspaper and oranges.

I don't have to tell you how this strikes me...

 

[Anschul]

And as they stroll...

by Anschul​

And by them, as they walk,
a couple strolls hand in hand,
like they've done it for sixty years,
like they've never done it before.

He holds a parasol
above her head.
It casts a shadow
where sun might shine
on paperwhite skin.

And all along Ocean Drive,
sitting on the porches
of the old hotels,
friends and neigbors wave
mottled hands with spindle fingers,
faded numbers still visible
on shrunken arms.

The days pass slow,
but for them too quickly.
Too many days behind,
not enough in front.

They see the young girl
holding the old man's hand,
pigtails, pail and shovel swing,
makes them smile,
makes them remember.

Recall their own times,
children laughing, birds singing,
waves beating frosty white
against the sand.
When they were younger.

 

[Anschul]

That's a great idea! A lit poets' Photo Album? That might even get me to find my camera.

I'm in, Sweetie. I was about to say the same thing to NJ, and you beat me to it. Places we love. I take about a thousand photographs a month (my camera broke a couple of weeks ago, and I will replace it after I move), and maybe taking pictures of my new place will be good replacement therapy. I got enough photos to start. Maybe I will. Maybe photos with poems? Poems with photos? Places always inspire me! Thanks.

 

[Angeline]

And as they stroll...

by Anschul​

And by them, as they walk,
a couple strolls hand in hand,
like they've done it for sixty years,
like they've never done it before.

He holds a parasol
above her head.
It casts a shadow
where sun might shine
on paperwhite skin.

And all along Ocean Drive,
sitting on the porches
of the old hotels,
friends and neigbors wave
mottled hands with spindle fingers,
faded numbers still visible
on shrunken arms.

The days pass slow,
but for them too quickly.
Too many days behind,
not enough in front.

They see the young girl
holding the old man's hand,
pigtails, pail and shovel swing,
makes them smile,
makes them remember.

Recall their own times,
children laughing, birds singing,
waves beating frosty white
against the sand.
When they were younger.

Beautiful, A. I wrote my poem five or six years ago, but I read your story recently (yknow the fruit stand scene), and I realized when I posted the poem this morning that you would really "see" it because you've been exactly there.

Your scene is very evocative for me, too. The hotels and the old retirees, waving. The old couple with the parasol. Those were familiar sights for me, too, a long time ago. My grandparents lived in Hollywood (and I with them for about a year when I was very young, before I even started school), so close enough eh?

 

[Angeline]

I'm in, Sweetie. I was about to say the same thing to NJ, and you beat me to it. Places we love. I take about a thousand photographs a month (my camera broke a couple of weeks ago, and I will replace it after I move), and maybe taking pictures of my new place will be good replacement therapy. I got enough photos to start. Maybe I will. Maybe photos with poems? Poems with photos? Places always inspire me! Thanks.

I'm on it like white on rice.

Thread to follow.

 

[Anschul]

Beautiful, A. I wrote my poem five or six years ago, but I read your story recently (yknow the fruit stand scene), and I realized when I posted the poem this morning that you would really "see" it because you've been exactly there.

Your scene is very evocative for me, too. The hotels and the old retirees, waving. The old couple with the parasol. Those were familiar sights for me, too, a long time ago. My grandparents lived in Hollywood (and I with them for about a year when I was very young, before I even started school), so close enough eh?

You know, I knew that. Your poem was so evocative, I wrote my reply in about three minutes. I remember when Ocean Drive wasn't Ocean Drive,
when it was full of old, sad, dying people trying to recapture something or maybe even just remember something.
Thanks.

 

[Homburg]

He sat
as he did every night
and read,
the television
soft in the background
both for noise
and to keep the kids quiet.
An old man
feeding the demons of bitterness
by teaching himself
the things he wished
he'd learned
as a younger man.

I sat
and paid him
more attention
than the TV,
and learned my own lesson
while still a younger man.
"Read", he'd say
"It doesn't matter what you want to know
it's in a book somewhere.
So read."
I would solemnly nod
"Yes, Pap, I'll read.
I promise."

Some day,
I will sit
like I will every night
and read,
and feed the angels of memory
with words on thick paper
and the remembered scent of cherry tobacco
in a pipe worn smooth,
and I will look at
my grandchildren
and tell them to read too.

 

[Homburg]

You know, I knew that. Your poem was so evocative, I wrote my reply in about three minutes. I remember when Ocean Drive wasn't Ocean Drive,
when it was full of old, sad, dying people trying to recapture something or maybe even just remember something.
Thanks.

Both peoms were beautifully evocative. I stayed in Simi Valley for a few weeks doing some training, and a good friend from high school lived in west Hollywood. I could easily see the scene you both described.

 

[Angeline]

Both peoms were beautifully evocative. I stayed in Simi Valley for a few weeks doing some training, and a good friend from high school lived in west Hollywood. I could easily see the scene you both described.

Psst, I love you Homie, you do know that, but it was Hollywood, Florida. I'm guessing it was the sunshine and ocean and fruit stand imagery that said CA, yes?

EE is from California. He grew up in San Francisco (and Hawaii, the lucky bastard), and I know he really still misses it, even though he's been a right-coaster for a long time now. I've promised him that if we win kazillions in the lottery (and thus can afford SF real estate), we can have houses in Asheville and SF. And you all can visit. I'll make Amish bread.

 

[Anschul]

He sat
as he did every night
and read,
the television
soft in the background
both for noise
and to keep the kids quiet.
An old man
feeding the demons of bitterness
by teaching himself
the things he wished
he'd learned
as a younger man.

I sat
and paid him
more attention
than the TV,
and learned my own lesson
while still a younger man.
"Read", he'd say
"It doesn't matter what you want to know
it's in a book somewhere.
So read."
I would solemnly nod
"Yes, Pap, I'll read.
I promise."

Some day,
I will sit
like I will every night
and read,
and feed the angels of memory
with words on thick paper
and the remembered scent of cherry tobacco
in a pipe worn smooth,
and I will look at
my grandchildren
and tell them to read too.

Really nice!!

 

[Angeline]

He sat
as he did every night
and read,
the television
soft in the background
both for noise
and to keep the kids quiet.
An old man
feeding the demons of bitterness
by teaching himself
the things he wished
he'd learned
as a younger man.

I sat
and paid him
more attention
than the TV,
and learned my own lesson
while still a younger man.
"Read", he'd say
"It doesn't matter what you want to know
it's in a book somewhere.
So read."
I would solemnly nod
"Yes, Pap, I'll read.
I promise."

Some day,
I will sit
like I will every night
and read,
and feed the angels of memory
with words on thick paper
and the remembered scent of cherry tobacco
in a pipe worn smooth,
and I will look at
my grandchildren
and tell them to read too.

Geez I gotta learn to scroll back. I just saw this (thanks to Anschul's quoting it). You do realize by now that you really are a poet right? I think we've finally forced you to admit it!

And if you don't save this one for your kids, I'll well I dunno. It's tough to top a top...

 

[Homburg]

Psst, I love you Homie, you do know that, but it was Hollywood, Florida. I'm guessing it was the sunshine and ocean and fruit stand imagery that said CA, yes?

EE is from California. He grew up in San Francisco (and Hawaii, the lucky bastard), and I know he really still misses it, even though he's been a right-coaster for a long time now. I've promised him that if we win kazillions in the lottery (and thus can afford SF real estate), we can have houses in Asheville and SF. And you all can visit. I'll make Amish bread.

*blink*

Harrumph.

Geez I gotta learn to scroll back. I just saw this (thanks to Anschul's quoting it). You do realize by now that you really are a poet right? I think we've finally forced you to admit it!

And if you don't save this one for your kids, I'll well I dunno. It's tough to top a top...

I do not _have_ to do anything. And I will not be forced. Harrumph again.

 

[Eluard]

Today, for the first time since 1939, Portsmouth have won the F.A Cup in soccer. Portsmouth is where I grew up in England and I have fond memories of seeing them play when I was ten and a keen school soccer player. But in my lifetime they have not shone particularly brightly — indeed for years at a time this is something of an understatement.

Whenever I have stayed up to watch them live, in fact, they have lost. Today I decided not to jinx them. I didn’t watch them live — I waited for them to win. Then it was safe for me to watch them when the game was replayed later, not believing in the present’s ability to change the past. I was right. Thankfully they won in the re-transmission as well.

My town, home of Dickens, my county (Hampshire), home of Jane Austen and so many others, is proud once again.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

A Pompey eh?!

 

[Eluard]

A Pompey eh?!

Well…a Pompeian.