World War Ii Poems and Holocaust Poems - I

World War II Poems and Holocaust Poems (I) These are poems about World War II and the Holocaust, which is also called the Shoah in Hebrew. Epitaph for a Child of the Holocaust by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Frail Envelope of Flesh by Michael R. Burch (for the mothers and children of the Holocaust) Frail envelope of flesh, lying cold on the surgeon's table with anguished eyes like your mother's eyes and a heartbeat weak, unstable... Frail crucible of dust, brief flower come to this— your tiny hand in your mother's hand for a last bewildered kiss... Brief mayfly of a child, to live two artless years! Now your mother's lips seal up your lips from the Deluge of her tears... Autumn Conundrum by Michael R. Burch It's not that every leaf must finally fall, it's just that we can never catch them all. For a Child of the Holocaust, with Butterflies by Michael R. Burch Where does the butterfly go when lightning rails, when thunder howls, when hailstones scream, when winter scowls and nights compound dark frosts with snow? Where does the butterfly go? Where does the rose hide its bloom when night descends oblique and chill beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill? When the only relief's a banked fire's glow, where does the butterfly go? And where shall the spirit flee when life is harsh, too harsh to face, and hope is lost without a trace? Oh, when the light of life runs low, where does the butterfly go? Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address by Michael R. Burch We saw their pictures: tortured out of Our imaginations like golems. We could not believe in their frail extremities or their gaunt faces, pallid as Our disbelief. they are not with us now; We have: huddled them into the backroomsofconscience, consigned them to the ovensofsilence, buried them in the mass graves of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol. We have so little left of them, now, to remind US... Originally published in the Holocaust anthology Blood to Remember Cleansings by Michael R. Burch Walk here among the walking specters. Learn inhuman patience. Flesh can only cleave to bone this tightly if their hearts believe that G-d is good, and never mind the Urn. A lentil and a bean might plump their skin with mothers' bounteous, soft-dimpled fat (and call it "health") , might quickly build again the muscles of dead menfolk. Dream, like that, and call it courage. Cry, and be deceived, and so endure. Or burn, made wholly pure. One's prayer is answered, "god" thus unbelieved. No holy pyre this—death's hissing chamber. Two thousand years ago—a starlit manger, weird Herod's cries for vengeance on the meek, the children slaughtered. Fear, when angels speak, the prophesies of man. Do what you can, not what you must, or should. They call you "good, " dead eyes devoid of tears; how shall they speak except in blankness? Fear, then, how they weep. Escape the gentle clutching stickfolk. Creep away in shame to retch and flush away your vomit from their ashes. Learn to pray. Auschwitz Rose by Michael R. Burch There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar, a rose like Sharon's, lovely as her name. The world forgot her, and is not the same. I still love her and extend this sacred fire to keep her memory exalted flame high above the thistles and the nettles. On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles; they sleep alike—diminutive and tall, the innocent, the "surgeons." Sleeping, all. Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals, if accidents of coloration, gall my heart no less. Amid thick weeds and muck there lies a rose man's crackling lightning struck; the only Rose I ever longed to pluck. Soon I'll bed there and bid the world "Good Luck." Something by Michael R. Burch for the children of the Holocaust Something inescapable is lost— lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone— gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past— blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, and finality has swept into a corner where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. Survivors by Michael R. Burch In truth, we do not feel the horror of the survivors, but what passes for horror: a shiver of "empathy." We too are "survivors, " if to survive is to snap back from the sight of death like a turtle retracting its neck. Excerpts from "Travels with Einstein" by Michael R. Burch for Trump I went to Berlin to learn wisdom from Adolph. The wild spittle flew as he screamed at me, with great conviction: "Please despise me! I look like a Jew! " So I flew off to 'Nam to learn wisdom from tall Yankees who cursed "yellow" foes. "If we lose this small square, " they informed me, earth's nations will fall, dominoes! " I then sat at Christ's feet to learn wisdom, but his Book, from its genesis to close, said: "Men can enslave their own brothers! " (I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.) So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv where great scholars with lofty IQs informed me that (since I'm an Arab) I'm unfit to lick dirt from their shoes. At last, done with learning, I stumbled to a well where the waters seemed sweet: the mirage of American "justice." There I wept a real sea, in defeat. Originally published by Café Dissensus Keywords/Tags: World War II, Holocaust, Shoah, genocide, ethnic cleansing, racism, antisemitism, evil, brutality, inhumanity, Nazi, Nazis, concentration camps, death camps, war, world, truth