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Poetry || SubmissionsPoems by Susan Fridkin 9351 Parkside DriveTrees bend with the path I follow fragile flagstone bares my weight, its distance leads to the house I called home. Crossing the threshold I meet silence in empty rooms. Stained glass casts a vision of me in blue hues; the image decends spiral stairs veiled in the night I became a wife. The walls are cold without photos of grandparents holding babies in time. I shiver in the shadows of plaques hung for achievement and poetry that outlived the demise. The strong brick withstands the loss, but its mortar weeps with me. The last rose embraces the house as October ends; soft petals, vibrant red, fall to the ground without memory. Deaths Elsewhere The train slows to a stop. Jews stand in dark boxcars blinded by the light as the heavy doors roll back with the sound of thunder. Their journey's end: the final solution. Frightened faces confront Nazi soldiers who confiscate pieces of gold from pockets, fingers, and teeth. An orchestra stirred the acrid Polish air; high notes clashed with tears during the selection. Every woman holding a child by the hand, or carrying one in her womb, was sent to the right. Judith's mother gently shoved her to the line on the left, without saying goodbye. II In the order of things some went the way of Birkenau. Lillian and Elizabeth, who wore the letter "S " remained at Auschwitz, destined for special punishment in Block 10. Endless experiments: Propped on metal tables, needles drew blood, injected disease, punctured wounds; the fire of formaldehyde shot into ovaries consumed generations. Those women still living hold the gaze of an emaciated child, wipe tears from hollow eyes. They slip scraps of food between lips that barely speak; small voices choke on genocide. III Lillian lies on wooden slats where butterflies are carved into posts above her head. Dr. Slavka comes in the barracks at midnight to soothe scars of vivisection; her soft caress in the absence of light allows a safe passage to dream. In deep sleep Lillian escapes the chrysalis. She emerges, spreads beautiful wings to soar above black smoke and the land-locked ash Beyond barbed-wire she floats with the wind, glistens in the sun; the scent of nectar saturates her senses. as she flies toward the land that flows with milk and honey. Lot's Wife She feels confused in the heat of the sun, as she waits in the shadow of her husband, on the edge of town. She does not question the voice only Lot can hear; God's command: Leave everything you love behind. She closes her eyes, conjures memory to look back to when she built her home from clay, took in strangers as friends; raised her children with a gentle hand. Out of the Dead Sea came a wind of rage and hot rain. The earth quaked, screams escaped from the walled cities; Lot's wife collapses in tears and I long to know her name. Out of the Dead Sea came a wind of rage and hot rain. The earth quaked, Lot's wife turns to face screams escaping the walled cities; the image brought her to tears. One By One It's time to speak their names silenced through the years. Children rounded up by French police. Taken from homes and off streets; forced to face oblivion. Boxcars of human cargo railed through dark space; the engine's whistle screamed with innocent voices crying to escape. Hannah shivers in a puddle of urine, soiling lace socks her mother stretched over each foot that morning. As the train pulls into Drancy futures are lost. We must retrieve from anonymous ash the masses of daughters and sons, lost identities which wore the fatal yellow star. One by one they were destroyed: Jeannie Stickgold, Berte Pozanski, Michael Benicar. Sisters, Irene and Ginette Cukier, hand in hand with their mother, still smile from a faded photograph. Lillian Segal was only ten, and on, and on Others like George Andre Kohn, injected with TB, slowly wasted away. I asked G-d if he noticed the streets vacant where Jewish children once played, If he saw smoke rise before his eyes or smell the pungent odor of flesh among ashes. Could he hear the prayers of parents, laments for children tortured in death, as average citizens, neighbors, friends, shut their eyes, turned their heads, and said nothing to defend the innocent ones. Susan Fridkin writes: I always enjoy popping in to Ariga's poetry page. I have made a few friends through this poetry site. Since my last submission I have had another poem accepted by Midstream Magazine, and my first chapbook, One Woman, a tribute to my late mother-in-law, is listed on the Borders online site. I am working on a compilation regarding the Holocaust and chose a couple of poems from that selection, as well as one about Lot's Wife. Thank you for the opportunity to share my work with you, and hopefully Argia's poetry board. Previous poems by Susan Fridkin at Ariga You can write to Susan Fridkin c/o poeme1@email.msn.com Today's Situation
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