—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
from Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah
Let me start from the beginning:
Each one of us is responsible for our own actions,
not our parents no matter how abusive or evil,
not our teachers who may have bullied and insulted,
not our peers who showed us a code of behavior
we knew to be wrong.
I was following orders is not an excuse.
I will tell you my story:
Around the time Jews had already settled in Palestine (and many other places), perhaps near the time of the grand Roman census or centuries later, a man was about to be put to death. The rabbi who was also the executioner asked if he had any last words. He nodded his head toward the sea of onlookers. I’d like to whisper something to my mother, he said. She’s out there in the second row. His mother was escorted to the platform and bent her ear to hear what her son had to say. He bit it off. The rabbi, aghast, looked first to the mother holding her hand to her head to stop the flow of blood and then to her son who spit out the ear and calmly rubbed it into the wooden platform. Why did you do that? The rabbi almost screamed. Calmly the man answered, Since I was a small child, my mother taught me only to do evil. This is why I am here today. The rabbi ran his fingers through his beard. No, he said, that’s not why. In your life journey, you met many honest and good people and you—not because of your mother—chose to ignore what they had to offer. Then the rabbi pulled the lever and the man went to his death.
Let me start from the beginning:
Each one of us is responsible for our own actions,
not our parents no matter how abusive or evil,
not our teachers who may have bullied and insulted,
not our peers who showed us a code of behavior
we knew to be wrong.
I was following orders is not an excuse.
I will tell you my story:
Around the time Jews had already settled in Palestine (and many other places), perhaps near the time of the grand Roman census or centuries later, a man was about to be put to death. The rabbi who was also the executioner asked if he had any last words. He nodded his head toward the sea of onlookers. I’d like to whisper something to my mother, he said. She’s out there in the second row. His mother was escorted to the platform and bent her ear to hear what her son had to say. He bit it off. The rabbi, aghast, looked first to the mother holding her hand to her head to stop the flow of blood and then to her son who spit out the ear and calmly rubbed it into the wooden platform. Why did you do that? The rabbi almost screamed. Calmly the man answered, Since I was a small child, my mother taught me only to do evil. This is why I am here today. The rabbi ran his fingers through his beard. No, he said, that’s not why. In your life journey, you met many honest and good people and you—not because of your mother—chose to ignore what they had to offer. Then the rabbi pulled the lever and the man went to his death.
A POEM TO AHARON ZISLING
It has been said that there were cases of rape in Ramile. I could forgive acts of rape, but I won’t forgive other deeds, which appear to me to be much graver. When a town is entered and rings are forcibly removed from fingers and jewelry from necks—this is a much graver matter.
—Aharon Zisling, Agricultural Minister to the Israeli Cabinet, July 21, 1948
To begin with, utensils and furniture, and in the end, bodies of men, women and children.
—a witness
What is worse, Aharon Zisling,
the looting of a town or a forced march into dust,
the heat and the weight of what is owned
a double burden, and then the third,
grandfather down, grandmother unable to continue,
the substance of child so heavy
the sand, the birds, all of the maggots
home? What can you do, Aharon Zisling,
you who rant against Pogroms,
you who believe the Exile of Israel,
you who spoke against criminal and thief?
I thought we better than this,
Aharon Zisling, not even enough saliva left
to bathe the stone in the mouth of those too weak
to go on. The heat, lack of shade, scream of guns.
I thought we better than this, Aharon Zisling.
This one here, she is fourteen,
her legs not strong to go on,
and this one, almost ninety,
no one strong enough to carry either one,
Aharon Zisling, you who condone rape,
you who condone murder,
you who condone the breaking of the tablets.
It has been said that there were cases of rape in Ramile. I could forgive acts of rape, but I won’t forgive other deeds, which appear to me to be much graver. When a town is entered and rings are forcibly removed from fingers and jewelry from necks—this is a much graver matter.
—Aharon Zisling, Agricultural Minister to the Israeli Cabinet, July 21, 1948
To begin with, utensils and furniture, and in the end, bodies of men, women and children.
—a witness
What is worse, Aharon Zisling,
the looting of a town or a forced march into dust,
the heat and the weight of what is owned
a double burden, and then the third,
grandfather down, grandmother unable to continue,
the substance of child so heavy
the sand, the birds, all of the maggots
home? What can you do, Aharon Zisling,
you who rant against Pogroms,
you who believe the Exile of Israel,
you who spoke against criminal and thief?
I thought we better than this,
Aharon Zisling, not even enough saliva left
to bathe the stone in the mouth of those too weak
to go on. The heat, lack of shade, scream of guns.
I thought we better than this, Aharon Zisling.
This one here, she is fourteen,
her legs not strong to go on,
and this one, almost ninety,
no one strong enough to carry either one,
Aharon Zisling, you who condone rape,
you who condone murder,
you who condone the breaking of the tablets.
HULE, LEBANON: AUTUMN 1948
When I returned to the village the following morning with an order to send the villagers away (the villagers had surrendered a day earlier and begged to be able to remain in their homes), I found out that while I was away, two of the troop’s officers had killed all of the captives who were in the house (the men of Hule were detained in a large house) with a sub-machine gun, and then had blown up the house on top of them to be their grave.
—Dov Yirmiya
There is a reward for murder,
for the surprise burst of everything into hearts and
souls of men,
a prize of value for the seeking of revenge.
At the falling of the dead, men saw wings of glory,
and others fresh-picked olives,
cinnamon and curry. Murder is blood,
the thick paste of smoke, a litter of limbs.
The murderers walked away, Aharon Zisling.
I thought we better than this.
When I returned to the village the following morning with an order to send the villagers away (the villagers had surrendered a day earlier and begged to be able to remain in their homes), I found out that while I was away, two of the troop’s officers had killed all of the captives who were in the house (the men of Hule were detained in a large house) with a sub-machine gun, and then had blown up the house on top of them to be their grave.
—Dov Yirmiya
There is a reward for murder,
for the surprise burst of everything into hearts and
souls of men,
a prize of value for the seeking of revenge.
At the falling of the dead, men saw wings of glory,
and others fresh-picked olives,
cinnamon and curry. Murder is blood,
the thick paste of smoke, a litter of limbs.
The murderers walked away, Aharon Zisling.
I thought we better than this.
FOLLOWING ORDERS
1.
The last gash of light
came with the ratchet of a single gunshot
and the baby’s head broke to the side.
Before her mother could react,
a second bullet tore away her cry.
Mother and infant, a chair,
the sigh of blood against wallboard and glass,
a disarray of flesh and matter.
Because it had been ordered, Aharon Zisling,
no one was punished.
2.
The man in the uniform came into this world
with one purpose:
to cause pain.
The infant also had one purpose:
to know its consequence.
Soldier and infant complimented one another—
murderer and the one to be murdered.
But what was the mother’s purpose in this
transaction?
Simple.
She made the introductions.
3.
There are people visiting this world who came
here to die.
These are the angels of our lives.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
ONE MORNING YESTERDAY
—Michael H. Brownstein
Cumulus and cirrus clouds cloud my eyes,
poke my ears,
suffer indignities to my nostrils.
Serious thunderclouds hibernate in my mouth
spewing out electrolytes and a heavy fog.
Outside my window, wind gallops into tall grass.
* * *
GOOD MORNING
—Michael H. Brownstein
Wake up and buckle down.
Let the earth muscle up,
your arms are strong,
your legs stronger,
fly into the wind with the best of them.
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s provocative poetry!
1.
The last gash of light
came with the ratchet of a single gunshot
and the baby’s head broke to the side.
Before her mother could react,
a second bullet tore away her cry.
Mother and infant, a chair,
the sigh of blood against wallboard and glass,
a disarray of flesh and matter.
Because it had been ordered, Aharon Zisling,
no one was punished.
2.
The man in the uniform came into this world
with one purpose:
to cause pain.
The infant also had one purpose:
to know its consequence.
Soldier and infant complimented one another—
murderer and the one to be murdered.
But what was the mother’s purpose in this
transaction?
Simple.
She made the introductions.
3.
There are people visiting this world who came
here to die.
These are the angels of our lives.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
ONE MORNING YESTERDAY
—Michael H. Brownstein
Cumulus and cirrus clouds cloud my eyes,
poke my ears,
suffer indignities to my nostrils.
Serious thunderclouds hibernate in my mouth
spewing out electrolytes and a heavy fog.
Outside my window, wind gallops into tall grass.
* * *
GOOD MORNING
—Michael H. Brownstein
Wake up and buckle down.
Let the earth muscle up,
your arms are strong,
your legs stronger,
fly into the wind with the best of them.
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s provocative poetry!
A reminder that
there will be a Memorial for
Viola Spenser in Sacramento
today, 2pm, at the Cal. Stage;
and Wm. O’Daly and
Indran Amirthanayagam will read
in Camino, 2pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
there will be a Memorial for
Viola Spenser in Sacramento
today, 2pm, at the Cal. Stage;
and Wm. O’Daly and
Indran Amirthanayagam will read
in Camino, 2pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
