Memory is an imperfect thing.
But every year, they ask us to
something that doesn’t like to be looked at,
something we close our eyes and try to see
something that we can’t
and instead have to imagine.
So I close my eyes
and I see trembling fields of red,
endless rows of scarlet petals
wearing halos of light,
with leaves stretching outwards,
like fingertips scratching the sun.
When I close my eyes,
I see them blowing in the wind
like waves of blood on the silent ground
and when I open them,
I see the red flower in my hand:
a sharp metal stalk,
a black centre made of fabric,
petals made from plastic,
and I pin it to my heart
like it means something.
We all know it doesn’t mean a thing,
even though we want it to,
because being the people we are
means we don’t have the capacity to
something that didn’t happen to us,
something that cannot be traced
like a trail of blood in the snow,
something that begs not to be honoured.
it like it has passed away
doesn’t change the fact that
it is still alive and hurting people
The above poem was my response to my Nazi Germany Culture Seminar done with Hope. It was written in the context of Remembrance Day, which was approaching. The link to our Culture Seminar presentation can be found here: https://www.emaze.com/@AOOOZZLFL/nazi-germany-culture-seminar