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#jew
an all purpose cleaner response to the how-ya-doing-question, as my vibe unmistakable; the hatred in the world directed at MY PEOPLE, is inexplicable, beyond reason, a hatred raw and pure in the tiny places we humans hide it, lest our ancient linkage to an unreasoned, embarrassing emotion, be revealed but now revealed it is reveled, as the freedom to despise is a valued thing is an ancient scar, now freshly wounded and the two thousand year old accumulated, callused, surrounding wafer thin, layered upon layer of tissue, wiped away in utter disbelief cleansed, a different kind of impure clean, “like” an ethnic cleansing, traceless, whisked away in a wink of moment, a goner. like hope, prior sentient optimism sentenced to life imprisonment and this sentence, and this very sentence! written finally understanding that it is a punishment far worse than the quick relief of death. c’mon, how about a few “fukk you jew” cri de coeur, heartfelt, genuine, pointless hate no, not I, no, not me, spare me the pithy comments, the pointless sympathy, glistening like evaporating water droplets before disappearing, I ask myself, not why they hate, why it persists, for this I understand and accept the foulness of what we are capable of is, beloved, as a secret pleasure, now secreted in torrents. no, I ask myself, why do I write poetry, for it is as pointless as the hatred directed at me, from birth, till death, and ever after, the humanity of poetry just another fraud another reason why this man cries in the bathroom,^ not from any shape of shame, because poetry is pointless in times of hatred, and now we know, recognize, it is always somewhere, nearby, always present and prescient, pointless hatred, itching to be pointed at me, makes for pointless poetry. To whom shall I point my poetry?
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Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 2:08 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
“raggedy^ around the edges” (jew hatred, pointless poetry)
an all purpose cleaner response to the how-ya-doing-question, as my vibe unmistakable; the hatred in the world directed at MY PEOPLE, is inexplicable, beyond reason, a hatred raw and pure in the tiny places we humans hide it, lest our ancient linkage to an unreasoned, embarrassing emotion, be revealed but now revealed it is reveled, as the freedom to despise is a valued thing is an ancient scar, now freshly wounded and the two thousand year old accumulated, callused, surrounding wafer thin, layered upon layer of tissue, wiped away in utter disbelief cleansed, a different kind of impure clean, “like” an ethnic cleansing, traceless, whisked away in a wink of moment, a goner. like hope, prior sentient optimism sentenced to life imprisonment and this sentence, and this very sentence! written finally understanding that it is a punishment far worse than the quick relief of death. c’mon, how about a few “fukk you jew” cri de coeur, heartfelt, genuine, pointless hate no, not I, no, not me, spare me the pithy comments, the pointless sympathy, glistening like evaporating water droplets before disappearing, I ask myself, not why they hate, why it persists, for this I understand and accept the foulness of what we are capable of is, beloved, as a secret pleasure, now secreted in torrents. no, I ask myself, why do I write poetry, for it is as pointless as the hatred directed at me, from birth, till death, and ever after, the humanity of poetry just another fraud another reason why this man cries in the bathroom,^ not from any shape of shame, because poetry is pointless in times of hatred, and now we know, recognize, it is always somewhere, nearby, always present and prescient, pointless hatred, itching to be pointed at me, makes for pointless poetry. To whom shall I point my poetry?
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65
Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein” by Michael R. Burch for Trump I went to Berlin to learn wisdom from Adolph. The wild spittle flew as he screamed at me, with great conviction: “Please despise me! I look like a Jew!” So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom from tall Yankees who cursed “yellow” foes. “If we lose this small square,” they informed me, earth’s nations will fall, dominoes!” I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom, but his Book, from its genesis to close, said: “Men can enslave their own brothers!” (I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.) So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv where great scholars with lofty IQs informed me that (since I’m an Arab) I’m unfit to lick dirt from their shoes. At last, done with learning, I stumbled to a well where the waters seemed sweet: the mirage of American “justice.” There I wept a real sea, in defeat. Originally published by Café Dissensus Keywords/Tags: Einstein, Adolph, ****** Berlin, Jew, Jews, Arab, Arabs, Palestinian, Palestinians, Vietnam, Vietnamese, American, Americans, Yankees, Domino, Theory, Dominoes, Jesus, Christ, Bible, Christian, Christianity, Slave, Slaves, Slavery, Israel, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv
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Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 4:11 AM UTC
michael-r-burch
Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein”
Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein” by Michael R. Burch for Trump I went to Berlin to learn wisdom from Adolph. The wild spittle flew as he screamed at me, with great conviction: “Please despise me! I look like a Jew!” So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom from tall Yankees who cursed “yellow” foes. “If we lose this small square,” they informed me, earth’s nations will fall, dominoes!” I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom, but his Book, from its genesis to close, said: “Men can enslave their own brothers!” (I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.) So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv where great scholars with lofty IQs informed me that (since I’m an Arab) I’m unfit to lick dirt from their shoes. At last, done with learning, I stumbled to a well where the waters seemed sweet: the mirage of American “justice.” There I wept a real sea, in defeat. Originally published by Café Dissensus Keywords/Tags: Einstein, Adolph, ****** Berlin, Jew, Jews, Arab, Arabs, Palestinian, Palestinians, Vietnam, Vietnamese, American, Americans, Yankees, Domino, Theory, Dominoes, Jesus, Christ, Bible, Christian, Christianity, Slave, Slaves, Slavery, Israel, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv
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the jew in you, something you long suspected, or long lamented. too bad, the absence of this moniker if it   ain’t applicable directly to your sorry *** after all who doesn’t want to be among the ch-ch-chosen peeps? this blessing in disguise, it’s very special to be hated by almost, everyone. hatred,, the great equalizer, highlighting your choicest features race, gender, roman nose, etc., etc., etc. but like the song said, though somebody may hate unlucky you, everybody, no exceptions, hates the jews. everyone knows the jews own the banks. everybody hates the banks who leave you on hold, leaving you, wondering why, they won’t give you back at the ATM, the good money you lent them, so you must be minimum 10% shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or whaat! why? yup, your deposit is a liability on their books, (they owe it back to you) so you too are a moneylender, congrats! welcome to the club, the club of being a liability. we jews travel around the world, chased out from almost everywhere. so we invented the around-world-cruise, and the world gave us steerage class to remind us, even the jew in you, that’s OUR special place. postscript: (All) Jewish Lives Matter! Oy! (don’t get me started...)
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Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 12:32 PM UTC
ogdiddynash
The Jew in You
the jew in you, something you long suspected, or long lamented. too bad, the absence of this moniker if it   ain’t applicable directly to your sorry *** after all who doesn’t want to be among the ch-ch-chosen peeps? this blessing in disguise, it’s very special to be hated by almost, everyone. hatred,, the great equalizer, highlighting your choicest features race, gender, roman nose, etc., etc., etc. but like the song said, though somebody may hate unlucky you, everybody, no exceptions, hates the jews. everyone knows the jews own the banks. everybody hates the banks who leave you on hold, leaving you, wondering why, they won’t give you back at the ATM, the good money you lent them, so you must be minimum 10% shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or whaat! why? yup, your deposit is a liability on their books, (they owe it back to you) so you too are a moneylender, congrats! welcome to the club, the club of being a liability. we jews travel around the world, chased out from almost everywhere. so we invented the around-world-cruise, and the world gave us steerage class to remind us, even the jew in you, that’s OUR special place. postscript: (All) Jewish Lives Matter! Oy! (don’t get me started...)
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Miklos Radnoti [1909-1944], a Hungarian Jew and a fierce anti-fascist, is perhaps the greatest of the Holocaust poets. His often-harrowing bio appears after his poems. The "postcard" poems were written on a death march that ended with him being executed and buried in a mass grave. Postcard 1 by Miklós Radnóti, written August 30, 1944 translation by Michael R. Burch Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders, resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase; the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops; and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos, glowing within my conscience—incandescent, intense. Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever— still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree. Postcard 2 by Miklós Radnóti, written October 6, 1944 near Crvenka, Serbia translation by Michael R. Burch A few miles away they're incinerating the haystacks and the houses, while squatting here on the fringe of this pleasant meadow, the shell-shocked peasants sit quietly smoking their pipes. Now, here, stepping into this still pond, the little shepherd girl sets the silver water a-ripple while, leaning over to drink, her flocculent sheep seem to swim like drifting clouds. Postcard 3 by Miklós Radnóti, written October 24, 1944 near Mohács, Hungary translation by Michael R. Burch The oxen dribble ****** spittle; the men pass blood in their **** Our stinking regiment halts, a horde of perspiring savages, adding our aroma to death's repulsive stench. Published: “Postcard 4” was published by Poetry Super Highway in 2019 as part of their 21st Annual Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) Poetry Issue Postcard 4 by Miklós Radnóti, his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary translation by Michael R. Burch I toppled beside him—his body already taut, tight as a string just before it snaps, shot in the back of the head. "This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here," I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread. "Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered; I could only dimly hear through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear. Translator's note: "Der springt noch auf" means something like "That one is still twitching." Letter to My Wife by Miklós Radnóti translated by Michael R. Burch This is a poem written during the Holocaust in Lager Heidenau, in the mountains above Zagubica, August-September, 1944 Deep down in the darkness hell awaits—silent, mute. Silence screams in my ears, so I shout, but no one hears or answers, wherever they are; while sad Serbia, astounded by war, and you are so far, so incredibly distant. Still my heart encounters yours in my dreams and by day I hear yours sound in my heart again; and so I am still, even as the great mountain ferns slowly stir and murmur around me, coldly surrounding me. When will I see you? How can I know? You who were calm and weighty as a Psalm, beautiful as a shadow, more beautiful than light, the One I could always find, whether deaf, mute, blind, lie hidden now by this landscape; yet from within you flash on my sight like flickering images on film. You once seemed real but now have become a dream; you have tumbled back into the well of teenage fantasy. I jealously question whether you'll ever adore me; whether—speak!— from youth's highest peak you will yet be my wife. I become hopeful again, as I awaken on this road where I formerly had fallen. I know now that you are my wife, my friend, my peer— but, alas, so far! Beyond these three wild frontiers, fall returns. Will you then depart me? Yet the memory of our kisses remains clear. Now sunshine and miracles seem disconnected things. Above me I see a bomber squadron's wings. Skies that once matched your eyes' blue sheen have clouded over, and in each infernal machine the bombs writhe with their lust to dive. Despite them, somehow I remain alive. Miklós Radnóti [1909-1944], a Hungarian Jew and a fierce anti-fascist, is perhaps the greatest of the Holocaust poets. He was born in Budapest in 1909. In 1930, at the age of 21, he published his first collection of poems, Pogány köszönto (Pagan Salute). His next book, Újmódi pásztorok éneke (Modern Shepherd's Song) was confiscated on grounds of "indecency," earning him a light jail sentence. In 1931 he spent two months in Paris, where he visited the "Exposition coloniale" and began translating African poems and folk tales into Hungarian. In 1934 he obtained his Ph.D. in Hungarian literature. The following year he married Fanni (Fifi) Gyarmati; they settled in Budapest. His book Járkálj csa, halálraítélt! (Walk On, Condemned!) won the prestigious Baumgarten Prize in 1937. Also in 1937 he wrote his Cartes Postales (Postcards from France), which were precurors to his darker images of war, Razglednicas (Picture Postcards). During World War II, Radnóti published translations of Virgil, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Eluard, Apollinare and Blaise Cendras in Orpheus nyomában. From 1940 on, he was forced to serve on forced labor battalions, at times arming and disarming explosives on the Ukrainian front. In 1944 he was deported to a compulsory labor camp near Bor, Yugoslavia. As the Nazis retreated from the approaching Russian army, the Bor concentration camp was evacuated and its internees were led on a forced march through Yugoslavia and Hungary. During what became his death march, Radnóti recorded poetic images of what he saw and experienced. After writing his fourth and final "Postcard," Radnóti was badly beaten by a soldier annoyed by his scribblings. Soon thereafter, the weakened poet was shot to death, on November 9, 1944, along with 21 other prisoners who unable to walk. Their mass grave was exhumed after the war and Radnóti's poems were found on his body by his wife, inscribed in pencil in a small Serbian exercise book. Radnóti's posthumous collection, Tajtékos ég (Clouded Sky, or Foaming Sky) contains odes to his wife, letters, poetic fragments and his final Postcards. Unlike his murderers, Miklós Radnóti never lost his humanity, and his empathy continues to live on and shine through his work. Keywords/Tags: Miklos Radnoti, Holocaust poet, Hungary, Hungarian Jew, anti-fascist, translation, mrbholo Death Fugue by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance! Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany... “Your golden hair Margarete... your ashen hair Shulamith...” O, Little Root of a Dream by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O, little root of a dream you enmire me here; I’m undermined by blood― made invisible, death's possession. Touch the curve of my face, that there may yet be an earthly language of ardor, that someone else’s eyes may somehow still see me, though I’m blind, here where you deny me voice. You Were My Death by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You were my death; I could hold you when everything abandoned me― even breath. Primo Levi Holocaust Poem Translations Shema by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You who live secure in your comfortable homes, who return each evening to find warm food and welcoming faces... Consider: is this a 'man' who slogs through the mud, who knows no peace, who fights for crusts of bread, who dies at another man's whim, at his 'yes' or his 'no.' Consider: is this is a 'woman' bald and bereft of a name because she lacks the strength to remember, her eyes as void and her womb as frigid as a winter frog's. Consider that such horrors have indeed been! I commend these words to you. Engrave them in your hearts when you lounge in your beds and again when you rise, when you venture outside. Repeat them to your children, or may your houses crumble and disease render you helpless so that even your offspring avert their eyes. Buna by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Mangled feet, cursed earth, the long interminable line in the gray morning as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys... Another gray day like every other day awaits us. The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn: 'Rise, wretched multitudes, with your lifeless faces, welcome the monotonous hell of the mud... another day's suffering has begun! ' Weary companion, I know you well. I see your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend. In your breast you bear the burden of cold, deprivation, emptiness. Life long ago broke what remained of the courage within you. Colorless one, you once were a real man; a considerable woman once accompanied you. But now, my invisible companion, you lack even a name. So forsaken, you are unable to weep. So poor in spirit, you can no longer grieve. So tired, your flesh can no longer shiver with fear... My once-strong man, now spent, were we to meet again in some other world, beneath some sunnier sun, with what unfamiliar faces would we recognize each other? Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp, with around 40,000 'workers' who had been enslaved by the Nazis. Primo Levi called the Jews of Buna the 'slaves of slaves' because the other slaves outranked them. Ber Horowitz Holocaust Poetry Translations Der Himmel 'The Heavens' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch These skies are leaden, heavy, gray... I long for a pair of deep blue eyes. The birds have fled far overseas; Tomorrow I'll migrate too, I said... These gloomy autumn days it rains and rains. Woe to the bird Who remains... Doctorn 'Doctors' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Early this morning I bandaged the lilac tree outside my house; I took thin branches that had broken away and patched their wounds with clay. My mother stood there watering her window-level flower bed; The morning sun, quite motherly, kissed us both on our heads! What a joy, my child, to heal! Finished doctoring, or not? The eggs are nicely poached And the milk's a-boil in the *** Broit 'Bread' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why? On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie. Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor, the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore. At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom: 'Mommy, I'm afraid! Let's go home! ' His mother, reawakened into this frightful place, presses her frightened child even closer to her breast … 'If you cry, I'll leave you here, all alone! A little boy must sleep... this, now, is our new home.' Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around, exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground. 'My Lament' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nothingness enveloped me as tender green toadstools lie blanketed by snow with its thick, heavy prayer shawl … After that, nothing could hurt me … Wladyslaw Szlengel Holocaust Poem Translation Excerpts from 'A Page from the Deportation Diary' by Wladyslaw Szlengel translation by Michael R. Burch I saw Janusz Korczak walking today, leading the children, at the head of the line. They were dressed in their best clothes—immaculate, if gray. Some say the weather wasn't dismal, but fine. They were in their best jumpers and laughing (not loud) , but if they'd been soiled, tell me—who could complain? They walked like calm heroes through the haunted crowd, five by five, in a whipping rain. The pallid, the trembling, watched high overhead, through barely cracked windows—pale, transfixed with dread. And now and then, from the high, tolling bell a strange moan escaped, like a sea gull's torn cry. Their 'superiors' looked on, their eyes hard as stone. So let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. Footfall... then silence... the cadence of feet... O, who can console them, their last mile so drear? The church bells peal on, over shocked Leszno Street. Will Jesus Christ save them? The high bells career. No, God will not save them. Nor you, friend, nor I. But let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. No one will offer the price of their freedom. No one will proffer a single word. His eyes hard as gavels, the silent policeman agrees with the priest and his terrible Lord: 'Give them the Sword! ' At the town square there is no intervention. No one tugs Schmerling's sleeve. No one cries 'Rescue the children! ' The air, thick with tension, reeks with the odor of ***** and lies. How calmly he walks, with a child in each arm: Gut Doktor Korczak, please keep them from harm! A fool rushes up with a reprieve in hand: 'Look Janusz Korczak—please look, you've been spared! ' No use for that. One resolute man, uncomprehending that no one else cared enough to defend them, his choice is to end with them. Ninety-Three Daughters of Israel a Holocaust poem by Chaya Feldman loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We washed our bodies and cleansed ourselves; we purified our souls and became clean. Death does not terrify us; we are ready to confront him. While alive we served God and now we can best serve our people by refusing to be taken prisoner. We have made a covenant of the heart, all ninety-three of us; together we lived and learned, and now together we choose to depart. The hour is upon us as I write these words; there is barely enough time to transcribe this prayer... Brethren, wherever you may be, honor the Torah we lived by and the Psalms we loved. Read them for us, as well as for yourselves, and someday when the Beast has devoured his last prey, we hope someone will say Kaddish for us: we ninety-three daughters of Israel. Amen In 1943 Meir Shenkolevsky, the secretary of the world Bais Yaakov movement and a member of the Central Committee of Agudas Israel in New York, received a letter from Chaya Feldman: 'I don't know when you will get this letter and if you still will remember me. When this letter arrives, I will no longer be alive. In a few hours, everything will be past. We are here in four rooms,93 girls ages 14 to 22, all of us Bais Yaakov teachers. On July 27, Gestapo agents came, took us out of our apartment and threw us into a dark room. We only have water to drink. The younger girls are very frightened, but I comfort them that in a short while, we will be together with our mother Sara [Sara Shnirer, the founder of the Bais Yaakov Seminary]. Yesterday they took us out, washed us and took all our clothes. They left us only shirts and said that today, German soldiers will come to visit us. We all swore to ourselves that we will die together. The Germans don't know that the bath they gave us was the immersion before our deaths: we all prepared poison. When the soldiers come, we will drink the poison. We are all saying Viduy throughout the day. We are not afraid of anything. We only have one request from you: Say Kaddish for 93 bnos Yisroel! Soon we will be with our mother Sara. Signed, Chaya Feldman from Cracow.' Miryam Ulinover Holocaust Poetry Translations Girl Without Soap by Miryam Ulinover loose translation by Michael R. Burch As I sat so desolate, threadbare with poverty, the inspiration came to me to make a song of my need! My blouse is heavy with worries, so now it's time to wash: the weave's become dull yellow close to my breast. It wrings my brain with old worries and presses it down like a canker. If only some kind storekeeper would give me detergent on credit! But no, he did not give it! Instead, he was stiffer than starch! Despite my dark, beautiful eyes he remained aloof and arch. I am estranged from fresh white wash; my laundry's gone gray with old dirt; but my body still longs to sing the song of a clean and fresh white shirt. Meydl on Kam Girl Without Comb by Miryam Ullinover loose translation by Michael R. Burch The note preceding the poem: 'Sitting where the night makes its nest are my songs like boarders, awaiting flight's quests.' The teeth of the comb are broken A comb is necessary―more necessary than bread. O, who will come to comb my braid, or empty the gray space occupying my head? Note: the second verse of 'Meydl on Kam' is mostly unreadable and the last two lines are missing. After that, nothing could hurt me … Yitzkhak Viner Holocaust Poem Translations Let it be Quiet in my Room! by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch Let it be quiet in my room! Let me hear the birds outside singing, And let their innocent trilling Lull away my heart's interior gloom… Listen, outside, drayman's horse and cart, If you scare the birds away, You will wake me from my dream-play And wring the last drop of joy from my heart… Don't cough mother! Father, no words! It'd be a shame to spoil the calm And silence the sweet-sounding balm of the well-fed little birds… Hush, little sisters and brothers! Be strong! Don't weep and cry for drink and food; Try to remember in silence the good. Please do not disturb my weaving of songs… My Childhood by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch In the years of my childhood, in Balut's yards, Living with my parents in an impoverished day, I remember my hunger; with my friends I would play And bake loaves of bread out of muddy clay… By baking mud-breads, we dreamed away hunger: the closest and worst of the visitors kids know; so passed the summer's heat through the gutters, so winters passed with their freezing snow. Outside today all is gray, sunk in snow, Though the roofs and the gate are silvered and white. I lie on a bed warmed now only by rags and look through grim windows brightened by ice. Father left early to try to find work; In an unlit room I and my mother stay. It's cold, we're hungry, we have nothing to eat: How I lust to bake one tiny bread-loaf of clay… Balut (Baluty) was a poor Jewish suburb of Lodz, Poland which became a segregated ghetto under the Nazis. It Is Good to Have Two Eyes by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch I. It is good to have two eyes. Anything I want, they can see: Boats, trains, horses and cars, everything around me. But sometimes I just want to see Someone's laughter, sweet… Instead I see his corpse outstretched, Lying in the street… When I want to see his laughter his eyes are closed forever… II. It is good to have two ears. Anything I want, they can hear: Songs, plays, concerts, kind words, Street cars, bells, anything near. I want to hear kids' voices sing, but my ears only hear the shrill cries and fear of two children watching a man as he dies… When I long for a youthful song I hear children weeping hard and long… III. It is good to have two hands. Every year I can till the land. Banging iron night and day Fashions wheels to plow the clay… But now wheels are silent and still And people's hands are obsolete; The houses grow cold and dark As hands dig a grave in defeat… Still it is good to have two hands: I write poems in which the truth still stands. After My Death by Chaim Nachman Bialik translation by Michael R. Burch Say this when you eulogize me: Here was a man — now, **** he's gone! He died before his time. The music of his life suddenly ground to a halt.. Such a pity! There was another song in him, somewhere, But now it's lost, forever. What a pity! He had a violin, a living, voluble soul to which he uttered the secrets of his heart, setting its strings vibrating, save the one he kept inviolate. Back and forth his supple fingers danced; one string alone remained mesmerized, yet unheard. Such a pity! All his life the string quivered, quavering silently, yearning for its song, its mate, as a heart saddens before its departure. Despite constant delays it waited daily, mutely beseeching its savior, Love, who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly and never came. Great is the pain! There was a man — now, **** he is no more! The music of his life suddenly interrupted. There was another song in him But now it is lost forever. Chaim Nachman Bialik Holocaust Poem Translations On The Slaughter by Chaim Nachman Bialik translation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue, my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has been crushed, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here's my neck— rise up now, and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me though we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner! , my blood's a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain down upon your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I've been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your cruel injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries 'Avenge! ' on a maiden; such vengeance was never contemplated even by Satan. Let innocents' blood drench the abyss! Let innocents' blood seep down into the depths of darkness, eat it away and undermine the rotting foundations of earth. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Hear, O Israel! by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch When we were the oppressed, I was one with you, but how can we remain one now that you have become the oppressor? Your desire was to become powerful, like the nations who murdered you; now you have, indeed, become like them. You have outlived those who abused you; so why does their cruelty possess you now? You also commanded your victims: 'Remove your shoes! ' Like the scapegoat, you drove them into the wilderness, into the great mosque of death with its burning sands. But they would not confess the sin you longed to impute to them: the imprint of their naked feet in the desert sand will outlast the silhouettes of your bombs and tanks. So hear, O Israel … hear the whimpers of your victims echoing your ancient sufferings … 'Hear, O Israel! ' was written in 1967, after the Six Day War. What It Is by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch It is nonsense says reason. It is what it is says Love. It is a dangerous says discretion. It is terrifying says fear. It is hopeless says insight. It is what it is says Love. It is ludicrous says pride. It is reckless says caution. It is impractical says experience. It is what it is says Love. An Attempt by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch I have attempted while working to think only of my work and not of you, but I am encouraged to have been so unsuccessful. Humorless by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch The boys throw stones at the frogs in jest. The frogs die in earnest. Bulldozers by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch Israel's bulldozers have confirmed their kinship to bulldozers in Beirut where the bodies of massacred Palestinians lie buried under the rubble of their former homes. And it has been reported that in the heart of Israel the Memorial Cemetery for the massacred dead of Deir Yassin has been destroyed by bulldozers... 'Not intentional, ' it's said, 'A slight oversight during construction work.' Also the ****** of the people of Sabra and Shatila shall become known only as an oversight in the process of building a great Zionist power. The villagers of Deir Yassin were massacred in 1948 by Israeli Jews operating under the command of future Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin's. The New York Times reported 254 villagers murdered, most of them women, children and elderly men. Later, the village cemetery was destroyed by Israeli bulldozers as Deir Yassin, like hundreds of other Palestinian villages, was destroyed. Sabra and Shatila in Beirut, Lebanon were two Palestinian refugee camps destroyed during Israel's invasion of Lebanon in 1982. It has been estimated that as many as 3,500 people were murdered. In 1982, an International Commission concluded that Israelis were, directly or indirectly, responsible. The Israeli government established the Kahan Commission to investigate the massacre, and found another future Israeli prime minister, Ariel Sharon, personally responsible for having permitted militias to enter the camps despite a risk of violence against the refugees. Since 1967 the Israeli Committee Against Home Demolitions has reported more than 24,000 home demolitions... hence the 'kinship' of the bulldozers of Israel to those used to destroy Palestinian homes in Lebanon. Credo by Saul Tchernichovsky loose translation by Michael R. Burch Laugh at all my silly dreams! Laugh, and I'll repeat anew that I still believe in man, just as I believe in you. By the passion of man's spirit ancient bonds are being shed: for his heart desires freedom as the body does its bread. My noble soul cannot be led to the golden calf of scorn, for I still believe in man, as every child is human-born. Life and love and energy in our hearts will surge and beat, till our hopes bring forth a heaven from the earth beneath our feet.
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Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 8:13 PM UTC
michael-r-burch
Miklos Radnoti translations of Holocaust poems
Miklos Radnoti [1909-1944], a Hungarian Jew and a fierce anti-fascist, is perhaps the greatest of the Holocaust poets. His often-harrowing bio appears after his poems. The "postcard" poems were written on a death march that ended with him being executed and buried in a mass grave. Postcard 1 by Miklós Radnóti, written August 30, 1944 translation by Michael R. Burch Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders, resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase; the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops; and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos, glowing within my conscience—incandescent, intense. Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever— still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree. Postcard 2 by Miklós Radnóti, written October 6, 1944 near Crvenka, Serbia translation by Michael R. Burch A few miles away they're incinerating the haystacks and the houses, while squatting here on the fringe of this pleasant meadow, the shell-shocked peasants sit quietly smoking their pipes. Now, here, stepping into this still pond, the little shepherd girl sets the silver water a-ripple while, leaning over to drink, her flocculent sheep seem to swim like drifting clouds. Postcard 3 by Miklós Radnóti, written October 24, 1944 near Mohács, Hungary translation by Michael R. Burch The oxen dribble ****** spittle; the men pass blood in their **** Our stinking regiment halts, a horde of perspiring savages, adding our aroma to death's repulsive stench. Published: “Postcard 4” was published by Poetry Super Highway in 2019 as part of their 21st Annual Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) Poetry Issue Postcard 4 by Miklós Radnóti, his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary translation by Michael R. Burch I toppled beside him—his body already taut, tight as a string just before it snaps, shot in the back of the head. "This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here," I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread. "Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered; I could only dimly hear through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear. Translator's note: "Der springt noch auf" means something like "That one is still twitching." Letter to My Wife by Miklós Radnóti translated by Michael R. Burch This is a poem written during the Holocaust in Lager Heidenau, in the mountains above Zagubica, August-September, 1944 Deep down in the darkness hell awaits—silent, mute. Silence screams in my ears, so I shout, but no one hears or answers, wherever they are; while sad Serbia, astounded by war, and you are so far, so incredibly distant. Still my heart encounters yours in my dreams and by day I hear yours sound in my heart again; and so I am still, even as the great mountain ferns slowly stir and murmur around me, coldly surrounding me. When will I see you? How can I know? You who were calm and weighty as a Psalm, beautiful as a shadow, more beautiful than light, the One I could always find, whether deaf, mute, blind, lie hidden now by this landscape; yet from within you flash on my sight like flickering images on film. You once seemed real but now have become a dream; you have tumbled back into the well of teenage fantasy. I jealously question whether you'll ever adore me; whether—speak!— from youth's highest peak you will yet be my wife. I become hopeful again, as I awaken on this road where I formerly had fallen. I know now that you are my wife, my friend, my peer— but, alas, so far! Beyond these three wild frontiers, fall returns. Will you then depart me? Yet the memory of our kisses remains clear. Now sunshine and miracles seem disconnected things. Above me I see a bomber squadron's wings. Skies that once matched your eyes' blue sheen have clouded over, and in each infernal machine the bombs writhe with their lust to dive. Despite them, somehow I remain alive. Miklós Radnóti [1909-1944], a Hungarian Jew and a fierce anti-fascist, is perhaps the greatest of the Holocaust poets. He was born in Budapest in 1909. In 1930, at the age of 21, he published his first collection of poems, Pogány köszönto (Pagan Salute). His next book, Újmódi pásztorok éneke (Modern Shepherd's Song) was confiscated on grounds of "indecency," earning him a light jail sentence. In 1931 he spent two months in Paris, where he visited the "Exposition coloniale" and began translating African poems and folk tales into Hungarian. In 1934 he obtained his Ph.D. in Hungarian literature. The following year he married Fanni (Fifi) Gyarmati; they settled in Budapest. His book Járkálj csa, halálraítélt! (Walk On, Condemned!) won the prestigious Baumgarten Prize in 1937. Also in 1937 he wrote his Cartes Postales (Postcards from France), which were precurors to his darker images of war, Razglednicas (Picture Postcards). During World War II, Radnóti published translations of Virgil, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Eluard, Apollinare and Blaise Cendras in Orpheus nyomában. From 1940 on, he was forced to serve on forced labor battalions, at times arming and disarming explosives on the Ukrainian front. In 1944 he was deported to a compulsory labor camp near Bor, Yugoslavia. As the Nazis retreated from the approaching Russian army, the Bor concentration camp was evacuated and its internees were led on a forced march through Yugoslavia and Hungary. During what became his death march, Radnóti recorded poetic images of what he saw and experienced. After writing his fourth and final "Postcard," Radnóti was badly beaten by a soldier annoyed by his scribblings. Soon thereafter, the weakened poet was shot to death, on November 9, 1944, along with 21 other prisoners who unable to walk. Their mass grave was exhumed after the war and Radnóti's poems were found on his body by his wife, inscribed in pencil in a small Serbian exercise book. Radnóti's posthumous collection, Tajtékos ég (Clouded Sky, or Foaming Sky) contains odes to his wife, letters, poetic fragments and his final Postcards. Unlike his murderers, Miklós Radnóti never lost his humanity, and his empathy continues to live on and shine through his work. Keywords/Tags: Miklos Radnoti, Holocaust poet, Hungary, Hungarian Jew, anti-fascist, translation, mrbholo Death Fugue by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance! Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany... “Your golden hair Margarete... your ashen hair Shulamith...” O, Little Root of a Dream by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O, little root of a dream you enmire me here; I’m undermined by blood― made invisible, death's possession. Touch the curve of my face, that there may yet be an earthly language of ardor, that someone else’s eyes may somehow still see me, though I’m blind, here where you deny me voice. You Were My Death by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You were my death; I could hold you when everything abandoned me― even breath. Primo Levi Holocaust Poem Translations Shema by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You who live secure in your comfortable homes, who return each evening to find warm food and welcoming faces... Consider: is this a 'man' who slogs through the mud, who knows no peace, who fights for crusts of bread, who dies at another man's whim, at his 'yes' or his 'no.' Consider: is this is a 'woman' bald and bereft of a name because she lacks the strength to remember, her eyes as void and her womb as frigid as a winter frog's. Consider that such horrors have indeed been! I commend these words to you. Engrave them in your hearts when you lounge in your beds and again when you rise, when you venture outside. Repeat them to your children, or may your houses crumble and disease render you helpless so that even your offspring avert their eyes. Buna by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Mangled feet, cursed earth, the long interminable line in the gray morning as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys... Another gray day like every other day awaits us. The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn: 'Rise, wretched multitudes, with your lifeless faces, welcome the monotonous hell of the mud... another day's suffering has begun! ' Weary companion, I know you well. I see your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend. In your breast you bear the burden of cold, deprivation, emptiness. Life long ago broke what remained of the courage within you. Colorless one, you once were a real man; a considerable woman once accompanied you. But now, my invisible companion, you lack even a name. So forsaken, you are unable to weep. So poor in spirit, you can no longer grieve. So tired, your flesh can no longer shiver with fear... My once-strong man, now spent, were we to meet again in some other world, beneath some sunnier sun, with what unfamiliar faces would we recognize each other? Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp, with around 40,000 'workers' who had been enslaved by the Nazis. Primo Levi called the Jews of Buna the 'slaves of slaves' because the other slaves outranked them. Ber Horowitz Holocaust Poetry Translations Der Himmel 'The Heavens' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch These skies are leaden, heavy, gray... I long for a pair of deep blue eyes. The birds have fled far overseas; Tomorrow I'll migrate too, I said... These gloomy autumn days it rains and rains. Woe to the bird Who remains... Doctorn 'Doctors' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Early this morning I bandaged the lilac tree outside my house; I took thin branches that had broken away and patched their wounds with clay. My mother stood there watering her window-level flower bed; The morning sun, quite motherly, kissed us both on our heads! What a joy, my child, to heal! Finished doctoring, or not? The eggs are nicely poached And the milk's a-boil in the *** Broit 'Bread' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why? On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie. Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor, the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore. At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom: 'Mommy, I'm afraid! Let's go home! ' His mother, reawakened into this frightful place, presses her frightened child even closer to her breast … 'If you cry, I'll leave you here, all alone! A little boy must sleep... this, now, is our new home.' Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around, exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground. 'My Lament' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nothingness enveloped me as tender green toadstools lie blanketed by snow with its thick, heavy prayer shawl … After that, nothing could hurt me … Wladyslaw Szlengel Holocaust Poem Translation Excerpts from 'A Page from the Deportation Diary' by Wladyslaw Szlengel translation by Michael R. Burch I saw Janusz Korczak walking today, leading the children, at the head of the line. They were dressed in their best clothes—immaculate, if gray. Some say the weather wasn't dismal, but fine. They were in their best jumpers and laughing (not loud) , but if they'd been soiled, tell me—who could complain? They walked like calm heroes through the haunted crowd, five by five, in a whipping rain. The pallid, the trembling, watched high overhead, through barely cracked windows—pale, transfixed with dread. And now and then, from the high, tolling bell a strange moan escaped, like a sea gull's torn cry. Their 'superiors' looked on, their eyes hard as stone. So let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. Footfall... then silence... the cadence of feet... O, who can console them, their last mile so drear? The church bells peal on, over shocked Leszno Street. Will Jesus Christ save them? The high bells career. No, God will not save them. Nor you, friend, nor I. But let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. No one will offer the price of their freedom. No one will proffer a single word. His eyes hard as gavels, the silent policeman agrees with the priest and his terrible Lord: 'Give them the Sword! ' At the town square there is no intervention. No one tugs Schmerling's sleeve. No one cries 'Rescue the children! ' The air, thick with tension, reeks with the odor of ***** and lies. How calmly he walks, with a child in each arm: Gut Doktor Korczak, please keep them from harm! A fool rushes up with a reprieve in hand: 'Look Janusz Korczak—please look, you've been spared! ' No use for that. One resolute man, uncomprehending that no one else cared enough to defend them, his choice is to end with them. Ninety-Three Daughters of Israel a Holocaust poem by Chaya Feldman loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We washed our bodies and cleansed ourselves; we purified our souls and became clean. Death does not terrify us; we are ready to confront him. While alive we served God and now we can best serve our people by refusing to be taken prisoner. We have made a covenant of the heart, all ninety-three of us; together we lived and learned, and now together we choose to depart. The hour is upon us as I write these words; there is barely enough time to transcribe this prayer... Brethren, wherever you may be, honor the Torah we lived by and the Psalms we loved. Read them for us, as well as for yourselves, and someday when the Beast has devoured his last prey, we hope someone will say Kaddish for us: we ninety-three daughters of Israel. Amen In 1943 Meir Shenkolevsky, the secretary of the world Bais Yaakov movement and a member of the Central Committee of Agudas Israel in New York, received a letter from Chaya Feldman: 'I don't know when you will get this letter and if you still will remember me. When this letter arrives, I will no longer be alive. In a few hours, everything will be past. We are here in four rooms,93 girls ages 14 to 22, all of us Bais Yaakov teachers. On July 27, Gestapo agents came, took us out of our apartment and threw us into a dark room. We only have water to drink. The younger girls are very frightened, but I comfort them that in a short while, we will be together with our mother Sara [Sara Shnirer, the founder of the Bais Yaakov Seminary]. Yesterday they took us out, washed us and took all our clothes. They left us only shirts and said that today, German soldiers will come to visit us. We all swore to ourselves that we will die together. The Germans don't know that the bath they gave us was the immersion before our deaths: we all prepared poison. When the soldiers come, we will drink the poison. We are all saying Viduy throughout the day. We are not afraid of anything. We only have one request from you: Say Kaddish for 93 bnos Yisroel! Soon we will be with our mother Sara. Signed, Chaya Feldman from Cracow.' Miryam Ulinover Holocaust Poetry Translations Girl Without Soap by Miryam Ulinover loose translation by Michael R. Burch As I sat so desolate, threadbare with poverty, the inspiration came to me to make a song of my need! My blouse is heavy with worries, so now it's time to wash: the weave's become dull yellow close to my breast. It wrings my brain with old worries and presses it down like a canker. If only some kind storekeeper would give me detergent on credit! But no, he did not give it! Instead, he was stiffer than starch! Despite my dark, beautiful eyes he remained aloof and arch. I am estranged from fresh white wash; my laundry's gone gray with old dirt; but my body still longs to sing the song of a clean and fresh white shirt. Meydl on Kam Girl Without Comb by Miryam Ullinover loose translation by Michael R. Burch The note preceding the poem: 'Sitting where the night makes its nest are my songs like boarders, awaiting flight's quests.' The teeth of the comb are broken A comb is necessary―more necessary than bread. O, who will come to comb my braid, or empty the gray space occupying my head? Note: the second verse of 'Meydl on Kam' is mostly unreadable and the last two lines are missing. After that, nothing could hurt me … Yitzkhak Viner Holocaust Poem Translations Let it be Quiet in my Room! by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch Let it be quiet in my room! Let me hear the birds outside singing, And let their innocent trilling Lull away my heart's interior gloom… Listen, outside, drayman's horse and cart, If you scare the birds away, You will wake me from my dream-play And wring the last drop of joy from my heart… Don't cough mother! Father, no words! It'd be a shame to spoil the calm And silence the sweet-sounding balm of the well-fed little birds… Hush, little sisters and brothers! Be strong! Don't weep and cry for drink and food; Try to remember in silence the good. Please do not disturb my weaving of songs… My Childhood by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch In the years of my childhood, in Balut's yards, Living with my parents in an impoverished day, I remember my hunger; with my friends I would play And bake loaves of bread out of muddy clay… By baking mud-breads, we dreamed away hunger: the closest and worst of the visitors kids know; so passed the summer's heat through the gutters, so winters passed with their freezing snow. Outside today all is gray, sunk in snow, Though the roofs and the gate are silvered and white. I lie on a bed warmed now only by rags and look through grim windows brightened by ice. Father left early to try to find work; In an unlit room I and my mother stay. It's cold, we're hungry, we have nothing to eat: How I lust to bake one tiny bread-loaf of clay… Balut (Baluty) was a poor Jewish suburb of Lodz, Poland which became a segregated ghetto under the Nazis. It Is Good to Have Two Eyes by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch I. It is good to have two eyes. Anything I want, they can see: Boats, trains, horses and cars, everything around me. But sometimes I just want to see Someone's laughter, sweet… Instead I see his corpse outstretched, Lying in the street… When I want to see his laughter his eyes are closed forever… II. It is good to have two ears. Anything I want, they can hear: Songs, plays, concerts, kind words, Street cars, bells, anything near. I want to hear kids' voices sing, but my ears only hear the shrill cries and fear of two children watching a man as he dies… When I long for a youthful song I hear children weeping hard and long… III. It is good to have two hands. Every year I can till the land. Banging iron night and day Fashions wheels to plow the clay… But now wheels are silent and still And people's hands are obsolete; The houses grow cold and dark As hands dig a grave in defeat… Still it is good to have two hands: I write poems in which the truth still stands. After My Death by Chaim Nachman Bialik translation by Michael R. Burch Say this when you eulogize me: Here was a man — now, **** he's gone! He died before his time. The music of his life suddenly ground to a halt.. Such a pity! There was another song in him, somewhere, But now it's lost, forever. What a pity! He had a violin, a living, voluble soul to which he uttered the secrets of his heart, setting its strings vibrating, save the one he kept inviolate. Back and forth his supple fingers danced; one string alone remained mesmerized, yet unheard. Such a pity! All his life the string quivered, quavering silently, yearning for its song, its mate, as a heart saddens before its departure. Despite constant delays it waited daily, mutely beseeching its savior, Love, who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly and never came. Great is the pain! There was a man — now, **** he is no more! The music of his life suddenly interrupted. There was another song in him But now it is lost forever. Chaim Nachman Bialik Holocaust Poem Translations On The Slaughter by Chaim Nachman Bialik translation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue, my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has been crushed, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here's my neck— rise up now, and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me though we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner! , my blood's a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain down upon your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I've been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your cruel injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries 'Avenge! ' on a maiden; such vengeance was never contemplated even by Satan. Let innocents' blood drench the abyss! Let innocents' blood seep down into the depths of darkness, eat it away and undermine the rotting foundations of earth. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Hear, O Israel! by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch When we were the oppressed, I was one with you, but how can we remain one now that you have become the oppressor? Your desire was to become powerful, like the nations who murdered you; now you have, indeed, become like them. You have outlived those who abused you; so why does their cruelty possess you now? You also commanded your victims: 'Remove your shoes! ' Like the scapegoat, you drove them into the wilderness, into the great mosque of death with its burning sands. But they would not confess the sin you longed to impute to them: the imprint of their naked feet in the desert sand will outlast the silhouettes of your bombs and tanks. So hear, O Israel … hear the whimpers of your victims echoing your ancient sufferings … 'Hear, O Israel! ' was written in 1967, after the Six Day War. What It Is by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch It is nonsense says reason. It is what it is says Love. It is a dangerous says discretion. It is terrifying says fear. It is hopeless says insight. It is what it is says Love. It is ludicrous says pride. It is reckless says caution. It is impractical says experience. It is what it is says Love. An Attempt by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch I have attempted while working to think only of my work and not of you, but I am encouraged to have been so unsuccessful. Humorless by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch The boys throw stones at the frogs in jest. The frogs die in earnest. Bulldozers by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch Israel's bulldozers have confirmed their kinship to bulldozers in Beirut where the bodies of massacred Palestinians lie buried under the rubble of their former homes. And it has been reported that in the heart of Israel the Memorial Cemetery for the massacred dead of Deir Yassin has been destroyed by bulldozers... 'Not intentional, ' it's said, 'A slight oversight during construction work.' Also the ****** of the people of Sabra and Shatila shall become known only as an oversight in the process of building a great Zionist power. The villagers of Deir Yassin were massacred in 1948 by Israeli Jews operating under the command of future Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin's. The New York Times reported 254 villagers murdered, most of them women, children and elderly men. Later, the village cemetery was destroyed by Israeli bulldozers as Deir Yassin, like hundreds of other Palestinian villages, was destroyed. Sabra and Shatila in Beirut, Lebanon were two Palestinian refugee camps destroyed during Israel's invasion of Lebanon in 1982. It has been estimated that as many as 3,500 people were murdered. In 1982, an International Commission concluded that Israelis were, directly or indirectly, responsible. The Israeli government established the Kahan Commission to investigate the massacre, and found another future Israeli prime minister, Ariel Sharon, personally responsible for having permitted militias to enter the camps despite a risk of violence against the refugees. Since 1967 the Israeli Committee Against Home Demolitions has reported more than 24,000 home demolitions... hence the 'kinship' of the bulldozers of Israel to those used to destroy Palestinian homes in Lebanon. Credo by Saul Tchernichovsky loose translation by Michael R. Burch Laugh at all my silly dreams! Laugh, and I'll repeat anew that I still believe in man, just as I believe in you. By the passion of man's spirit ancient bonds are being shed: for his heart desires freedom as the body does its bread. My noble soul cannot be led to the golden calf of scorn, for I still believe in man, as every child is human-born. Life and love and energy in our hearts will surge and beat, till our hopes bring forth a heaven from the earth beneath our feet.
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His hands shake as they grip the edge of the bima. It was not always like this. Once His fingers tapped spry and nimble, His knuckles did not gnarl and swell, Spots dotted his face in freckles and not his skin as it aged. His right knee twinges. He swallows dry. Perhaps he should visit a doctor. It is not wise, they tell him, For a man his age to continue his work under such pressure -- he simply laughs it off. Pah. Meshugge, you are. He maintains, he will manage, his kind were built to endure. His kind have walked miles in red sand that burned the soles of their feet. His kind have strained their eyes to see the hazy shape of hope In lamplight that burned eight days too long; His kind stood tall in front of kings and pharaohs and Führers That ordered them to kneel, bow, lay dead, rot beneath ten feat of Earth. His kind broke their backs to remain steady on their own two feet -- Who is he to fail them by resting now? He can certainly stand on a bima, facing a congregation that has come to expect The sound of his voice, passion in his words, The life in his eyes glowing behind a cloud of cataracts (I do not need to see, he claims, to recite the words of Hashem; I read with my heart.) Like candles through a foggy window, Tinted glass distorted, Faint chanting ringing from within. Kol Nidrei. He had to break fast this morning -- God forgive me, I did not want to -- I’d rather have died. But pills must be taken. He scans his audience and knows others must have taken pills of their own: They are old. No one lives forever. His joints ache as theirs do, They too feel the weight of seventy, eighty years settled in their bones Like rocks, like sediment, Shifting with the current of the river that teems above them. Such is the will of God. They will be carried upstream when their time comes. Ve’esarei, ush’vuei, A glass of water rests on the floor at his feet, Already half drained -- Droplets still sit moist on his lips. Vacharamei, vekonamei, He is a humble man, as all of Hashem’s servants should be -- He is blessed with dexterity unusual for his age. He has no cause to complain, and yet even on the day of atonement, Deep within his chest burns pride. He is scared. Vekinusei, vechinuyei, Adonai, please, Give me the strength. I know why I hesitate. He fears his voice will catch in his throat -- Will waver, will break to cough, That the silver in his tone has tarnished, That his pitch will strain, fall flat, That his voice is not fit to sing God’s words, That this chant will be his last. That he will have to stop. Kol Nidrei. All Vows. He is nothing but a man. He is a mouthpiece for the words that pour out of him, That float through the synagogue as they’ve floated for years upon years. If he silences himself, he has no purpose. If he silences himself, he is already unfit to sing God’s words. He must begin without fear: His kind know how to endure without fear. It is in their blood. His mournful voice sings for them. He takes a breath. The congregation holds theirs. Kol Nidrei. Ve’esarei, ush’vuei, vacharamei, vekonamei, vekinusei, vechinuyei. Prohibitions, oaths, consecrations, vows that we may vow -- His voice is his vow. He vows his life, the rest of his year, however many those may be, he pledges all of them, That he may stand before his people in front of him, And sing to his people that lived behind him. Kol Nidrei. All vows. His voice soars and echoes off of the ceiling of the synagogue.
0
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 12:18 PM UTC
anya912
כל נדר' / All Vows
His hands shake as they grip the edge of the bima. It was not always like this. Once His fingers tapped spry and nimble, His knuckles did not gnarl and swell, Spots dotted his face in freckles and not his skin as it aged. His right knee twinges. He swallows dry. Perhaps he should visit a doctor. It is not wise, they tell him, For a man his age to continue his work under such pressure -- he simply laughs it off. Pah. Meshugge, you are. He maintains, he will manage, his kind were built to endure. His kind have walked miles in red sand that burned the soles of their feet. His kind have strained their eyes to see the hazy shape of hope In lamplight that burned eight days too long; His kind stood tall in front of kings and pharaohs and Führers That ordered them to kneel, bow, lay dead, rot beneath ten feat of Earth. His kind broke their backs to remain steady on their own two feet -- Who is he to fail them by resting now? He can certainly stand on a bima, facing a congregation that has come to expect The sound of his voice, passion in his words, The life in his eyes glowing behind a cloud of cataracts (I do not need to see, he claims, to recite the words of Hashem; I read with my heart.) Like candles through a foggy window, Tinted glass distorted, Faint chanting ringing from within. Kol Nidrei. He had to break fast this morning -- God forgive me, I did not want to -- I’d rather have died. But pills must be taken. He scans his audience and knows others must have taken pills of their own: They are old. No one lives forever. His joints ache as theirs do, They too feel the weight of seventy, eighty years settled in their bones Like rocks, like sediment, Shifting with the current of the river that teems above them. Such is the will of God. They will be carried upstream when their time comes. Ve’esarei, ush’vuei, A glass of water rests on the floor at his feet, Already half drained -- Droplets still sit moist on his lips. Vacharamei, vekonamei, He is a humble man, as all of Hashem’s servants should be -- He is blessed with dexterity unusual for his age. He has no cause to complain, and yet even on the day of atonement, Deep within his chest burns pride. He is scared. Vekinusei, vechinuyei, Adonai, please, Give me the strength. I know why I hesitate. He fears his voice will catch in his throat -- Will waver, will break to cough, That the silver in his tone has tarnished, That his pitch will strain, fall flat, That his voice is not fit to sing God’s words, That this chant will be his last. That he will have to stop. Kol Nidrei. All Vows. He is nothing but a man. He is a mouthpiece for the words that pour out of him, That float through the synagogue as they’ve floated for years upon years. If he silences himself, he has no purpose. If he silences himself, he is already unfit to sing God’s words. He must begin without fear: His kind know how to endure without fear. It is in their blood. His mournful voice sings for them. He takes a breath. The congregation holds theirs. Kol Nidrei. Ve’esarei, ush’vuei, vacharamei, vekonamei, vekinusei, vechinuyei. Prohibitions, oaths, consecrations, vows that we may vow -- His voice is his vow. He vows his life, the rest of his year, however many those may be, he pledges all of them, That he may stand before his people in front of him, And sing to his people that lived behind him. Kol Nidrei. All vows. His voice soars and echoes off of the ceiling of the synagogue.
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75
"i don't want to rule or conquer anyone;   i should like to help everyone if possible —   jew, gentile, black man, white   we all want to help one another;   human beings are like that." charlie chaplin wrote these words for "the great dictator" a political satire   the nazis didn't want to hear anymore but the dictator's speech went viral in a wehrmacht's cinema, partisans of tito made fun of ****** and exchanged a propaganda-film for chaplin's video an audience of nazis raged a flash of fun in a ***** led by insane murderers on stimulants *** mr. chaplin i do thank you for your outcry emerging from human tragedy. good bye... R.I.P. Charles Spencer Chaplin ✞ December 25th 1977 God bless you.
0
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
maxneumann
In Memoriam: Charlie Chaplin
"i don't want to rule or conquer anyone;   i should like to help everyone if possible —   jew, gentile, black man, white   we all want to help one another;   human beings are like that." charlie chaplin wrote these words for "the great dictator" a political satire   the nazis didn't want to hear anymore but the dictator's speech went viral in a wehrmacht's cinema, partisans of tito made fun of ****** and exchanged a propaganda-film for chaplin's video an audience of nazis raged a flash of fun in a ***** led by insane murderers on stimulants *** mr. chaplin i do thank you for your outcry emerging from human tragedy. good bye... R.I.P. Charles Spencer Chaplin ✞ December 25th 1977 God bless you.
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23
Was Jesus an impersonator Or the original son of the creator Did he steal ones name Then get all the credit and fame Lying about Hanging about Lazily wandering about The non factual stuff he was saying No wonder we still have heaps of doubt Maybe, he could tell a great bedtime story If so, did he copyright it all And will he sue for defamation Or was he just like the rest Just after all the worlds glory While I inside hiding The real source of his information All things come and go Like World Leaders, Empires Big Bang Theories & Co He went on trial, then got lucky Had groupies follow him   Hundreds of miles, along the Nile Do you think He will bother to give us a call Before he comes back down To judge us all Gee time flies When you believe in yourself Hope I'm still here, if he returns To at least defend myself Jesus Christ, Oh my God God just spoke to me Looks like, I'm the chosen one He said, get ready Then, wait for his text For I'm up next For has anyone ever bothered To do a family tree search If you did, you would know that dad Had more than just the one son We have the same DNA as mum But dad emptied his spirit Into, not just the one ****** bowl So next time you hear The almighty word from ones mouth Listen carefully from deep inside Ones very own memory soul Remember your parents advice When you were a young youth Because all creatures born on earth Instantly know the meaning of ones life details So don't ever think You are the chosen black sheep In your family’s fairytales Live your life, fly like a bird Just be Happy and Free And be one with your creator.
0
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 12:09 AM UTC
Fetchitnow
I Am OK
Was Jesus an impersonator Or the original son of the creator Did he steal ones name Then get all the credit and fame Lying about Hanging about Lazily wandering about The non factual stuff he was saying No wonder we still have heaps of doubt Maybe, he could tell a great bedtime story If so, did he copyright it all And will he sue for defamation Or was he just like the rest Just after all the worlds glory While I inside hiding The real source of his information All things come and go Like World Leaders, Empires Big Bang Theories & Co He went on trial, then got lucky Had groupies follow him   Hundreds of miles, along the Nile Do you think He will bother to give us a call Before he comes back down To judge us all Gee time flies When you believe in yourself Hope I'm still here, if he returns To at least defend myself Jesus Christ, Oh my God God just spoke to me Looks like, I'm the chosen one He said, get ready Then, wait for his text For I'm up next For has anyone ever bothered To do a family tree search If you did, you would know that dad Had more than just the one son We have the same DNA as mum But dad emptied his spirit Into, not just the one ****** bowl So next time you hear The almighty word from ones mouth Listen carefully from deep inside Ones very own memory soul Remember your parents advice When you were a young youth Because all creatures born on earth Instantly know the meaning of ones life details So don't ever think You are the chosen black sheep In your family’s fairytales Live your life, fly like a bird Just be Happy and Free And be one with your creator.
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57
The Jews searched long and hard for signs of their Messiah's coming but when he arrived as prophesied they traded their King for a thief. The Evangelicals love their bibles Proud they see, for the Light has come And not as Jews for they're true Israel, Desirous as Eve, they hasten the Apocalypse. The Evangelicals searched long and hard for signs of their Messiah's return, the lawless one arrived as prophesied and they made him King. If the Chosen suffered the Holocaust, how can anyone escape chastisement too?
0
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
ylzm
Chosen
The Jews searched long and hard for signs of their Messiah's coming but when he arrived as prophesied they traded their King for a thief. The Evangelicals love their bibles Proud they see, for the Light has come And not as Jews for they're true Israel, Desirous as Eve, they hasten the Apocalypse. The Evangelicals searched long and hard for signs of their Messiah's return, the lawless one arrived as prophesied and they made him King. If the Chosen suffered the Holocaust, how can anyone escape chastisement too?
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14
Condolences, Today is the day, Dangerous circumstances, Are soon on their way. From the brains in your head, To the feet in your shoes, You are soon to be beat, And you're soon to be bruised. You'll have blood on your head, crusted into your hair, No wounds will ever heal, not the cuts or the tears, With your head leaking brains and red stained white cleats, The athletes will beat you while you're out on the street. They'll touch all of your ups, And they'll touch all of your downs, From the back to the front, From the tip to the crown. They'll open you there, Wide open and bare. Outside things will happen, They will continue to do, Things that mess with your head, Because you are a Jew. And when things will happen, Don't worry, don't stew, Just go along with, Whatever happens to you. OH! THE NAZI'S YOU'LL MEET! You'll be up on your way, To see some pretty sights, Then a **** will show up, And knock out your lights. You'll lag behind, because you don't have the speed, The whole gang will jump you, they'll do it, indeed, Wherever you go, you'll fight the best of the best, They'll use their fist to rip your heart out your chest. Except when they don't, Because sometimes they won't. They will be high or drunk or maybe just blue, They'll be so sad and depressed, they'll do nothing to you. They will either hang themselves, or pray in the church, They will put down their weapons, and stop the search. Upon leaving the church, You'll surely feel a thump, And chances are then, That you've just been ****** A special kind of **** That will leave you stunned, While it's up in the **** You'll scream, "This isn't fun!", You'll feel the reaming of Muhammad and Mark, One is a light skin, and the other, rather dark, They'll tear through your **** like it isn't a sin, Then they'll turn you around and take you for a spin, And a slurp, and a choke, until the stuff drips down your chin. When they finish, will you have the strength to fight, Or will you barely be able to tell left from right, You'll be so dizzy that you think you might be blind, It must have been too much ramming from behind, After they're done, they'll keep you in prison confined. You will get so confused, While they're booming the bass, Riding you faster, at such a neck-breaking pace, Riding the throat then spilling all over the face, Then they leave you in shock, in this dark humid place, Dark... humid... place... ...just waiting and waiting, As the seasons come and go, And cars will come and go, And people come and go, Some people ask, "Are you okay?", and you say, "No.", You continue to just wait. Wishing that you were just white, Instead of a Jew that gives off a fright, To every non-Jew and hater despite, Religion or if they're dead or awake, So you still lay there in anguish and ache, You'll soon get the nerve to pull up your pants, And then you'll walk south until you reach France, Every step is a throbbing pain in your *** NO! YOU WILL NOT GIVE UP! Somehow you'll escape, The praying then spraying, Removing all hope, Whatever was remaining. As you leave Germany, you will say goodbye, But you were too loud, And you were stopped by a guy. The man screams out, "HAULT!", as you begin to run, And now you realize that the great chase has begun, As you are running away, you trip and you fall, Still wanting to flee, away you sluggishly crawl, You feel the mans hands grab so you beg and you plea, You loosen the grip, stand, then pinned against a tree. Rammed into the wood, Knocked out, this is no good. I'm afraid you'll be caught, And chopped up in a stew, This is bound to happen, No matter what you do. Very Dead! Whether you like it or not, Dead will be something, You'll be in the *** And when you are dead, there's a very good chance, That a necrophiliac will find romance, He'll steal your body with his swiftness and brawn, You'll make him say, "I do want life to go on!". On he will go, With his moaning and growls, On he will go, Stretching right towards your bowels, On he will go, Like a wolf he will howl, He will awkwardly peck, With his mouth like a beak, Upon the great hole, In which he took a leak. On and on he'll strike, Until all the white tar, Comes out of his ******* Dirtying his new car. He doesn't own a horse, But a car you can blow, Because there are thirty ***** Hanging off the window, And the wheels are some ***** That are hardened and cracked, This is a normal car, This car isn't abstract, This car doesn't run on gas so it's quite the heft, When it's pushed up hills with hands of the deft. So... will you bleed? Will you beg and plead? (This Is Actually Zero Percent Guaranteed) JEW! YOU ARE IN CHARGE! This is your life, your way, You're able to seize the day, You can go to all places, You can choose to leave or stay, So please do what you wish, And your life will be great.
0
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 8:35 PM UTC
sketcheroo
Oh, The Nazi's You'll Meet
Condolences, Today is the day, Dangerous circumstances, Are soon on their way. From the brains in your head, To the feet in your shoes, You are soon to be beat, And you're soon to be bruised. You'll have blood on your head, crusted into your hair, No wounds will ever heal, not the cuts or the tears, With your head leaking brains and red stained white cleats, The athletes will beat you while you're out on the street. They'll touch all of your ups, And they'll touch all of your downs, From the back to the front, From the tip to the crown. They'll open you there, Wide open and bare. Outside things will happen, They will continue to do, Things that mess with your head, Because you are a Jew. And when things will happen, Don't worry, don't stew, Just go along with, Whatever happens to you. OH! THE NAZI'S YOU'LL MEET! You'll be up on your way, To see some pretty sights, Then a **** will show up, And knock out your lights. You'll lag behind, because you don't have the speed, The whole gang will jump you, they'll do it, indeed, Wherever you go, you'll fight the best of the best, They'll use their fist to rip your heart out your chest. Except when they don't, Because sometimes they won't. They will be high or drunk or maybe just blue, They'll be so sad and depressed, they'll do nothing to you. They will either hang themselves, or pray in the church, They will put down their weapons, and stop the search. Upon leaving the church, You'll surely feel a thump, And chances are then, That you've just been ****** A special kind of **** That will leave you stunned, While it's up in the **** You'll scream, "This isn't fun!", You'll feel the reaming of Muhammad and Mark, One is a light skin, and the other, rather dark, They'll tear through your **** like it isn't a sin, Then they'll turn you around and take you for a spin, And a slurp, and a choke, until the stuff drips down your chin. When they finish, will you have the strength to fight, Or will you barely be able to tell left from right, You'll be so dizzy that you think you might be blind, It must have been too much ramming from behind, After they're done, they'll keep you in prison confined. You will get so confused, While they're booming the bass, Riding you faster, at such a neck-breaking pace, Riding the throat then spilling all over the face, Then they leave you in shock, in this dark humid place, Dark... humid... place... ...just waiting and waiting, As the seasons come and go, And cars will come and go, And people come and go, Some people ask, "Are you okay?", and you say, "No.", You continue to just wait. Wishing that you were just white, Instead of a Jew that gives off a fright, To every non-Jew and hater despite, Religion or if they're dead or awake, So you still lay there in anguish and ache, You'll soon get the nerve to pull up your pants, And then you'll walk south until you reach France, Every step is a throbbing pain in your *** NO! YOU WILL NOT GIVE UP! Somehow you'll escape, The praying then spraying, Removing all hope, Whatever was remaining. As you leave Germany, you will say goodbye, But you were too loud, And you were stopped by a guy. The man screams out, "HAULT!", as you begin to run, And now you realize that the great chase has begun, As you are running away, you trip and you fall, Still wanting to flee, away you sluggishly crawl, You feel the mans hands grab so you beg and you plea, You loosen the grip, stand, then pinned against a tree. Rammed into the wood, Knocked out, this is no good. I'm afraid you'll be caught, And chopped up in a stew, This is bound to happen, No matter what you do. Very Dead! Whether you like it or not, Dead will be something, You'll be in the *** And when you are dead, there's a very good chance, That a necrophiliac will find romance, He'll steal your body with his swiftness and brawn, You'll make him say, "I do want life to go on!". On he will go, With his moaning and growls, On he will go, Stretching right towards your bowels, On he will go, Like a wolf he will howl, He will awkwardly peck, With his mouth like a beak, Upon the great hole, In which he took a leak. On and on he'll strike, Until all the white tar, Comes out of his ******* Dirtying his new car. He doesn't own a horse, But a car you can blow, Because there are thirty ***** Hanging off the window, And the wheels are some ***** That are hardened and cracked, This is a normal car, This car isn't abstract, This car doesn't run on gas so it's quite the heft, When it's pushed up hills with hands of the deft. So... will you bleed? Will you beg and plead? (This Is Actually Zero Percent Guaranteed) JEW! YOU ARE IN CHARGE! This is your life, your way, You're able to seize the day, You can go to all places, You can choose to leave or stay, So please do what you wish, And your life will be great.
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147
I am going to conceive a son and name him Adam As names in our century have become a conviction A reason for conflict and contradiction I won’t name him Mohammed or Jesus I won’t name him Ali or Omar I won’t name him Saddam or Hussein I won’t name him Ibrahim or Zakaria And not even David or George I fear he grows a racist due to his name A name of which I am to blame To foreigners he’s a terrorist To extremists he’s an infidel To Shias he’s a Sunni And to Sunnis he’s a Shia I fear that he’ll only be worth as much as his name A name of which I am to blame I want him to be named Adam, A Muslim, Christian, Jew. I am going to teach him that his religion is what is nestled in his heart Not his name His name of which I am to blame I’ll teach him about the arab pride illusion And how humanity is the solution. I’ll teach him that god lives in hearts and souls before mosques and churches. I’ll teach him that I began my speech indicating he was a male, as females in our society are destined to fail. I’ll teach him that the problem lies in the Arab society tale.
0
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 1:33 AM UTC
qalalami
Adam
I am going to conceive a son and name him Adam As names in our century have become a conviction A reason for conflict and contradiction I won’t name him Mohammed or Jesus I won’t name him Ali or Omar I won’t name him Saddam or Hussein I won’t name him Ibrahim or Zakaria And not even David or George I fear he grows a racist due to his name A name of which I am to blame To foreigners he’s a terrorist To extremists he’s an infidel To Shias he’s a Sunni And to Sunnis he’s a Shia I fear that he’ll only be worth as much as his name A name of which I am to blame I want him to be named Adam, A Muslim, Christian, Jew. I am going to teach him that his religion is what is nestled in his heart Not his name His name of which I am to blame I’ll teach him about the arab pride illusion And how humanity is the solution. I’ll teach him that god lives in hearts and souls before mosques and churches. I’ll teach him that I began my speech indicating he was a male, as females in our society are destined to fail. I’ll teach him that the problem lies in the Arab society tale.
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26
i have been here for a very long time since the start i have been watching everyone charge at us with sticks, stone, weapons and words giants, gas, fire, fury bombs and chains but they vanished. or they learnt to love us some study us like aliens because they are fascinated (but aren't we all fascinated in mysteries?) i am as confused as them i should be gone but i rose like a pheonix from fire. everyone says it's a miracle. but they don't tell me why am i here?
0
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC
isthisreality
untitled #7
i have been here for a very long time since the start i have been watching everyone charge at us with sticks, stone, weapons and words giants, gas, fire, fury bombs and chains but they vanished. or they learnt to love us some study us like aliens because they are fascinated (but aren't we all fascinated in mysteries?) i am as confused as them i should be gone but i rose like a pheonix from fire. everyone says it's a miracle. but they don't tell me why am i here?
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15
My heart paces in an abandoned cage that still holds the smell of lions **** and human decay They took my house from me and He abandoned me and the early seed Oh how love loses to profession and I lost both for something that may be traced back to my blood even though I have never even been in a Synagogue or prayed It doesn't matter to the ones in crisp black, green, and grey The word I hear from the birds tweet animals are being imported from Germany This cage is not an idea home but it has kept me safe but now I am truly alone due to what they think is my faith I must survive for the little one inside otherwise this would be the end.
0
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
EvilShredder
Priest Hole
My heart paces in an abandoned cage that still holds the smell of lions **** and human decay They took my house from me and He abandoned me and the early seed Oh how love loses to profession and I lost both for something that may be traced back to my blood even though I have never even been in a Synagogue or prayed It doesn't matter to the ones in crisp black, green, and grey The word I hear from the birds tweet animals are being imported from Germany This cage is not an idea home but it has kept me safe but now I am truly alone due to what they think is my faith I must survive for the little one inside otherwise this would be the end.
Continue reading...
29
Case in point comprises emotional state of euphoria would deafeningly, definitely, deliciously get frenziedly expelled from stadium. Roe ting for “our boys” packing every last seat in the bleachers all manner of humankind would (during lulls) Instagram, Kindle, Messenger, Outlook, Quicken, Snapchat, Twitter. Santander, Verizon,Wells Fargo might be sponsors for major competitive challenge. Zero tolerance imposes winning at all costs versus grievous miserable rapacious violent yawping linkedin loss outcome of sporting events. Under stand able home team owns an advantage (true for rival players on their turf) predicated on avid loyal fans boosting morale from family members, friends, neighbors, et cetera. The ear splitting roaring cheering hoopla emanating from spectators (housed in relatively close proximity to handsomely paid putting Pontius Pilate and bad *** Brutus brutes rolled into one mean human fighting machine. This previous comment meant as an honorable kickstarter, hyperbolic endearment. My humblest apology if said statement misinterpreted as a NON off fence sieve strong moderate slight against any creed, race, religion, et cetera. I merely sought an analogously effective impact asper these hypothetical Popeye muscle bulging arms length professional athletes plush residences lodged in general metropolitan area to rubber baby buggy bumper screaming banshee spectators. A winning score affiliated with bruising, cutthroat, dynamo...fierce-some giant, heaving, indomitably jinxed, “killer” macho no nonsense, outlandish packed quintessentially robust searing troopers translates into utter screaming, quaking outrageous merciless krazy individuals generating ecstatic cacophony airing zeal! If (dog forbid) the richly paid, namebrand looming kneecapped kneeling illustrious giant egghead con cussed career athletes fumble, crumble and bumble spelling a loss for those spectators (who doled out a *** of cash) quickly make collective disappointment known by cursing, first in **** odiously reprehensible, unacceptable wimpy yikyaking atrocious carpetbombing expletives. As a casual observer (albeit also participant within the human league of billions within the culture club sans crowded house), no shortage of opportunities avail themselves to scrutinize the man knee ting man contention upon this oblate spheroid (densely populated globular planet), these myopic brown eyes of mine need not pay per view to witness austerity, depravity, gravity, et cetera manifold gamut of Primate (particularly **** Sapien) behavior. Raucous, querulous, perilous, obnoxious, notorious...actions prompt me to intervene as referee. I would fear for my life if one to many excessive acts of kindness would require specialists to scrape my pan caked body electric off the sidewalk. A similar outcome would most likely transpire if this totally tubular troubadour disgust religion. As a tried and true value adherent of atheism, a vociferous, rapacious, nefarious, ******* fractious Bible thumping religious dogmatic character would expend every last ounce of fire and brimstone to proselytize me. Thus when infrequently conversing about one or the other aforementioned verboten topics de jure, I consciously exhibit genuine indifference keeping mum. Obvious quietness sidesteps ugly wickedness. Your anonymous, curious, erroneous garrulous, hip poe ***** mass stir wordsmith Matthew Scott Harris
0
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
matthew-scott-harris2p
Fanaticism Runs Poetically Amok As Pseudo Tribalism
Case in point comprises emotional state of euphoria would deafeningly, definitely, deliciously get frenziedly expelled from stadium. Roe ting for “our boys” packing every last seat in the bleachers all manner of humankind would (during lulls) Instagram, Kindle, Messenger, Outlook, Quicken, Snapchat, Twitter. Santander, Verizon,Wells Fargo might be sponsors for major competitive challenge. Zero tolerance imposes winning at all costs versus grievous miserable rapacious violent yawping linkedin loss outcome of sporting events. Under stand able home team owns an advantage (true for rival players on their turf) predicated on avid loyal fans boosting morale from family members, friends, neighbors, et cetera. The ear splitting roaring cheering hoopla emanating from spectators (housed in relatively close proximity to handsomely paid putting Pontius Pilate and bad *** Brutus brutes rolled into one mean human fighting machine. This previous comment meant as an honorable kickstarter, hyperbolic endearment. My humblest apology if said statement misinterpreted as a NON off fence sieve strong moderate slight against any creed, race, religion, et cetera. I merely sought an analogously effective impact asper these hypothetical Popeye muscle bulging arms length professional athletes plush residences lodged in general metropolitan area to rubber baby buggy bumper screaming banshee spectators. A winning score affiliated with bruising, cutthroat, dynamo...fierce-some giant, heaving, indomitably jinxed, “killer” macho no nonsense, outlandish packed quintessentially robust searing troopers translates into utter screaming, quaking outrageous merciless krazy individuals generating ecstatic cacophony airing zeal! If (dog forbid) the richly paid, namebrand looming kneecapped kneeling illustrious giant egghead con cussed career athletes fumble, crumble and bumble spelling a loss for those spectators (who doled out a *** of cash) quickly make collective disappointment known by cursing, first in **** odiously reprehensible, unacceptable wimpy yikyaking atrocious carpetbombing expletives. As a casual observer (albeit also participant within the human league of billions within the culture club sans crowded house), no shortage of opportunities avail themselves to scrutinize the man knee ting man contention upon this oblate spheroid (densely populated globular planet), these myopic brown eyes of mine need not pay per view to witness austerity, depravity, gravity, et cetera manifold gamut of Primate (particularly **** Sapien) behavior. Raucous, querulous, perilous, obnoxious, notorious...actions prompt me to intervene as referee. I would fear for my life if one to many excessive acts of kindness would require specialists to scrape my pan caked body electric off the sidewalk. A similar outcome would most likely transpire if this totally tubular troubadour disgust religion. As a tried and true value adherent of atheism, a vociferous, rapacious, nefarious, ******* fractious Bible thumping religious dogmatic character would expend every last ounce of fire and brimstone to proselytize me. Thus when infrequently conversing about one or the other aforementioned verboten topics de jure, I consciously exhibit genuine indifference keeping mum. Obvious quietness sidesteps ugly wickedness. Your anonymous, curious, erroneous garrulous, hip poe ***** mass stir wordsmith Matthew Scott Harris
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65
At the money table, Cain and Abel, Abraham and Isaac, And neither one cares how you’ll pay as long as it is not a check, Brassy appendages obversely curl to abruptly angular truncated legs-upon-his-lek, And the proof of who he represents hangs weightily about his Plouton neck, See the cotton-wafer stacks shuffled as bricks in rows to the translucent deck, The waiver now giving its woe whence once wished-for upon the Great Molech? Mr. crooked hook-nose at his compose will take on any bet, As Sheol will have it, many lament, being in his debt, A Canaan cursed and tribal descendant, the relative of Set. For with misery and suffering well you get what you beget!
0
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
david-john-mowers
The Gamble
At the money table, Cain and Abel, Abraham and Isaac, And neither one cares how you’ll pay as long as it is not a check, Brassy appendages obversely curl to abruptly angular truncated legs-upon-his-lek, And the proof of who he represents hangs weightily about his Plouton neck, See the cotton-wafer stacks shuffled as bricks in rows to the translucent deck, The waiver now giving its woe whence once wished-for upon the Great Molech? Mr. crooked hook-nose at his compose will take on any bet, As Sheol will have it, many lament, being in his debt, A Canaan cursed and tribal descendant, the relative of Set. For with misery and suffering well you get what you beget!
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10
The boy in the stripped pyjamas The experiment of a Jew and Muslim Schindler's list, the pianist The blood on God's land Of innocence, of Mother, daughter, son and Father We have learned nothing We play it on the cinema screen We read it in the books Yet? We have learned nothing I am tired, tired of the pain.. Of the bloodshed, of the abuses Of the wars, murders, rapes and doom You look to history What do you find? Holocaust, slavery, war, witch hunts, inquisition The hangman's noose The stake, the torture chamber The gas chamber   They say "Its different now, we're civilised" But you know in your heart of hearts It is not... 70 years ago they thought they were civilised 200 years ago they thought they were civilised 600 years ago they thought they were civilised This land is scorched This land is tainted Of a million souls Christian, black, Jew, Muslim, human And what have we learned? **** all The **** salute, The KKK The Israeli fear, the trauma The stolen Land, Standing rock! Gaze strip, stripped of rights Syria weeps! Towers struck Virginity ripped, solider beheaded Daughter's sold, Son's beaten Trump has power Nukes galore! The Madonna burying her son! We seek the scapegoat Once twas women, twas Jew Now its the women in a veil My friend! I will never force the hatred of the past into this present I will walk side by side with her Take her to the temple mount! The wailing wall! Hold her hand and cry for Abraham and Muhammad to hear We are all children of God! Blood will not make the soil fertile God forgive them I see today in the chosen people's nation The replay of history A family torn from their beds Homeless in death At the mercy of a government that hates them And soldiers that will **** them... These people of God Stricken by prejudiced, tormented by centuries Will become the monsters, they so fear I have no birthright to that land No land baptised in blood is any land of mine! Nor is it the land of my ancestors 6 million Jews did not die So we may become the oppressors To march in two by two To tear away the Mother from her children! No, no, no I have no birthright, I gladly give it up Give it back to the family, or sell it for charity That land is no ones It is Gods! And look what you've done! Oil in the ocean, gases in the sky! Death of the splendid life What have we done? What have we learned... Nothing... God forgive them They know not what they do
0
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
hayley-siebert
God forgive them...
The boy in the stripped pyjamas The experiment of a Jew and Muslim Schindler's list, the pianist The blood on God's land Of innocence, of Mother, daughter, son and Father We have learned nothing We play it on the cinema screen We read it in the books Yet? We have learned nothing I am tired, tired of the pain.. Of the bloodshed, of the abuses Of the wars, murders, rapes and doom You look to history What do you find? Holocaust, slavery, war, witch hunts, inquisition The hangman's noose The stake, the torture chamber The gas chamber   They say "Its different now, we're civilised" But you know in your heart of hearts It is not... 70 years ago they thought they were civilised 200 years ago they thought they were civilised 600 years ago they thought they were civilised This land is scorched This land is tainted Of a million souls Christian, black, Jew, Muslim, human And what have we learned? **** all The **** salute, The KKK The Israeli fear, the trauma The stolen Land, Standing rock! Gaze strip, stripped of rights Syria weeps! Towers struck Virginity ripped, solider beheaded Daughter's sold, Son's beaten Trump has power Nukes galore! The Madonna burying her son! We seek the scapegoat Once twas women, twas Jew Now its the women in a veil My friend! I will never force the hatred of the past into this present I will walk side by side with her Take her to the temple mount! The wailing wall! Hold her hand and cry for Abraham and Muhammad to hear We are all children of God! Blood will not make the soil fertile God forgive them I see today in the chosen people's nation The replay of history A family torn from their beds Homeless in death At the mercy of a government that hates them And soldiers that will **** them... These people of God Stricken by prejudiced, tormented by centuries Will become the monsters, they so fear I have no birthright to that land No land baptised in blood is any land of mine! Nor is it the land of my ancestors 6 million Jews did not die So we may become the oppressors To march in two by two To tear away the Mother from her children! No, no, no I have no birthright, I gladly give it up Give it back to the family, or sell it for charity That land is no ones It is Gods! And look what you've done! Oil in the ocean, gases in the sky! Death of the splendid life What have we done? What have we learned... Nothing... God forgive them They know not what they do
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79
I will always be a Siebert I will live and die a Siebert I will die before you do My soul escaped my body, in that glass box My father this man they all loathe But cannot **** They will **** me Me and brother never belonged We have his blood we were both strapped to a machine We were both stricken of life Lungs scarred The voices are genetic This introvert loneliness This manic death Slowly consuming me I walk with my father's name His shadow over my crown This jewish rat! This stupid blonde dead baby I will never belong My brother calls out He has my eyes He sees what I see Born of the same stock Faces lost in books Perspective of the world from the view of education Horst? Can you hear me I am my father's daughter I will always be a Siebert This is how I will die Like you, I will die young I will never marry I will never bear children I am nothing, nemo The name will die with me But I am his daughter They will dance on my grave Or they will mourn the loss of their scapegoat My body is hallow I lost my soul God forgive me Saul is his hebrew image Where is he now? Dead, the man I knew is dead The star of David they all mock But they forgot How history repeats itself How the creeping of death is vast Silent on cold dark nights To die is easy, to live is hard I will die a Siebert I will be eternal in my Father's name That is my crime and it will **** me It killed me then It just didn't take the body
0
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
hayley-siebert
The Father's Daughter
I will always be a Siebert I will live and die a Siebert I will die before you do My soul escaped my body, in that glass box My father this man they all loathe But cannot **** They will **** me Me and brother never belonged We have his blood we were both strapped to a machine We were both stricken of life Lungs scarred The voices are genetic This introvert loneliness This manic death Slowly consuming me I walk with my father's name His shadow over my crown This jewish rat! This stupid blonde dead baby I will never belong My brother calls out He has my eyes He sees what I see Born of the same stock Faces lost in books Perspective of the world from the view of education Horst? Can you hear me I am my father's daughter I will always be a Siebert This is how I will die Like you, I will die young I will never marry I will never bear children I am nothing, nemo The name will die with me But I am his daughter They will dance on my grave Or they will mourn the loss of their scapegoat My body is hallow I lost my soul God forgive me Saul is his hebrew image Where is he now? Dead, the man I knew is dead The star of David they all mock But they forgot How history repeats itself How the creeping of death is vast Silent on cold dark nights To die is easy, to live is hard I will die a Siebert I will be eternal in my Father's name That is my crime and it will **** me It killed me then It just didn't take the body
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61
God did not intend you to die He intended you to live For all the abuses For all the suffering For each and every wound God gave you a gift This weaponry, this arsenal, this armour Of talents, arts, voice is a fire to the demons in your head Purge the monsters Purify them with your fire God is always with you God did not let you suffer in vain He did so, so, you may learn learn to survive, to fight, to win Survival is in your family It is in your blood Your Mother, Grandfathers Great Grandparents You are of the land of the dragon You are of the land of God Your blood of warriors Celtic born Your blood is of Moses and Abraham Your blood will pass onto your daughter In your womb, lies the power of creation The gift of life, to forge a soul In your womb is the blood of Ariel In your womb is the blood of Cymru God did not intend you to die He intended you to live To live, to survive, to fight Is in your blood
0
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
hayley-siebert
Daughter of Noah
God did not intend you to die He intended you to live For all the abuses For all the suffering For each and every wound God gave you a gift This weaponry, this arsenal, this armour Of talents, arts, voice is a fire to the demons in your head Purge the monsters Purify them with your fire God is always with you God did not let you suffer in vain He did so, so, you may learn learn to survive, to fight, to win Survival is in your family It is in your blood Your Mother, Grandfathers Great Grandparents You are of the land of the dragon You are of the land of God Your blood of warriors Celtic born Your blood is of Moses and Abraham Your blood will pass onto your daughter In your womb, lies the power of creation The gift of life, to forge a soul In your womb is the blood of Ariel In your womb is the blood of Cymru God did not intend you to die He intended you to live To live, to survive, to fight Is in your blood
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32
Hark! These creatures of catacombs Furrows and the weeping ribbons Forsooth great beasts took a turn here When the mind accustoms itself to violence It bestows it….broken as the temple falling The sword by Israel's cry! Ghosts of the borderline! Ghosts of the borderline! Traumatic as hymens torn By hands unclean by demons born The ***** twas not consenting forlorn Too many nights passing to the dawn Allow when Yosef comes, his predator expression For my milk drop flesh, he claims doth conquer The chains of slavery he forged by Irish blood Born from the veil of wedlock Out of sullen sin, between husband and mistress He took to which he hath none Purple hues adorn the shoulder Bare before the creases of blood These years could not tamper the memories So in night shade, among the ghouls There is a hovering silver sheen Groped by the tiny digits I shall be its sheaf Psychosis the cascade of reality The distortion of time and space An all hallows eve, the sabbath of subconscious monsters The manic and depressive are the swinging of the pendulum And the ****** of thy hand is the dawn of God I fall, the intoxicating pearls down my throat Reek in my blood, Jewish blood, Welsh blood, tainted blood The dizzy fortitude to collapse Will alter the reality and silence the darkness Of faces disfigured, in death they have no stance Thus my torment hath come to end I give way, the sweep of the fall Fall onto my sword… Away from the worlds of disturb content Away from the sacred flesh scarred and mangled Away from the deep cavern of endless thought To God and to my ancestors, who saw with no eyes fit to see But see nethertheless my frail state of a tipping scale I fall onto my sword, distressed as Saul
0
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
hayley-siebert
Distressed as Saul
Hark! These creatures of catacombs Furrows and the weeping ribbons Forsooth great beasts took a turn here When the mind accustoms itself to violence It bestows it….broken as the temple falling The sword by Israel's cry! Ghosts of the borderline! Ghosts of the borderline! Traumatic as hymens torn By hands unclean by demons born The ***** twas not consenting forlorn Too many nights passing to the dawn Allow when Yosef comes, his predator expression For my milk drop flesh, he claims doth conquer The chains of slavery he forged by Irish blood Born from the veil of wedlock Out of sullen sin, between husband and mistress He took to which he hath none Purple hues adorn the shoulder Bare before the creases of blood These years could not tamper the memories So in night shade, among the ghouls There is a hovering silver sheen Groped by the tiny digits I shall be its sheaf Psychosis the cascade of reality The distortion of time and space An all hallows eve, the sabbath of subconscious monsters The manic and depressive are the swinging of the pendulum And the ****** of thy hand is the dawn of God I fall, the intoxicating pearls down my throat Reek in my blood, Jewish blood, Welsh blood, tainted blood The dizzy fortitude to collapse Will alter the reality and silence the darkness Of faces disfigured, in death they have no stance Thus my torment hath come to end I give way, the sweep of the fall Fall onto my sword… Away from the worlds of disturb content Away from the sacred flesh scarred and mangled Away from the deep cavern of endless thought To God and to my ancestors, who saw with no eyes fit to see But see nethertheless my frail state of a tipping scale I fall onto my sword, distressed as Saul
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44
These nightmares Are black and white Rectangle pieces of paper Because colored Cuts would hurt Too much Instead we track Railway cars packed People stacked And dropped behind Barbed wire restraints Bare burnt brick buildings Were soldier’s stole Pretty clothes Trinkets, and anything gold Never forget The nearly naked numbered men That barely survived The acid burning Of women and children Starving saints More bone than flesh Ovens made to cook The stolen Skin of their kin We hold such horrors Far away Keeping shallow thoughts close While Forgetting those Who suffered such indignities But this is our shared history Lessons we need to see repeatedly So we do not let others succeed in Seeding the same dark tyranny In our modern democracy
0
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
graff1980
Untitled
These nightmares Are black and white Rectangle pieces of paper Because colored Cuts would hurt Too much Instead we track Railway cars packed People stacked And dropped behind Barbed wire restraints Bare burnt brick buildings Were soldier’s stole Pretty clothes Trinkets, and anything gold Never forget The nearly naked numbered men That barely survived The acid burning Of women and children Starving saints More bone than flesh Ovens made to cook The stolen Skin of their kin We hold such horrors Far away Keeping shallow thoughts close While Forgetting those Who suffered such indignities But this is our shared history Lessons we need to see repeatedly So we do not let others succeed in Seeding the same dark tyranny In our modern democracy
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34
I don't understand why it's different for you. Why it's different for you, a people who have suffered, a people who are Jew. To **** in your name, a child who's turned blue. In the dust from the home that once they held proud, on land that you stole and then that you blew to bits that are small now smothered in blue with sharp shrapnel that you spread in the name of the few. Why is it different? Why, for the child who walked slowly through, through the gates from the train, on a ticket you knew was only ever one way. Did the mothers at Treblinka deserve to go through, the gates or the hurt to watch their child torn from a heart where they grew to gasp a long breath a gassed breath to the last, smothered to blue. Has nothing been learned by you, who cry true from the past and the hurt, by a people who are Jew. The few who survived and echoed the cry, a cry undisturbed by the thousands who died a crime of our times, denied by the few, I don't understand why it's different for you. Why it's different for you, a people who are Jew. In Gaza or Auschwitz, the cry of a child echoes eerily the same. whether dying from gas or bombs that you blame on Hamas or God the result is the same the mother's heart ripped and torn in two. I don't understand why it's different for you. To kill the thousands to get at the few. I wonder if those who died for being Jew would welcome the children of Gaza the children who knew they'd died just like them, innocent and blue.
0
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
ciaran-cunningham
CHILDREN, PASS OVER.
I don't understand why it's different for you. Why it's different for you, a people who have suffered, a people who are Jew. To **** in your name, a child who's turned blue. In the dust from the home that once they held proud, on land that you stole and then that you blew to bits that are small now smothered in blue with sharp shrapnel that you spread in the name of the few. Why is it different? Why, for the child who walked slowly through, through the gates from the train, on a ticket you knew was only ever one way. Did the mothers at Treblinka deserve to go through, the gates or the hurt to watch their child torn from a heart where they grew to gasp a long breath a gassed breath to the last, smothered to blue. Has nothing been learned by you, who cry true from the past and the hurt, by a people who are Jew. The few who survived and echoed the cry, a cry undisturbed by the thousands who died a crime of our times, denied by the few, I don't understand why it's different for you. Why it's different for you, a people who are Jew. In Gaza or Auschwitz, the cry of a child echoes eerily the same. whether dying from gas or bombs that you blame on Hamas or God the result is the same the mother's heart ripped and torn in two. I don't understand why it's different for you. To kill the thousands to get at the few. I wonder if those who died for being Jew would welcome the children of Gaza the children who knew they'd died just like them, innocent and blue.
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51
oy vey everyday, oy vey Granny couldn't get through an hour without a dour oy vey the woeful phrase I recall, though most of all, I still see her scrubbed raw, red paws, always clutching a tissue, to keep the ghastly germs at bay the ones she believed yet survived the camps no matter how much time and scalding baptismal water had flowed though far from the filth even farther from the ovens, safe she still said oy vey and held the tissue tight perhaps to keep out the night I never had to see oy vey, oy vey
0
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
spysgrandson
oy vey, oy vey est mir
oy vey everyday, oy vey Granny couldn't get through an hour without a dour oy vey the woeful phrase I recall, though most of all, I still see her scrubbed raw, red paws, always clutching a tissue, to keep the ghastly germs at bay the ones she believed yet survived the camps no matter how much time and scalding baptismal water had flowed though far from the filth even farther from the ovens, safe she still said oy vey and held the tissue tight perhaps to keep out the night I never had to see oy vey, oy vey
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21
One of the hottest tattoos I have ever seen on a women is her grandmothers numbers.
0
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
MichaelKreitman
ZOoey
One of the hottest tattoos I have ever seen on a women is her grandmothers numbers.
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1