#un
No country has a right to exist under International law there are no UN charters that give any country a right to exist it's a trick question the media ask you does Israel have the right to exist.
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 9:57 AM UTC
I am not a creator:
nope.
an amalgamator,
consolidator, a sifter,
a synthesizer, combinator,
employer of words
collect, analyze, repair, modify,
discern the overlapping, intersecting rhythms, the tools,
Drip from my lips, fall from of my grip, from my eyes, salty drip,
and I nail them to my bones,
herein lies my originality....
The millions upon millions of permutations combinations and iterations
That resolved themselves from the madness of my mind, are then attached to my living bones, inseparable, and my living mark of once existence
May 30, 2025
May 30, 2025 at 2:45 PM UTC
Since justice has given way
to terrorism.
Since justice has become
synonymous with kidnapping.
Know that hunger
is a catastrophe.
Hunger is war.
It is either ****
or be killed.
I swear both to God and to you.
I can go for twenty-four hours without eating.
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 6:58 AM UTC
What kind
Of country that
We are all living here.
Beaf fat pork oil fish oil
Getting
Mixed in temple gods prasdam
By making sanctity
Un holy, consumed
By all
Oct 2, 2024
Oct 2, 2024 at 3:21 AM UTC
Boots sanction the hearts of men.
The victims are wailing and smiling
Death keeps on knocking and waiting
Who will liberate us?
Denial of our voices made us cry
Downtrodden wept as their voices
Dwindle and cracks for liberation
Who are the kindhearted?
Nation begets unruly masters
As the country pretends to smile
Honest people are followers!
Why the contradiction?
Bemourning the scourges of men
Humanity strives to speak but ...
Money, power and fame supercedes
When are we going to rise?
Hatred is begging to put on a smile
Laughter covers herself with rags
The future bleeps and sorrows
Can we revolt against the status quo?© Uzo
Mar 1, 2023
Mar 1, 2023 at 6:13 AM UTC
(Vous et moi)
I am....light,
i flicker not,
nor do i dim.
i am peaceful
as the waves of a river
on a summer day,
silent...fearless,
unshaken by events.
i am in a total calm.
I exist permanently,
and independently,
unaffected and
un-influenced
by outside forces,
i keep a close watch,
over my temple.
I am transparent,
hue-less,
yet...i acquire
the colors of
thoughts that
enslave the mind.
I fade not...i live on.
i am there on a lighted boat
sailing with you
while struggling
through life's
troubled waters.
You have a silent,
constant dialogue with me,
that inherent energy,
dwelling inside you.
You are body,
i am soul,
“nous sommes un.”
(we are one.)
sally b
Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 6:49 AM UTC
Written by-So_Averqge
Bring the universe while I stand on standards of the deepest desires of wanting to erase the pain
When the walls closed in on me
I came to the world unannounced
Premature baby that was breathing through the straws
Robots and aliens were born in the distant imagination
God the challenges in life wreaked me emotionally
On a cliff believing in a God that hid his kingdom behind the clouds
Behind the scenario I was crying cracking from the pressure
The negativity based upon the laws of gravity
I was spoon fed ,I was chewing on coal
The Pheonix set the world set up the way to burn the midnight oil
Turn off the lights ,the devil rises in dark and his army is dressed in stars
Sailors look towards the stars and some never found their way to the shore
Dreaming of laying their lips on the soil that has not come in contact with salt water
No heros ever came
No extraordinary being to lift the weights of the world
Lucid dreaming of cycling in the sky
Levitating into the stars that crash and burn up
The smoke will be inhaled through the nostrils
The dungeon dragon is shaking the chains loose , losing the burdens of being deemed a beast but in truth his a creature of the sky judged by the knights fighting against the idea of true identity
Dec 26, 2021
Dec 26, 2021 at 5:49 AM UTC
In the currency of their love'
Could the world pay off;
Gamblers playing their luck?
Darling' we think we're,
Falling for each other:
But only in the effect of'
Falling dominoes.
Roses on your head'
Piercing thorns, sharp thoughts
As I do suppose;
You're open in light' of eyes,
Exposed to the Sun's dust:
Your hard heart; afraid to be'
In water, and turned to rust.
Why do we as kids'
Waste all the time of youth
Before we knew our fears;
And were pressured by peers?
Pressured to pursue this love.
As I only loved you'
Because I was told:
Said so, because it felt a role,
Playing each other in an act
Seen by eyes of those who couldn't;
Find anything close to love:
So they opted to find love in us.
All those fools;
Kids forgetting lessons'
Lessening their time in class.
I know now; _I was never in love._
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 5:02 PM UTC
For three reform years
Engaged in a killing spree
Not allowing citizens’
Mind for a second to be free
Among ethnic & religious groups
Creating and fomenting antipathy
Of the highest degree
We proved adamant
Rejecting every peace plea.
No wonder, no wonder
We treated kneeled mothers
With a cold shoulder,
In such manner, we gave order
“Do it. Go ahead
**** the feeble, elderly
Even every lacerating mother
In her bed.
Turn the land a river red
With atrocity ‘TPLF made’.”
About money worry
Should we why?
For three decades we ******
We bled the country dry.
Dollars we dispatched abroad
Stashing-away some in our abode.
Promising African democracy
On par with current Ghana,
We chained some political prisoners
With a hyena—our emblem
In our ill-reputed political game.
Many to subdue,
Out of the framework of law
We brought to life
A score of Guantanamo bay
Where numerous, underground,
Were tortured night and day.
As a junta
When our mind threatened
Us of a conscious pang
On it, we put out our tongue.
We were
A living billboard of a terrorist
But putting on a mask
Many we blacklisted
On the terrorist list
In such a fashion
The myopic—UN, EU
IMF, WB— the offender
For a victim admit.
Massacre, genocide
We committed with great passion
Also exposing our own nation
For a possible invasion.
Odd as it may sound, attacking
The national defense force
In barracks out to keep border
But defeated by a militia &ENDF
We complain attack on our
Ethnic group by a country yonder.
Dealt a devastating blow
Our moral has hit ever time low.
During our heyday
In our state the demonstration
Of **** victims we used to ban
But now reversing the talk
Loud shout we can
To the international community
“Come up with ‘Stop **** spree
In Tigray!’ decree”
While in TPLF’s reign
A single junta did **** girls fifty
But none of us saw that
Uncouth or naughty.
“If accused
Let alone bring him to court
We could see him off to port!”
We said.
What is more
By ENDF after defeat
Before we retreat
Let us release thugs to run amok
And on Tigray’s rebuilding
And stabilization wheels
To insert a spoke.
There is no organization
No nation as UN, EU &US a fool
But who seem cool.
Fabricating lies
We shall prove ourselves
Innocent in their eyes.
Abroad on demonstration square
Shouting for help flat on our back
To dupe the global community
Let us try our luck.
Of course, media outlets
That deserved a high five
Have fallen from grace,
‘cause for want of integrity
Journalism has observably
Made a nosedive.
Unfortunately those
Countries with integrity
Could see through
Our mask
What a bad luck.///
Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 9:57 AM UTC
Unknown, unidentified, unheard and
yet unbothered.
Unfiltered, uncensored, uncentered and
yet uninhibited.
Unrestricted, unrestrained, unleashed and
yet unencumbered.
Unastonished, unimpressed, undazzled and
yet unabashed.
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 11:15 PM UTC
Ludovicoofficial-poems
Here aground is voice for calling nation
Each is busy in nation support works
but none is ready to help.
how peasants can struggle while leaders enjoying mood and none to look this is really stranger arm!
The orphans rights are getting abused
the outlookers are reacting positively that all is OK none to judge.
How leaders can still stand and huge community still on there side is it proper acts or fearful arms?
I can't stop looking but I'll ask for help if this is political way stop this mess or all of us will die with judgement..
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 5:48 PM UTC
Speechless at Auschwitz
by Ko Un
translation by Michael R. Burch
At Auschwitz
piles of glasses
mountains of shoes
returning, we stared out different windows.
Published by Brief Poems
Original text:
Ad Auschwitz
pile di occhiali
montagne di scarpe
sulla via del ritorno
ognuno fissava fuori dal finestrino in direzione diversa.
(da Fiori di un istante, 2001)
Keywords/Tags: Ko Un, Holocaust, translation, speechless, Auschwitz, glasses, shoes, windows, silent, tongue-tied, wordless, mrbholo
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.
“Was gesagt werden muss” (“What must be said”)
by Günter Grass
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why have I remained silent, so long,
failing to mention something openly practiced
in war games which now threaten to leave us
merely meaningless footnotes?
Someone’s alleged “right” to strike first
might annihilate a beleaguered nation
whose people march to a martinet’s tune,
compelled to pageants of orchestrated obedience.
Why? Merely because of the suspicion
that a bomb might be built by Iranians.
But why do I hesitate, forbidding myself
to name that other nation, where, for years
―shrouded in secrecy―
a formidable nuclear capability has existed
beyond all control, simply because
no inspections were ever allowed?
The universal concealment of this fact
abetted by my own incriminating silence
now feels like a heavy, enforced lie,
an oppressive inhibition, a vice,
a strong constraint, which, if dismissed,
immediately incurs the verdict “anti-Semitism.”
But now my own country,
guilty of its unprecedented crimes
which continually demand remembrance,
once again seeking financial gain
(although with glib lips we call it “reparations”)
has delivered yet another submarine to Israel―
this one designed to deliver annihilating warheads
capable of exterminating all life
where the existence of even a single nuclear weapon remains unproven,
but where suspicion now serves as a substitute for evidence.
So now I will say what must be said.
Why did I remain silent so long?
Because I thought my origins,
tarred by an ineradicable stain,
forbade me to declare the truth to Israel,
a country to which I am and will always remain attached.
Why is it only now that I say,
in my advancing age,
and with my last drop of ink
on the final page
that Israel’s nuclear weapons endanger
an already fragile world peace?
Because tomorrow might be too late,
and so the truth must be heard today.
And because we Germans,
already burdened with many weighty crimes,
could become enablers of yet another,
one easily foreseen,
and thus no excuse could ever erase our complicity.
Furthermore, I’ve broken my silence
because I’m sick of the West’s hypocrisy
and because I hope many others too
will free themselves from the shackles of silence,
and speak out to renounce violence
by insisting on permanent supervision
of Israel’s atomic power and Iran’s
by an international agency
accepted by both governments.
Only thus can we find the path to peace
for Israelis and Palestinians and everyone else
living in a region currently consumed by madness
―and ultimately, for ourselves.
Published in Süddeutschen Zeitung (April 4, 2012). Günter Wilhelm Grass (1927-) is a German-Kashubian novelist, poet, playwright, illustrator, graphic artist, sculptor and recipient of the 1999 Nobel Prize in Literature. He is widely regarded as Germany's most famous living writer. Grass is best known for his first novel, The Tin Drum (1959), a key text in European magic realism. The Tin Drum was adapted into a film that won both the Palme d'Or and the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. The Swedish Academy, upon awarding Grass the Nobel Prize in Literature, noted him as a writer "whose frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history."
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.
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 6:18 AM UTC
The man to my right was more than eight feet away. I was going to have to move closer to him to catch my limit of four trout. I halved the distance between the two of us and noted the sideways glance he shot me. I apologized immediately and asked if I was crowding him.
“No, you fine,” he replied within a thick Serbian accent.
“You’re with them?” I asked, pointing to the crowd of people on the bridge some 30 feet upstream from us. I had heard the crowd of eastern Europeans talking earlier, and their accents were unmistakable to me. He nodded and we continued fishing.
With my new angle I was better able to pick my fish in the water, so that’s what I did. I spied one and tossed my jig toward him. It took five casts but eventually, he took the bait. As I netted it in the swift, ice-cold spring water the man beside me congratulated me on the catch. I thanked him and added it to my stringer. This made three, and I only needed one more.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Ivan”.
“Have you been in the states long?” I asked, after the pause following his short reply seemed to invite more questions.
“Since ‘96, my family live here. It is good.”
“You like living here?” I wondered aloud.
“Yes, the fishing is good. It is like back home in Serbia, or in Germany. We have this fishing there.”
“You mean trout?”
“Yes, trout...and some other fish like these, in water like this, but I can’t go home now.” He looked away momentarily. His lips pursed, and his brow furrowed. I pulled my line in, wanting to ask him more and not wanting to be distracted.
“Were you in the war?”
“Yes, I was in the Serbian police force.” My heart pounded. “When I was in the Serbian police force, we did what you see on the news. We went into villages and we killed them. We killed them all.”
I cast my line back into the water, spying another trout. Ivan shrugged and cast his own line. I couldn’t tell what he was using but it looked like cheese of some kind. “I was drafted in Serb police when I was 15. I had no choice. If I refuse, they **** me. I did what I had to do.” I nodded, and ****** my line, missing a fish. “Before the war, I fished. After the war, there were not so many people, so fishing was very good.”
The air around me was alive. The trees were greener, the water was colder and clearer, the sun was brighter, and the sky was bluer.
“I’ve been fishing for a long time as well,” I responded. My father used to bring me here as a child. He nodded and continued.
“After the war, all the fish come back, no one fished during the war, so there were many of them. You just had to be careful of the mines.” He grunted and gazed skyward.
“The mines?”
“Yes, during the war they mined the water.”
I watched trout number four take my jig and I carefully reeled him in. Ivan congratulated me a second time, and I thanked him in return.
“You’re a good fisherman,” he said turning back to his own pursuit of the four-trout limit, as I left the water to clean my catch.
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
Do you find yourself needing
Needing things that don't make sense
Sensical things that don't need to be needed
Needing is a human need I think
Thinking of things to un-need is a goal
A goal that I shouldn't need....
Here is the time where my brain exploded AGAIN!
Brian Hill - 2019 # 184
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 8:55 AM UTC
Why do you want me to want you when you dont want me too?
Why do you need me when you dont want me to need you too?
Why do you make me love you when you know you'll never love me too?
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 5:34 PM UTC
she smites me
an
scoshe
scosh
if
i
maybe
so bold
as to
say
we
have been hung
overclung
?
...
..
.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
KIM JONG UN IS ROCKET MAN
PRESIDENT TRUMP IS TINY DANCER
ELTON JOHN IS VERY HAPPY
NOW ALL WE NEED IS PRANCER
ARE THESE TWO GREAT MEN
SMARTER THAT WE THINK
ALL THESE REFERENCE TO ELTON JOHN
WILL PUT US ON THE BRINK
CROCODILE ROCK AND THE
CANDLE IN THE WIND
WHAT WILL THE WORLD THINK
WHEN NEITHER ONE WILL WIN
TRUMP CHRONICLES amazon.com
THIS ONCE AGAIN IS A VERY SMART POEM THEY JUST COME TO ME
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
They run.
They scream.
They beg for help.
Their homes are burned.
The women are *****
The children are tortured.
Everyone is killed.
A savior amidst the government and yet her lips sit on top of each other, only opening to condemn the persecuted Rohingya...
A Nobel Peace Prize winner revealing herself as an assailant of ethics.
The Rohingya.
The humans denied aid by almost every brother and sister,
THOUSANDS of men, women, children,
are drowning, burning, pleaing for mercy,
as you sit in your comfy chair and read this poem,
as i sit in this bed writing this poem.
The Rohingya are looking into the eyes of a Buddhist state;
looking down the barrel of a gun pointed at them from infancy.
An entire culture dedicated to dehumanizing humans...
An entire coalition of states conforming to locking the Rohingya out...
A state committing textbook genocide.
A world subduing to textbook ignorance.
And the Rohingya fighting for the right to live
For the right to be
Human
The Rohingya must not flee, nor fear persecution, for We shall stand by the Rohingya!
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 10:59 PM UTC
Meetings meetings everywhere
no intellect to be found
congress in a common place
with no common, ground
Conferences, and seminars
classes to be taught
knowledge escaping minds
into fruition, naught
Congregations, and conclaves
communications, lost
talking to the shadows
just so much, exhaust
Gatherings, and confabs
sermons on the mount
words that we've been banking
in a useless, government account
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC