tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post1317191011801278410..comments2024-01-20T06:51:58.729-08:00Comments on Echoes of Tattered Tongues: Memory Unfolded: The Day My Mother DiedJohn Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-50557185458484464412011-02-23T10:43:29.619-08:002011-02-23T10:43:29.619-08:00Timeless filial remembrances, maternal-resonating ...Timeless filial remembrances, maternal-resonating pure poetry within the beautifully melancholic amber of spiritual memory.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02659327913388272659noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-77223365749407105152011-01-28T19:29:30.175-08:002011-01-28T19:29:30.175-08:00Powerful stuff, my friend.Powerful stuff, my friend.Michael Meyerhofernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-7382785681269867702011-01-28T04:11:59.111-08:002011-01-28T04:11:59.111-08:00Tim, I think my mother felt that having a family d...Tim, I think my mother felt that having a family did help. I know she had some troubles showing warmth and being patient, but she got better as the years went by and part of what happened was that she was able to open up to her grandkids. Yesterday, I got an email from my daughter Lillian about my mom and how much she enjoyed talking to my mom in her last days.John Guzlowskihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-69195062406564592712011-01-27T23:26:48.461-08:002011-01-27T23:26:48.461-08:00Well...what can a person say to this? I wonder if...Well...what can a person say to this? I wonder if I will ever have any real insight into the abominable side of humankind that your parents did. I hope not. But it seems like, when I think about them starting a family after all that, that maybe there could be something enriching in it. I feel sure it must be almost totally destructive though. I suppose that is what makes their story all the more miraculous.Timhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06557059180551222796noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-44631639727246312472011-01-27T18:10:57.233-08:002011-01-27T18:10:57.233-08:00Moments holding a granddaughter almost justify for...Moments holding a granddaughter almost justify for a moment enduring the torment--it was worth it if only for that moment.<br /><br />I can see why she wouldn't talk about the camps or the train. There are some subjects where your voice chokes the minute you start to pronounce the words and the tears blind your eyes. Whether it was too horrible to talk about or too horrible to remember doesn't matter.Urkathttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17086121300436012432noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-91203033730484139942011-01-27T16:27:13.563-08:002011-01-27T16:27:13.563-08:00John,
Your remembrance is a testament. We lost F&...John,<br />Your remembrance is a testament. We lost F's mom two years ago this 12 Feb., and my father in Aug. 2004 - and not a day goes by we don't think of them. F's dad (I never met him) died over 30 years ago, but I see his face in photos in the house and hear him mentioned often - so he too is always with us. You inspire us to remember - thank you dearly.E♦Bhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16147875345316321220noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-22088513480668160222011-01-27T13:02:56.472-08:002011-01-27T13:02:56.472-08:00Thanks for a wonderful post, John. I esp like the ...Thanks for a wonderful post, John. I esp like the second poem. You don't need the last line -- pardon this knee-jerk workshop habit, but you really don't! Though it's minor, considering how strong the poem is, fabulous in content.orianahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04209366167129773052noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-41478605512998972212011-01-27T12:06:33.413-08:002011-01-27T12:06:33.413-08:00Beautiful photos. The poems show your mother's...Beautiful photos. The poems show your mother's great spirit. My father's family are from a village about 40 miles from Lvov. His brother and parents were sent to Siberia and he was taken to Germany for forced labour a few years earlier. Thank you for sharing stories that don't get talked about much. Five years isn't that long when a parent's died - the poem will come.soniahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08622183905989528786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-41516212155577842242011-01-27T07:41:53.662-08:002011-01-27T07:41:53.662-08:00Christina, thank you for the poem.Christina, thank you for the poem.John Guzlowskihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-549963549429593969.post-44276744966705432622011-01-27T06:58:53.569-08:002011-01-27T06:58:53.569-08:00John, you will write that poem yet I have no doubt...John, you will write that poem yet I have no doubt. In that spirit, I dedicate my poem about "the day my mother died" - December 27, 1986 - to your mother. I apologize for the lineage and stanzas which are lacking in this format. Christina Pacosz<br /><br /><br />Discovering Judas<br /><br /> <br />Trapped by dawn<br /> <br />and the empty bed<br /> <br />where she so recently<br /> <br />rested, my brother’s<br /> <br />voice a dark repetition:<br /> <br />Mama’s dead, Mama’s dead.<br /><br /> <br />My father lies in bed,<br /> <br />alone in the room<br /> <br />that is his now,<br /> <br />and I rise<br /> <br />at my brother’s cry,<br /> <br />a sleepwalker.<br /><br /> <br />The hearse is black,<br /> <br />of course. The first<br /> <br />I’ve ever summoned,<br /> carrying careful men<br /> <br />who ask questions,<br /> <br />but never the right one.<br /><br /> <br />Did you love her?<br /> <br />Her body rests<br /> <br />on a gurney and denials<br /> <br />pile up, a rock slide<br /> <br />at timberline, where<br /> <br />the wind is always<br /><br /> <br />howling.<br /> <br />I kiss her forehead<br /> <br />and listen to the oxygen<br /> <br />roaring in her lungs. My lips<br /> <br />are dry and cold<br /> <br />like her flesh,<br /> <br />like the mountain<br /> <br />where the trees stop<br /> <br />and rock begins.<br /> <br />Dry and cold as Judas’ lips<br /> <br />when he brushed them against<br /> <br />Jesus’ cheek?<br /><br /> <br />The hearse spins its tires,<br /> <br />in the red mud and rain.<br /> <br />I cannot imagine<br /> <br />it trapped in the dirt<br /> <br />with her inside,<br /> <br />broken and done.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com