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Array ( [sid] => 4188 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Not Here [time] => 2002-09-23 21:40:00 [hometext] => All too often, I find myself revisiting a relationship that came apart seven years ago. It was the most horrible time in my life.

The images I use come from times and places I haven't experienced first hand but as a Jew, they resonate with me culturally. I hope they can work effectively to map out the topology of depression.

-Joe Wahrhaftig [bodytext] => In Tel Aviv,
the bomb rips out the pizzeria,
in a gasoline,
hurricane,
fireball,
of bolts and nails.

Teen flesh, fat and wet muscle,
splatter the pavement,
pound storefronts, and drip down windows,
of shops lining the street.

In seconds,
the air is still.

A damp, hard to breathe,

suspension of muggy spray carrying,

the odor of blood spiced with iron.

Across the city,
in the home,
Rose sits.
At the breakfast table,
arthritic knuckles white,
from clutching a frayed napkin.

She hears,
but doesn't listen to,
the grey ghosts that drift past her,
murmurring in the kitchen.

"The soldiers will free the camps soon,
and get my children out,

of Auschwitz."

Each day is the first,

Fifty seven years. And.
Each day is her first,

in the wait,
to hear their two voices,
calling for her,
laughing in the doorway.

Rose,
ties the weave of herself,
into a rope,
to throw over the divide into today,
but the rope never reaches,
and falls back.

Rose stares through the television,

where crews
that tape off the blast site and
hose down the blood,
are color and shape,

but no meaning.

The paper said your children died,
in 1944.

I pray the counselors can reach you,
quiet your waking nightmare.

But I'm grateful for the comfort,
that I'm not the only one,

whose rope can't reach,

recalling Betsy's words that day,

seven years ago,

"Of course we'll stay friends!"

in the wait for a voice,
I'll never hear.

[comments] => 1 [counter] => 140 [topic] => 32 [informant] => artwitness [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => SadPoetry )

Not Here

Contributed by artwitness on Monday, 23rd September 2002 @ 09:40:00 PM in AEST
Topic: SadPoetry

In Tel Aviv,
the bomb rips out the pizzeria,
in a gasoline,
hurricane,
fireball,
of bolts and nails.

Teen flesh, fat and wet muscle,
splatter the pavement,
pound storefronts, and drip down windows,
of shops lining the street.

In seconds,
the air is still.

A damp, hard to breathe,

suspension of muggy spray carrying,

the odor of blood spiced with iron.

Across the city,
in the home,
Rose sits.
At the breakfast table,
arthritic knuckles white,
from clutching a frayed napkin.

She hears,
but doesn't listen to,
the grey ghosts that drift past her,
murmurring in the kitchen.

"The soldiers will free the camps soon,
and get my children out,

of Auschwitz."

Each day is the first,

Fifty seven years. And.
Each day is her first,

in the wait,
to hear their two voices,
calling for her,
laughing in the doorway.

Rose,
ties the weave of herself,
into a rope,
to throw over the divide into today,
but the rope never reaches,
and falls back.

Rose stares through the television,

where crews
that tape off the blast site and
hose down the blood,
are color and shape,

but no meaning.

The paper said your children died,
in 1944.

I pray the counselors can reach you,
quiet your waking nightmare.

But I'm grateful for the comfort,
that I'm not the only one,

whose rope can't reach,

recalling Betsy's words that day,

seven years ago,

"Of course we'll stay friends!"

in the wait for a voice,
I'll never hear.

Copyright © artwitness ... [ 2002-09-23 21:40:00]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Not Here (User Rating: 1 )
by Jackee_line on Wednesday, 23rd April 2003 @ 08:51:06 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Wow!!! great write , it sent shivers down my spine.
Fantastic write.

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