Butterflies, they say, are free

...so here are three of them, courtesy of Mrs. RWP:

If you think they are female and you are of a certain age, you might name them Patty, Maxene, and LaVerne after the Andrews Sisters singing group of the 1940s, or you might name them Phyllis, Chris, and Dottie after the McGuire Sisters singing group of the 1950s and 1960s. But they could be male (the butterflies I mean, not the Andrews Sisters or the McGuire Sisters), in which case you might name them Manny, Moe, and Jack after the guys who own 803 Pep Boys automotive supply stores with 7000 bays in 35 states and Puerto Rico, or you might name them Frank, Dean, and Sammy after the best-known members of the Rat Pack. And if you are of a certain age and/or frame of mind you may never have heard of the Andrews Sisters, the McGuire Sisters, the Pep Boys, or the Rat Pack and furthermore it has never occurred to you to care whether butterflies drawn on paper are female or male.

Whatever floats your boat.

Butterflies usually make everyone happy, but sometimes they make me sad when I think of I Never Saw Another Butterfly, a collection of works of art and poetry by Jewish children who lived in the German concentration camp Theresienstadt during World War II. The book is named after a line in a poem by Pavel Friedman, a young man who was sent to Theresienstadt and was later killed at Auschwitz.

You can read Pavel Friedman's poem "The Butterfly" here.

I Never Saw Another Butterfly

All this posting and blogging and thinking makes one weary.
In need of a good nap. Ready to chuck the whole shebang.

But every once in a while, through all the blog surfing and speed-reading and taking in and digesting of information, one runs across a thought or idea that brings one up short.

I found one of those today on Jim Murdoch’s blog in a post about truth and beauty and ugly poetry:


“To write a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric.”


So said German philosopher Theodor W. Adorno (1903 - 1969).

I think he was wrong.

One might as well say that to write a poem after September 11, 2001, or after George W. Bush’s or Barack Obama’s presidency, or after Tony Blair’s or Gordon Brown’s or David Cameron’s tenure as prime minister, is barbaric. I mean, life goes on.

Man’s inhumanity to man is very real. There have always been victims, but fortunately there have always been survivors also whose duty it is to record accurately what happened to help us prevent such things from ever happening again.

Life does go on.

It must.

Not to write a poem after Auschwitz, that is what would be truly barbaric.

I want to leave you with Pavel Friedman. (The text is from Wikipedia)

Pavel Friedman (January 7, 1921 – September 29, 1944) was a Jewish Czechoslovak poet who received posthumous fame for his poem “The Butterfly.” Friedman was born in Prague and deported to Theresienstadt concentration camp, in the fortress and garrison city of Terezín, located in what is now the Czech Republic. He wrote a poem “The Butterfly” on a piece of thin copy paper which was discovered after liberation and later donated to the State Jewish Museum.

Little is known of Friedman’s life prior to his incarceration at
the Theresienstadt concentration camp, where his arrival was recorded on April 26, 1942. More than two years later, on September 29, 1944, he was deported to Auschwitz, where he died.

The text of “The Butterfly” was discovered at Thereisenstadt after the ghetto was liberated. It has been included in collections of children’s literature from the Holocaust era, most notably the anthology I Never Saw Another Butterfly, first published by Hana Volavková and Jiří Weil in 1959, although Friedman was 21 years old when the poem was composed. The poem also inspired the Butterfly Project of the Holocaust Museum Houston, an exhibition where 1.5 million paper butterflies were created to symbolize the same number of children that perished in the Holocaust.


The Butterfly
by Pavel Friedman

The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun’s tears would sing
.....against a white stone....

Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly ’way up high.
It went away I’m sure because it wished to
.....kiss the world good-bye.

For seven weeks I’ve lived in here,
Penned up inside this ghetto.
But I have found what I love here.
The dandelions call to me
And the white chestnut branches in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.

That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here,
.....in the ghetto.