Category Archives: poetry

April 24, 2025 · 7:30 am

The Slant of Afternoon Light

by Arlene Geller (East Petersburg, PA)

There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

—Leonard Cohen

Your palpable need to touch 

your long-missed father

led us both 

to touch history.

I never wanted to set foot 

in Warsaw or Krakow, 

Budapest or Prague.

(Never wanted to be near Germany.)

But drawn by age 

and fading opportunities, 

we overcame our individual 

and collective fears.

We journeyed to places immersed 

in histories unfathomably 

sorrowful, unfathomably rich—  

we will never be the same.

We let the light in.

You now hold images, 

memories that were always

just beyond your reach.

Arlene Geller’s collection of prose poems, The Earth Claims Her, is available at Plan B Press. Her second poetry collection, Hear Her Voice, is available at Kelsay Books Hear Her Voice on Kelsay Books and Amazon Hear Her Voice on Amazon.  

Author’s note: This poem was written after an intense Eastern European trip last year. My husband’s father came to the United States from Poland. Throughout our 45-year marriage, my husband, Hank, has longed for a connection to the father who died when Hank was only 7 years old. The early loss has been an undercurrent for so long that I thought it time to visit at least the country where my father-in-law was born.

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April 21, 2025 · 7:30 am

Sonnet for the survivors.

by Linda Laderman (Commerce Township, MI)

Praise the Holocaust Survivors who ask us never to forget, but live life 

in the present and the future. Praise their resilience, the ones who dance 

the Hora at their grandchildren’s weddings, the grandchildren they couldn’t

imagine they’d have, the weddings they couldn’t dream would take place.

Praise the pastries they take home wrapped in a napkin, because they can’t

know for sure if the cake will have to be left in haste, a dish of dry crumbs.

Praise their unwillingness to take freedom for granted, to refuse to bow to

the demands of demagogues, to stay clear-eyed about our new fear mongers.

Praise the man who hid in plain sight, moving from place to place to evade

the Jew hatred, then began a life in America where he believed he was safe.

Praise him, and his wife, who at 83, bakes cookies because, she says, every-

one deserves sweetness in their life. Praise the children who come to visit 

the Holocaust Center, then walk wide-eyed around the train exhibit, and ask

why Jews were forced into cattle cars. Praise their young eyes, because they see.

Linda Laderman grew up in Toledo, Ohio, where her family belonged to B’nai Israel Synagogue. Though she attended Hebrew and Sunday School, no one spoke of the Holocaust. In 1959, when she was ten, Linda had a Hebrew teacher with numbers tattooed in her arm. Curious, she asked what they were, but her question went unanswered. Years later, as a docent at The Zekeleman Holocaust Center near Detroit, she came to better understand the reluctance of many survivors to talk about their painful past. Linda is a past recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize and has received a Pushcart Prize nomination. Her poetry and prose have appeared in many literary journals and media outlets. She lives near Detroit with her husband Israel Grinwald. Linda dedicates this Sonnet to the survivors of the Shoah. For the six million who did not survive, may their memory be a blessing. 

If you’d like to read more of her work, here are two poems that she shared previously with The Jewish Writing Project: Observations and An Invitation.

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April 14, 2025 · 7:30 am

My father never offered me

by Herbert Munshine (Great Neck, NY)

My father never offered me, 

in the decades of the ‘50’s and the ‘60’s, 

when our relationship had reached its fullness,

the opportunity to return with him 

to his native Augustowów, Poland, 

to visit relatives (if any had managed 

to survive the forced labor camps or 

mass killings in its ghetto when the Nazis 

controlled the fates of thousands of its Jews). 

He never painted for me a work of art 

or shared words depicting the Netta River

or the town’s canal or spacious marketplace 

or the smiling, gentle people of his youth, 

perhaps because they had ceased to exist,

or perhaps because the agony was great.

Shouldn’t it be the birthright of any immigrant 

to return, if only for special moments, 

or for his or her offspring to walk 

the streets and bathe in the tranquil moonlight 

of the place that was the home a parent knew 

and felt fondness for even in brief moments

many years before?

The difficulty is that when a generation 

suffers massive torture, loss and execution, 

many generations will be forever scarred 

or devoured. Innocence is no defense to 

war crimes against humanity. 

Now I try to envision my father’s happy youth, 

his frolicking with friends and gentle neighbors, 

but the fantasy quickly dissipates into sharp reality 

when I recall the subject not once broached by him, 

rather compelled to dwell in the ash-heap of his memory.

In my old age, it is enough for me to know deeply that

he never offered me knowledge of his Augustowów

because he wanted to shield me from his pain. Even

in his silence, his love for me expressed itself. 

He did not leave his heart in Poland. He brought it to

America and shared it with me in his silence, 

which shouted love when I’d grown

wise enough to hear it.

Herbert Munshine grew up in the Bronx and graduated from C.C.N.Y with both a B.S in Education and a Master’s Degree in English. You can find his baseball poetry on Baseball Bard where he has had more than 100 poems published, and where he was recently inducted into that site’s Hall of Fame. He lives with his wife in Great Neck, NY.

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April 11, 2025 · 7:30 am

Passover 5784

by Roberta Tovey (Melrose, MA)

This year’s Passover approaches.

I am sick at heart.

I’m thinking of adding dill

to the obligatory matzoh balls,

for a change.

Will it make a difference?

For my parents, this was a time 

to remember both unthinkable evil

and unexpected redemption.

This year I see only the unthinkable

burgeoning around me.

Nevertheless I will add dill–

the unexpected herb–

hoping against hope

it will make a difference.

Roberta Tovey has spoken and written about living with depression on TV and radio, as well as in online and print publications and blogs. She has been an editor and published author in the fields of business, healthcare, education, and the environment, and an assistant professor at Clark University. Dr. Tovey received her bachelor’s degree with highest honors at Brandeis University, and her doctorate in English literature from Princeton University. Her poetry has appeared in The Mizmor Anthology.

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April 7, 2025 · 7:30 am

Why I am impatient for peace 

by Miriam Bassuk (Seattle, WA)

Because we once were sisters

and our mothers were best friends.

Because I can still recall the swell of your hand 

in mine, and I miss that warmth. 

Because, though the sky darkens with soot and ash 

and the rip of rocket fire sets my teeth on edge,

I want to sleep through the night near you.

Because the olive trees still flourish.

Though originally from the east coast, Miriam Bassuk treasures her life in the Northwest. Her daily walks inspire her with the teeming life of eagles, herons, and the occasional sighting of Orcas. She has been published in The Journal of Sacred Feminine Wisdom, Raven Chronicles, PoetsWest Literary Journal, and 3 Elements Review, and she was one of the featured poets in the digital portion of the WA 129 project sponsored by Tod Marshall, the Washington State poet laureate.

(“Why I am impatient for peace” first appeared in Consequence and is reprinted here with permission of the author.)

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March 31, 2025 · 7:30 am

Henoch: An Inventory

by Barbara Krasner (Somerset, NJ)

After Lauren Russell

A butcher’s apron pockmarked with dried blood that banging it against the river’s rocks cannot erase. An abacus to calculate the change he owes his patrons. The skill to sever an animal’s carotid arteries, jugular veins, and windpipes in one swift move. A sharp butcher’s knife to cleanly sever a chicken’s head and to break a cow down to its finest parts to sell at a premium to anyone who can afford it. His cleaver whacks away his disappointments until his own fingers bleed with hope for his children. Evening candlelight to read the sacred texts and pray. Meetings of the Baron Hirsch School trustees. His children, even the girls, will get an education, damn the naysayers. An American stamp on his passport from when he arrived in New York with younger brother Benzion. An Austro-Hungarian Empire stamp on his passport from when he returned because Pesia was pregnant. She needed him. No photographs to fold into Chava’s hands when she leaves for America. Plans for his widowed mother’s aliyah to Palestine. The burden of this place and time. No prescience that all but two of his children–the eldest and the youngest–will be murdered. Of the four grandsons named for him, only Herman Krasner is born under the flag of the American Dream.

while the others lie

in the sky in the ashen

shadow of the moon.

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies (HGS) from Gratz College, where she teaches in the HGS graduate programs. The author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse, her work has appeared in Jewish Literary Journal, Tiferet, Minyan, Jewishfiction.net, Michigan Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She serves as Director, Mercer County (NJ) Holocaust, Genocide & Human Rights Education Center.

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March 24, 2025 · 7:30 am

America 1955

by Penny Perry (Rainbow, CA)

 My shoes crunch on alley gravel.

A boy calls out “Christ killer.”

I turn see his red hair, freckles.

A brick sails past my head.

Braids slap my shoulders.

My legs tremble. I grab

our back garden gate,

run to my mother.

She drops a trowel, hugs me.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Weeping in my mother’s arms,

I say, “I’m not a killer.”

The smell of dill in the kitchen.

My grandfather looks up from his 

hot tea in a glass and blinks back tears.

“My granddaughter isn’t safe in America.”

He sips his tea, probably remembering

his own grandfather who encouraged him 

to go to America to learn English and

become a  lawyer.

My grandmother ladles soup.

The carrots are sweet. I’m still 

trembling. My mother paces, says

“Should we call the police?”

My grandfather says “No.”

The bump on his head glistens

in the kitchen light. Cossacks threw

a rock at him when he was a baby.

“We’ll only cause more attention

on ourselves. I will have a civil

conversation with the boy

and his family.”

How can he be so calm? “It’s not safe 

for you, Dad,” my mother says.

Rinsing spinach at the sink, my grandmother 

says “It’s enough the child isn’t hurt.”

“Dayenu” I say to myself. The song

is my favorite part of our Seder.

It is enough that the brick missed me,

thank God. 

It is enough that my grandfather will help,

enough that my mother hugged me, enough 

that my grandmother is making my favorite dish, 

spinach with a hard boiled egg and sour cream.

I wipe my wet face. My grandfather 

slips into his bedroom, steps out 

in his favorite courtroom gray suit 

and purple tie.

The room now smells of baking bread.

In spite of the flying brick, I’m proud to be 

a Jew, proud of our survival, our traditions, 

grateful for God’s blessings.

Penny Perry is the author of two books of poetry Santa Monica Disposal and Salvage and Woman with Newspaper Shoes, both from Garden Oak Press. Her poems have appeared in Lilith, The Paterson Literary Review, Third Wednesday, San Diego Poetry Annual, Poetry International and many other journals. 

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March 3, 2025 · 7:30 am

my response to Lilith: a painting by john collier, 1887

by Lou Ella Hickman (Corpus Christi, TX)

         

            was it your soft voice—

            out of dark greening leaves

            that spoke woman to woman

            on how to become wise . . .

            a wisdom so desirable 

            you sensed

                              she could almost taste its delight

            just by reaching for it . . .

            reaching then became touch

            and touch makes things

            somehow more real . . .

            your voice   

            feminine as the garden they walked in . . .

             did you pause in your speaking 

`           aware how moist their lips were

            and how their eyes had suddenly opened in shame

Sister Lou Ella Hickman, I.W.B.S. is a former teacher and librarian whose writings have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Press 53 published her first book of poetry in 2015 entitled she: robed and wordless. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017 and in 2020. On May 11, 2021, five poems from her book which had been set to music by James Lee III were performed by the opera star Susanna Phillips, star clarinetist Anthony McGill, pianist Mayra Huang at Y92 in New York City. The group of songs is entitled “Chavah’s Daughters Speak.”  Her second book of poetry, Writing the Stars, will be released October 2024. (Press 53). If you’d like to listen to an interview with Sister Lou Ella about her poems being set to music, visit: https://www.todaysamericancatholic.org/2023/08/we-have-a-concert/

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February 21, 2025 · 7:30 am

The Lord is My Shepherd 

by Rick Black (Arlington, VA)

I shall want to know one day

why God made hurricanes and floods – 

and rested on the seventh day.

I shall want to know one day

why God sent down famine and disease – 

and rested on the seventh day.

I shall want to know one day 

why God rested on the seventh day

but did not grant us any rest.

Rick Black is an award-winning book artist and poet. His artist books are represented in private and public collections, including the Library of Congress, Yale University and the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. A journalist for many years, Rick’s poetry collection, Star of David, won Poetica Magazine’s 2012 poetry chapbook contest for contemporary Jewish writing. A reading of Star of David was held in the Middle Eastern & African Division of the Library of Congress. He recently published a new collection, Two Seasons in Israel: A Selection of Peace and War Haiku.

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February 10, 2025 · 7:30 am

I Cannot Scrub Your Blood from My Bones

by Barbara Krasner (Somerset, NJ)

Deep within my marrow

flows my DNA, your blood,

your ambitions, your regrets,

your aches, your pains, your nightmares.

Deep within my memory

I call up your shtetl, its fields,

thatched roofs, unnamed streets.

Bold numbers nailed to door jambs,

revealing the town plan. Deep within

this hiccup murmurs your Galician dialect

of southeastern Poland, the bleats 

of goats, the shofar during High Holy Days.

Deep within the walls of the stucco homes

childbirth cries. Deep within

the burrows of the streets resounds the beat

of hobnailed boots and rapid gunfire.

You weren’t there during the invasions.

You weren’t there for mobile killing squads.

You weren’t there during deportations.

But you experienced it all the same,

just as I did. 

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies (HGS) from Gratz College, where she teaches in the HGS graduate programs. The author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse, her work has appeared in Jewish Literary Journal, Tiferet, Minyan, Jewishfiction.net, Michigan Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She serves as Director, Mercer County (NJ) Holocaust, Genocide & Human Rights Education Center.

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