|
V. To Live Again
To Live Again
Was it that you survived, a refugee who had lost his world, utterly alone, the bloodied earth crying out from burnt flesh and bone, banished columns of smoke, orphaned pyres of humanity,
not knowing how to begin to live again in a whirlwind of pain, in the absence that grew, carrying a stone of losses, all whom you loved — parents you could never hold again?
The earth torn asunder, a gaping mass grave — where could you live? How did you rise from killing fields, heart-stricken ruins, death-ridden ravines, furnaces fired by flesh and bone— let go of columns of smoke filled with all whom you grieved?
Did you ever feel part of the earth again rising from its ashes — from undying pain? —Amos Neufeld
To Give the Breath of Life (for my mother, Charlotte)
To have known monstrous places: Birkenau ‘s shock of flames piercing the heavens ‘ darkened sky, infants torn from mothers, flung into death ‘s throes, a blonde master deciding who would die.
Skeletal, shorn, terrified young women lined up in the dark, illumined by crematory fires, starved, spent, hopeless gray faces. Those frozen, who ‘d taken flight on wings of despair caught by barbwire.
Bombs falling, the earth trembling. Lying in a ditch waiting to die. Running through a field on fire holding hands, Iren screaming at the bloodied stretch of earth. Twisted bodies, severed arms, legs — death everywhere.
To have borne unbridled brutality, known unbounded grief— despite earth ‘s fires you blew into me the breath of life. —Amos Neufeld
The Olive Tree: A PAean of Survival
Late spring. Walking in a valley That I have often crossed, Brushing shoulders With its ancient denizens, I seem aware of them For the first time: A small grove of olive trees. A distinct presence Among the newly grown Tall grasses, And finely crafted Meadow flowers. But the trees themselves: Knurled, The trunk Often split, Deep into its core, Branches randomly, Broken away, Can they survive? Like this? No other tree has. Yet, these do. Year after year, Generation after generation. A monument of survival, Unimaginable; No other living thing, No human creation Could endure thus. I muse for a moment; Through all this, Its grasp on life, To its own continuity, Is steadfast. Truly a miracle, To reflect upon, And be inspired.
—Don Kristt 5783
In Memory of (for Rina and Maya D.)
Two flowers were plucked, before full bloom, Before the rains of Spring had ceased Before the first sharav, the relentless desert winds, On the eastern road, the murderer ambushed, aimed to kill, In death, as in life, they were not parted, Out of the dust, their golden songs will rise, The sweet blossoms of almond trees will bloom again Like rivulets hidden in the desert, their silent song will echo In the hills of Judea —Brenda Appelbaum-Golani April 2023
Tears Lekha Dodi Leah came in She spoke a good word To each one Then hid herself In the light of the candles
Come O Queen —Esther Cameron April 2023 Lekha Dodi – hymn sung at the inauguration of the Sabbath
A Land of Song and Tears
Thanksgiving and remorse dance together in the same heart. Lips utter song; eyes, drops of pain. Perhaps it is madness. Are we all really sane?
Haunted by death, enveloped by exultation; Joy and sadness collide. The seesaw of life, compressed into two intense days. One never recedes completely before it is overtaken by its antithesis.
A life of paradox: A struggle of opposites, clashing of emotions creates the energy to live. The friction of opposites rubbing together generates a spark; it ignites us To fulfill our demand: a meaningful life, continuation in our land.
Where do we find this will? Why can’t we remain still. We are driven to endure, basic instincts to be sure, life pulses in our heart, rejuvenation in our hand. Living forces joining us to our land.
Perhaps beyond reason, we heard the sound, a brief, soft call but reverberating through each season, across the ages, its power, its drawing force, perplexing a world’s sages. It was our land crying out to us: Come to me my children; my people.
Come to our land! Hear songs of triumph echoing from our hills flowing in wadis in the sand. The songs have roots in the land, watered by tears that the struggle brings. The songs we sing and the tears we shed, intertwining, empowering a vision. It is a belief in ourselves, a firm decision, giving us strength to pursue life as a people, together, In this land.
—Don Kristt Yom HaAtzmaut (Israel Independence Day) 5771/83
“ONE
VOICE”
after
we are stretched out in the empty room we cry a salt ocean we rest heads against hands and heads against shoulders like a raft with alternating timbers the current plays against it moves with no effort silence except for water on wood a deep rumble starts among us one of us hauls laughter back to our broken syntax a rumble echoes back from our bellies it travels to our chests when we laugh we cannot stop the joke is on us we are still alive we are together
we get up wobble on our sea legs we hold hands blood pumps the message beneath the glove of skin
evenings we gather in the empty room where we weave in and out of shock waves it is not true they are gone repeats and repeats we wear old, soft clothes free from the need to suit up work and reassure others we are fine we cry we laugh at our wicked gallows humor gifts appear butter pecan ice cream a recording of Four Seasons a mysterious invitation to pack an overnight bag for an unscheduled trip to the lakeshore
we travel in and out of this circle the circle grows and splits off and rejoins there are new husbands and wives babies carry our missing ones ‘ names sometimes a familiar light in their eyes a flash of smile a certain expression in their speech startles us
there is always a baby in my lap on my shoulder I whisper secrets to the intricate folds of their silken skin you are loved our house bursts with babies they have their favorite corners when these babies grow and marry will they return? heading through the door with infants in their arms they say: we never left
we buy the new babies a painted carousel horse it does not rock or glide but it is tall they have to hold tight to its silver reins to ride wild flights to grand destinations they come back glazed they blink to clear the image of other worlds
sometimes we resume our tight dance we move in close to fill the gaps but our missing ones press between us and we leap higher and faster than we knew we could —Judy Belsky
Precious City
My precious city, you enthrall me you captivate, inspire and uplift me Jerusalem, my spirit is bound in yours. Beloved city, you beckon me to enter your gates, you embrace me Jerusalem, you hold my soul in yours. —Ruth Fogelman
_______________________
|