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Arianna 2d
"****** footprints stain the snow..."
Visited the memorial museum at Auschwitz, because... Well, honestly, I don't know why, except that I wanted to step a little into the world of this dark chapter of history, glimpse it for myself...

And you know how it goes: such places make you think. And after some deliberation on: the unique and VERY interesting perspective a loved one recently shared with me, how my own perspectives have mirrored his in relation to certain issues in my own home country, and personal reservations about what seems to be a tendency towards zero-sum thinking in many popular and influential news/media sources with which I am familiar, the thought struck me while walking over a snow-laden path in  Birkenau that Love is (at least in part) the overcoming of hatred...

Individually, culturally? Either way, I guess... It's a profoundly strange thing to exist.

For whatever those thoughts may or may not be worth.

Not sure now where I'm going with this, but if I ever figure it out, I'll fill it in...
Arianna 4d
"A face old before its time
Stares through the darkened windows
At the gathering storm."
History can be very dark, unspeakably cruel...
Arianna 6d
The North stretches out,
Heading East over fields of snow.

The forest stares back,
Never twice with the same face.

And I marvel at the ribbons
Trailing from my feet:

Anchorless, cut loose,
Roots swallowed somewhere among the trees...
Staring out the window...

Yo-Yo Ma and the Silk Road Ensemble - "Beyond the Horizon" album

Colter Wall - "Sleeping on the Blacktop"
Äŧül Dec 2018
Things are hard in this fazy
Coz this fantasy is hazy
The love I express is crazy
More because I didn't get any of it razy
And now I get pulled being so lazy
The whole world seems so glazy
Oh, I'm trapped here - this place is mazy!

But I shall now be pacjent
Coz this love is so true
The way she's here, she'll stay
More because she loves me realnie
And now I hope that it blooms
My world and her world too
Oh, I want her here - her love is my Zahir!

My lover is very plochy
Coz she's very simple
The ideal match I've wanted
More because she's so wozniacki
And now I know what love is
My Pooja loves me too
Oh, I have her now - I want her forever!
Polski language words:
fazy: phase
razy: number of times
pacjent: patient
realnie: really, indeed
plochy: shy
wozniacki: intellectual

My HP Poem #1727
©Atul Kaushal
Cloud Aug 2018
The final sound of the door being locked from outside.
Mothers crying for children. Children crying for Mothers.
Hundreds of people shoving you into corners trying to reach loved ones.
A young boy falls to the floor, the mother watches him being trampled, unable to move, unable to breathe.
My lungs are screaming for air.
Where? Why?

Stumbling into an unknown darkness.
The fear of falling asleep and never waking up.
Contemplating whether death is better than this.
The terrifying ***** of a shotgun.
A silence howling with anxiety.
The beating of the engine counting down minutes perfectly synchronised with my heart.
The lady next to me has her eyes closed, I shake her, silently praying for her to be asleep, she doesn’t stir.

I’ve lost track of time, two days, three days, a never ending eternity?
Death surrounds me, trying to pull me in to envelop me, it’s so hard to fight, so easy to welcome.
I am surrounded by people, but have never felt so alone.
We are running on animal instincts, whatever food we have we don’t share.
On this train, good morals ****.

The heat, the stifling heat. It is dizzying, nauseating.
The air is too thick to breathe, to live.
There is an overpowering stench, caused by the heat, the absence of a toilet and death.
There is not much space, but what space there is, is filled by a suffocating heat, a choking smell and burning grief.
Pain is soaring through my veins, a toxic predator pouncing on every fibre of hope in my exhausted body.

They have reduced us to animals.
I am embarrassed, embarrassed of my hygiene, embarrassed of my inability to do anything, embarrassed of my selfishness.
Embarrassment is no worse than ******, as when a person is embarrassed they wish to be dead.
It is emotional homicide.

I am so tired.
My body is crumpled, being held up by others, some dead, some wishing to be dead.
At first I was focused on surviving, my body was fighting, but now I’m too tired to fight.
My hunger is now just a numb aching, but my thirst seems to be pounding every cell in my body, a constant beating.
I am tired of crying, tired of praying, tired of hearing other people’s cries, tired of hearing other people’s prayers.

I hear a voice, singing.
A mother to her child.
The sweet sound of her voice seems to dissolve the clouds of pain and misery hanging over us.
Another voice joins in, a man’s voice.
Two more people join in; gradually the whole carriage starts to sing, united.
I join in grasping for the shreds of energy I didn’t think I had.
We sing louder and louder, our voices drown out the protesting orders to stop.
The train slows to a stop, and the doors slide open.
I breathe, and for the first time in too long, my lungs are satisfied with the oxygen that reaches them.
As our bodies rush out of the carriage, still singing, I am filled with a new sense of hope that whatever is coming next couldn’t possibly be worse than what I’d just been through.
Could it?
During the Holocaust cattle trains were used for mass deportation of Jews and other victims of the Holocaust to concentration camps. Men, women and children were stuffed into these carriages with no food, water or toilet and just a small barred window. The journeys took days, sometimes weeks and a large number of people didn't survive the journey. Having survived the journey the victims would then either be immediately taken to a gas chamber and brutally murdered or forced to work under the harshest conditions imaginable where they were unlikely to survive. Having visited a number of the concentration camps in Poland and heard accounts of survivors, I wanted to try and capture a fraction of the pain those people endured in that journey full of doubts and questions.
Kai Aug 2018
i grew up on pączki
not on krispy kreme
polish american boy
being the translator for my parents
telling the grocery workers
"proszę cztery jabłka"
because my parents couldn't

until i left
i didn't realise how much i would miss
pączki, flaki, pierogi
i didn't realise how much i would miss
the sludgy winters and beautiful springs
and i didnt realise id never see my home again

it's been four years
and i dream of going back
to the markets and the parks
to the ruins where i grew up

but it's going to be a while till i eat a good pierogi again.
ive accepted that
but poland will always be one of my homes
and i can't wait
i cant wait to go back.
i lived in poland for four years. i miss it.

They came in like diseased eagles; mutated
forms of those they wore on their chest and
with the change once again in the weather,
the ZOMO swooped in to quell what was
‘wrong’, what would bring them down. They
run in the streets as well as the miners,
running for different reasons and different
aims. I look down, out my window and see
the army helmets littering the street like rats.
            Police.          Rats.
I could no longer see a difference. My father
went to work that morning. I clutch my doll
knowing the chance of seeing him again is
            Miniscule.   Poor.
There is no more cereal in the cupboard;
there is no more cereal in the shop; there is
no more shop. The ZOMO set it on fire when the word


appeared in the window.
“We are closing the border for the safety of the People”
            Incorrect.     Unjustified.
For the safety of You, the Elite.
“Nine killed in mine shooting”
Which side?
Only the ZOMO carry guns.
            Fascism.       Communism.
I could no longer see a difference
They took something out
of a Polski Fiat 126p.
They dragged it in
and plugged it in
while the neighbours' kids
gaped in wonder.

They went well into the night
watching Teleexpress
on the new colour TV in town.
Some kids got bored.
Went down to the playground.
Parents sat on their balconies
looking out for them.
But it was too dark.
They could not see them.
They could not see them.

Dogs scour the remains
of post-Communist streets.
I go to the shop
next to the post office.
Buy a snack.
Read a magazine.

We go to the park.
Play some football.
Sit down on the bench.
We sing the Mazurek Dąbrowskiego
and watch the sun set
over grey apartments.
Tadeusz Loarca Jan 2017
Run little Polish boy
Run in your field
Learn of your great land
And what it may yield
Learn little polish boy
Learn how to fight
Soon you will grow up
And protect what is right
Know little polish man
Know about freedom
Go to the foreign land
And do what must be done
Fight now you polish man
Fight for the cause
Even if you might die
They have freedom in their jaws

You fight for America
Right on freedom's side
You fight for what you believe in
As you risk your hide
You make friend with founding fathers
As you fight for their home
You construct an army fortress
To protect them as you roam
When the war is over
they give you riches when you go
But you spend it on freedom
That you've come to know
You give it to a founding father
To give up all his slaves
Then you get on the boat
And face Atlantic waves

Fight now you polish man
Fight for where you where born
Fight hard polish man
Charge at the bleeding horns
You die now old polish man
You can not fight no more
Dead is the polish man
With freedom in his core

This is a Tribute to Tadeusz Kouzico a polish war hero who fought in the American revolution
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