survivor

Joseph Koplewicz

94 years

survivor of Warsaw Ghetto and 9 concentration camps as an engineer

twirling thumbs

lip quivering with age

changing numbers from long ago

caught in disbelief

before a time of terror and today

mind removed and handed an arm

the simple truth is survival

the only painful pause

from a loss of love

in years supposedly safe from pain

quickly resolving in laughter

with a wide eyed song

of dreams fulfilled

under unbelievable blue skies

on Paris

It's been a week since I got back from Paris, and I'm finally coming to terms with my experience there. I am so glad I was able to just be while I was in the city. I didn't get caught up in the romanticism or really anything at all. Being away has made me realize how beautiful it is. The people are so confident and no nonsense. They are not overly romantic as we expect them to be because they haven't been fed the institution that is love and romance that Hallmark and stereotypical French characters have given to me. They say what is needed and let their eyes do the rest of the communicating. Sometimes laughing makes me insecure but I realize that to them, it is an expression of happiness. Nothing ironic there.

In fact irony is not something I experienced with French people unless they were making fun of or imitating Americans and their culture. There is something so earnest about the way they interact--with only what is necessary, very little embellishment. But then, Paris is absolutely overrun with tourists. As with any city I suppose, its sometimes difficult to know what is the city of tourists and what is the city of the people. In NY I took many a vacation to midtown but it wasn't until I moved into Union Square that I saw the tip of the iceberg of what is NYC. Luckily for me I had my amazing friends to lead me through this city (or at least for the past 3-4 months).

That didn't always mean that I new what I was ordering at a restaurant. I managed to get kidney two times. I really tried, but it just didn't quite meet my mouth's needs. Riding Velib' bikes up and down the hills of Paris by day and by night was truly fantastic and a great way to feel like you belong on the narrow streets and broad roundabouts. It is so nice to stumble on a courtyard or a fountain or an artists loft or a gallery in a historical space and be one of the only people around.

The Parisians have parks under control. They are the most beautiful combination of public space and coiffed elegance. Standing in a park in Paris I was in awe of the design and degree of control of nature but also of how comfortable people felt there. Just as in their home, they are invited to rearrange furniture and stroll down a corridor [of trees]. Just stay off the grass.

I most enjoyed walking down the older smaller streets of Paris, especially in Montmartre and the Fifth Arrondissement. But these are the areas that most tourists seek out in Paris as the "real city." They are prescribed by all the guidebooks as secret must see spots and as such have lost some sense of their charm and originality. But then I guess they still charmed me. I'm apt to resist acting like a tourist or really being one at all. I know that when I visit a city, that is my official title, but I seek something more authentic. I don't like to rush to the museums or most famous monuments, and I didn't do that here. I spent most of my time taking the heartbeat of the city and encountering a culture very different from my own--and just as valid.

Standing on the top of Montmartre, I realized how large Paris is. It would take me at least six months living there to really begin to understand it, and I don't claim to much at all from my short (though extended) five day stay.

What I do know is that Paris left a delicious aftertaste in my mouth...something like Cotes du Rhone. And I want to take that bottle in the bathtub with her and a cigarette and soak in everything she has to offer. Even if only for a short time.

feet rest under green metalic chairs

weary with the labors of discovery

of a city set in hills

doors opened and stairs unwound

in corners hidden from any map

we discovered a new path

with no trace remaining

but in negatives and our slippery memory

music swells all around

but I hear Paris

only in voices

her speaker is blown

never to be replaced

and only her people sing her song

it sounds of ambivalence

that only a child can see

from behind round spectacles.

It was only heard once or twice

and broadcast to the world

in a tongue too hard to shape.

Of love, I find no keys

only black and white

in majors and minors

struggling to strike a chord

but barely unlocking doors going backwards or downstairs

I face a wall

and a ticket

a meager end to an unplanned excursion

the most beautiful song

Two Doves

courtesy Dirty Projectors

Geranium kisser
Skin like silk and face like glass
Don't confront me with my failures
Kiss me with your mouth open
For your love, better than wine
For your cologne is really fragrant
Call on me, call on me, call on me

Your hair is like an eagle
Your two eyes are like two doves
But our bed is like a failure
All day up in the family
At the waning of the light
To the chamber that conceived me
Call on me, call on me, call on me

Geranium killer
Throat of soil and mind like stone
Please don't defend a silver lining
Around the halo of what is already shining
When all the planets are aligning
For an afternoon that's never ending
Call on me, call on me, call on me

youtube please

paris friday

Luckily drenched in sun

leaves still fall

while voices explore reflections

on the trim trees

between leaves and water

countless pieces

in a puzzle for the sky

cling to massive arms

like memories

The only music

erupts in shadows

from a time of blossoms

and the familiar smells of love

Glowing faces

lounge quietly

and soak in the confident air

too timid to fly

and rooted by a strong attraction

to familiar soil

Wrapped women move past

as we sit on the edge of the day

with little recollection

of the dark that daily consumes

Just as a breath catches

vulnerable strokes from branches above

and a young boy leans over railings

for a closer view

I am swept away

and a fleeting curiosity

consumes my senses

by Medici fountain

meeting family

7.11.2009

(14:00)

train to Aachen

clouds clear as I make another short stop

ready for my rendezvous

I occupy my mind with distractions

forcing calm where I feel there should be worry

I am blind

with nothing but a blurry postcard and a forgotten slideshow

holy time- a few short hours

to fill in the blanks of this curious connection.

the most beautiful tree

catches the light of the forgotten sun

and I recall where my calm comes from

a deep assurance that clouds do clear

mistakes live in the spaces of opportunity

discovering beauty is only as difficult as the next breath

silence is among the most precious of moments.

with these laws engrained in my complex thoughts

I roll over foreign tracks toward unfamiliar comfort

hoping for growth in the slightest degree

an eager ebb of the most pure and earnest interest.

dressed in their Sunday best

I would arrive with a bouquet of hope

for an afternoon topped with cream

and washed down by an evening's satiated adieu.

(19:30)

A family waits

posing for a picture by an unknown photographer

unsure on arrival and unclear at the meet,

our story begins with hello

immediate rain opens an umbrella for three

arms clung, we cross familiar streets with unfamiliar faces

minds may meet but I find myself less serious

sipping the largest glass with the lightest plate

laced in chocolate and a sweet commence

becoming flowers with an unexplained ride

I presently arrive at my past

simply the turn of the knob

puts relative distance before my eyes

soft and frail, confined only by life

three strangers with only a quarter hour

to fall in love

leaning in, struggling to hear what some call silence

a calm comes over the beginning of a bond

smiles replacing fearful furrowed brows and faces

gasps and sighs at what is and what was, knowing

only tomorrow knows what will be

suddenly the man in the bed utters

go?

and I slip through the door

only ajar and only a taste of what stays

my heart tells my eyes that it has seen what it needs

and my eyes beat with the familiar swelling of my heart.

my host thinks only on me

and fills each desire four times

quickly sharing all and snapping away from all sides

trying to capture a feeling I cannot define

an image of shining eyes and open hands

tiptoeing to the song of another

over rocky streets

by windows filled with kindness

in a place containing someone else's story

total darkness engulfs a final stop

windows covered, fresh white paint

reflects little moonlight

and a loving childhood memory

becomes my only torch

wandering as a child again

I try to discover its secrets

becoming a king in a foreign land of covered windows

to say goodbye comes on track

elevated by platforms

and the stakes of a simple evening

afraid the whole perfect gift is forgotten

memories slip onto pages

like the chocolate on the sugary treats I carry back with me

alone is not a word I know in Aachen.

zwanzigten Jahre des Mauerfall

20 years ago, the Berlin wall came crashing down and East Berlin was for the first time open to the West. A country divided since their humiliating and horrifying defeat in the second World War was faced with the opportunity to become a unified land with the hope of becoming a modern nation.

Last night, Berlin celebrated this monumental event with a huge gathering at the Brandenburger Tör. It was a cold, rainy, typical Berlin November evening, and people turned out in droves to the once abandoned area that has become so symbolic as a meeting of East and West Germany and Berlin. The plaza and its surrounding streets in both directions--leading into the sprawling parks of the Tiergarten and the historical and monumental Unter den Linden--were closed and prepared days in advance for the evening of remembrance and celebration. I turned up with a friend around 18:00 with no umbrella and insufficient footware. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by the police presence or by the tight security, but this celebration seemed to be an ironic presentation of the symbol and ideals it stood for. I passed through more than one gate to get to my unimpressive spot to the side of the main presentation area. Not only was I not able to see the grounds in front of the gate, I was positioned behind a giant screen that eventually would show images of what was happening only a few hundred feet away.

After a couple hours in the rain with anxious and eager Germans and many, many tourists, I decided to go home to strip off my socks and watch from my own screen in my living room--albeit smaller than the screen offered at the Brandenburg Gate.

In German class we talked about November 9. In Germany, not only is this day remembered for its significance in 1989, but for its first appearance in the history of the country: 1938. Known as Kristallnacht, or "the night of broken glass," this was a huge night of violation against German Jews under National Socialism. 99 Jews were killed, at least 25,000 were arrested and taken to concentration camps, and Jewish homes, businesses, and synagogues were ransacked and destroyed. The earlier recognition of this date obviously does not stand for the ideals upheld by most Germans of today, but these problems do still exist. The tension between Germans and the much smaller Jewish population of the unified Germany of today exists in massive doses, and I have been witness to the confrontation, avoidance, and even bitterness of this strained relationship on more than one occasion.

How was it that the country managed to produce an event 51 years after such an evening that today almost covers up this catastrophe completely? If this country is so determined to focus their efforts on their coming together as a people and breaking down barriers, how can they hide the fact that 71 years ago their government made an official effort to destroy an entire people--within their own border?

Watching the Mauerfall ("wall-fall") celebration from my television, I noticed something peculiar about the positioning of the spectator. Almost the entire plaza was left empty so that government leaders (including German Chancellor Angela Murkel, French President Nicolas Sarkozy, Russian President Dmitry Medvedev, and US Representative Hillary Clinton) could speak from the middle of a sprawling landscape filled with moving colored lights in front of the Brandenburg Gate. Immediately surrounding them were other government officials. Behind them were the people lucky (or rich) enough to have third row seats to the show packed with speeches and fireworks. The people of Berlin--those who chose to turn out--were stuck behind metal gates to the sides and back of the "performance space." They came to celebrate their walls coming down and found themselves where? Behind walls.

The whole ceremony was impressive, but it resembled little of the images or emotion expressed in photos or footage of the events that passed on November 9, 1989. Then a repressed people yearning for freedom were ecstatic to face the coming of a new age. Today, some Germans and many tourists came together to watch their leaders speak on a screen.

I don't know what the general consensus is about the events that occurred last night, but I know that the country still has a lot to do to come together, and I'm not so sure that the majority of the people living in this city really care about a celebration of event that has less and less to do with them.

Maybe Germans need a new reason to recognize November 9th as a historical day. It seemed a bit sugar coated to me.

london

the only lonely lover in London

I listen to leaves

crushed loudly by loving couples

with cameras

other lovers relax by the river

lamenting their lives

together

arms around one another

obviously oblivious to the sensual splendor they experience

time tells them to traipse on

having no hurry but boundless bliss

departing leaving desolate the place they once danced

playing without pause the practically perfect life

not wondering when or where it will cease

only honoring the only other

each within reach

reaching without resistance

their rarely lonely lover