POETRY
First They Came For The Muslims
by Michael R. Burch First they came for the Muslims and I did not speak out because I was not a Muslim. Then they came for the homosexuals and I did not speak out because I was not a homosexual. Then they came for the feminists and I did not speak out because I was not a feminist. Now when will they come for me because I was too busy or too apathetic to defend my sisters and brothers? |
First They Came for the Jews
by Martin Niemöller First they came for the Jews and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew. Then they came for the Communists and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist. Then they came for the trade unionists and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me. |
The Mask of Evil
by Bertolt Brecht translated by Michael R. Burch A Japanese carving hangs on my wall -- the mask of an ancient demon, limned with golden lacquer. Not altogether unsympathetically, I observe the bulging veins of its forehead, noting the grotesque effort it takes to be evil. |
Parting
by Bertolt Brecht translated by Michael R. Burch We embrace; my fingers trace rich cloth while yours encounter only moth- eaten fabric. A quick hug: you were invited to the gay soiree while the minions of the "law" relentlessly pursue me. We talk about the weather and our eternal friendship's magic. Anything else would be too bitter, too tragic. |
The Little Boy with His Hands Up
by Yala Korwin Your open palms raised in the air like two white doves frame your meager face, your face contorted with fear, grown old with knowledge beyond your years. Not yet ten. Eight? Seven? Not yet compelled to mark with a blue star on white badge your Jewishness. No need to brand the very young. They will meekly follow their mothers. You are standing apart Against the flock of women and their brood With blank, resigned stares. All the torments of this harassed crowd Are written on your face. In your dark eyes—a vision of horror. You have seen Death already On the ghetto streets, haven't you? Do you recognize it in the emblems Of the SS-man facing you with his camera? Like a lost lamb you are standing Apart and forlorn beholding your own fate. Where is your mother, little boy? Is she the woman glancing over her shoulder At the gunmen at the bunker's entrance? Is it she who lovingly, though in haste, Buttoned your coat, straightened your cap, Pulled up your socks? Is it her dreams of you, her dreams Of a future Einstein, a Spinoza, Another Heine or Halévy They will murder soon? Or are you orphaned already? But even if you still have a mother, She won't be allowed to comfort you In her arms. Her tired arms loaded with useless bundles Must remain up in submission. Alone you will march Among other lonely wretches Toward your martyrdom. Your image will remain with us And grow and grow To immense proportions, To haunt the callous world, To accuse it, with ever stronger voice, In the name of the million youngsters Who lie, pitiful rag-dolls, Their eyes forever closed. |
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. |
Postcard 1
by Miklós Radnóti written August 30, 1944 translated by Michael R. Burch Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders, resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase; the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops; and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos, glowing within my conscience — incandescent, intense. Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever -- still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree. |
Postcard 2
by Miklós Radnóti written October 6, 1944 near Crvenka, Serbia translated by Michael R. Burch A few miles away they're incinerating the haystacks and the houses, while squatting here on the fringe of this pleasant meadow, the shell-shocked peasants quietly smoke their pipes. Now, here, stepping into this still pond, the little shepherd girl sets the silver water a-ripple while, leaning over to drink, her flocculent sheep seem to swim like drifting clouds. |
Ross: Yellow Star
BY George Szirtes The eye is drawn to that single yellow star that no wise man will follow. The hunched men in caps, the grimacing woman her eyes screwed up, cheeks hollow. We look and look again until we burn a hole in the paper. We strive to learn from their resignation but it is beyond us. We let them burn. |
Postcard 4
by Miklós Radnóti his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary translated by Michael R. Burch I toppled beside him — his body already taut, tight as a string just before it snaps, shot in the back of the head. "This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here," I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread. "Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered; I could only dimly hear through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear. |