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Henrie Diosa Sep 2020
follow the tracks to auschwitz.
do not bother to pretend
you see lights at the end of tunnels,
but the tunnel has an end

if your outer world is barren
grow your garden deep within
there are cruel wolves around us and
we must not let them win

hold on tight to peacetime, carry
every memory like a light
through the marching and the burning
find a reason for the fight

when the stones stand to be gathered
when the cigarette is lit
this suffering is the noble task
to which you must submit

there is work that only you can do,
love only you can give
what does life expect of you?
life expects you to live
We read Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning in class, the last reading we got to do before lockdown, and it gave me a different way of looking at suffering and why there is suffering in the world. I am not Jewish, and I am in no position to compare anything to the Holocaust, and I will not presume to. Let it not be said that I am saying that having to stay in is on the same level as genocide — I am saying they are two points on the one line, a line of infinite points, and there is something to be learned of survival in the bleakest of conditions, while we survive this and everything else.
Henrie Diosa Sep 2020
some folks in this department
are really full of it —
a curse on those who use my poems
for some didactic ****

but blessings on the amateur
who reads, and reads again
and travels where i’ve never thought
to go, or never been

within the walls, between the lines
to make a hidden way
and use my words to say the things
i never thought to say

to make a subtle gradient
between the truths and lie —
and turn me over in my grave
that i may slower die
This is a poem about how I want people to overread the hell into my work after I'm gone.
Henrie Diosa Sep 2020
early to bed
and early to rise
for tonight is the night
that your enemy dies

for not all who wander
will ever be found
and we know time will put
all our foes in the ground

so close your eyes tight
and let loose your sorrow
if they don't die tonight,
they will die tomorrow.
I wrote this when I couldn't sleep.
Henrie Diosa Sep 2020
a wasp upon a flowered branch,
around and round she flew —
her carapace electric black,
her wings electric blue.

of nectar-drops inebriate, she
swerved from bloom to bloom;
i tarried from my errand, but
she wouldn't, i assumed,

but for a while. so i went on
and she went on her way;
the busywork of insectkind
their flutterings belie.
26 June 2020 — When I went out to buy a bouillon cube from our neighbour, I saw a beautiful blue-winged wasp in our white angel flowers. So I wrote a little thing for her, in imitation of my good friend Emily Dickinson.

I love how she uses these serious Latinate words for simple natural things, the badinage birds and the emolument of the sky; her work has been and continued to be an unexpected wellspring in my journey to enrich my vocabulary. I used some of my new words here. Maybe you can learn some new words with me too.

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