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A letter from Zuckerman, the commissioner, evidently written by an agitated hand. It had come from Brest Litovsk bringing the news of horror. He had been in Pinsk and…
For my child, today, it is so easy
to make the awful discovery, that people kill
and are killed: both things and people
speak the language of the red angel.
My child asks me: Why are people being…
Lately, there’s no trace left
Of Yankl, son of Yitskhok,
But for a tiny round dot
That rolls crazily through the streets
With hooked-on, clumsy limbs.
The lord-above surrounded
The whole world with…
Why do I begin with the parachutists? Were I to trace the story of Jewish resistance and rescue chronologically, I would have to use a different order. I would have to begin with the gradual…
the poem is ugly & they make it uglier
wherein the power resides
that duncan did—or didn’t—understand
when listening that evening to the other poet read
he said “that was pure ugliness” & oh it was
i…
We were too late. The pogrom erupted that very night, suddenly, like an exploding mine, and in my own neighborhood.
The first screams came to me confused, in a hazy dream. Then it dawned on me what…
There are things in this country too—
And if they find no streetlamp pole,
There will be a tree—and that means clearly
That a Negro over twenty years old
May hate all things which spire
To hold a man…
The most terrible thing of all, somehow, was that at Brzezinka the sun was bright and warm, the rows of graceful poplars were lovely to look upon and on the grass near the gates children played.
It…
When I crossed the ocean, I carried with me the habit of speaking to the shadows, and it became my way of life. I look up at the stars that were extinguished long ago. For me they still shine with the…
She was still upset,
she wanted to tell me,
she kept remembering
his terrible hands:
how she came, a young girl
of seventeen, a freckled
fairskinned Jew from Kovno
to Hamburg with her uncle
and…