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Josefov
This one has been waiting, patiently, for a poetry mood to strike. Since -- well, since Prague.
I feel like maybe it's not quite my story to tell, but the experience was mine to react to. And this is how I react.
Josefov
seven seven two nine seven is not a prime number;
divisibility makes it easier to handle.
easier to bear. hold the number in your mind
and focus your eyes closer than the wall,
(choose a year closer to the present)
such that no one name can be seen in its entirety.
easier to handle.
seven seven two nine seven --
consider the number instead of the names
and see if anything appears,
if any ghosts slide into coherence.
the question of death is: how do we defeat the past?
the synagogues remember,
and the churches remember their roots.
they understand that to name something
is to achieve mastery of it. and so:
rose windows, and walls adorned with the names of the dead.
in the beginning was the word.
in the beginning was the name.
the synagogues remember:
commit your words to ink and they take on meaning,
fold them up small
and hide them in boxes
and wear them against your skull
and nothing can ever be truly forgotten.
name something and it will live forever,
give it words and it will breathe.
from the earth and clay create a man
and then add the written word,
against the walls of the head,
a self-contained faith.
a yellow circle is the mark of shame:
simpler than words. easier to bear.
when all you have are symbols
there are no lines to read between.
language is man's imperfection,
man's expression of God's speech,
and the question is:
what if the words we write are wrong?
perhaps if the thoughts of our creator
were ever to fit into our minds --
perhaps we, too, would go mad.
brittle things of earth and clay,
perhaps the words would be removed from us.
for our own sake and
for the sake of the world would we be left
wordless; lifeless; safer.
the churches gather to themselves
the word made flesh;
a word made into a man
and killed for the sake of life.
the churches remember:
we should not build our towers too high,
else our words be snatched away.
one conclusion is thus
that our creator thinks not in terms of deep graves
but high architecture.
the question is: how should we remember the dead?
words on graves that nobody can read
(erosion, and language barriers)
and thousands lie unnamed beneath the trees
that throw their roots down
through the years, and through the dead;
a very large number. undivided. dense.
roots in the mud of the city,
and the mud of the river,
which rose up to protect its people
because it had words to tell it so.
and on the grave of the man who created this life
(the human architect;
presuming to the thoughts of God)
are laid tiny pebbles, and tiny bits of paper
on which are written words
that nobody reads.
in the beginning --
in the future we will find the right words,
in the future we have been promised life.
in the present we stand divided,
speaking in tongues;
in the past
perhaps it is safer to be dead.
I feel like maybe it's not quite my story to tell, but the experience was mine to react to. And this is how I react.
Josefov
seven seven two nine seven is not a prime number;
divisibility makes it easier to handle.
easier to bear. hold the number in your mind
and focus your eyes closer than the wall,
(choose a year closer to the present)
such that no one name can be seen in its entirety.
easier to handle.
seven seven two nine seven --
consider the number instead of the names
and see if anything appears,
if any ghosts slide into coherence.
the question of death is: how do we defeat the past?
the synagogues remember,
and the churches remember their roots.
they understand that to name something
is to achieve mastery of it. and so:
rose windows, and walls adorned with the names of the dead.
in the beginning was the word.
in the beginning was the name.
the synagogues remember:
commit your words to ink and they take on meaning,
fold them up small
and hide them in boxes
and wear them against your skull
and nothing can ever be truly forgotten.
name something and it will live forever,
give it words and it will breathe.
from the earth and clay create a man
and then add the written word,
against the walls of the head,
a self-contained faith.
a yellow circle is the mark of shame:
simpler than words. easier to bear.
when all you have are symbols
there are no lines to read between.
language is man's imperfection,
man's expression of God's speech,
and the question is:
what if the words we write are wrong?
perhaps if the thoughts of our creator
were ever to fit into our minds --
perhaps we, too, would go mad.
brittle things of earth and clay,
perhaps the words would be removed from us.
for our own sake and
for the sake of the world would we be left
wordless; lifeless; safer.
the churches gather to themselves
the word made flesh;
a word made into a man
and killed for the sake of life.
the churches remember:
we should not build our towers too high,
else our words be snatched away.
one conclusion is thus
that our creator thinks not in terms of deep graves
but high architecture.
the question is: how should we remember the dead?
words on graves that nobody can read
(erosion, and language barriers)
and thousands lie unnamed beneath the trees
that throw their roots down
through the years, and through the dead;
a very large number. undivided. dense.
roots in the mud of the city,
and the mud of the river,
which rose up to protect its people
because it had words to tell it so.
and on the grave of the man who created this life
(the human architect;
presuming to the thoughts of God)
are laid tiny pebbles, and tiny bits of paper
on which are written words
that nobody reads.
in the beginning --
in the future we will find the right words,
in the future we have been promised life.
in the present we stand divided,
speaking in tongues;
in the past
perhaps it is safer to be dead.
no subject
Thank you.
(Why...?)