“To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric. And this

corrodes even the knowledge of why it has become

impossible to write poetry today.”

                                                                        -Theodor Adorno

Follow me,

from fields of white Asphodels,

to Tainaron’s gate,

now open like Hades’ heart.

Hopeless darkness,

fires at our heels,

the brass walls of hell sweat

bullets when we flee,

Me from you, you,

my Eurydice


And if all my love could not turn back

to see such beauty, then I am ghost,

I breathe the airs of hell.

Turn back, turn back, I wish to see

the beauty of Eurydice.


No longer can I write poetry

for all my loss

has stopped my hand just inches from the

parchment. And the songs,

once played for all,

have been lined up, and

damned, one by one,

to the pits


With all my heart I plead

To take back Eurydice.


No Virgil can help my art start bleeding

from the lands I’ve once known so dear,

Mount Helicon’s foot.

In that hell where ash rained

like sand in time,

I try to free myself

from Eurydice.


by Nicholas McCarthy

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