Death is a gang-boss

Not a joyful post tonight. I'm going to post two poems, one by me and one by Paul Celan, that deal with the human tragedies of the early 20th century. My poem, "A Daughter's Famine," was inspired by a lesson on Stalin's purges.

A Daughter’s Famine

She ripped a hole in her foot.
The arid earth pulled back in sheets
exposing gray keen stones
risking putrid infection.
Papa Koba held her shoes.

She clutched her Caucasian eyes.
Salt escaped from the tear ducts
but no water and they froze painfully
in the crippling nausea of hunger.
Papa Koba shrugged upon her ribs.

She peeled off her skin in layers.
The crust of her bones coated
the breadless earth with the crust
of other bones—miraculous fertilizer.
Papa Koba approved.

His steel boots sloughed organ caked
black earth which had grown luscious
with protein.

He held her shoes in a
pockmarked meaty fist.

He was a hard man.
He was the Sadovnik chelovecheskogo schast'ja and
he was a father. And she

she was nutrients.

This next poem, "Deathfugue" by Paul Celan, is by far the best poem about the Holocaust ever written. Celan and his parents, both Austrian Jews, escaped with their lives from the camps. My heart was in my throat when I heard a reading of this poem.

Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night
we drink and drink
we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing he whistles his dogs to draw near
whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand
he commands us to play for the dance

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at dawntime and noontime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
He calls jab it deep in the soil you lot there you other men sing and play
he tugs at the sword in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue
jab your spades deeper you men you other men you others play up again for the dance

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite he cultivates snakes

He calls play that death thing more sweetly Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
he calls scrape that fiddle more darkly then hover like smoke in the air
then scoop out a grave in the clouds where it’s roomy to lie

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
we drink you at dusktime and dawntime we drink and drink
Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland his eye is blue
he shoots you with leaden bullets his aim is true
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
he sets his dogs on our trail he gives us a grave in the sky
he cultivates snakes and he dreams Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland

your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite