The crowning experience of all, for the homecoming man, is the wonderful feeling that, after all he has suffered, there is nothing he need fear any more — except his God. — Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
Poetry is a sort of homecoming. — Paul Celan
across the field, I run, my face ploughed
an escape artist with words celled in blood
waiting to bleed black milk for me
thoughts like screams caged inside the bullet
run through Mother’s skull
when Her work was not enough
not good enough to quell
the devil’s mockery
I run across the field, mourning
run on he tells me
once tender, sweet white milk
reading me German folk tales
Love, an altar, that highest goal
lofty and tender, reading folk tales
on the hearth
on the hearth: a death fugue
She will die. Live again.
On the Seine.
on the Seine: a death fugue
silences Renoir’s guinguette.
Live again, so I may
I fear nothing, suffering chooses
its end, no ram will drown for me
I fear my God, I fear my God’s
a distance too far away, now,
too far to quell the mockery
run through my Mother’s
black milk my pen sips.
… this striving for to find a meaning in one’s life is the primary motivational force in man. — Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning