May 1-7, 2000: 2nd Annual Yom Hashoah Issue


 

week of May 1-7, 2000

In Honor of Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) we present twenty four poets responding to the atrocities in World War II in which Six Million Jews were murdered, including one and a half million children

Kaye Abikhaled
Jim Bennett
Jon Bohrn
Tony Bush
Michel Cicero
Mike Cluff
Lorilee Couture
T.J Daniels
Glenn A Fenster
Conor Fitzsimons
Thomas Fortenberry
Giovanni Francesco
Gwynne Garfinkle
Virginia J Garner
joja
Sharon Esther Lampert
Robert Mallat/Gary Gach
Peggy Meeks-King
Morgan Newington
Lynne Remick
Ryfkah
Larry Tilander
James Thompson
Michael Virga

 

Kaye Voigt Abikhaled
abikhaled@mail.utexas.edu

Bio(auto)

Kaye Voigt Abikhaled, born in Berlin, Germany, is married and has two grown children A 1950 Kiwanis foreign student high school scholarship award winner, Kaye immigrated to the US in June 1960, attended college at night and worked during the day The family spent five years in the Middle East After transferring to Austin 1981, Kaye devoted full time to community volunteering before returning to the work force 1987, retired June 1998 Kaye’s poetry has been published in state, national and international poetry journals.

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Kaye Voigt Abikhaled and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Lessons

An old couple took English lessons They brought their friend, fuzzy haired spinster
heinous laugh
never remembering vocabulary nor grammar She owned a bakery stall
at the local market A war casualty, mother said That was all Once a week sent to fetch one loaf of bread
in exchange for lessons Once a week sent for a lesson on a violin
that screeched even when bow caressed
South entrance of the synagogue
stammered greetings Yes, I know, child Let’s go into the music room A short, rotund man impeccably dressed
fringe of curly white hair
extends a puffy hand: Marcus Michlin His serene presence fills the room
Mother made me come, I hate this violin,
let’s cancel this whole thing, all right?
Gray eyes evaluating impertinence May I see your instrument Shoving it under his nose
he takes it gently by the neck When was the last time you played?
A year ago, maybe two Lesson Number One,
always take the tension off your bow when quitting He played a gypsy melody A very bad instrument
Good, that takes care of it then!
but I will teach you how to play this bad instrument
and make it sound as if its tone came from a good one Serious gaze, no room for arguments And with that the old man took on an obstinate student
of mediocre talent who played a bad violin
I hid his family in my attic,
Miss Keppler said from behind
her glassed-in counter stall My no-good brother squealed to the SS They put us all in the concentration camp ha-ha-hey-hey-hoooo
howling in borderline insanity Here&Mac183;and practice your violin,
he deserves respect Two loaves of bread hit my collarbone
Marcus Michlin insisted on accuracy of tone and technique,
taught importance of pauses
intricacies of apportioning space to bow,
made me tap beats with the right foot,
listened with grave attention to teenage complaints
about lessons too difficult, time too short to practice Teasing me about it
he gave guidance and encouragement With determination he instilled tenacity
and the need for daily practice Always impeccably dressed
he insisted on timeliness
never short changing allotted time His uncompromising demands for excellence
chaffed my youthful impatience, yet
I did not dare disappoint him In two years’ time he succeeded
in molding a mediocre student
into a disciplined, methodical violinist
who took music seriously
and practiced two hours a day,
seven days a week
evoking melodies that haunted
from an instrument unfit to play
They had found them all right,
carted them off to Dachau, all four:
The First Violinist of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
his wife and son, and their protector Allied forces freed them,
gave them a place to live, to start over They never blamed anyone
They lived in quiet dignity,
Marcus Michlin teaching his students
When visas for emigration were delivered
my heart broke My anchor, my guide,
the only person
to ever focus attention
to forging my character
to fostering my future
was gone Missing him dreadfully
I was surprised to find
how much I loved him Bereft, I buried deep
perished aspirations and the violin.

 


 

 

 

Bio(auto)

Jim Bennett is a writer, poet and journalist, who is married with six children and living in Merseyside (UK) He has over thirty books published covering many subjects including, transport studies, marketing and poetry

In 1997 he was invited to attend an international conference in New York on the work of Charlotte Perkins Gilman, where he delivered a paper on her short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” This paper is to be published in the USA next year along with the work of other Gilman scholars While in the United States he gave public readings of his poetry which were judged to have been very successful he is currently considering an offer to return to America for several months next year
During the year, Jim was editor of a poetry collection and is preparing a second volume for publication along with a volume of his own poetry to be called “Painting On Sand ” “When I get the time to finish them ” He is currently working on a new edition of two of his technical works and has a book for children due to be published before Christmas.


The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Jim Bennett and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Testament

6 million Jews died in Europe
so many that it becomes
just a number so many Jews,
and others who were
Gypsies, Jehovah’s Witnesses,
other Christians who resisted,
and people judged morally, mentally
or socially deficient
communists and homosexuals totals too many to count
in Birkenau a family called Reich
a father, mother two daughters died,
(their grand mother died elsewhere
gassed, naked, waiting for a shower)
the father was fortunate he died the first day
the mother and daughters tried to live
did all they could to survive
but all that remains are their names
clawed into plaster in a camp bordello
an attempt to leave a mark on the world
something more permanent than themselves

on a transport train from Italy to Auschwitz
a mother, just a girl, makes space
to feed and change her baby
cuddles her, kisses her, makes her laugh
takes care of her
the next day they die in Auschwitz
the baby convulsing in her mothers arms
the mother screaming for mercy
before she drops to the floor still holding tight her baby,

just two in twelve million making up a number
more permanent than themselves

in a wood near Buchwald
there is an area where no trees grow
the bones that mound the earth
tie up the roots

when first found there were bits of paper
caught up in the undergrowth and bushes
tiny scraps of paper recording scraps of lives
Pert Davich 4/10/43
God Be with Us all this day
Marta Heriod, Budapest,
Please let my family know
David Whorst-God forgive me
they wrote their names and testaments
on scraps of paper which lie like
snow on the landscape of history

in fields, near dead, gassed
on lorry exhaust fumes
throats cut, shot, or gutted
they bled into the earth
mud mixed with blood
congealed to scabs
with the passing of winter
they gave something of themselves to
the future where green meadows bloom in summer

enriched with their blood
a landscape, beaten into life
more permanent than themselves
6 million Jews died in Europe
so many that it becomes
just a number so many Jews,
and others who were
Gypsies, Jehovah’s Witnesses,
other Christians who resisted,
and people judged morally, mentally
or socially deficient
communists and homosexuals totals too many to count
It all becomes too much like
a mathematical exercise,
count the shoes,
count the glasses,
count the suitcases,
count the lists count the scraps of paper
count the years stolen from their lives
record it all for the future
for a history
more permanent than ourselves

 


 

 

 

Bio(auto)

Jon Bohrn lives in Long Beach, CA, where he has been caught loitering in neighborhood coffee shops and bars in hopes of inciting live poetry readings, not just searching for free drinks He’s a regular at poetry readings all over L.A County and has recently been a featured poet in Long Beach and San Pedro coffee houses Jon’s work has appeared in Limestone Circle, a San Diego publication, as well as a number of disreputable flyers in Memphis and the L.A area.


The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Jon Bohrn and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Century

Sitting Bull’s gone,
his era receding,
like the last bus stop
in the neighborhood we once lived in,
still forced look backward,
our seats never facing
where it is we are going
The grand designs
have slowly crumbled,
like the Grand Central Stations —
rows once breathlessly boarding trains
now abandoned for mute rows
of still-boarded windows
bricks, like social grandeur, crumbling,
manifest destiny’s rails rust;
spraypaint-urban ivy, the silent testimonial
of our anonymous self-assessment
Does the shattered brick dust
of the Berlin Wall
hold the ashes of Auschwitz
in obscuring embrace
and beg their forgiveness
saying “now I’ve avenged you”?,
while Bosnia, new-resurrected next door
plants new-found skulls
for its second new century,
some still lying obscured in the
shadow of the Great Wall
that falls on Tiennaman Square
in the shape of a tank-tread?
The Trail of Tears is a freeway now,
its fading souvenir stands sway
with their harvest of beads
Will we replay forever
our dreams and nightmares
in snowblind pixels of HDTV and VHS/C
that chill us to narrated awareness
numbing the stabs of our second sin
committed over and over again?
Which of our DNA will turn evidence
and in which of our peers
will we find the eyes of the jury?

 


 

 

 

Bio(auto)

Thirty-eight year old Welsh dissident poet of no fixed brain cell Run web site (Junkyard Blues)-increasingly uncertain as to why Heavily influenced by Dylan Thomas and Alice Cooper (well, what else do you need?) Used to try to get published, then decided to go with the unflinching opinion of the publishers and gave up Well past caring whether anyone actually likes or reads my stuff at all Hey, what do they know?

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Tony Bush and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Whole Burned

Cattle to the slaughter, wood slatted carriage,
Travelled reek of human waste, of fear, despair;
Anguished weeps the daughter on parents fused in marriage,
Crematoria arms embrace, emaciated, bare
Where grow the flowers now, fields once were green,
Whole burned the constellation, razed to the root;
Of why, what for and how, her cornflower eyes had seen
Her race in conflagration, crushed by leather boot
She held the corpses tight as lime stabbed her eyes
And tears raped each cheek and reason fled her mind;
Where is love and light, the God who never dies,
The saviour of the meek, the Lord of humankind?

Haunting, ashen billows, flesh to choke the heavens,
Drifted from the towers, ravaging the sun;
She fell beneath the willows, at the age of seven,
Whole burned among dead flowers, salvation from a gun .

 


 

 

 

Michel Cicero
theciceros@earthlink.net

Bio(auto)

I am 36 years old and I’m a writer I’m also a mother which pays about the same I can even say that I’m published Most days are spent pushing the vacuum cleaner or pushing the pen, (and occasionally pushing my husband over the edge) from my lovely home in Ventura, California, where I peacefully reside (since my escape from L.A 5 years ago) with my spouse, son, and beloved dog, Lucy
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Michel Cicero and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Coloring the Final Solution

Anna painted roses, and delphiniums
in oil on canvas Sometimes there were windows
Impressionism was homeless in the fatherland Hitler labeled it degenerate Freud called it repression
I found them in a closet, wedged between broken toys
and dead appliances Lost palettes preserved
He built galleries for the persecuted Hung them
crooked, on temporary walls, framed with graffiti
Her pale yellow petals, buoyant atop shades of jade
submitting to the sun, survived the coarse embrace of time
Empty chairs, forks, frozen in time Shivering children,boarding trains Somber still lifes satisfied the critics demand for Realism
She painted Germany Dipped her brush in the mother land Strokes of ripened color licking creamy cloth, making art
Bonfire spectrum sacrifice Works liberated Chagall, Picasso,
Kandinsky burned alive Shades of things to come
Shielded by flaxen hair and the New Testament she escaped
reciting the rosary from a strangers doorway Jesus saves
Gentle grass peeks proudly from cracks in colorless cement,sways
in prayer on fertile landscape Life at Auschwitz circa 2000
She was descended from Abraham, found her peace in N.Y.C Rests with the masters on my bedroom walls.

 


 

 

 

Mike Cluff
baleen@rccd.cc.ca.us

Bio(auto)

Mike Cluff lives, writes, eats, and sleeps in the Inland Empire of California

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Mike Cluff and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Survival Techniques: Sunday Morning 7:13 a.m
“I did work
for the Nazis at Buchenwald,
they made me,
there was no other way out,”
in Polish-Ukranian, this assualted
my half-awake ears
Was I hearing right
could my grandparents’ past
be alive here in Bastrop,
a half hour or so southeast of Austin
Texas?

His friend, chin now clutching the ever-so-slightly chipped
formica,
said in an accented whisper,
“It is good you are not
understood here,
some people would not accept
what we needed to do back then ”

II
He’s wrong
I do, hindsight is too judgmental
narrow-limbed,
he and the other he
feel guilt
for what they had to do
or agreed to:
this under-toned speech,
existence proves it
or I hope—
this is
what I need
to believe,
engulf
bathe myself clean in
to let myself continue living
in this free
( is it really?)
world
III
I have a friend in Fresno,
so pathetically, pathologically, politically correct
in his So Cal days,
he said,
“If I had lived in Hilter’s Germany,
I would have never accepted
his philosophy
his power,
I would have died instead ”
He has always been the Zionist
I will refuse to be
and he,
my friend,
is the visual epitome
of the Aryan race
So, I will internally disagree
will never vocalize this thought around him
he won’t comprehend
the oppressed’s need to live—-
saving skin is important,
can you blame a breat-flat mother
for stealing milk
from a corpse’s purse
or
slicing off toes
when the option is to have your own thumbs
jerked off by skittish horses
sent out in four different directions
by brown-shirted adolescents
or gas .gypsies, Cathoilic, homosexuals
‘deviants’ to death?

IV
If you don’t,
they will

cyanided you home
to Yahweh.

 


 

 

Lorilee Couture
msmechanic@cornhusker.net

 

Bio(auto)

My name is Lorilee Couture, a English Lit student at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln I have just recently visited Germany and will be returnin for another visit in August, a month long visit I am very interested in the Holocaust era for several reasons My brother is a converted Jew, we were raised Catholic, a very good friend of mine is a PHD in History who reasearches this era exclusively, he is also a Jew And I am currently involved with a German man, a post WWII generation So, my interests swing in all directions

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Lorilee Couture and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Stained

Rising from the ashes,
blood stained,
unable to fly on its own Standing in the shadow
of the powerful Split between good and evil,
rebuilding lives,
asking for forgiveness Forever trying to cleanse
the blood from memory Feeding its young
on freedom,
learning to stand tall
on its own Breaking down walls
of oppression United for all to see,
stumbling, trembling,
never stopping Moving forward
with unrealistic
hopes of erasing
the past Humble, shamed, remorseful,
at the knees
of its victims One united in peace
and tolerance Forever held in judgment Simultaneously
exampled as what not
and what to be
Pain and blood,
justifiably inflicted
by others,
fading from
crimson to pink,
never gone,
never clean,
never pure The murderer
risen from the ashes
of the murdered.

 


 

 

 

Bio(auto)

I’m not sure why I write, but I enjoy writing poetry The words come and I must write them down, or not get any rest Maybe one day I’ll wake up and know who I ‘really’ am
I have lived alone for many years, but I don’t really recommend that, unless you’re such a great person that you can get along with anyone, including yourself
I don’t live alone anymore, I live with a friend I finally got tired of ‘me’
I live in Wisconsin
I have no cats or dogs I don’t dislike animals, I just enjoy them much more if they are owned by someone else

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by T.J Daniels and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Death In A Prison Camp

You had to choose death
in order to sustain life
As I helplessly watched
my heart cried
For you had to choose those
that were closest to you
And those that were chosen
went willingly
By your actions
many lived

but my heart died.

 


 

 

 

Glenn A Fenster
Poetennis1@aol.com

Bio(auto)

Glenn A Fenster is the other of Feelings and Promises He lives in Aventura, Florida
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Glenn A Fenster and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Holocaust

I hear voices of death
Where the crippled, found glory This is not the work of Gods hand
Destroying Jews of an ancient land
We walked this path many a century Now memories are etched in granite The souls of generationseized each day
Beneath the tears and graves, they begin to pray
No holy war shall rend this state Where common men, are all men We bow our heads; we were silenced by fear Hoping those souls are always near
Those who still walk along the valley,
Admist the shadows of death
We share in your knowledge death not in vain
Each time we remember we honor your pain
We try not to escape the reality, there can never be,
Thrust into death camps, peoples od any nation,
No Jew can ever live, whose blood cant’t be spilled
On behalf of six millon others, and the graves they filled.

 


 

 

 

Conor Fitzsimons
conor@onlinehome.de

Bio(auto)

I am an Irish poet happily living in unplanned exile in Baden-Baden on the egde of the Black Forest in Germany I have given poetry readings in England and Germany, but have not yet succumbed to the printed page

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Conor Fitzsimons and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Dr Mengele Regrets

On hearing the European Patent Office had awarded a
patent for the genetic manipulation of human beings

Fiftyfive years I have hidden in the jungle,
Punished for merely doing my duty They were only Jews, gypsies, homosexuals,
Communists, priests:
I honoured them,
gave their life meaning
through their sacrifice
to my experiments
Yet,
the British have hunted me,
long they have hunted me And for what?
I only tried to serve humanity,
to serve my Führer,
to make the world a better place
Nothing more
Today, in Munich,
where my Führer’s 1000 year Reich started,
British researchers patented the rights to life Now they will be reich beyond belief!
Patented on behalf of an Australian company,
from a land spawned of criminals and other deviants!

I no longer understand the world
It is time for me to meet my Führer.

 


 

 

Bio(auto)

Thomas Fortenberry is an American writer, editor, and publisher He owns Mind Fire Press and edits seven literary magazines, including Maelstrom, Soul Unmade, Writer’s Choice, and The Southerner He was recently a judge for the prestigious Robert Penn Warren Prize for Fiction and the Georgia Author of the Year Awards Some credits include Amelia, Cicada, Alacran, Thunder Sandwich, Gravity, Eternity, Poetry Magazine, Slate & Style, The Harford Poet, Contemporary Southern Poets of 1999, Mythos Online, Emotions, Wooden Head Review, Ygdrasil, Agira Visions, Independence Boulevard, Poets4Peace, The Bronze Gazette, The Fiction Network, and Lower Than the Angels
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Thomas Fortenberry and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Day My Wife Took Her Last Shower
(for the Holocaust survivors)

Watching her move–
tanned, seasoned skin
as gaunt as a belt, pulled tight
against my groin, my heart
bloodless in the afternoon sun–
my face glowed like a lampshade:
soft, warm, two stars for eyes
pricked just so in this canopy
of heaven on earth
-bound need, barb-wired soul
wrenching against the bonds
of yesterday’s acceptance of the yoke I watched her walk
float, invisible cherubic wings
drawing her near
the entrance of the showers
where they would clean her life,
thoroughly erasing her presence I was losing all the dirt in my life God, how the empty air screamed that day.

 


 

 

Giovanni Francesco
BoyWriter@aol.com

Bio(auto)

I am from Boston (MA) and have lived, worked and studied (graduate program, International Affairs) in Germany Upon my arrival there, I visited Dachau, where I ended up spending a whole day looking, listening, reading, writing in my diary It was, not surprisingly, the most overwhelming experience of my life; I have since not been able, emotionally, to *confront* another camp, but hope to again one day I also spent an academic year in Washington, D.C (at the White House and State Dept ), and visited the national Holocaust Museum several times while there For all the hallowed halls I’ve known, there are none more so than those of the Holocaust Museum I hope that every American, if they never see a death camp, will at least one time in their life experience the museum, remember and never forget

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Giovanni Francesco and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Elemental

no alphabet
begins
with air

and ends
with zyklon-b

 


 

 

Gwynne Garfinkle
Gwynnega@aol.com

Bio(auto)

Gwynne Garfinkle is a Los Angeles poet, essayist, fiction writer and rock critic Her work has recently appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Big Bridge, Lummox Journal, Loca, and the New Times She’s currently completing a book-length prose work, She Wandered Through the Garden Fence

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Gwynne Garfinkle and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Dybbuk Song

The thing about THE DYBBUK is how Jewish they all were
blatantly Jewish without shame
Dad said if he hadn’t seen those guys onscreen
singing oy oy oy
“I’d never have believed it”
exuberantly Jewish
wildly emotional
nowadays people think you could get killed
acting that way
amazing bunch of Jews
making a Yiddish film
in Poland 1938
most of them wiped out soon after
intensely Jewish
& I too could believe in dybbuks
those who die before their time
do come back to possess us
they flicker black & white in our brains
linger in our mouths when we pronounce that almost
foreign tongue

 


 

 

Virginia J Garner
ginger_g@ix.netcom.com

Bio(auto)

Virginia J Garner from Conyers, Georgia is a novice poet dabbling in the expression of thoughts through words

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Virginia J Garner and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Cultural Annihilation

In the summer&Mac226;s heat,
Woven threads of yellow and pink swatches
Adorn the lovers, poets, and Jews of Europe Mists of rain
And a few familiar faces
Comfort their unsettled hearts They are losing everything&Mac246;
Even their names Their optimistic dreams
Become phantoms of the mind A slow marching procession
Travels through the gravel paths
Winds between the long, metal barracks
To rock quarries and factories for trivial labor A haunting stench cuts the air&Mac246;
They fall asleep
Wrapped in a blanket of fear.

 


 

 

joja
j0ja@yahoo.com

Bio(auto)

joja is technically a a Torontonian, though as a consultant she travels a great deal in the US and overseas

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by joja and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Amsterdam

Here is where
.survivours recline into
.the armchair of history

here is where buildings are gutted
.to (try and) wash the last
.Jew from the walls

Here is where fascination
.turns to fascism
.in the magik of spraypaint

 


 

 

Sharon Esther Lampert
stressstar@earthlink.net

Bio(auto)

I just want to be known as Princess Kadimah, The Tribal Princess of Israel, who happens to live in New York City

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Sharon Esther Lampert and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Some Jews Lost GOD

All Jews and only Jews were no longer given
choices-economic discrimination, social ostracism,
personal humiliation, and the “THE FINAL SOLUTION ”
Familiar family lies
Jews-cast- as wandering exiles were-recast- for genocide Less than one fourth of one percent of the world’s population
were targeted for extermination Swastikas descended
Some Jews were ordered left and some Jews were ordered right Shaved heads and numbered arms descended Many Jews were
deported to concentration camps (human flesh burning
crematoriums, gas chambers, and hospital rooms for
scientific experimentation):
Auschwitz,
Belzec, Bergen-Belsen (Anne Frank was left behind),
Birkenau Brzeinka,
Buchenwald,
Chelmno,
Dachau,
Drancy,
Gurs,
Jasenovac,
Majdanek,
Malines,
Mauthausen,
Natzweiler,
Ravensbrueck,
Sachsenhausen,
Sobibor,
Struthof,
Theresienstadt,
Tranestria,
Treblinka,
and Westerbork Zyklon-B gas was consumed
Many Jews of Babi Yar were shot
and buried in deep pits of their own labor Some Jews relentlessly scuffled, scrimmaged, and
skirmished with the Nazis Defiant, a few
Mila 18 Jews confronted the armed conflict with
combat in the Warsaw Ghetto Mordecai Anielewicz was left behind Marek Edelman ascended
One third of worldwide Jewry was decimated All six million sacred Jewish souls were left behind,
their physical bodies exterminated,
their seeds of immortality extinguished
Many rebbes and rabbis of gigantic scholarly
proportion were -once- and -once again- and
-again- and -again- left behind Divine miracles were left behind The prayer of “SHEMA” was not consumed
Some Jews survived seeking justice:
Simon Wiesenthal ascended
Some Jews survived to bear witness:
Elie Wiesel ascended
Some Jews survived to bear Jewish babies:
Mayer Horowitz has seventy-two grandchildren
-Baruch Hashem- the Bobover Hasid ascended
Some Jews survived to revive, restore, and replenish
the Jewish soul of assimilated American Jewry:
Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis ascended and American
Jewry was not consumed
Many survivors’ hearts were broken into thousands
upon thousands upon thousands of pieces:
Abraham Lampert,”Daddy” survived His father Jacob,
mother Sarah, two sisters, their husbands and
their children were left behind
A few Jews committed suicide on their way to,
inside of, and soon after the ominous death camps Some Jews Lost God.

 


 

 

Robert Mallat
as translated by Gary Gach
ggg@well.com

http://word.to/

Bio(auto)

Robert Mallat was born 28:VIII:27 in Paris During the war, his family was deported by the Germans
Translator Gary Gach lives in San Francisco

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Robert Mallat and Gary Gach and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

untitled
excerpted from Poems of Jewish Death

leave me this dead one before he is a bee
before the rakes mix him into the earth
leave him for me
he will be my winter as long as snow is airy
since the chimneys still leak
and spew their ashes below the wings of gulls
in search of grass

leave him for me i have a soul-load
the tree breathes underneath its bark
lleave me this dead one
where teeth once were he pushes up flowers
i’ll fasted a stone to his wrist
that he blacken in the hollows of tombs

i’ll grow warm again in his presence
i’ll make him my skin and my food
my weight my ache and my bed
and i’d recover myself in him
living heart against heart in anticipation
flinging ancient cries that awaken no one
free and naked with a nakedness equal to happiness
if i’d believe myself man in woman
howling victory and delivered from anguish

leave me this death
leave him for me
i’ll wash his eyelashes
leave me this death
he is for me
i’m accustomed to his death-ugliness
i was his brother of salt and black bread

leave me this dead leave him for me
i’ve prayed all night long
so that he not be buried
so that he stay near to me
so that i forever remember
of what death is made and how i then live

 


 

 

Bio(auto)

I live in Dugger, Indiana
I love many things in this world-but my passions are few: art, poetry and astronomy and music I especially love when a great work of art is viewed with both poetry and music It is a beautiful effect and includes the best of all three worlds
I have eight years of study behind me, from Indiana State University Among the classes I loved best, were art history, history, creative writing, astronomy and poetry At this time I am working on my first book, and I am a poet and an artist

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Peggy Meeks-King and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Star of David

They wore the star of David on their arms when
they walked among them- in camps of fear With the royal blood of King David in each and every
step they took-in camps of dispare!
They were called Jews by them -that put them there-in
camps of hate and waste What pain did they feel, we will never know,
because even if we read about it, we can not know
-some tales were untold They were cast in ovens for their faith, they were Jews,
six million are no more–what would have came
from their wombs-what brilliant minds were genocide?
Sometimes I close my eyes and in my mind I go
there with them, I see the hunger, I see the tears,
I can almost feel the bitter fear A place so awful the poet of this poem has become the- creator of death
creator of black,
the creator of doom,
the creator of gloom But most of all the creator of the words –they are no more Like sweet white grapes on a vine, cut from a green valley,
the grapes are no more!

 


 

 

Morgan Newington
morganne@telusplanet.net

Bio(auto)

Born in England three score years and thirteen ago I grew up during the Second World War experiencing bombing and machine gunning as a schoolboy Post war I was sent with the British Army to Austria, where I eventually lived for two and a half years Then I became a teacher in England for 17 years before emigating to Alberta, Canada, to teach Special Education students I am now retired and spend time gardening, writing and ‘on-line’ Over the years my life philosophy has moved from Episcopalian, to Spiritualist and then to Roman Catholic Perhaps I am still searching, at least poetry helps me to crytallize my ideas

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Morgan Newington and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Pig Farm

It was so long ago
and yet the memory remains:
we walked together laughing
hand in hand
down that far Alpine lane;
between farm fields
and over streams
until we passed by gray boxes
empty concrete sheds
fit only for pigs
(As in a dream I saw
fat pigs rolling in the mud
pushing, fighting, squealing )

“I wonder why they don’t keep
pigs there anymore,” says I Says she, “There were no pigs,
only detainees ”
“What detainees were those?”
“Those who were Jews and
Enemies of the Reich ”
“How long were they kept there?”
“Until they were transported
to the death camps ”

(In dream again I saw gray trucks
loaded with pigs
going to the slaughter –
but these weren’t pigs!
these were people
men and women, boys and girls,
silent, some crying softly,
always dignified, as human beings are )

“Did your people around here
object ?” I asked “No, I guess we all turned away
thinking it was not our business ”
We walked on hands apart,
silent now, no longer laughing The distant mountains looking down at us A blue lake gleaming away there in the foothills
These memories are with me yet;
I can’t forget .

 


 

 

Lynne Remick
LynnRemick@aol.com

Bio(auto)

Lisa Anne is the poetry pen name of freelance writer Lynne Remick Poetry is one of the greatest passions in Lynne Remick’s life In addition to her position as Poetry Board Moderator and Chat host at www.Lovestories.com, she writes a romance poetry column, The Romantic at www.amateurpoetry.com, and is a Contributing Editor at Suite 101, with her Romance Through the Ages column, www.suite101.com/welcome.cfm/romance_through_the_ages
Lynne has had much of her own romantic poetry published in both print and on-line mediums She has been a featured poet in Amateur Poetry Journal, Fantasy Folklore and Fairytales, The Lover’s Knot and The Romantic Bower, to name a few Most recently, she has been named the Limerick Laureate for 2000 in a Writer’s Ink Poetry Contest
When she’s not travelling to romantically poetic places like Ireland, Scotland, Greece, France, Holland, Belgium, Italy and England, Lynne lives in Nesconset, New York with her fiance, Michael, her adorable son Kevin, her darling Schipperke, Dante, a feral cat named Sahara and a spoiled baby hedgehog named Apollo Nike
One of the most memorable and inspirational places Lynne has travelled to is 263 Prinsengracht in Amstersdam, Holland, home of Holocaust victim, Anne Frank

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Lynne Remick and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Another Side to Stars

Some stars
have six sides These stars are
neither better,
nor worse,
than five-sided
stars Just different And, anyway,
they are still
stars They deserve
the right to shine
as much as
five-sided
stars do

 


 

 

Ryfkah
Everyfkah@aol.com

Bio(auto)

Born in Chicago in January 1949, Ryfkah now resides in La Mirada, California with her three daughters She is a sixth grade teacher at Los Alisos Middle School in Norwalk She is an avid student of Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism, and of the teachings of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov Ryfkah has been published in anthologies including a chapbook collection, If Venus Had Arms, by the North Orange County Poetry Continuum and various print and on-line magazines

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Ryfkah and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

In Poland

In Poland poets are honored
In monument they stand
And men of war lie buried
While black holes dot
Landscape like moon crater
Or small pox pits on flesh
Remnants of mass graves
Of a people who lift our
Weeping voices each day
And for peace pray
To cast mighty ploughshare
From sword’s seeping blood

 


 

 

Larry Tilander
ltilander@sympatico.ca

Bio(auto)

I am a security guard/songwriter who has been writing since high school I was born in Toronto Ontario Canada in 1957 and now live in Belleville Ontario Canada A lot of my work can be seen at my site, http://sites.netscape.net/larryfig/index.html


The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Larry Tilander and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

My Children

My children are beautiful, talented, smart
With smiles for everyone, warming the heart
My children are paintings so barely begun
They’re poetry, music, with songs still unsung
My children, my babies, are ashes, they’re gone
Just memories, crushed, and the horror goes on
Now Father, it’s said, let’s forgive and forget
But my children cry, “Fascism isn’t dead yet ”
Fight onwards yet stronger, fight on and be brave
My children in multitudes call from the grave
Oppression and bondage, prejudice, hate
We must strike for freedom before it’s too late
My children, my brothers, take one more step, on
Together we’ll rest in the garden ‘fore long

 


 

 

James Thompson
JimDonnaThompson@aol.com

Bio(auto)

I am a construction professional living in Baytown, Texas
After a twenty year hiatus I began writing poetry again about three years ago I have had several poems published in some online journals and a few published in hard print I also write short stories, but have published only a couple online

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by James Thompson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Selekcja

Hollow eyes in forever shadows
of faceless distress and searing pain,
the gray on gray shades of decay
in lines, long endless lines
as day by day life fades away
The formless shapes, wire sculptures
of taunted men in twisted frames,
living only breath by breath,
anguished in the scarcity of hope,
suffering in abundance of death
This disjointed tread of humanity
branches into living and dying rows,
into the cold, into the freeze,
one line walks into the fields,
and the other to the chimneys
The formless shapes, wire sculptures
of taunted men in twisted frames,
living only breath by breath,
anguished in the scarcity of hope,
suffering in abundance of death
Forever night, forever darkness,
as nameless numbers scarcely live
day by day in their saturnine
wait for the chambers,
in The Selekcja’s long gray lines.

 


 

 

Michael Virga
mavbuon@hotmail.com

Bio(auto)

My name is Michael Virga, and I am a poet residing in my hometown, Birmingham, Alabama

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Michael Virga and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

holocaustic

no water
drips

from a showerhead
seeping

gas