I wrote this for high school students to introduce Ha'Shoah,* something that defies introduction. The Shoah made me write poetry. This was my first poem. (*Sho'ah -- annihilation, catastrophe) --------------- Ashes My students have read Graebe's testimony before. For three years I've taught it, have read it 10 to 15 times. I put it aside and then read it again, a sense of sadness so ineffable overcomes me. Maybe it's just me. Seven years ago, I stood at Majdanek just outside of Lublin in Poland. Thirty military attaches stood shoulder to shoulder and stared at the light gray ashes which were once 600,000 human beings. My friends Tony, Leszek, Lazlo, Bernard, Kiyoshi, Jaake, Ren, Vlad, Michel, Carsten, I, the American, and more silently sharing. For twenty minutes time was stopped. Shiny white pieces of bone push out of those ashes, jagged shards of bone no bigger than your fingertip, jagged bits of bone seem to want to escape the ashes, but cannot. My Polish friend, Leszek, whispers in my ear, "They were Ukrainians." --- --- --- --- --- --- --- Time starts again. The bus ride back to Warsaw was quiet. No words were spoken. We were beyond words. Even Lazlo, the eloquent Magyar, did not speak. Those ashes, they are in my mind. Those ashes from a fire that no longer burns, yet is not extinguished. Ashes that are palpable, still appearing unbidden in my mind's eye. I will see them until I die. How can I teach you about the Sho'ah? How can I not teach you about the Sho'ah? Those ashes are relentless. I wonder, will you be able to see the ashes? Maybe it is jut me. I am older you know.

--- --- --- --- --- Five notions have influenced Chinese poetry for centuries. First, is the notion that a poem is a place where one's deepest emotions are felt. ... Second, Confucian scholars felt that the poet, by expressing his deepest feelings in a poem, was also commenting on the time in which he (or she) lived. ... Third, ... that a poet's personality is inscribed in a poem.... Fourth, it was assumed that poetry revealed the poet's moral fiber. ... Fifth, through his poetry, a poet is seen to live beyond his (or her) time. -- Robert Oxnam, President Emeritus of the Asia Society Poetry is the intellect colored by feelings. (-- Alexander Wilson (1766-1813) *** *** *** "What Are We?" The words, there are so many in me. I know how many of them got there. Still, I am surprised at how many there are. English, Korean, Polish, Japanese, Chinese, some lovely Hawaiian ones and even some pidgin. They represent so many places, things, thoughts and, most of all, people. These words are friends. But, from time to time, a problem. As when too many want to get out at the same time. They try to break free and once in a while in the trying, they make me feel unsettled, out of sorts. And, I wonder, as they momentarily subside, to a level that is just below the threshold of perception. I wonder, am I in control of the words, or are they in control of me? Am I a vessel shaped by so many words remembrances of places, things, thoughts and most of all people? Or, are all the words small vessels which are me? And, I thought, "Did Chuang Chou dream he was a butterfly, or did the butterfly dream he was Chuang Chou." And, raising a toast to the moon, I drift away. Vaguely aware that the words will summon me again when they are ready. === === === === ===

For the girls at Sacred Hearts (Young and Not So Young) Joy, you have brought me so much joy. I must have done something good in a previous life, Actually, its true, I know I did. Not that I didn't do things that were not good. I did. I do. But to have so much joy, it is almost too much for one. I said to one who was young who was with another who was older, "I like this school." "No, Mister," the young one corrects, softly "You love this school." And, slightly shamefaced, caught in the small lie, caught by a sudden insight, that young ones often have, I agree. "You're right, 'Ili." "I love this school." Joy, you bring me so much joy. ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ Poets are all who love and feel great truths, and tell them. (Gamaliel Bailey 1807-59)

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