Three Poems

These are three poems that were written recently, the last of which is is somewhat inspired by the recent events in the Gaza strip. The title of that poem, Sh’ma Yisrael, is taken from the scripture where the word invokes, “Hear, Oh Israel, …”. In this case it is my hope that they might just hear the voices of the people around the world calling their murderous actions and attempts at genocide something entirely unacceptable.

Please, enjoy the poems.

Earthly Dreams

Beneath the stars the earth reveals itself
a celestial jewel afloat in unending tranquillity
but this veneer of peace is easily shattered
as one approaches the jewel with many
of its inhabitants firmly entrenched
in a battle for survival
oblivious to the beauty around them
for it does nothing to fill their bellies
or ease their pain during the long nights.

Long nights filled only with the solace
provided by the distant stars
mute points of light that hold the promise of
so many unrealized dreams.
To soar amongst these stars
to be freed from the constraints of this
earthly prison and commune with the
Light of the heavens – rising above all cares
but the dreams are short lived for most
as the realities of this life
the brutalities of this life
pull them back
ripping them from the serenity of orbit
thrusting them back into the cruel reality
of life on earth.

The only ones capable of evading the clutches
of this cruel reality
rely upon their strength of will alone
to deny victory to the encroaching madness that comes
when all dreams are lost.

With visions preserved these select few
look to the stars
they look to the heavens
seeing something more than
distant points of light in an
unending expanse of shadow, of darkness;
they see instead their own futures
their past and their ultimate destiny:
from the cosmic dust it all began
coalescing into the swirling nebulae that
gave birth to the singular jewel upon which
all life runs its course.

Until they ultimately return to the dust
from whence they came.

Copyright © 2009 by Peter Amsel (aufzuleiden)

… of speech

They come in the dark night, or brazenly, during the day:
looking for anything that
piques their interest — “why are they there”,
you ask — but are told, in no uncertain terms, that this …
this is not your concern:
They have been “authorized” to search …
they have been empowered by the law;
empowered to violate
to trample upon
stamp on
shred and burn
your rights
no consolation for you as you are hauled away,
still questioning, “what are the charges”,
“what evidence have you found” …
“can I call a lawyer?” ….

Warrants have been signed by judges doing favours for
prosecutors, none wanting to be the one to
let some evil “terrorist threat” run free.
There won’t be a 9/11 redux on their watch
even if some innocent lives
must be ruined
destroyed in the process
all for the “greater good”.

Their quest for evidence leaves no stone unturned
as they reach back into the distant past of
your life — family and friends interviewed
while you sit, alone and afraid
surrounded by cinderblocks and iron-bars
a thin mattress and blanket your only means of comfort
as you await your destiny
half-believing that “justice” will remove its
blindfold and see that you are innocent
that this is all a mistake — a nightmare from which
you will awaken when the cleansing
light of day burns away the shadows of deceit.

But the rising of the sun does not bring your freedom
nor does it restore your faith in the “justice” system:
evidence was found during the search,
you are told …
things you wrote:
things you posted on the Internet
comments on different blogs and forums
discussions about politics and
war crimes.
Comments about a presidency more concerned
with image than with serving the people
or protecting the Constitution.

Without another word, a phone call or a lawyer you
find yourself labelled an “enemy of the state”,
a “person of interest”, and a possible
terrorist;
stripped of your rights,
your birth rights.

You are sent to where you will await the trial
that may never come
one prisoner amongst many in a place
far removed from America’s heartland
the antithesis of justice and freedom,
promised to be dismantled one day soon.
Until then you remain a prisoner
in Gitmo …
but January 20th is coming!

Copyright © 2009 by Peter Amsel (aufzuleiden)

Sh’ma Yisrael

The eyes of the of the world watch you intently
as your tanks array themselves
with their magazines fully stocked
loaded with the finest made munitions
artillery shells destined to
slice through the bodies of old women and
children
of mothers and daughters
of fathers and sons
of corpses, their eyes still open
their hearts still beating in the desperate
struggle that never ends …
the struggle known by many names,
in many languages
but united by a common spirit:
overcome the oppressors,
overthrow the Pharaohs,
free the slaves, …
Let my people go!

Who are “my” people; “my” brother,
that I may keep them?

When we watch, as one might watch
the latest blockbuster from Hollywood,
seeing bunker-busting bombs
shredding human flesh in
high-definition colour
as you kill with such relish
some questions are inevitable
(aside from the obsession we have for
watching such horrors … and managing to remain silent):
why can’t you find a way to
live together in peace?

If the world is honest than it knows that
both sides are guilty;
judgement is lacking as
stones met with bullets and bombs
have led to rockets that cannot be aimed
met with tanks and precision guided munitions
dropped from the talons of the fighting falcons.

The world watches, united in shock and outrage
but in New York
in the chamber where the “Security Council”
discusses such heady matters as ethnic cleansing
genocide and plain old wars
nothing is decided.

They cannot agree to condemn the violence,
they cannot bring themselves to demand
that you stop murdering innocent children
in the name of “security”.

Pity the nation that cannot exist without a small
episode of genocide every now and then …
we all have them … had them …
why should you, Oh Israel,
be any different? you ask,
why indeed?

Perhaps it is not about fitting in with the
rest of the world that should be of concern –
perhaps you should be more concerned with the
blood staining your garments
blood that will not wash away
or be hidden in the glaring light of the cameras
aiming their dispassionate eyes at you from
around the world
blood that leaves stains on top of stains
from generations of insanity
generations of people unwilling to live
side by side
instead, they fight …
the blood flows
and the eyes of the world
continue to watch.

Copyright © 2009 by Peter Amsel (aufzuleiden)

Dedicated to the innocent victims of the ongoing war insanity: the conflict in Israel/Palestine. Until both sides realize that they can not win anything with violence the only thing that will continue to grow in that pitiful land is the body count as more children are added to the death-toll. Lay down your weapons and return to your families; create things with your hands, things of wonder and beauty, not of death and destruction. Peace begins in the heart.

Picture This

One of the things that happens around this time of year, for many people (myself included), is that there is a strong sense of longing for the warmer days of spring and summer. Considering that we had our “Christmas” dinner today, on Boxing Day, with all of the fixings (and the corresponding mess that goes along with a meal that takes nearly ten hours to prepare) it isn’t surprising that by the end of the day I found myself longing for the simpler days of summer (and, perhaps, a lighter meal … like a salad … with some leftover turkey).

These feelings led me to peruse through some of my photos and I thought it might be a good opportunity to share some of my photos in the Echoes of Silence. Aside from the flowers there are two cats that I want you to see as well: the black and white one is named Dr Seuss (yes, really; although he does not really answer to it … we call him several things including Seussie, Seussman, Seusselah, and, one of my all time favourites, “Little Shit” … but that is another story). The other cat belongs to my former room-mate and is named Jackson. She could well be called a number of things … none of which are polite. Ironically, Jackson is very photogenic … just don’t get too close with the camera.

Enjoy the pictures,

Wie viel ist aufzuleiden!

Truly the sweetest cat I've ever had.

Cat's Eye: a study in staring

Fire Tulip, 2008, in Ottawa, Canada.

Hot Poppy, 2007, in Ottawa, Canada

Department Store Santa

Every year since he had turned fifty, and his long beard had turned white, he had worked as the department store Santa in one of the large shopping malls in the centre of town. Hundreds of children would come to sit on his lap every day in the weeks leading up to Christmas, but as the years passed by and he grew older the old man began to feel more than a small amount of resentment towards the ever growing commercialisation of Christmas. As much as he tried to hide those feelings of bitterness behind his bushy beard and smiling eyes they ultimately filtered down towards the children and their parents. Playing Santa used to be fun, now it was only a job.

Christmas wasn’t what it used to be, he thought to himself with a heavy sigh, as yet another child recited yet another list of expensive computer games and electronic devices that they not only wanted but already knew they would be getting for Christmas. It was even getting to the point, he sadly realized, where he was finding it increasingly difficult to smile for the photographs that his “elf” would take with the children while they sat on his lap; all he wanted to do was leave this shattered Yuletide fantasy of commercialised fraud and seek refuge with his wife, safe in their home where they had created a lifetime of memories of Christmas’ past. Living in the past had become something of an obsession of late, especially now as Christmas approached.

“Today’s your last day,” his wife had said as she gently squeezed his hand. They had just finished breakfast in their comfortable breakfast nook and he was preparing to leave for work. The words had managed to cheer him up considerably as he left their house near the Canal and walked to the mall with an added bounce to his step. A faint smile crept over his face for the first time in a long while as he approached the employee’s entrance and made his way to the locker room. He kept thinking about the conversation that he had with his wife over breakfast about retiring completely and the more he thought about it the more he liked the idea. He had been able to retire early from his consulting job and had taken on this job as Santa seventeen years ago just for fun, not at all expecting to do it for such a long time. Of course, if he was perfectly honest with himself, and his wife, he would have admitted that his heart just was not into being around so many people anymore, not after what had happened to their son Kevin.

As he entered the locker room and put on his Santa suit for the last time this year, and perhaps for good, there was something a little different in his attitude; it seemed as though a weight had been removed, perhaps because he had decided to retire. This day, he thought, would be different, if only for the fact that it was the last day that he would ever have to wear this pathetic costume and sit in the stupid throne while wisecracking teens laugh at you all day. Santa suits, he thought as he walked towards his “Kingdom” for the last time, should come with pockets where you could conceal water guns and other projectile toys.

Throughout the day and the endless, anonymous children, all seeming to want the same mp3 playing robot that could do all kinds of cool things … (he really was getting too old for this, he thought to himself, not for the first time this season), he still managed to keep smiling, reminding himself of the Christmas Eve dinner awaiting him at home that his wife would have been working on all day; and he remembered to laugh at the appropriate places for the children, to smile for the photos and to give each of the little urchins one of the obligatory candy canes for having had the pleasure of screaming in his ear (no wonder he was nearly deaf in his left ear). Since this was Christmas Eve it was busier than usual with last-minute shoppers desperate to find that elusive, perfect gift. This did not prevent the old man from letting his mind wander to what his wife would be doing at home.

His wife came from a family that celebrated Christmas Eve with what could only be described as gusto; the family was not particularly religious, they were just enthusiastic. When it came to the meal no expense was spared: they made a roasted ham, a turkey with all the trimmings, potatoes of several varieties, salads enough to sink a ship and more than enough side dishes to feed dozens of people. It was a feast worthy of royalty, and it was a tradition that the family tried to continue, as much as possible.

Unlike other Christmas Eve dinners, this would be a meal only for the two of them; their only son had been killed earlier in the year while serving with his unit in Afghanistan, but knowing his wife there would be more than enough food for a small army; or at least a battalion. This would be their first Christmas without their son, without their Kevin, he thought to himself with a note of sadness as the last of the children was admitted through the gates to see Santa; his assistant pointed to the “closed” sign, signalling to him that the gates to “Santa’s Kingdom” were now locked for the season. Thank God, he thought to himself.

As the boy approached there seemed to be something odd about him that immediately caught the old man’s attention. He was only about seven years old, but there was something about his eyes made him look much older, far more mature than his years. When he was close enough to speak, he said, in no uncertain terms, “look: we both know that I’m too old for this, right? I’m only here for my mother — it’s been a rough year for …” but he couldn’t continue as a tear began to roll down his freckled cheek.

“Come here, my boy,” the old man said, his voice kinder and gentler than it had been since the Chaplain had arrived with the news of his own son’s death, four months before. “What is it that you want for Christmas?”

The boy looked up at the old man and, seeing his own grief reflected back in his eyes, replied, “I want my father to come home from Afghanistan so we can be a real family again, but he already came back,” his voice cracked, “… in a coffin.” The boy buried his face in the deep plush of the Santa costume and he cried for several minutes while his mother came to get him, visibly embarrassed by the situation. But the old man didn’t mind the tears, for they were his as well, and those of his wife. They were tears that seemed to flow unceasingly, from eyes that saw ghosts in every corner of their house; they were tears that never seemed to run out, that never seemed to lose their sting.

When the boy stopped crying and his mother introduced herself to the old man he took her offered hand and asked, his voice thick with emotion, “would you and your lovely son do my wife and I the honour of joining us for dinner this evening? You see,” he continued, gently squeezing her hand, “this will be our first Christmas without our son as well. He was also killed in Afghanistan,” these final words were barely whispered, but the mother and son had no difficulty hearing them.

All she could do was nod her head and do her best to smile, something she had not done very much of since the Chaplain had arrived at their house two months ago. As the three of them left the mall the old man was still dressed in his Santa Claus suit and for the first time in a long, long time he was feeling every bit the part.

Welcome

Echoes of Solitude, my newest creative experiment. This is my early Christmas present to myself (and to all those who come by to read) and, in a way, the fulfillment of a New Year’s resolution that I didn’t make last year, but was planning on making this year, that being to contribute to my blog more consistently. This blog is not going to replace The Inner Voice of the CrazyComposer, but will instead be a complimentary site to it, providing me a venue for the other things that I have been doing which are not usually appropriate for posting on a site that has become much more focused on political issues.

For those of you that may be wondering about the address of this page, “aufzuleiden” is a German word and is from a quotation by a famous poet, Rainer Maria Rilke. “Wie viel ist aufzuleiden” translates to, roughly, “how much suffering there is to go (or get) through”. I will write about this at a later time.

Enjoy the Echoes of Solitude ….