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Written down while working in the fields, patterned after the Arabic working song and sung to that tune.O I have my life and my labor!Yah ḥai li, li-hah-‘amali!Awaken, my brothers, there’s no time…
You who live secure
In your warm houses
Who return at evening to find
Hot food and friendly faces:
Consider whether this is a man,
Who labours in the mud
Who knows no peace
Who fights for a crust…
[ . . . ] [T]here was a lecture in the big union hall on the topic of Soviet food policy. The wife of our protagonist also wanted to go and listen. You didn’t…
The echo that Marx’s writing arouses in Jews’ hearts provides clearer evidence [of Marx’s influence on Judaism].As everybody knows, a Jewish proletariat did not exist during Marx’s lifetime, certainly…
The cheeks collapsed and the eyes half-shut,
My mother listens as her knees sigh:
The whole morning under the winter sky
She ran about to every market.
So let us now at the gate of the wall
Sleep…
I have a friend, a teacher, with shaggy hair black as pitch.
He has a child (his wife is still a child too)
and when he comes home, difficult and gloomy,
she runs to meet him, like a quivering wave:…
In 1943, the nights were black. The country was at war with Germany and a blackout was instituted, perforated from time to time by fifth-columnists lighting cigarettes to reveal Bom Fim’s defensive…
Apples. That’s what New Yorkers of the 1930s remember. Apples of the Hesperides, neatly stalled on corner after corner, sold on the last trembling line of decency by men who were unwilling to beg…
Dramatic poem by Angiolo Orvieto Music by Giacomo Orefice
Shlomo reclines within his shrine
Woe to my days, woe to my nights
Everyone knows how he is
Nobody knows about me
Woe to my days, woe to my nights
As if it means something to anybody.
If I have a…