Aix-la-Chapelle

William Wordsworth

Was it to disenchant, and to undo, That we approached the seat of Charlemagne? To sweep from many an old romantic strain That faith which no devotion may renew? Why does this puny church present to view Her feeble columns? and that scanty chair; This sword that one of our weak times might wear Objects of false pretence, or meanly true? If from a traveller's fortune I might claim A palpable memorial of that day, Then would I seek the Pyrenean Breach That Roland clove with huge two-handed sway, And to the enormous labour left his name, Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach.

Aix-la-Chapelle (now Aachen) was the capital of the Emperor Charlemagne. He died in 814 AD and was buried in Aix-la-Chapelle. His tomb was opened in the year 1000 by Emperor Otto III. It has since disappeared. The "Pyrenean Breach" is the valley of Ronscesvalles where Charlemagne's warrior Roland fought his heroic rearguard action. His famous sword was called Durandel.

Territory

Jonah Mixon-Webster

Where the vision was is when / There are wood panels all over the house shared by many people / and I am a collective member of a white simulation in black face / There is a man with a low fade who is my friend without his dreads / Never a mirage / Never my eye casting out to itself in memory / There is a fight between the races / Water in the tiger’s mouth / A window / Twin slate moons huddle on the horizon / an oceanic circus of grey-light / a lion in a bubble / Now, all is on the surface / In the back, two blonde women sit on the floor while praying to the dead / We think this is the reason why we’re all here / Him, the white man sitting next to my friend without dreads / Unleashes his mouth / A backwards tongue gaped in riddle / In a kind of future-speak / Saying what sounds like: Is us behind us is each a door, is each a phantom, is each a pool, is each is a broken river looking back / Everyone is now frozen like statues and won’t say anything when I shake them / I lift the shades of all eyes / and every time / I see the same child

Our Garden Had No Pomegranate Tree

Şükrü Erbaş

There was the remnant of a mill Coy ears of wheat, prayer, expectation Wind-stripped fingers of water Sweltering skies, boredom, hard times A man bawling within himself Children not knowing where they’d grow up A woman, her skirts a summer garden

There was piteous poverty Smudged nights, blurry mornings Exhaustion blooming in the sun Words withering in moonlight A plain where horses held conversation with dogs A sky not seen until the stars came out Houses melting in a copper pot

There was the quickening of fairy tales A little radio filling with distance Grape-laden carts, apple sins, wet dreams Smoking an endless cigarette in the cemetery Quince-colored fluff on the window next door Girls encircling their mother with the bangs of their hair Loneliness brought by distant relatives

My darling, my spinfinch, my bulbul Your eyes were two enormous skies You asked while we were making love why I was crying Our own garden had no pomegranate tree When our bodies unstitched you had no mouth Desires that begin at our eyebrows would end at our eyelashes I wasn’t crying

I was loving my past, loving your future…

A Poem about Charleston

Marcus Amaker

charleston,

where the sidewalks scream on saturday nights

and the corners rotate budding musicians

with skin-tight dreams.

where strings of pearls search for salvation

then sweat out their frustrations

on the backs of rooftops.

where the homeless sprout

like weeds through concrete

seeking two dollars, a handshake

and a little bit of sunshine.

where the humidity chokes you out of breath

but you manage to speak to the

spit-shine waiters who serve 95 dollar

bottles of wine.

where two blocks away,

a five dollar pitcher of liquid gold

spills on the canvas of sticky floors.

charleston,

where love lingers on cobblestone streets

in narrow alleyways, and the smell of sex

is the foundation for first and last impressions.

where shadows are surrounded by the ocean

and sea-seeing people gasp for air

from knee-deep bills and dirt-cheap thrills.

where those with

no sense of history’s melody

will sync with the songs of the city’s slaves.

where the poets scrape stanzas

off of streetlights

and if they scream loud enough, maybe someone will hear

because we live in Charleston.

i see poems everywhere

in my neighborhood.

they write themselves –

stumbling through winter’s relentless stare

and blinded by the bluntness of spring.

they surround you

before you slip

into the sweet darkness

of a sour night,

sorting through a history

of scrambled words.

i am the tongue-tied baby of the family.

the wide-eyed wanderer

who finally found a home.

walking past the broken down buildings

that hold the streets together

and having real conversations with america –

admiring her ball gowns

down one-way streets

while washing off the doom

of her repugnant perfume.

I  see poems everywhere in my neighbourhood.

they are the graffiti artists of the sky,

the glowing conversations

written in the stars,

the phone numbers

typed into cell phones,

the endless puddles of alcohol

that linger like rain in an unholy city,

looking for God amongst the ghosts within.

In a Library

Emily Dickinson

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is

To meet an antique book,

In just the dress his century wore;

A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take,

And warming in our own,

A passage back, or two, to make

To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect,

His knowledge to unfold

On what concerns our mutual mind,

The literature of old;

What interested scholars most,

What competitions ran

When Plato was a certainty.

And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,

And Beatrice wore

The gown that Dante deified.

Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,

As one should come to town

And tell you all your dreams were true;

He lived where dreams were sown.

His presence is enchantment,

You beg him not to go;

Old volumes shake their vellum heads

And tantalize, just so.

The last night in the Kanada kommando in Auschwitz, January 18, 1945

Batsheva Dagan, from Łódź, writes of her experiences that night (excerpt)

Attention, comes the order — burn all the suitcases! burn every name, every trace! erase what happened here! Prague, Bratislava,

Paris, Berlin, Brussels, Ostrava, cities and towns addresses, addresses, first and last names burn them! check that nothing remains, no witness to the people whose voices fell silent here.

However, the sudden evacuation order interrupts the work, and the women are forced into columns and leave the camp in a death march, before riding in open train cars to Ravensbrück.

Form ranks! The end is near! Stop burning the suitcases now! In the distance, rifle shots, the dull thud of cannon. Echoes of the anticipated soothing noise — like the singing of the soul, a song of consolation... the effacing of the evidence did not succeed.

At the end of the poem, she formulates an appeal to the future:

Yet today, years later, the mute witnesses remain — suitcases and chests with names and addresses — not all of them. Those that remain are preserved in a museum in glass display cases. A warning to the future. A shout that could not be stifled.

More information about poetry describing Batsheva's Auschwitz experiences can be obtained here:

Perhaps the World Ends Here

Joy Harjo - life in the mundane

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.