Peretz Markish

1895–1952

The Yiddish poet, playwright, and essayist Peretz Markish was born in poverty in the town of Polonnye (now in Ukraine). The leading expressionist poet of his generation, Markish became the voice of the revolution during his time in Poland in the 1920s. He spent much of the interwar period in Warsaw, where he was a member of Di Khalyastre (The Gang), a prominent group of Yiddish literati, and co-founded the journal Literarishe bleter (Literary Pages). During this period, he wrote a great deal of poetry about the pogroms that accompanied the Russian Revolution and Civil War, including his haunting cycle, “The Mound,” in which a heap of murdered Jewish corpses speaks, in gruesome detail. Markish later became one of the most decorated and significant members of the Soviet Yiddish intelligentsia and was a member of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee during World War II. Markish was murdered on August 12, 1952, by the very state he had supported, alongside other Soviet Yiddish writers. His poetry was widely translated into Russian after his official, posthumous rehabilitation in 1955.

Entries in the Posen Library by This Creator

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The Workers’ Club

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Every now and then a different door in the long corridor of the IsPolKom [Executive Committee] would yawn open, partly exposing the profiles of the office workers, emit a hum of muffled chatter and…

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The Rinsed Fences . . .

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The rinsed fences dry themselves in the wind. The kneaded black earth turns softer under my feet. Soaked soil, tousled and wanton wind, What more can I want from you today? It seems to me that I’ve…

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Hey, Women . . .

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Hey, women, spotted with typhus and riddled with rakes of fingers Across autumn heads of woe, Are you fruitful? Do you multiply? How many times each? In whorehouses? On floors? In the stable? In…

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Out of Frayed Sackcloth . . .

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Out of frayed sackcloth—breasts of filthy cataracts, Like raw potatoes, branched with rooted blue veins. What shall we trade? Salt? How much do you want? There’s a dead child’s hat still here. In…

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The Mound

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 After you, the killed of the Ukraine;After you, butcheredIn a mound in Gorodishche,The Dnieper town . . .KaddishNo! Heavenly tallow, don’t lick my gummy beards.Out of my mouth’s brown streams of…

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Old Women

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Aged woolen women, like old siddurim—moldy, mossy Bound in coarse canvas; Pointless bellies dangling after them like empty sacks, Dried-out breasts, like horseradish roots, swaying back and forth.…

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Shards

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Now, when my vision turns in on itself, My shocked eyes open, all their members see My heart has fallen like a mirror on A stone and shatters, ringing, into splinters. Certainly, not every shard is…