"pogrom" poems - Hello Poetry

Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter" by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation 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 wilted, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck— rise up now, rise and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me although 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 drenching 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 brutal injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden; such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan. Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness, eat it away and undermine earth's rotting foundations. Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice

0

Mar 12, 2020

Mar 12, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Chaim Nachman Bialik "On The Slaughter" translation

Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter" by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation 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 wilted, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck— rise up now, rise and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me although 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 drenching 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 brutal injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden; such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan. Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness, eat it away and undermine earth's rotting foundations. Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice

36

Yevgeny Yevtushenko No monument stands over Babi Yar. A drop sheer as a crude gravestone. I am afraid. Today I am as old in years as all the Jewish people. Now I seem to be a Jew. Here I plod through ancient Egypt. Here I perish crucified, on the cross, and to this day I bear the scars of nails. I seem to be Dreyfus. The Philistine is both informer and judge. I am behind bars. Beset on every side. Hounded, spat on, slandered. Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced Brussels lace stick their parasols into my face. I seem to be then a young boy in Byelostok. Blood runs, spilling over the floors. The barroom rabble-rousers give off a stench of ***** and onion. A boot kicks me aside, helpless. In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies. While they jeer and shout, "Beat the Yids. Save Russia!" some grain-marketeer beats up my mother. 0 my Russian people! I know you are international to the core. But those with unclean hands have often made a jingle of your purest name. I know the goodness of my land. How vile these anti-Semites- without a qualm they pompously called themselves the Union of the Russian People! I seem to be Anne Frank transparent as a branch in April. And I love. And have no need of phrases. My need is that we gaze into each other. How little we can see or smell! We are denied the leaves, we are denied the sky. Yet we can do so much -- tenderly embrace each other in a darkened room. They're coming here? Be not afraid. Those are the booming sounds of spring: spring is coming here. Come then to me. Quick, give me your lips. Are they smashing down the door? No, it's the ice breaking ... The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar. The trees look ominous, like judges. Here all things scream silently, and, baring my head, slowly I feel myself turning gray. And I myself am one massive, soundless scream above the thousand thousand buried here. I am each old man here shot dead. I am every child here shot dead. Nothing in me shall ever forget! The "Internationale," let it thunder when the last anti-Semite on earth is buried forever. In my blood there is no Jewish blood. In their callous rage, all anti-Semites must hate me now as a Jew. For that reason I am a true Russian!

0

Jan 27, 2013

Jan 27, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC

andrew-springer

Babi Yar

Yevgeny Yevtushenko No monument stands over Babi Yar. A drop sheer as a crude gravestone. I am afraid. Today I am as old in years as all the Jewish people. Now I seem to be a Jew. Here I plod through ancient Egypt. Here I perish crucified, on the cross, and to this day I bear the scars of nails. I seem to be Dreyfus. The Philistine is both informer and judge. I am behind bars. Beset on every side. Hounded, spat on, slandered. Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced Brussels lace stick their parasols into my face. I seem to be then a young boy in Byelostok. Blood runs, spilling over the floors. The barroom rabble-rousers give off a stench of ***** and onion. A boot kicks me aside, helpless. In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies. While they jeer and shout, "Beat the Yids. Save Russia!" some grain-marketeer beats up my mother. 0 my Russian people! I know you are international to the core. But those with unclean hands have often made a jingle of your purest name. I know the goodness of my land. How vile these anti-Semites- without a qualm they pompously called themselves the Union of the Russian People! I seem to be Anne Frank transparent as a branch in April. And I love. And have no need of phrases. My need is that we gaze into each other. How little we can see or smell! We are denied the leaves, we are denied the sky. Yet we can do so much -- tenderly embrace each other in a darkened room. They're coming here? Be not afraid. Those are the booming sounds of spring: spring is coming here. Come then to me. Quick, give me your lips. Are they smashing down the door? No, it's the ice breaking ... The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar. The trees look ominous, like judges. Here all things scream silently, and, baring my head, slowly I feel myself turning gray. And I myself am one massive, soundless scream above the thousand thousand buried here. I am each old man here shot dead. I am every child here shot dead. Nothing in me shall ever forget! The "Internationale," let it thunder when the last anti-Semite on earth is buried forever. In my blood there is no Jewish blood. In their callous rage, all anti-Semites must hate me now as a Jew. For that reason I am a true Russian!

93

Throughout history in a Diasporic condition and through the pagan goes another Jew sacrificed to the flesh the World and the devil. Not in hiding but seeking redemption; the purge-- only comes after death. For the next generations renewal? Woe unto those limits of human freedom. Let those seeking salvation convert; or let God present a sacrifice completely consumed by fire: burnt offering. While Jesus suffered still... those elected to **** Christ; as Judas was also chosen. Compelled to sin, by obligation, on the cross of the Baphomet. Where flesh is offered as sacrifice to that lord satan, guiding them, to hell on earth. While having you hope for Rapture. As the Jew takes the place of the Church and Christian. I reach for the Cross aiming for the heart of the vampire and brain of the zombie -- pogromed of glory. Have your way upon the World especially ****** © S. Wesley Mcgranor

0

Feb 11, 2015

Feb 11, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC

s-wesley-mcgranor

Pogrom of Glory

Throughout history in a Diasporic condition and through the pagan goes another Jew sacrificed to the flesh the World and the devil. Not in hiding but seeking redemption; the purge-- only comes after death. For the next generations renewal? Woe unto those limits of human freedom. Let those seeking salvation convert; or let God present a sacrifice completely consumed by fire: burnt offering. While Jesus suffered still... those elected to **** Christ; as Judas was also chosen. Compelled to sin, by obligation, on the cross of the Baphomet. Where flesh is offered as sacrifice to that lord satan, guiding them, to hell on earth. While having you hope for Rapture. As the Jew takes the place of the Church and Christian. I reach for the Cross aiming for the heart of the vampire and brain of the zombie -- pogromed of glory. Have your way upon the World especially ****** © S. Wesley Mcgranor

34

How can simple nonoffensive words hurt so much? How can the plain question: "who am I?" make my stomach clutch? Why does the disability to answer make me feel like a bird in a hutch? I try to look for answers, but I end up too weak straying from my goal looking for a crutch. Speaking of going astray, here goes my mind once again. Even I don't know the depths of my thoughts, not the tenth of my brain. After all, I am just a demo, a soul in a chain. What if: "What am I?" is saner? That I can say. I am a human that yet did not drain. A believer of the old saying "no pain no gain." Oh no! I am more than that! I am a grain. And I hold within me the power of a reign. All I need is to grow, all I need is rain. Rain... rain ladies and gentlemen is nature's beloved soundtrack. It is the pitter-patter that makes my heart crack. Sky, why are you so black? What is it that you feel you lack? I promise I won't stand back. Dear horizon ease your anxiety attack, for you are more loved than FLACK. I am a 16RAM program of a telegram whose programmer programmed to deprogram all pogrom to the last gram by the use of an epigram. In simpler terms, I am a poet. I love the world when I'm high and when I'm at my lowest. I believe that I am a poet because poetry is the highest expression of love. I am a lover of this earth and the heavens above. Love isn't just a myth, it does exist. I could go on like this, naming all that I love with a never-ending list. I have learned to adore the darkest of times, I have learned to be fascinated by all lives. Earth why are you falling apart? Why are you so angry? Why are you committing all of these crimes? Ease your typhoons your tornadoes pandemics tsunamis and volcanoes. Dear planet no need for more hives. I can't promise you that we will behave, for mankind is foolish, him who once lived in a cave. I understand your wish for the extinction of all humans. But like any other love story, our love did not last. While earth took us in her arms in the past, whilst earth lovingly caressed humans otherwise. In the present, it has harassed us as if we were Pennywise. The touch of life used to give me butterflies. But for now, all I hear is earth's cries. The earth has loved us so purely, although earth is 22 500 times older than man she has welcomed him so demurely. And yet, man polluted destructed and poisoned. Oh isn't man such a disgrace? How can he look earth in the face?

0

Apr 9, 2020

Apr 9, 2020 at 3:28 PM UTC

alaa2003

A Toxic Love

How can simple nonoffensive words hurt so much? How can the plain question: "who am I?" make my stomach clutch? Why does the disability to answer make me feel like a bird in a hutch? I try to look for answers, but I end up too weak straying from my goal looking for a crutch. Speaking of going astray, here goes my mind once again. Even I don't know the depths of my thoughts, not the tenth of my brain. After all, I am just a demo, a soul in a chain. What if: "What am I?" is saner? That I can say. I am a human that yet did not drain. A believer of the old saying "no pain no gain." Oh no! I am more than that! I am a grain. And I hold within me the power of a reign. All I need is to grow, all I need is rain. Rain... rain ladies and gentlemen is nature's beloved soundtrack. It is the pitter-patter that makes my heart crack. Sky, why are you so black? What is it that you feel you lack? I promise I won't stand back. Dear horizon ease your anxiety attack, for you are more loved than FLACK. I am a 16RAM program of a telegram whose programmer programmed to deprogram all pogrom to the last gram by the use of an epigram. In simpler terms, I am a poet. I love the world when I'm high and when I'm at my lowest. I believe that I am a poet because poetry is the highest expression of love. I am a lover of this earth and the heavens above. Love isn't just a myth, it does exist. I could go on like this, naming all that I love with a never-ending list. I have learned to adore the darkest of times, I have learned to be fascinated by all lives. Earth why are you falling apart? Why are you so angry? Why are you committing all of these crimes? Ease your typhoons your tornadoes pandemics tsunamis and volcanoes. Dear planet no need for more hives. I can't promise you that we will behave, for mankind is foolish, him who once lived in a cave. I understand your wish for the extinction of all humans. But like any other love story, our love did not last. While earth took us in her arms in the past, whilst earth lovingly caressed humans otherwise. In the present, it has harassed us as if we were Pennywise. The touch of life used to give me butterflies. But for now, all I hear is earth's cries. The earth has loved us so purely, although earth is 22 500 times older than man she has welcomed him so demurely. And yet, man polluted destructed and poisoned. Oh isn't man such a disgrace? How can he look earth in the face?

46

here they come amassing their potential greatness in the back of my mind there they go a squanderin around the bug spins twice for the amusement of the hypotheticals and sporadic leeches the door slams shut before opening again forthe greatest of the releases and the nonsensicals pour out just this once for perhaps the only andlast time they march forth in order of smallest to largest. silliest to unprovoked wearing ******* clown shoes and false faces some with dollar signs still burning the palms of their hands but most with 10,000 mile stares do they still write for the universal, for the greatest spining reversal? do they still speak in the most straightforward of riddles? does anyone still read into them... does the faucet still incessantly drip idealized water memories... I can only see the slope, not the gradient I can only feel the dew, not the grass i can only taste the crab, not the shell I can only hear the music, not thewords facing divinity and scouring myself clean in the shame it forces seeing the exact center of the venn diagram and being blinded by the duality therein ***** and links 234 simplicity is the most difficult thing to master books don't write themselves authurs can't design inspiration liquids still sing

0

Jun 20, 2014

Jun 20, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC

klaus-baumgarten

pogrom and hubris

here they come amassing their potential greatness in the back of my mind there they go a squanderin around the bug spins twice for the amusement of the hypotheticals and sporadic leeches the door slams shut before opening again forthe greatest of the releases and the nonsensicals pour out just this once for perhaps the only andlast time they march forth in order of smallest to largest. silliest to unprovoked wearing ******* clown shoes and false faces some with dollar signs still burning the palms of their hands but most with 10,000 mile stares do they still write for the universal, for the greatest spining reversal? do they still speak in the most straightforward of riddles? does anyone still read into them... does the faucet still incessantly drip idealized water memories... I can only see the slope, not the gradient I can only feel the dew, not the grass i can only taste the crab, not the shell I can only hear the music, not thewords facing divinity and scouring myself clean in the shame it forces seeing the exact center of the venn diagram and being blinded by the duality therein ***** and links 234 simplicity is the most difficult thing to master books don't write themselves authurs can't design inspiration liquids still sing

27

Remember how **** of Utin did the 'Faux Pandemic' political theater, saying and doing the opposite of what he knew to be true, in order to **** as many handicapped, elderly, autistic, developmentally disabled, long-term hospital and nursing home attendees, diffabled, etc., as he could, a eugenics pogrom to steal their SS, 'cause the repubs couldn't get that done politically for decades?; oh yeah, it's still going on. 'Oh well, here we go again', now he's heading up this lame conspiracy, they're all terrorists, and should be prosecuted as such, will you?

0

Jan 15, 2021

Jan 15, 2021 at 2:38 AM UTC

reality

Purposely Not Prevented Kop Killing Seditionist Insurrectionist Konspiracy Of 1-6-21

Remember how **** of Utin did the 'Faux Pandemic' political theater, saying and doing the opposite of what he knew to be true, in order to **** as many handicapped, elderly, autistic, developmentally disabled, long-term hospital and nursing home attendees, diffabled, etc., as he could, a eugenics pogrom to steal their SS, 'cause the repubs couldn't get that done politically for decades?; oh yeah, it's still going on. 'Oh well, here we go again', now he's heading up this lame conspiracy, they're all terrorists, and should be prosecuted as such, will you?

10

I am a 16RAM program of a telegram whose programmer programmed to deprogram all pogrom to the last gram by the use of an epigram. In simpler terms, I am a poet.

0

Apr 9, 2020

Apr 9, 2020 at 5:56 PM UTC

alaa2003

A Telegram

I am a 16RAM program of a telegram whose programmer programmed to deprogram all pogrom to the last gram by the use of an epigram. In simpler terms, I am a poet.

2

razors in their hands hangmen wanted to cut to bits our tongues before our hearts in the mid of the fires while, hitting our logic to insanity chain we guarded a red rose in our hearts slave men many of them -even- unknowing how they are deceived by the lies shared the pogrom gravitated to Madımak Hotel on 1993 thoughts were in the spider's web beards are white, hearts are black feet ran for killing and burned the flowers' blossoms with their seeds which are the future of their children reverend mullahs!? now, how the soup tastes at your tables? after two, they were thirty five comrades who drained life from their souls they were who had pure love in their thoughts now, they will be the guests of our souls till the eternity they were proud, revolutionist and compassionate and they are at the comrades bitter consolation resting in our hearts moon lights shining on their faces that’s why every second of July songs are more sorrowful consciousnesses are more rebellious! my grudge sharpened -like a knife- day by day aaaah aah ah! at the yearn of the friendly smell at the resistance, not to forget my feelings my feelings, remained orphan Turgay Usanmaz

0

Jan 19, 2016

Jan 19, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC

turgay-usanmaz

orphan feelings

razors in their hands hangmen wanted to cut to bits our tongues before our hearts in the mid of the fires while, hitting our logic to insanity chain we guarded a red rose in our hearts slave men many of them -even- unknowing how they are deceived by the lies shared the pogrom gravitated to Madımak Hotel on 1993 thoughts were in the spider's web beards are white, hearts are black feet ran for killing and burned the flowers' blossoms with their seeds which are the future of their children reverend mullahs!? now, how the soup tastes at your tables? after two, they were thirty five comrades who drained life from their souls they were who had pure love in their thoughts now, they will be the guests of our souls till the eternity they were proud, revolutionist and compassionate and they are at the comrades bitter consolation resting in our hearts moon lights shining on their faces that’s why every second of July songs are more sorrowful consciousnesses are more rebellious! my grudge sharpened -like a knife- day by day aaaah aah ah! at the yearn of the friendly smell at the resistance, not to forget my feelings my feelings, remained orphan Turgay Usanmaz

42

a treaty that allure is her franc desire but her weight abreast the top that applaud appeal with her oats but oleoresin that you infer her armature is not a pogrom nor a sham

0

Dec 22, 2018

Dec 22, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC

poetman

yellowly

a treaty that allure is her franc desire but her weight abreast the top that applaud appeal with her oats but oleoresin that you infer her armature is not a pogrom nor a sham

17