April is National Poetry Month and I had a light and airy poem picked out for today. Instead, since this is the holiest of weeks for Jews, this poem seemed more appropriate. (I was going to throw Sean Spicer’s remarks into the mix, but I think his problem is that he can’t think on his feet which is a problem for someone in his position.)
I bought this postcard at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. Somber and sad as all of the museum was, these shoes, for me, were the most concrete way to wrap my head around the enormity.
I Saw A Mountain
I saw a mountain Higher than Mt. Blanc And more Holy than the Mountain of Sinai. Not in a dream. It was real. On this world this mountain stood. Such a mountain I saw — of Jewish shoes in Majdanek. …
Hear! Hear the march. Hear the shuffle of shoes left behind — that which remained. From small, from large, from each and every one. Make way for the rows — for the pairs, For the generations — for the years. The shoe army — it moves and moves.
“We are the shoes, we are the last witnesses. We are shoes from grandchildren and grandfathers. From Prague, Paris and Amsterdam. And because we are only made of stuff and leather And not of blood and flesh, each one of us avoided the hellfire.
We shoes — that used to go strolling in the market Or with the bride and groom to the chuppah, We shoes from simple Jews, from butchers and carpenters, From crocheted booties of babies just beginning to walk and go On happy occasions, weddings, and even until the time Of giving birth, to a dance, to exciting places to life… Or quietly — to a funeral. Unceasingly we go. We tramp. The hangman never had the chance to snatch us into his Sack of loot — now we go to him. Let everyone hear the steps, which flow as tears, The steps that measure out the judgment.” I saw a mountain Higher than Mt. Blanc And more Holy than the Mountain of Sinai.
These were the words taken From the root my mouth, like a shoreline Breaks across the threshold of silence Where I only heard your moments
That trust came to me in an honesty I longed To proffer - that feeling like sighting cliff swallows in The sun, their fallen streaks of light just bright Before their time expires in the warming wind
Like the ocean air as strophic, its rhythm filling the Spindle of every breath you’ve given, where Honesty is the only vantage point in time, lost To the epicenter of your view - if only there were time
I’d clear the ossuary of this moment to The bone of seconds freeing the deepest love You promised to yourself upon every sense You’ve never experienced -before the limits-
What Shall I Tell My Children Who Are Black What shall I tell my children who are black.
Of what it means to be a captive in this dark skin?What shall I tell my dear one, fruit of my womb,of how beautiful they are when everywhere they turn they are faced with abhorrence of everything that is black.The night is black and so is the boogyman.Villains are black with black hearts.A black cow gives no milk. A black hen lays no eggs.Storm clouds, black, black is evil and evil is black and devil’s food is black…
What shall I tell my dear ones raised in a white world A place where white has been made to represent all that is good and pure and fine and decent, where clouds are white and dolls, and heaven surely is a white, white place with angels robed in white, and cotton candy and ice cream and milk and ruffled Sunday dresses and dream houses and long sleek Cadillacs and Angel’s food is white… all, all… white.
What can I say therefore, when my child Comes home in tears because a playmate Has called him black, big lipped, flatnosed and nappy headed? What will he think when I dry his tears and whisper, “Yes, that’s true. But no less beautiful and dear.” How shall I lift up his head, get him to square his shoulders, look his adversaries in the eye, confident in the knowledge of his worth. Serene under his sable skin and proud of his own beauty?
What can I do to give him strength That he may come through life’s adversities As a whole human being unwarped and human in a world Of biased laws and inhuman practices, that he might Survive. And survive he must! For who knows? Perhaps this black child here bears the genius To discover the cure for… cancer Or to chart the course for exploration of the universe. So, he must survive for the the good of all humanity.
He must and will survive. I have drunk deeply of late from the fountain of my black culture, sat at the knee of and learned from mother Africa, discovered the truth of my heritage. The truth, so often obscured and omitted. And I find I have much to say to my black children. I will lift up their heads in proud blackness with the story of their fathers and their father’s fathers. And I shall take them into a way back time of kings and queens who ruled the Nile, and measured the stars and discovered the laws of mathematics. I will tell them of a black people upon whose backs have been built the wealth of three continents. I will tell him this and more. And knowledge of his heritage shall be his weapon and his armor; It will make him strong enough to win any battle he may face. And since this story is so often obscured, I must sacrifice to find it for my children, even as I sacrifice to feed, clothe and shelter them. So this I will do for them if I love them. None will do it for me.
I must find the truth of heritage for myself and pass it on to them. In years to come, I believe because I have armed them with the truth, my children and their children’s children will venerate me. For it is the truth that will make us free!
You loved to dream the idyllic: those blue eyes, the colour of the sea. You used to open the door on that world fall to the ground and play dead. Moments of drunkenness: a race in the wind, a roaring sun.
Now you have the money you think and rethink of that time of those heavenly eyes, the colour of the sea, a dive in the waters. Past idylls, emergent emotions songs sung by strong passions and the strawberry desire on the back of your knee.
Then you think about the future, what you will be: a man who counts, with hat and cane a rich powerful man not one that speaks words in vain:
“Enough, I’d say, it’s time to stop! Let it pass, see how it’ll develop.”
BTS reaction : You're playing with your hair when you're tired
Here’s the reaction~ Hope you’ll like it ^^ thanks for requesting~ (Gifs are not mine, crédits to owners)
RapMonster : NamJoon would find it so cute and smile at you « Go to sleep, if you wait for me to finish my lyrics you’ll not sleep ». He knew you would stay with him, but you were too tired and he could see it because you were playing with your hair.
Jin : SeokJin and you were in your bed, talking since a long timeof everything. But he saw you began to play with yor hair, and smiled brightly « Let’s sleep jagi, we’re tired, we’ll talk tomorrow » you smiled at him and he took you in his arms before falling asleep.
J-Hope : You were watching him practising his choregraphy for their comeback, and you began to play with your hair, tireness appearing in you. He did a break to drink some water and saw you playing with your hair. He smiled and gave you slight kisses on the cheeks and on the lips « I’m working on the choregraphy 15 minutes and we’ll go to sleep, okay ? » You smiled shyly at him and agreed happily, waiting for him to finish.
Suga : Yoongi just finished his track and looked at the clock, it was 3am. He saw that you were in his studio again, playing a lot with your hair. He knew that you were tired, and decided to stay in the studio to sleep with you, he took all he could find and took the matress he was keeping in a corner when he was finishing too late. « We’ll sleep here jagi, it’s too late to go out, now come were, we’re gonna cuddle and sleeping ».
Jimin : Jimin was with you on the sofa of the living room, watching a drama with you. He turn his look on you, and saw you playing with your hair, he smiled and put his head on your lap. You looked at him surprised and he smiled at you « Why don’t you play with my hair until the episode is over ? After we’ll go to sleep don’t worry ».
V: TaeHyung and you were at a dinner together with some friends, and he saw you began to play with your hair. He waited some time, speaking with Jimin, but he looked at you and saw you were playing with your hair again. He smiled, took your hand and said to your friends that you were going back to your home. When you get out of the house of your friends he explained « You were playing with your hair, it was really cute, but you’re doing this when you’re tired ». You kissed him on the cheek and he smiled.
JungKook : You and the maknae were on the couch, watching the last iron man together. Jungkook was so fascinated by what was happening on the screen and couldn’t watch anything else. When the film finished, he turned his head to see you, and he discovered that you played with your hair. He had always foind it so cute, so he smiled and opened his arms « Come here i’m gonna hug you and we’re gonna go sleep ! »
Although he was only eleven at the timeof his accession, Peter II had a mind of his own and proved far from a pliant tool for his prospective father-in-law’s ambitions. A slender lad who had inherited the weak constitution that so often plagued male Romanovs, he was frequently ill. His chief passions we hunting, strong drink, and his blond, blue-eyed, and very buxom aunt Elizaveta. Like his father and grandfather, he abhorred formal study but, again like them, he formed a deep personal attachement for his tutor. … Even at the age of eleven, he was acutely conscious of his position as Autocrat, and bitterly resented the high-handed manner in which Meshikov ordered him about. At one point, Peter reacted violently and shouted, “I will make you know that I am Emperor, and that I will be obeyed.” Yet his prospective father-in-law kept such a tight rein upon him that it seemed impossible for the boy to break free.