Tag - poetry

remembering Anne Frank

From the collection of poems by Nick Naydler, with paintings by Greg Tricker, entitled For Anne Frank, published by Loxwood Stoneleigh in Bristol in 1991.

‘I hope I shall be able to confide in you’

Into you shall I plunge

I the menagerie of girlhood;

unfurl the chorus of my life —

these secrets let me hurl

upon your white hearing;

I who am schoolgirl and quarry

clown and child, mirror and need.

‘Like a songbird in its cage’

Here do I take this pen

in this my cave of light,

this cage of heaven and hell,

in here unreel my life.I know

what is inside this jail;

this chapel my song is dawnlight;

I must sing.

Poems copywright Nick Naydler

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Keeping the memory alive

What does it mean to ‘keep the memory alive’? Whose memories, of what, and with what medium?

Well, some clever people at the national charity Holocaust Memorial Day Trust, (www.hmd.org.uk) wrestled with these questions and what they came up with was a stroke of genius.

What they did was to pair up a Holocaust survivor with a British artist — of words, paint, clay, etc. The suvivor told his or her story and the artist created a response to that story which… will help to KEEP THE MEMORY ALIVE.

When it was announced in November 2014, this was the headline:

Stephen Fry and British artists encourage you to share the powerful stories of survivors and Keep the memory alive for Holocaust Memorial Day 2015. – See more at: http://hmd.org.uk/news/stephen-fry-launches-memory-makers-project-holocaust-memorial-day-2015#sthash.pImo6PS7.dpuf

stephenanita12

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poem ‘Welcome to Auschwitz’

The New Zealand war poet, Mike Subrizky, visited Auschwitz and wrote this moving poem about his experiences.

Bristol HMD steering group member Eva Fielding-Jackson wrote to Mike asking permission to use it and appears at the bottom of this page interpreting it in British Sign Language (BSL).

www.iwvpa.net/subritzkym/welcome-.php

WELCOME TO AUSCHWITZ

“Welcome to Auschwitz.” The survivor said.
A paradox really, he’s a Christian and his name is Stanislaus.

I step down from the bus and blink into the kaleidoscope
of a dappled morning sunlight. Nothing has changed!
It is all still there! Just like the photographs taken by the Home Army.

No bodies, but the awful presence of death,
enormous death, 10 kilometres of death.
Auschwitz 1 – A Slave Labour Camp
Auschwitz 2 – A Death Camp
Auschwitz 3 – A Chemical/Munitions Factory
Death envelopes me, engulfs me, enters my body
through my eyes, mouth and ears
whilst in the hedge-grove a song bird warbles;
Perhaps a blackbird or maybe a thrush.

I am afraid and the hyper-vigilance of the soldier returns.
I want my rifle, bayonet and combat gear.
“Jesus protect me.” I whisper

I stand beside Ada Steiner – Auschwitz No. 67082,
she is from Haifa and the blue wound on her forearm
is clearly visible. For her this is no visit,
she is returning to the nightmares of her childhood.
Stanislaus also bears the blue wound;
they nod and greet each other children who survived.
One a Jew and one a Christian.

“My dear Comrades!
I could not eliminate all lice
And Jews in one year.
But in the course of time,
And if you help me,
This end will be attained.”

So said Hans Frank,
Nazi Governor General of Poland.
Auschwitz, 10 kilometres of death;
A true monument to German Efficiency!

The gravel crunches beneath my feet
as we walk between the electric wires
and enter the gate – the sign reads
“Work Will Set You Free”
Another bloody paradox.

And all the while Stanislaus calls the numbers
eighty thousand Russians starved here.
Thirty thousand Poles; gassed mostly.
Two hundred and fifty thousand gypsies,
many thousands of political prisoners, mainly German.
And 2.5 million Jews.
“Zyklon B” at its very best.

January 27, 1945, and Liberation.
7000 starving inmates remain,
836,525 items of women’s clothing,
348,820 items of men’s clothing,
43,525 pairs of shoes, 460 artificial limbs,
7 tons of human hair and so he continues.
I see the mountain of children’s shoes,
and leave the warehouse as the tears begin to flow.

In the sunlight once more, I walk down the avenue
past the work-party gallows, towards the gas chamber
and the sole, remaining crematoria.
I hear the sound of gravel (and bone fragments) crunching underfoot,
and the warble of the songbirds nesting in the hedge-grove.
I will wash away the taste of death tonight
with a bottle of good Zubrowka vodka, and sing.
But I shall never forget this day,
or this place, or the murder that happened here. NEVER!

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