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week of April 19 - 25, 2010

Our twelvth annual Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) issue.

Alexa Havok
B.E. Kahn
Carl Palmer
Curt Eriksen
David Neves
Deborah Rey
Donal Mahoney
Gary Jacobson
Graham Fulton
Hanoch Guy
Helen Bar-Lev
Jerry Jerome
Jim Bennett
Julia Stein
Katherine L. Gordon
KJ Hannah Greenberg
Lyn Lifshin
Margaret Boles

BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click. here .for. submission .guidelines

A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast | I'd Like to Bake Your Goods | Stolen Mummies | Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town
Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
| I'm a Jew, Are You? | Lizard King of the Laundromat | I Am My Own Orange County
Paris: It's The Cheese
| Poetry Super Highway | Judaic Links | Rick's Bookmarks | Cobalt Poets
E-mail Rick
| Other Cool Rick Stuff / Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick

 

  


Alexa Havok
alexahavok1992@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

I'm 17 years old and I live in Los Angeles, CA. I heard about this opportunity through a teacher who knows about my interest in poetry. Although I have no Jewish heritage I feel like the Holocaust was not an ethnic issue but an issue of humanity regarding each and everyone of us, even if we weren't even alive at that time. I believe that remembering and understanding our past will help us in the future. In my submission I put myself in the shoes of a Jew in a Concentration Camp.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Alexa Havok and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Human

Never shall I forget
that nocturnal silence
which deprived me for all eternity
of the desire to live.
A dark flame had entered
into my soul,
devoured it;
in every stiffened corpse
I saw myself.
I shall be one of them-
a matter of hours...
This was the end-
the end of the road.
Was I still alive?
Was I awake?
No, I know I'll never forget.

The moment had come,
I was face to face
with the angel of death.
How to believe it?
How to survive it?
In the depths of my heart
I bade farewell
to my father,
to the whole Universe.
Last night the soup
had tasted of corpses
but today,
death wrapped itself around me-
I could touch it,
breathe it,
be it.
Not to exist any longer,
not to feel anything...
Around me everything was swaying
to a dance of death.

I will die being human
but they will kill me as monsters.
I know I'll never forget
and pray the world
never forgets.

Never forget.



B.E. Kahn
bekahn36@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

B.E. Kahn, native Philadelphian, now lives in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania. She is a recipient of Pennsylvania Council of The Arts and Pew Grants. Her poems have appeared in publications such as Harrisburg Review, Mad Poets Review, Bridges A Jewish Feminist Journal, Jewish Spectator, Philadelphia Poets and The Tupelo Press Online Poetry Project. She received First Prize for Poetry at The Philadelphia Writers Conference among other awards. Her chapbook, Spring Apples Silver Birch was published in 2008, Greenleaf Press. Another, Landscapes of Light, is forthcoming in 2010, Poets wear Prada Press. A retired speech therapist, she teaches poetry to intergenerational groups.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by B.E. Kahn and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Ritual

So many voids—
the world full of them.
Unknown relatives

in mass graves.
Skeletons curled—
question marks of place,

date of demise.
Or did they survive?
Still lost to family here.

Their bones, in the vast
ritual of music unplayed,
like violin bows taut.

All our unstrung lives—
saved by utterance.



Carl Palmer
carlpalmer@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Carl Palmer, nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Micro Award, from Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, VA, now lives in University Place, WA.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Carl Palmer and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


66489

Wheel-chaired into the lobby
from his assisted care room,

the elderly Jewish gentleman
squints into bright camera lights,

accepts the lottery check,
smiles at the television crew.

A newspaper reporter asks,
Was this a computer pick

or did you already have
some numbers in mind?


He focuses on her microphone,
as his hand rubs the sleeve

of the frayed gray sweater
covering his faded blue tattoo.


first published in The Houston Literary Review, July 2009.



Curt Eriksen
clerik60@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

The short fiction and poetry of Curt Eriksen have appeared in the U.S., U.K., India and Spain—in Rosebud, New Madrid, Ghoti, 34th Parallel, Contrary, Pindeldyboz, 42opus and Alba, among other journals. More work is forthcoming soon in Blackbird, Anemone Sidecar and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine. All of Curt’s published work is accessible online at www.clerik.weebly.com.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Curt Eriksen and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Dead Corpses in Train

Being corpses, of course
they’re dead. Long dead,
recently dead, but always
very much
dead.

They lived, they died
and now
they are all
all of them
dead.

Who knows until they have nodded off with exhaustion only
to shudder awake with the shunting upon those rails—
dead might not be so bad after all, particularly
under the circumstances, particularly
considering the alternatives.

Regardless they were forced to climb
into those boxcars and forever haunt them
with their anguish.

Sooner or later they were all rounded up
no matter where they came from
they were all selectively acquired:
a rich euphony of names destined
to become numbers a single hand
could effortlessly erase from a ledger.

There was never any choice
in the matter, they were herded onto
the trains that birthed those corpses
never to get off again,
the pregnant wagons still reeking
with their silence.

But it’s the getting there
on those trains
that is really
something
else.

Like eating rock, I suppose,
bitter hard to swallow
and impossible
to digest.

No matter how long those corpses
remain dead in the train.



David Neves
stud-ly@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

David Neves, Newark NJ A simple bastard from the inner city whose only vices are food and sex, and is in the process of acquiring a Himalayan sized writer's ego whose shit doesn't happen to stink. In addition, I can do shitty imitations of the Governator, of Ronald Reagan and Mr. ''T'', and Rick Lupert! As you can see, I'm quite versatile!

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by David Neves and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Yom Hashoakh (The Wine Is Poured)

Mezog hayayin-the wine is poured into vindictive, ruby chalice;
Mezog hayayin-the bitter herbs are thus fleshed out upon the land;
Mezog hayayin-the "Night of Long Knives" stabs us in darkest deepness;
Mezog hayayin-we see not our haters as we huddled in cattle cars;
Mezog hayayin-the wine is squeezed through hateful press which sucks out life;
Mezog hayayin-it is our life through hopeless veins which begs for ending;
Mezog hayayin-it is illegal to be what we are and have always been;
Mezog hayayin-against the law to be a Jew; we are thus all guilty;
Mezog hayayin-the wine is poured out never to reach our needy lips.

Never again! Can we ignore the holy teachers of nishama and haruakh?
Never again! Can we crush glass with naked feet and not spill wine?
Never again! Can we dance "horah" to not smell the virgin, pungent flesh in cinders?
Never again! Can we spurn the deal to make law our convenient little slutbitch?
Never again! Can we face our hateful selves as filthy klippa?
Never again! To pour oblations to worldly queen of mighty pride and mammon?
Never again! To dance jigs and hops and skips of clueless ritual?
Never again! The pitiful, dying plea drowned out by hollow banter?
Never again! To sell sacrificial wine poured out as genocidal nectar?



Deborah Rey
deborah.rey@runbox.com

Bio (auto)

Deborah Rey (1938) was born in Amsterdam. From an early age she has worked in radio, television, publicity and the theatre, as a broadcaster, entertainer, scriptwriter, translator, editor, and actress. Today, retired, she finally has the time to be a full-time writer and editor, and lives at the French Atlantic coast with her husband, two dogs and five cats. Rey is recognised by the Dutch Foundation 1940-1945 as a participant in the Resistance during the German occupation of The Netherlands during World War II.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Deborah Rey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Change of Address

If it is true that only
five hundred thousand
people died in the camps
and that the others,
the other Jews that is,
moved away, to Israel,
the States, or to the East,
I do not understand why
not even one of them
sent a change of address
to those they left behind;
the ones that still, even
today, weep over the
loss of them and the horror
they were subjected to
that - supposedly - is not true.
I wonder why, if she was one
of those who simply moved
to the East and did not die,
my Mother … why my Mother
never even sent me a pretty
postcard from where she
is living now.



Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net

Bio (auto)

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, MO. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. A Pushcart nominee, he has had poems published in The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Poetry Super Highway, Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Pirene's Fountain (Australia) and other publications.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Donal Mahoney and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Swastikas Today on Temple Mizpah

The kitchens of Auschwitz
are belching again.

Ancient chefs,
puffed hats askew,

storm once more
the catwalks swaying.

When the ovens are full,
the chefs dig pits

in the kitchen floor, set
silver spits, roast fryer thin

the legs and wings they’ve
cleaned and cleavered. Yes,

the kitchens of Auschwitz
are belching again.



Gary Jacobson
jacobs@atcnet.net

Bio (auto)

I am Gary Jacobson, from Malad, Idaho, married with four children, two sons and two daughters. Oft called The Warrior Poet, or Vietnam Bard, forty years ago I was sent by my rich uncle to work in his vineyards in a land all white and ready to harvest ~ hereinafter referred to as Vietnam. I served with 1st platoon, B Co 2nd/7th 1st Air Cavalry '66 - '67, as a combat infantryman ... we called ourselves "Grunts," operating out of LZ Betty near beautiful downtown Phan Thiet, Vietnam. Mine was the same unit depicted in the Mel Gibson movie, "We Were Soldiers," only I came along one year later. Vietnam changed us all indelibly and forever. I'm now retired with several by-products of war, a 100% disability rating, to include an extra hole in my head, covered by a 3X4 inch plate, shrapnel the size of a quarter currently imbedded three inches into my brain ... this traumatic brain injury all compliments of a trip wire booby trap that triggered a grenade, that in turn detonated an artillery round ... and in the process completely ruined my whole day ... April, 22, 1967, during combat operation in the boonies near Phan Rang, Vietnam. I have seen firsthand the face of hate, and felt its awful sting, so I admonish you, "Learn what the warriors learned, for indeed, it is warriors who have first hand seen the evil and devastation of hatred, who first hand know the value of peace, love, compassion and harmony among men." Webmaster of "Vietnam Picture Tour," A walk in "the park" grunts called Vietnam, with the 1st Air Cavalry on combat patrol. Experience chilling reality to leave the sweet and sour taste of "the Nam" pungent on your tongue, the smell of "the Nam" acrid in your nostrils, and textures of "the Nam" imbedded in you as though you walked beside me in combat. http://namtour.com/namtour.html My poignant poems directory, pictures and artwork to show the essence and feeling of war on young "boys next door," http://namtour.com/nampoemsNpix.html "Realm Of Poetry," http://dreamerzz.tripod.com/SiteMap.html Poems of love and romance, sacred spirituality and meditation, Golden Oldies, comedy, Quests of the regal knight Richard Lionheart to the crusades and seeking the Holy Grail, dueling dragons, frolicking fairies, and comedy....and also links to my site of that bestial ogre called war...

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Gary Jacobson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Man's Holocaust

Terrible…
No, more than that ... exceeding terrible
What man to man will do
Vile hatred to man pursue
Oh the travesty, the inanity
Manifest in utter inhumanity
Oh, what raging fire of caustic carnage
Propels pogrom's inane barrage.

This cup of madness was drunk by a madman
But a million countrymen said amen
Let us wield your sword of hate
Let us join in this holocaust irate
Goose stepping to the bloody abyss
This land caught up in rapaciousness
Stooping to Godless mass murder
Destroying souls in human decimation's slaughter.

Deviltry marked man's carnivorous cruelty
Combining viciousness with insanity
Barefaced atrocity embodied in sheer depravity
Where malignant evil lives in infamy
Decadence rushing palpable debauchery
Feeding mankind's grotesquely carnal brutishness
Borne in savage pridefulness
Grown with cankered monstrousness.

The holocaust revealed man's bestiality
Lowest barbarism's immorality
Revealing the worst to body and spirit bitter
Slithering from under-a-rock darkly sinister.
Have we yet learned to respect our neighbor's difference
The lesson to forego discord's cumbersome dissidence?
May we forever embrace harmony
Forever seek God's face with great integrity.

Though I am not a Jew devout
Nor gay ~ nor gypsy roustabout
Nor the handicapped who evil winnowed out
I feel their holocaust of monumental, historical pain
Great tears fall on us all as heaven-distilled rain.
Please...
May innate dignity never again by hatred be slain.
Please...
May peace forever mankind's leavened heart satiate.
Please...
May love for our fellow man take the place of hate.



Graham Fulton
hfulton32@btinternet.com

Bio (auto)

My name's Graham Fulton. I live in Paisley in Scotland. My poems have been published in many publications in both the UK and USA including Ambit, The Potomac, Poetry Super Highway, Raintown Review, Barbaric Yawp, Illya's Honey, Word Riot, Chaparral, Orbis, Envoi, Staple, Stride, Dream State; the New Scottish Poets, Stand, Edinburgh Review, The North, Brittle Star, California Quarterly. My collections include Humouring the Iron Bar Man (Polygon), This (Rebel Inc), Knights of the Lower Floors (Polygon), Pocket Fugues (Controlled Explosion Press), twenty three umbrellas (Controlled Explosion Press). A major new collection called Open Plan is to be published in 2011 by Smokestack Books from England.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Graham Fulton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Photographing Ghosts
Amsterdam

An Amsterdam synagogue is being restored.
Masked men blast the outside walls,
dissolve the strata of silence, the past.

A young volunteer, a history buff,
relates the clinical chain of events:
pogroms, ghettos, solutions, gas,
ash like snowflakes, orchestra, trains.

He tells me I should take my time
to feel the pulse of the musty space,
sit on the seats and make a donation,
buy a keepsake to help me remember.

Proceeds towards the final cost.
Silver seven-branch candlesticks.

A relic lady looks blank when asked
how many people are left these days.
Decades float in the air we breathe,
thicken our throats, make it hard to judge

distance, pain, what really happens,
what is imagined. Shrinking wax.

A clanking tramcar hurls and sparks
along its lines outside the door.

Is it okay to take a photograph?
A relic lady looks blank when asked.
Security cameras swivel to watch
as I drop my skull cap into the box.



Hanoch Guy
hanochkguypoet@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Hanoch Guy (Elkins Park, Pennsylvania) spent his childhood and youth in Israel He is a bilingual poet in Hebrew and English, Hanoch teaches Hebrew and Jewish LiteratureTemple University. He has published poetry in Genre,Poetry Newsletter, Tracks , the International Journal of Genocide studies, several times in Poetica where he won an award He has also won an award in the Mad Poets Society. On this Holocaust memorial day Hanoch mourns the deaths of his family in Romania and Poland.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Hanoch Guy and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Who emptied?
(After Nelly Sachs)

But who emptied your shoes
of sand?
Who piled them up gently ,
making sure one will touch the other lightly?
Who polished carefully the brown shoes
as well as the black ones ?
Who relaced the shoes
replacing the broken laces?
Who picked up the torn ones,
repaired them and put them
right by the exit to the camps,
by the icy railroads,
by their homes
where the doors were
left open,
by the fences

so they will be ready
to step in.
Who waved the magic wand*
that made them disappear forever*
nobody
empties them of sand
polishes them so they would look new*,
laces them,
repairs them,

piles them,
making sure they
touch
each
other
lightly.



Helen Bar-Lev
hbarlev@netvision.net.il

Bio (auto)

Born New York 1942, B.A. Anthropology; in Israel for 40 years, 85+ exhibitions of her watercolour landscapes. Poems and artwork in numerous online and print anthologies. Cyclamens and Swords and other poems about the land of Israel, and The Muse in the Suitcase, both with Johnmichael Simon, illustrated by Helen. In Moonlight the Sky Will Slide with Katherine L. Gordon. Helen is Senior Editor of Cyclamens and Swords Publishing, www.cyclamensandswords.com Former editor-in-chief of Voices Israel Annual Anthology. She is the poetry editor for Presence: An International Journal of Spiritual Direction, published by Spiritual Directors International www.sdiworld.org and contributing editor for Sketchbook, A Journal for Eastern and Western Short Forms http://poetrywriting.org/

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Helen Bar-Lev and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Interesting

It is interesting sitting on the steps
of the back door of the bus
which you must do
when none of the people,
none of the soldiers,
strong and straight-backed
young women and men
all with grandmothers,
offers you a seat

it is interesting
to view the speeding world thus
through the window,
just above eye level,
to see the mountains of clouds,
almost as if from a plane,
relaxing now, whitening,
from their past two-day
rain frenzy

it is interesting
to see the tips of hills and trees,
wild gorse growing golden now,
late April,
to observe truck tops, rubble tops
from this odd perspective
no artist would choose
for a painting

the two young women
at whose feet you sit,
whose shoes you absently inspect,
laugh and speak German
do they know today is Holocaust Day?

an education, everything,
including this unusual rudeness,
perhaps especially hurtful today --
the juxtaposition, the comparison
of this apathy, its implications,
and remembrance of the Holocaust

and the clouds continue to make faces,
as you, born in the heat of World War II,
sit on the steps
pondering everything


A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast | I'd Like to Bake Your Goods | Stolen Mummies | Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town
Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
| I'm a Jew, Are You? | Lizard King of the Laundromat | I Am My Own Orange County
Paris: It's The Cheese
| Poetry Super Highway | Judaic Links | Rick's Bookmarks | Cobalt Poets
E-mail Rick
| Other Cool Rick Stuff / Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick