VIE!
Vie Ken men spatzirren oif aza heilike Erd
Vu zeks miljonnen hobben leben batzholt!
Far die ‘Zind’ tsu zain a Yid?
Der ganze Europa is a bes-oilem
Do liggen Miljone brider und swezters
Zair ash in zamd un blotte eingevekelt!
Maurice Skikne
[HOW! How does one walk on such Holy
Ground/Where Six Million paid
with their Lives/For the ‘Sin’ of being a
Jew?/The whole of Europe is a cemetery!/
Here lie millions of brothers and sisters/
Their ashes mixed with
sand and mud!]
Poetry
I pondered and wondered
Where the difference lay
Between poetry and prose
Between these words and those
I questioned and listened
Contemplated and read
And finally wide-awake
But still dreaming in bed
The answer appeared
Aligned in my head
………
Poetry is the fusion of
Word art and word music
It is mind images encapsulated
In charismatic cadence
It is word magic
Poetry portrays the sense and sensitivity
Embedded in the psyche
It intensifies experience and emotion
Insight and imagination
Into consummate expression
Poetry is the mortal sound of the soul
Charlotte Cohen
THE PATCHWORK Of MYSELF
Now that a few months have passed
I’m trying to make sense of it all.
I know for sure
There were three occasions whereby I put
on that flattering green gown
And was wheeled into the operating unit.
One can only imagine the turmoil and
trauma that prevailed.
I was told the ENT and NEURO surgeons
together
Went through my nostrils with their sharp
instruments
To patch up the holes in the bone
surrounding my brain
So I sit on my couch and I ponder to
myself for many moments
About the unknown places deep inside my
head.
After having recovered from three long
brain surgeries.
That patchwork has had an enormous
effect on who I am you know.
I no longer feel the same anymore
Or no longer think the same anymore
And even more poignantly
I no longer dream the same anymore.
So, while these patches heal deep inside
my head
I too need to patch myself up.
So that I can become whole again.
As there are many helping me sew up the
patches of my soul
I have faith that soon
The patchwork will become intact again
With all the various colours
Of my many paintings shining through.
Abigail Sarah Bagraim
