I am a member of the third generation, a term that is relatively new and refers to the children of the children of survivors. My mother’s father, Moshe Nemeth, is a Holocaust survivor, and, growing up, my grandfather was a very important part of my life. I was born in Bloomington, Indiana and my family…
we pray to pray to be able to not a matter of if but a matter of when in hard times in tough times sing the blues to the ones you love begin with the love at hand begin by listening begin by saying we pray to pray to be able to…
Seven times a day I praise you for your righteous laws — Psalm 119 Canonical hours, hours according to law when the world stops for a pause that sometimes befalls us. Remember, it was the ancient Jews who made these hours, hours that were old before Calvary, those oldest matins, lauds and terce. Dante invoked…
Near the house, next to the woodpile, lies a dream too weak to enter. I hold my shadow down as it tries to escape, shut the windows, bar the doors, imagine myself bright and shiny. I am Joseph in the bor, the pit, empty of water, but full of scorpions and serpents. There is no…
Photograph courtesy of Jehanne Dubrow The Arranged Marriage is Jehanne Dubrow’s powerful new volume of poetry, and it bears witness to her Jewish Honduran mother Jeannette’s complicated life story. Her family left Germany in the late 1930s for Honduras, and Jeannette was born in San Antonio, Texas in 1946 for medical reasons. Immediately after the…
Known for her bold, vivid and often humorous poetic voice in English and Hebrew, the critically acclaimed American-born Israeli poet Janice Silverman Rebibo has died. Rebibo, of Brookline, Mass. and Rehovot, Israel, died on March 11, after a year-long battle against cancer at the age of 65. Over many decades, the bilingual poet and educator…
Again and again we’ve risen and run Our rain wept lips against the same whisper, Against another haggard weather in The high hush of praise we’ve given over And over and held out, our every hand A still refrain, a hand woven in two; And our windy hearts vaults broken into Answers and hope beckoning…
For Shirley Kaufman The day never ends. Somewhere it is beginning to waken all but the dead.
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