WEBVTT

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This poem is "Choir of Memory,"
and first inspiration of it

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was on a train at
night, and you'll

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recall that when you're
traveling through a station,

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you can see out.

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But when you move into
the dark, you only

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see your face, so going
through multiple stations that

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appear and disappear.

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And it's the train from
Antwerp to Amsterdam.

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And I was moved by old, very old
man who I thought was Jewish.

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Tailored suit with the
burden of memories.

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And it was on this
same route, maybe

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when I wrote this poem,
maybe 35 years earlier,

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that Jews were transported
on this same railroad

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that I'm now taking
as a tourist.

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Grave faces of the late
window gods appease my shadow

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and break the fierce
silence overnight

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by memory of cruel cities.

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Perfect names, Aryan
chauffeurs at the right mile

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posts in the dark firestorms.

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He raced entire families
outrun on the rails.

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Old storiers cloaked the
shame, creation turns and rage

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against misery.

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Black mercy, foot men in the
lounge, mockery by chance

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or godsend on the night
train, Antwerp to Amsterdam.

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Ceremony and memory tormented
by the station's brake of light.

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My shouts, slight tributes,
sentiments of resistance

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almost lost on the cloudy cold
coasts of the Second World War.

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Blue portraits, dark
eyes, weary children

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forsaken by the seasons
in their winter coats,

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silent nations rushed past the
meadows, festivals, Mitzvah,

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secular unions.

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Sole relatives reflected night
after night on the dirty train

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windows, vanishing in the
light at the stations.

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Family traces beholden
and imagined on the glass

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by a jeweler in a
mighty choir of memory,

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forever in motion on
the train to Amsterdam.

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