poetry

I'm undecided as to whether context thickens our experience of art, or detracts - whether the burden of history and biography drains something from the simple alchemy of recognition and reception. Does the background lend more weight, or does it overburden us? Charlotte Delbo was arrested in Paris in 1942, along with her husband George Dudach, for distributing anti-Nazi leaflets. After a permitted farwell, Dudach was shot by firing squad. Delbo spent the war in various camps, including a long spell in Auschwitz. She survived the war and wrote about her experiences in Auschwitz and After, from which the poem below is taken.

I used to call him my young tree
he was as handsome as a pine
the first time I saw him
his skin was so soft
the first time I held him
and all the other times
so soft
that thinking of it today
is like not feeling one's mouth
I used to call him my young tree
smooth and straight
when I held him against me
I thought of the wind
of a birch or an ash
when he held me in his arms
I no longer thought of anything.

Posted by poacher in poetry at 13:21 | Comments (0) | Trackbacks (0)