Night - Poem

[Ranokoa]

Small explanation (relatively) If you want to skip the story behind what explains my mentality to further understand the poem itself, I suggest you skip till you see yellow and the actual poem. I do suggest, however, you read the first 2 or 3 paragraphs as they explain the book that inspired the poem. The rest explains the mind that wrote the poem.

 

There is a rather small, but glorious, book called Night, by Elie Weisel, about the Holocaust and his personal experiences during. He tells of how he was ripped from the life her new, his town in Transylvania (Now Romania) was turned into a ghetto and how no one expected the Germans would ever get that far south. Deportations and horrible treatment starts, and then he is sent to Auschwitz at the age of 14, with his father, who is over 50 I believe. Before being put on record they were warned to "be" 18 and 40 respectively.

 

Throughout his time there he becomes one of the stereotypical Jews put in the camps. IE: Starved, depraved, beaten, and when liberated (That's not spoiling it, he had to be alive to write the book) he was barely a shell of a skeleton with skin.

 

The book is barely half a foot long and less than that wide, and about 109 pages long to my remembrance. It is a very short read, although I suggest you DO read it (even on free E book if it is available -and legal-) I also suggest reading it slowly. This is the kind of book you need to digest for the most enjoyment. To cynical people like me you will find a few areas very funny. And in all due respect most are intended to be in a manner, such as an uncomfortable humorous moment to break the monotony of torment. (Mainly, to cynical people, you will be able to put behind emotional responses from previous readings to appreciate the humor-like value) Others will more than likely cry several times before even finishing the book.

 

Although I can be poetic and am a very creative person I do not practice the expression of poetry very often at all. I am a lock-hearted, closed minded (not in the intolerant sense) quite emotionally numb type of person, and absolutely NOT an emo. GOD I can't stand that. Being the above description and not the indicated thing that I am not is just how I was raised, and it has taken roots. I don't boohoo at anything, I don't cry, and I do not cut any part of my body and emotional pain is only minimal unless drastic events occur. I also have a high tolerance for physical pain, to which I found out quite a few years ago, is genetic. (Although much more prominent with my cousins) The reason I describe all this is for further understanding to my mentality for further understanding to the poem itself.

 

I wrote this poem quite a while ago, when I was in Highschool, as an assignment to the book Night, which just happened to be the book I picked up to pass the time. I didn't quite have an attitude that was great about highschool, which I found out is almost genetic too. *laugh*. In the sense that if I find something below my intelligence, especially drastically, like schooling, I will put forth minimal effort despite the fact that I do, in fact, know everything that they throw at me. (My family is blessed with pretty intelligent people. Genetic more than likely as I was absolutely not raised the same way the others were. I was more or less self taught through purely being an epistemic, while it was cultured into others) I do regret, however, this mentality. By the time I had finished highschool I could have been long into college, but that's a different story.

 

Anyways, so the teacher was basically in the "Do something at least!!!!!!" mood about me and just made a class assignment surrounding the book I was reading. Mostly because I was the only one who ever read books in that class.. or school... or read at all.. Oh ya, because I didn't do anything, I was transfered to a continuation school. The only hopes of me graduating. My diploma looks as ghetto as the school and the house Elie Weisel lived.. >_< lol. So it was a small class with little guidelines. Somehow a conversation was sparked about how they thought that I didn't have the creativity to even rhyme let alone write the poem, but to try to be serious nonetheless. Other students showed their reasons for being in the school, which was vastly different to my own. They were simply retarded. Or.. almost, at least. Stupid, ignorant and uneducated definitely, while I was just naïve and arrogant. So a bet was made and the timeline was 5 minutes. (I type fast, and think fast, and, at the time, my head was much more clear than it is now where my insomnia has taken a toll and a turn for the worse which prevents the smart brain cells from doing anything that the stupid ones don't destroy... Grrr.)

 

And here is what turned up. I'd say it was a good year before even a small poem was written before this, and before that a good 4 years. Before that, who knows. I have an unpursue talent for writing.

 

The Poem:

Shadows surrounding, shadows cast.

The day is at end, the life listless without stir.

Redemption. Death. Melancholy.

 

Once, long ago, in a far away place,

There was a boy, a boy with a soul.

Happy as can be, despite his hated race.

Eager to help, eager to learn his role.

A normal fourteen year old boy,

Innocent, ignorant, naϊve; perfect.

What can take away such a wonderful joy;

Empty his heart and throw him into the void?

 

The day is bright, the sun is shining,

People living as they normally do.

Then comes the dusk, the horizon starts a golden-red lining,

And suddenly it's wrong to be a Jew.

Restrictions and quotas are set up,

Roll calls and curfews to follow.

Life is changing, but for the most part not disrupt;

Things are different, but the heart is not hollow.

 

The darkness protrudes, the light begins to end;

No one is outside, the town becomes silent.

The rules have changed, the masters have a message to send.

Stay inside, be wary, avoid the violent.

Living is a chore, the joy is slowly dispersing.

Monotony is gone, there is no doubt.

Our world is different, our world is fading.

Yet we remain silent, accepting without a single shout.

 

The trains, the deportations, the barbed wire and death,

All are worsening, all are lethal.

We are illegal, it is wrong to even have breath.

Why must it be so? The fires of our flesh help the world to heal.

I look as a monster, a heathen; my soul is filled with dread.

I have yet to do a single wrong, yet my life is not right.

Soon my people will cease, we will all be dead.

The daylight is gone, our time is to end in the night.

 

~By Ranokoa, inspired by Elie Weisel's [Night].

 

Forgive any cliché, I type fast, yes, but I still didn't exactly have all the time in the world to correct any clichés and make it.. well.. not cliché.

 

I just recently found the only surviving hard copy of the poem and decided to type it up on Notepad and save it. Why? To kill time. Didn't kill enough of it... So I typed this thread! :D This is the reason for my posting this. Also to encourage people t read that book. It really is pretty good for as short as it is.

 

Kudos if you like it. Or not. I don't care. Unless you do like it, then I care. But if me caring makes you not like it even though you previously did then I no longer care about you, so hopefully you'll like it again and I'll care, which will force me to not care about you again as you'll stop caring as soon as I care, so I'll stop caring about you until *Bullet to brain - Big circle*

 

Be well, sleep well, fight well, live long.

~Ranokoa

 

Also with this typed I can get rid of my signature later on today when I wake up many hours from now (because it takes hours just to fall asleep)

[Ranokoa]

This still didn't kill enough time...

 

ZOMG!!! My "Poker After Dark" didn't record! BLAST YOU DIRECT TV AND NEVER FIXING OUR DARNEDIFULL DVR!!!

[Keanumoreira]

What a sad poem... :(

 

I do like it though, it's one of those moments when you can tell yourself to shut up and listen/read at what your looking at.

[Ranokoa]

Thank you for the comment! :D Glad to know even quickies can turn out somewhat good.

[Rheyne]

Why must it be so? The fires of our flesh help the world to heal.

I look as a monster, a heathen; my soul is filled with dread.

I have yet to do a single wrong, yet my life is not right.

 

Lovely :)

[species5478]

What a magnetic piece...I read it, and was drawn back for a second read.