..................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Deborah Rey..................................................................
Forbidden Words
-Some so-called editor sent around a list of 'forbidden words', and told us
she nixed manuscripts and poems, the moment she found one of them in it.
She told us not to use them, ever. I suddenly was hit by a wave of inspiration ...
And then
there was.
There were
quite a few,
which felt
quite well,
and I happily knew,
that it almost
was beginning,
even though
it just began.
Nearly, but
not quite,
I knew
I would
I could
I should
make the stuff appear.
Then, laughing,
laughingly,
and neither
down
nor up,
no, rather down,
because the thing
only got there,
is there now
anyway,
even though it
only seemed,
that it might
get there.
Then, we were,
verily we were
just there,
to really be
getting
the feel.
The Old Fool
In the old people's home
the man they call
'the old fool',
sits and stares
out the window
murmuring names ...
Perl, Hannah, Yoisef,
Abba, Imma....
In the old people's home
no one knows where
he came from,
nor his name; his place
of birth and since he
won't speak and only
mutters those names
he is labelled a fool.
All they know at the home
and can sympathize with,
is the fact
he came back from
one of the camps;
the ones people rather
not hear, speak, or
think about.
They don't know at the home
he was first chosen to be
a Heizer, a stoker,
then one of the
Sondercommando
the Kommandant ordered
to herd people into
the communal 'washrooms',
take out the corpses
after a while, remove any
gold teeth, transport them
to the ovens and shove in
both his parents,
Perl, his wife,
Hannah and Yoisef,
his children.
In the old people's home
he sits and stares
out the window.
He is no bother to the staff.
He's just an old fool,
who insists on wearing
the blue and grey striped
uniform of days gone by.
Once he had the choice
between life and death.
Then, when he wanted
to end his life, he was forced
to live. Live with his past.
He's waiting for his personal
'Endlösung'.
He is called the 'old fool',
he sits and stares, and
refuses to take a shower.
Sixty-two Years
Tonight, at eight, we will observe two minutes
of silence and light a candle. To remember.
Tomorrow we celebrate, because sixty-two years
ago a few signatures ended the war in Europe.
I had to wait another two days to be liberated
and thus, will celebrate and remember on
Saturday how they came over the hill on the left
in a cloud of dust and the rumbling rumble of
their tanks... It's a long way to Tipperary...
sunny weather... Sound off, sound off , sound off
one two... one two three-four... they were tall,
tall soldiers all; they smiled and gave me chocolate
called me Gorgeous and nodded gently when I
told them to be kind to that one nice-Kraut officer,
the one that did not send his dog after me... Kazan,
Kazan was the dog's name and the nice-Kraut shot
him before he surrendered to the tall and handsome
Canadians that ended the war, that endless war for us.
I cried when I looked at the chocolate bar one of them
put into my hand. I did not know what it was, did
not remember. Sixty-two years ago. Sounds and smells
and dust and warm sunshine in May friendly faces giant
slices of bread still there each and every day. We were free.
Chocolate made me cry. Sixty-two years later, I'd like to be
able to cry, when I do remember, cannot forget
all that happened in my five years of World War Two.
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