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week of May 12 - 18, 2003

Our fifth annual Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) issue.

Erika Abbott
Lisa Beatman
Jim Bennett
F.J. Bergmann
Tom Berman
Charles Bernstein
Bengt O Bjorklund
Roland Francis Bravo
Lynne Bronstein
Michael Burch
Tony Bush
Howard Camner
Ruth Daigon
T.J. Daniels
Susie Davidson
Cliff Fyman
Peter Shayne Griffin
Arthur Isaacson
Larry Jaffe
Stephen M. James
Kristin Johnson
Tammy Kaiser
Peter Kenny
Judy Z. Kronenfeld

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Erika Abbott
AnnAbbot@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Erika Abbott lives in Valley Glen, California.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Erika Abbott and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Holocaust

Baking, Burning
dreams gone up in flames
souls cry out: " let people know what happened!"
Cries for help ignored.
Ovens keep people warm.

Lisa Beatman
lisabeatman@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

My work has most recently been published in Lilith Magazine, the Hawaii Pacific Review, and the Abiko Quarterly. Some of my work will be forthcoming in Lonely Planet, and Rhino. My collection, "Ladies' Night at the Blue Hill Spa", was published by Bear House Publishing. I live in (well, next to) a cemetary in Boston

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Lisa Beatman and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Taut Over Bones

Defined by light
Skin lampshades
What marrow we have
What tallow unburnt.

Jim Bennett
jimbennett11@btopenworld.com

Bio (auto)

Visit Jim on the web in the following spots:

POETRY KIT - Voted Poetry Super-Highway best resource 2001

PK On-line Poetry Workshop

JIM BENNETT - Publisher's site

Some songs

An interview

Poems

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Jim Bennett and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

where did all the people go?

deaf to the crying
blind to the plumes of smoke
when the stench of burning
and the ash fell like snow
did no one ever ask
where did all the people go?

with the smell from the camp
and the sounds of gunfire
punctuating every day
did no one know?
did no one ever ask
where did all the people go?

F.J. Bergmann
fibitz@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

F.J. Bergmann is living in Madison, Wisconsin for the fourth or fifth time. She studied psychology, biochemistry, and fine arts at the University of Wisconsin, and is currently a web designer and illustrator. Previously, she spent twenty-five years working with horses. She is working on projects involving digital art, hypertext, and Flash poetry. She maintains www.madpoetry.org, a public service website for poetry in Madison, Wisconsin, as well as her own site, www.fibitz.com. She reads at spoken word venues and has been published in Margie The American Journal of Poetry, Wind, Pavement Saw, RealPoetik, in the anthology Connected: Poetry on Life In The Age Of Computers, and at the 2002 Electronic Literature Symposium. She won the 2003 Mary Roberts Rinehart National Poetry Award and her manuscript Sauce Robert won the 2002 Pavement Saw chapbook competition. She received awards from the Atlanta Review poetry competition in 2000, 2001, and 2002, and a partial scholarship to the 2002 Catskill Writers Workshop. Her favorite authors all write science fiction.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by F.J. Bergmann and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Serment

Dès le moment
que j'ai su que tout ce qui mène au sommet
d'aujourd'hui peut se voir seulement
comme un effet
de cette lumière affreuse, dorée,
étincellante et jaune, étoilée,
qui comme un souffle de catafalque nous arrive
des hiers lointains à travers les peaux juives,
émane des milliards de crânes vides
jetés dans la fosse commune monstre du passé,
j'ai fait serment.

On ne finira jamais cette guerre;
reculant en arrière, suivant les traces des dégats,
aucun ne saura pourquoi
ces choses atroces ont été faites.
De ce qui est rapellé, je n'en reviens pas
et je n'en reviendra jamais
de ce pays lumineux d'aprés-midi, des champs de blé
tachés de pavots comme les blessures
qui apparaissent dans une foule mitraillée.
Dans les brumes grises du dernier siècle
le bruit grondant des vielles injures reverbre
entre le grésillement infini des larmes oubliées;
les cendres des morts coulent dans la pluie brûlante.

Je me hisserai de cette boue infâme
par les langues mortes de mes souliers.
Je verrai dans mes rêves la poussière
des cadavres pourris, un demain ébloui,
se réunir avec leurs âmes vivantes
à neuf sur la terre.


Vow

At the moment
when I knew that all that has brought us
to the apex of the present can be seen solely
as an effect of that appalling golden light,
glittering yellow, starry,
that like the exhalation from a catacomb
reaches us from distant yesterdays
through lampshade skins
or emanates from the millions of empty skulls
discarded in the monstrous common grave of the past,
I made a vow.

War never ends:
looking backward, following the traces of destruction,
no one will ever know why those atrocities took place.
Of what is remembered, I cannot bring myself to understand,
and I will never come back from that luminous afternoon
landscape of deceptive peace, the wheatfields
speckled with poppies like bloody wounds
sprayed across a machine-gunned crowd.
In the dark clouds of the last century
the rumble of ancient injustices reverberates
amid the endless spatter of forgotten tears;
the ashes of the dead dissolve in the burning rain.

I will lift myself out of that fouled mud
by the dead tongues of my shoes.
I will summon a shining tomorrow
where the dust of decayed cadavers
will unite in glory with their living souls
to renew the earth.

Tom Berman
berman@amiad.org.il

Bio (auto)

Tom Berman has been a member of Kibbutz Amiad in the Upper Galilee, Israel for almost 50 years, on and off. He is a scientist, specializing in aquatic microbiology. Much of his research has been focused on Lake Kinneret (also known as the Sea of Galilee) but occasionally he has also worked on various real seas and oceans.

He grew up and attended school in Glasgow, Scotland having arrived there aged 5 from Czechoslovakia with the Kindertransport in 1939.

Further education was in the U.S.A, at Rutgers University and M.I.T. He is married with one wife, three daughters, five granddaughters and a grandson. Most of his publications to date have been scientific but now and again he has had some poems appear in press. His first collection, Shards a Handful of Verse, is available from the vaults of Amazon, Barnes & Noble etc. Recently he has been elected Editor in Chief of the "Voices Israel " Anthology.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Tom Berman and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Leather Suitcase

They don’t
make suitcases
like that
any more.

Time was,
when voyage meant
train, steamship
distances unbridgeable
waiting for a thinning mail
weeks, then months,
then nothing

Time was,
when this case
was made
solid, leather,
heavy stitching
with protective edges
at the corners.

Children’s train,
across the Reich
stops
and starts again...

Holland
a lighted gangplank,
night ferry to gray-misted
sea-gulled Harwich
again the rails
reaching flat across
East Anglia,
to London

There’s the suitcase
in my bedroom,
a silent witness
with two labels

“Masaryk Station, Praha”
“Royal Scot, London-Glasgow”

Leather suitcase
from a far-off country,
Czechoslovakia,

containing all the love
parents could pack
for a five year old
off on a journey
for life.

Charles Bernstein
sid_yiddish@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Charles Bernstein's poetry has been published in several journals, including: Lucid Moon, Flipside, Tomorrow Magazine, Sex In Public, Churches, Children & Daddies, Blindman's Rainbow, Oyez Review, Grey Lodge Pub and Magnetic Poetry: Book of Poetry (Workman Press). From 1986 to 1991, he published the poetry fanzine, Cops Hate Poetry. In 1999, Charles was a national Poetry Slam finalist. He has been featured on National Public Radio and has performed throughout the United States. He published the poetry chapbook Shortness Of Breath (PROTEST-1997), was featured on the CD & cassette compilations respectively, Tripped Back Up (Niteskool Productions-1998) & Drum Poems (Wymbs Productions-1997) and released the CD, Errorwrist: Nine Muses Of Error In Underconstructualism (PROTEST-2002). This summer, he will be publishing the poetry book, Ordering A Pizza In The Middle Of The Revolution (The Printer Inc).

Charles Bernstein resides in Evanston, Illinois. Charles Bernstein is related to Charles Bernstein.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Charles Bernstein and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Stinkpatch 321456

His blue eyes saved him
From wilting in the ovens
The brown eyes
Black eyes
Green eyes
Oh how they fried, fried in ovens like bird
Carved on the plate for dinner
And he cries for the tattoo on his ass
Cries for those who have fucked him, laughed
Cries for the rabbis
Who asked him to pull down his pants
Cries in his vodka, cries on his desk
Cries in my hands
In my hands like a baby with a tattoo in its ass
Smells the smell of burning feathers
It’s no wonder why he has asthma

Bengt O Bjorklund
andrasidan@chello.se

Bio (auto)

I am a 54 year old artist, poet, journalist, photographer and thinker born in Stockholm. I have spent almost twenty years outside my country, five years in a Turkish jail, where I met William Hayes (I was portrayed as Eric in the movie Midnight Express). since then I have played in various unsuccessful bands, published a few books of poetry, in Swedish, had art exhibitions in both in Sweden and Denmark, worked as a journalist/lay out man/photographer for a few years etc.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Bengt O Bjorklund and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Darkness

Crystal nights have lost
their historic impact
as Palestinian youths
adapt lethal opposition.

The undocumented
and very personal
everyday reality of
either one of the historic

Compounds of cruelty
does not give
a free ticket to a social
and supreme view.

Whoever needs our
immediate span of attention
should not be there,
not now, nor ever.

Roland Francis Bravo
Havanataxi@aol.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Roland Francis Bravo, of the group BODO. I live and work in South Florida and in my native Caribbean, (I am Cuban). I am a poet and a singer-songwriter having written and produced several musical theatrical productions in Miami and in New York. Currently I am promoting my new CD "Evil People" through my webpage business: www.bododesigns.com

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Roland Francis Bravo and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Bereshith

In the beginnning I was in shock...
I recall feeling that
strange sensation,
the irresistible one that you feel travelling
through your body,
you know, like when you actually feel
your blood rushing through your veins and arteries,
exchanging gases through millions of capillaries...
It's an awful feeling that makes you think
that any minnute you are going to
just collapse,
or fall,
or
die...
In the beginning...
yes, I visited memorials,
surounded by beautiful reflective pools
that surround mausoleums of solitude,
temples built to memories,
to death,
to
merciless
atrocities,
to the attempt to wipe out
a race of
love,
and innocent
people...
I was stunned, then as I thought,
and meditated, prayed and calculated,
dreamed and asked for counsel,
walked through ancient books
and borrowed other people's
strange reactions,
I realised that G-d does not
act like a child,
lashing out,
seeking anhilation...
but I've also thought that children do
act like the better know the love of G-d
when they
seek not
revenge,
but
understanding...
When they look up
smiling
and say
"Abba".

Lynne Bronstein
tanysare@earthlink.net

Bio (auto)

Lynne Bronstein has published three books of poetry. Her work has appeared in publications such as Caffeine, On Target, California Poetry Calendar, and on the web sites Poetry SuperHighway.com and Muse Apprentice Guild.com. She is preparing a new book of more recent poetry.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Lynne Bronstein and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Bones and Ashes

I am descended
From a long line of rabbis.
A genetic memory
Of the captive audience
Tells me I must speak,
Must always speak
To whatever congregation
Is huddled before me.

In Lublin town, great grandfather
So they tell me, kept a school,
Not a cheder but a high school
For Jews of promising intellect.
His name appeared as the author
Of books on theology.
The books and school
And all that told of their existence
Burned with the bodies
Of my relatives still in Lublin
After the cold invasion.


Swirling in that bitter breeze
Ashes carried the intoning
Of my great-grandfather
And of the bright youths bending an ear
To lessons of the world.

Through a shroud of deafness
And almost forty years I hear them:
Late but heeded messages
From Treblinka,
From Mae Donnick.

(Some say the Holocaust never occurred.
Of course. The Holocaust
Like many Jewish memories
Is a memory of nothing.
A history of nothingness,
Daily upon more nothingness
And to be without a past
Is surely to be without a future).

No, this line begins again
With what my dreams and memories tell me:
A son escaped Lublin and came to America
To sing the liturgy on the East Side New York
With a wife, four daughters,
And a son who was my father.
And I resume the liturgy
In a different language
For a different audience
But the intent’s the same.
I must speak against every image
Of wind blowing ashes,
Of congregations silenced,
Of words, ignored, unheard,
Locked up, smashed,
Burned, gassed,
Put in a desk drawer and forgotten,
Stamped with the disapproval
Of a court I never elected,
Cut off for lack of funds,
Laughed down, interrupted.
All invasions of the temple
I shall stare down with an implacable wrath
And keyn eyn hora against the evil eye.
May my poems and stories be the living echo
Of that lonely hiss relict of the Polish nights,
The whispering of the Bronstein line
To its congregation of bones.


Glossary:

Lublin-city in Poland, formerly the home of the largest
Jewish population in Poland outside of Warsaw.

Cheder-religious school where students are instructed
in the Torah (five books of Moses).

Treblinka, Mae Donnick-concentration camps. My relatives
in Lublin died in these camps.

Keyn Eyn Hora-a saying “to ward off the evil eye.”

Michael Burch
mburch@aocg.com

Bio (auto)

Michael R. Burch is the poetry editor of The HyperTexts. He has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and his work has appeared in over ninety literary journals in the USA, UK, Canada, Australia and India, including: Poetry Magazine, Verse, Unlikely Stories, Light Quarterly, Numbat, Poet Lore, The Eclectic Muse, The Aurorean, The Lyric, Lonzie’s Fried Chicken, Black Bear Review, Icon, ByLine, Writer’s Journal, Penumbra, and Nebo.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Michael Burch and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address

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.

We have:
consigned them
to the ovensofsilence.

We have:
buried them in the mass graves
of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol.

We have
so little left
now

thankfully
to remind us:
how painfully unsightful they were.

Tony Bush
bushtony@tiscali.co.uk

Bio (auto)

Aged early forties now, still living half way up a mountain in South Wales UK and still banging out verse. Book published recently - "26 Images Spoken" (see http://www.nelsonn.com or http://www.tonybush.esmartweb.com for further details) so check it out if you're interested. Also writing rock, pop, country songs with my compadre Rob Deaves, so the music world better look out. I'm on my way. And hell will follow with me. Maybe. 

Oh, any bars or cafes wanting someone to read poetry for free, I'm you're man. Just check out my stuff and let me know. There's nothing more I like than inflicting myself on the general public. Probably why I'm mostly prevented from doing so by the powers that be.

Finally, history has one great value for current and future generations and it lies in this single true fact: "they who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it." I sincerely believe that those souls who were murdered beneath the foul and disgusting auspices of The Holocaust deserve in the very least that we never forget - and in so doing learn the lessons that history teaches us.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Tony Bush and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

This Song

This song I wrote for you to tell you how I feel,
To make you see my world in complex black and white,
This song I wrote for you, so that I am real,
So much more than dreams forged in the dead of night.

This song I wrote for you in tortured words of proof,
To change your little mind, to turn your head around,
This song I wrote for you, a testament of truth,
To rip your rules to shreds and sink them in the ground

This song I wrote for you, each syllable drips fear,
To make you feel a hint of when every grave was mass,
This song I wrote for you, to make the visions clear,
The scalpels and the needles, the ovens and the gas.

This song I wrote for you, in charcoal forest glades,
The wastelands of a heart, in fields down by the sea,
This song I wrote for you with blood and razor blades,
This song I wrote for you, so you could gather me.

Howard Camner
HCamner@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Howard Camner is the author of fifteen books of poetry. His works are included in major literary collections worldwide, including ten historical archives and six royal libraries. He represents the United States in the Poet 2000 Sculpted Library, an international exhibition of the works of contemporary poets. He resides in Miami with his wife and children.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Howard Camner and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Retribution

These tattooed numbers
out-of-sequence
unlike life
are about all that is left of me

I, who ask God every day
where He was
while His children were getting slaughtered

I, who wish on Him every day
nothing less than eternal life
That He might live forever
and never
ever
die
What could be more punishment than that?

Ruth Daigon
RUTHART@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Ruth Daigon was founder and editor of Poets On: for twenty years until it ceased publication. Her poems have been widely published in E. mags , print mags, antholgies. and collections... She was  Poet-Of-The-Month on The University of Chile's Pares Cum Paribus (an "E" chapbook in English and Spanish) (Her  chapbooks appear in WEBDELSOL, the ALSOP REVIEW, FORPOETRY, POETRYMAGAZINE, THREE CANDLE REVIEW, KOTA'S POETRY ANTHOLOGY both in hard cover and on the web. Some of her earlier poetry collections are "Between One Future And The Next" (Papier-Mache Press) 1995, "About A Year" (Small Poetry Press)  1996.  Daigon's  poetry awards include   "The Ann Stanford Poetry Prize", 1997 (University of Southern California Anthology, 1998) and The Greensboro Poetry Award (Greensboro Arts Council, 2000). Her poetry collections continue with "The Moon Inside" (Gravity/Newton's Baby December ,1999). She is part of  Pudding House Publications Poetry Chapbook Series "Ruth Daigon's Greatest Hits 1970-2000".  "Payday At The Triangle" (Small Poetry Press Select Poets  Series) based on the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in New York City, 1911 was published in 2001and one of many readings was performed  in the Lower East Side Tenement Museum in Manhattan, the area where the fire occurred. Her latest poetry book is "Handfuls of Time" (Small Poetry Press, Select Poets Series) in 2002 . Her poetry was published by the State Department in their literary exchange with Thailand and their translation program has just issued the first book of American poets in English and Thai in which she appears. Her poetry also appeared on the Garrison Keillor show.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Ruth Daigon and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Before The Blaze

Under the hammered sky
we move in narrow sandals
where something lies half-buried
waiting

and the everyday happens
a suitcase,  a parcel
and a man loses both his legs.

Armies arrange to grow imaginary
planes trace unknown paths
their engines droning sorrow.

The earth's in constant motion
and the dark hurtles toward us
at the speed of light

We walk time on a leash
in this smoldering landscape
with rocks enough to carve
tombstones for all the dead

Words lean against each other.
Skin peels from thoughts
We're searching for the fullness
before  the blaze of bone and wing

Branches rattle obituaries
The past spreads like a stain
and we grow small with distance
measuring robes of earth.

Stolen Mummies | Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats
Mowing Fargo
| I'm a Jew, Are You? | Lizard King of the Laundromat | I Am My Own Orange County
Paris: It's The Cheese
| Poetry Super Highway | Judaic Links | Rick's Bookmarks | Cobalt Poets
E-mail Rick
| Other Cool Rick Stuff / Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick