DEBORAH REY

The Poetry Of..
Deborah Rey..................................................

Disconnected

Must go to the beach
must try and outplay
the triple-Fifth of Beethoven
the ocean plays today, quite
naturally, 'cause it is time to rise
and roll and crash in a display of
knowing all and presence.

Must become the plaintive woodwind,
the human oboe - oh, how I love its
voice - in the orchestra of waves and breakers
and try to put into the ocean's music
all pain and anguish, anger, heartbreak,
disgust, disdain and disconnection.

Must cry out, wail, sound like
the opening chords of Gershwin's
Rhapsody in Blue ... how fitting!

Must listen to the roar that tells me
I am heard, the rolling crash of empathy
the surf presents me with
and dig my toes into the sand
right where the crashing wave becomes
a gently rolling ripple, a massage of
water on the shore.

Must dig and dig and hope - when
I go deep enough - to connect with
the outside world again.

My Name

Please, do not touch
my past,
for it is all that's left
of me.
Please, do not touch
my name,
for it is all I've left
of her.
Don't break me up
in Debs, or Deb, or Debbie,
for there is nothing left
of she, who gave
that name to me.
Please know, that far away -
more than a thousand miles
from where I live -
in Auschwitz-Birkenau,
they cannot even tell me,
where to find
what's left of her.
My name is Ruth Deborah.

Free the Soul mit Arbeit

I stood in front of
the glass cage
filled with locks
of blond, grey,
black, brown hair
and searched and searched
for just one tiny curl
of hers.
Hers? It was long
and blond and stood out
like a lion's mane,
proud,
the same as she.
I searched but did not
find it.

I stood and stared
at thousands
and more
pairs of shoes;
big shoes
small shoes and
tiny little shoes,
and searched and searched
for hers. Hers?
Brown, sturdy,
flat-heeled, sporty and
larger than her normal size
'cause of two pairs of socks
against the cold
I did not find them

I walked by the violins
and silver-handled
hairbrushes,
'cause she left
those with me
that night.
To remember her by,
she said.
She had to leave,
hoped to escape, survive.
The violin and the brush
were taken from me
and sold for a bowl
of potatoes, and she?
She was betrayed.

Arbeit macht Frei
it says at the entrance
gate to hell and
knowing her, she did.
Work hard, I mean,
hoping to be free, return to me.
It did not help her
very much,though, but
if death means freedom
and peace, she got it.
I, too, am working hard.
I work like hell, 'cause
Arbeit macht Frei
it still tells me
today, a sad reminder.

Until I find one lock
of hair, one shoe, one tiny
something to remember
her by, and also
the place where she,
her body,
was thrown into a cadaver
pit and doused with lye,
until I can kneel and kiss
the grass, and talk to her,
I'll work like hell to free
my soul.
Arbeit macht Frei?
It does not help me
very much, as yet.

*We congratulate Deborah on her upcoming book, Rachel Sarai's Vineyard, accepted by bluechrome publishing~ (with a thrilling number of review copies being requested!) Go have a look at Deborah's lovely site to gather details and of course, to enjoy more her fabulous, moving words.

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