SONGS OF ERETZ POETRY REVIEW
SUMMER 2022 "SPECIAL CHARITABLE FUNDRAISING INVASION OF UKRAINE" ISSUE
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Unless otherwise indicated, all art is the work of our Art Editor or taken from "royalty free" Internet sources.
Editor-in-Chief
Steven Wittenberg Gordon
Art Editor
Jason Artemus Gordon
Associate Editor
Terri Lynn Cummings
Assistant Editor
Charles A. Swanson
Featured Poet
Tyson West
Frequent Contributors
John C. Mannone, Karla Linn Merrifield, Vivian Finley Nida, &
Howard
F. Stein
Biographies of our editorial staff & frequent contributors may be found on the "Our Staff" page.
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Table of Contents
A Farewell Letter From the Editor-in-Chief
The Poetry of Tyson West
Frequent Contributors
Art Gallery
Guest Poets
Lauren McBride
“Limo Driver”
Tony Daly
“Gathering”
Harris Coverley
“Duty”
Suzanne van Leendert
“Sunflowers in Flaming Fields”
Gurupreet K. Khalsa
“Young Soldier Sent to Fight Her Neighbors”
Elizabeth Caplun
“Sixty miles to Tiraspol”
M. L. Brown
“Women’s Day”
Bonnie Larson Staiger
“At Once, Distant and Doorstep”
VA Smith
“Jersey Girl”
“Orthodox Lent”
Frequent Contributor News
Forthcoming
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A Farewell Letter from the Editor-in-Chief
My Dear Friends of Eretz,
Songs of Eretz has also helped charitable causes, most recently the Doctors Without Borders Emergency Fund in support of its mission of mercy in Ukraine. Thank you to all who participated in this worthy effort. Between the number of individual donations and the donation of our entire honoraria budget, together we raised $700 for this important cause.
However, as much as I have enjoyed my role as Editor-in-Chief, I feel that the time has come for new blood to invigorate that position. I am pleased to announce that our current Associate Editor, Terri Lynn Cummings, has graciously agreed to a promotion to Editor-in-Chief and will assume operational control of Songs of Eretz after a hiatus of several months. Charles A. Swanson, our current Assistant Editor, has agreed to stay on staff as her Associate Editor. Our Art Editor, Jason Artemus Gordon, will move on with me (we are actively recruiting for another artist to fill his position).
While I am definitely looking forward to having more time for other projects, I will still remain involved with Songs of Eretz as Chief Executive Editor, and the strategic vision and control of the magazine will still be mine. I also plan to continue to contribute some of my own poetry to the e-zine from time to time. However, with minor exceptions, decisions regarding our day-to-day operations will now rest with Terri.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank my past and present editorial and frequent contributor staff, without whom Songs of Eretz would have been much more difficult to produce and the quality of the product much more difficult if not impossible to maintain and grow.
Jason--You brought a whole other dimension to Songs of Eretz, taking it from a simple poetry e-zine “with art” to a remarkable poetry and art venue. Your beautiful original illustrations and uncanny way of finding or creating the perfect art to accompany the poetry enhanced the quality of our project immeasurably and put us on par with some of the best lit mags out there, online or in print. Rare is the father who has enjoyed such an opportunity to work on a creative project like this with his son. I had so much fun and am so proud of you!
James--You were there with me from before the beginning and jumped in as my first junior editor at a critical time in the e-zine’s development. You were instrumental in making Songs of Eretz the powerhouse that it has become through your thoughtful editorial decisions and wonderful contributions of poetry.
Terri--You’re going to be great! You were a wonderful Associate Editor, and your signature poetry contributions have enhanced the quality of our little project in so many ways. I am looking forward to seeing what you will do in your new role.
Charles--You have an astonishing editor’s eye and insight into what makes a poem a good poem. I have learned so much from you. And your poetry is some of the best I have ever read--Mark Twain and Walt Whitman rolled into one. I look forward to seeing what you will do as Terri’s Associate Editor.
Frequent Contributors past and present--I cannot thank you enough for always sending me your best work and for your willingness to make Songs of Eretz a home for your wonderful poetry. I don’t mind sharing the secret that the Frequent Contributor program saved Songs of Eretz during its awkward stage when there were not enough quality guest poets making contributions. Simply put, Songs of Eretz would not have lasted long without you. Most of all, it has been a pleasure to be your editor and even more so, your friend.
Finally, I must recognize our thousands of readers and hundreds of guest contributors. Without you, Songs of Eretz would have been nothing more than a vanity project. With you, we are making something really beautiful, aren’t we?
Shalom,
Steve
Steven Wittenberg Gordon, MD
Editor-in-Chief
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The Poetry of Tyson West
Camping
Tyson West
I love you more my grandchildren, bright Maksym,
bold Galyna, and little Boryshko, than your cousins in Idaho
for we’ve adventured together here our dark native soil.
Promised you I did camping and Black Sea swimming
as gulls and pelicans wheel over waves
where Russian warships and our brave sailors once
sailed at distances respectful but uneasy.
If Crimean wind whisps that carried once the Argo to Colchis
dance too dicey to let you darlings
splash while I lay a little summer shandy on my breath
pasty pudge around my chest
reddening in late spring sun,
we would bundle to conquer
the crumbling bricks of the old fortress
where Cossacks once watched to contest
sea dogs packed up conniving to plunder
riches distilled of our thick Ukrainian soil.
At moonrise we would roast shish kabobs and sausage over glowing
campfire coals where I raise shadows of water spirit songs
I’ve heard luring young warriors like you three
who forget too often their prayers.
When your mother frowns I will embellish my fable a happy ending
dissonant to me yet its soft landing
will let you three flashlight your tent
while your mother and father rest nearby to tuck you in
when your giggles and fay fights dissolve into dunes of sleep.
I'll snore alone after pushing myself way too far for an old man
under the lengthening light of our southern shore.
In spite of rockets and wild shelling my lambkins
and Putin's winter dreams mangling our map
still I have taken your mother and you camping.
That this Polish field has no beach near is not great hardship
for the weather shudders too cold for any hope of swimming.
We all share the same tent and though
your father has not been able to leave his new trade as javelin hurler,
your mother need not ask―for all stories I spin around
this precious fire will end happily.
We stand sure your laughter and hope,
my strong heroes and my fair damsel
will sail back to Kyiv in time for apple blossoms
once Russian missiles visit us no more.
Poet’s Notes: When the topic on the war in Ukraine was declared, I immediately thought of the Ukrainians camping as we would for pleasure. Camping presents change and a chance to get refreshed from day to day life in artificial hardship. I am sure the refugees now long to get back to their boring lives indoors from the all too real hardship of fleeing their homes in this winter war.
Editor’s Note: The camping metaphor perfectly describes the horror in a unique and chilling way. SWG
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This is a Country for Old Men
Tyson West
This is a country for old men.
This is a country for teenage men.
This is a country for men between.
Last week skinheads I despised roared their motorbikes
past my garden’s placid beds where I pruned raspberry canes for summer sweets
(though their
seeds get caught between my teeth)
flashing their gang tattoos and baggy jeans.
Yet when Putin’s tanks pierced the membrane of our borders
suddenly they rise as fellow soldiers standing bravely.
My sixteen-year-old grandson’s hormones and my seventy-year-old bones
prompt each of us swap lies
the other falls within age appropriate ranks.
I never voted to place the clowning dancer who most
my neighbors applauded
in the Presidential Palace at Kyiv.
Poor Putin will never grasp
playing Czar as his minions kowtow to his gilded palace
we have the right to cheer the turd we chose.
Though he speaks a fool's voice, he does not flee
or command conscripts, armor, and mercenaries to invade his neighbor’s gardens.
Putin, he serves us who are not your serfs to starve.
I choose to await my heart attack or next pandemic variant
launching a Javelin missile to kill another Russian general
facing the risk of artillery boxing my position.
I love not my neighbors, nor the direction I feel my country drifts
so much as I love the place I choose to complain
our young tribesman acting like fools.
Putin, I choose our silly sons and daughters over
the dry gangrene of your dreams.
Perhaps your serfs can choose nothing else than a czarling who unshirts his
macho―
we can no more give up our freedom to pick a fool to lead us.
We will die for it with the same grace and courage as we lie about our ages.
Poet’s Notes: As I age, the first line of Yeats’ poem “Sailing to Byzantium” becomes more my reality. Although Byzantium is located a little south of Ukraine, this line now brings to mind men in wars throughout the centuries who lie their way into the military to fight in spite of their age. In most wars, teenagers lie themselves older and older men lie themselves younger, all to join in the fight. If this were my fight, I too would lie to join up.
Editor’s Note: This poem speaks to the desperation of the defense, that even the youths and elderly have to / want to fight. The poem made me recall the history of the desperation of the US during our last world war, when we drafted men up to age 45, which at the time was the equivalent of 65 today (life expectancy in 1940 was about 60 years). SWG
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The Mountains of Ukraine
Tyson West
You lambkins laughing through the rye field's golden echoes
and sunset smells of cooking cabbage warm me.
Nutrients from black soil we furrow
flow into our blood to carve bone
and shape sinew becoming a tribe―our
tribe you my grandchildren
in your hand-holding and tears will someday couple up to carry on.
Our ancestor's chose this slice of steppe for husbands and wives to quarrel,
mate
and pray to our god's promise
of what happens to serf souls when they scratch soil no longer.
I often wish this lovely loess loam lay
without its great river highways instead
in the jagged fortress of the Alps
where Swiss pikemen butchered armies
of tiaraed tyrants in the thin cold air.
No, we curl up and groom our yeasts and grains into our daily bread
in this dangerous leveling of land
among the Dniester, Dnieper, and Bug
where Viking longships once penetrated
pirating our precious blue eyes
glowing from grains and turnips of our earth
to be traded as slaves to the Turks.
The Golden Horde, Khanate slave traders, and Huns
all found us from the east.
Such small mountains we claim lie worthless to the far west
so when the Russian tanks arrive
we men and someday you my children’s children must
stand tall―to face central Asian thugs
who try to belittle our right to our truth
with the strength of the eight million souls Stalin starved
adding to the mountain fortress we build
with our bones.
Poet’s Notes: Flat places like China, Belgium, Poland, Lithuania, and Ukraine located between warring powers are popular areas for armies to cross and fight. These countries do not have the luxury of a great mountain range like Switzerland or being an island like New Zealand or Great Britain. These countries become targets for invading armies and are nicknamed “cockpits”.
Editor’s Note: This one gets to the point fast enough. I like the way the earth itself--the terrain--is the subject of the poem. It is a small step (steppe?) from there to the devastation of the territory of Ukraine. The allusion to Stalin's persecution of the Ukrainians adds an ironic nod to the past. SWG
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Old Weapons
Tyson West
War's oldest weapons bite the deadliest still.
While long spears and clubs no longer strut
runways of today's well dressed warrior―
mannequin face unmove over jewel glittering katanas
or sailor boy cutlass
accessorizing their cammies,
still blade unblooded edges shine true―
not so false flags, blatant lies and propaganda
among the gangs we call our heroes and
the inhuman scum who come here to die.
Like green cross gas, wars are fought in toxic clouds of
cartoon sergeants raping young mothers
and bayonet impaled babies at the order of
some illegitimate Nazi government and their Jewish president.
Time and truth in war twists to a dance of instants as
the old lady chooses to run for water
the Russian tank turns the corner―
raw explosions, blood smears and body bags
become silent dots for words to pattern.
Each side's reporters and commissars display proudly
dysentery of anecdotes no one can spare the hours of basement boredom
to confirm yet the saddest stories tumored
onto our shelters are those charismatic power grabbers smear themselves.
The corporal―the KGB agent―the racist narcissist genocider
who gritted their fandango above generals grey heads
climax as they barricade their bravado
into bunkers where the last lies
of Mein Fuhrer or Czar or il Duce evaporate
as the angry subhumans they dismissed
behead their tanks and Kyiv blasted and bombed stands.
When reality climbs out of its trench
all tales of terrible twists and tiny triumphs at the last death
retreat to minstrels and scribes
to ferment and distill into elixir
quaffed to raise the next generations’ armies
ready to gangrene the oldest truth―
whose hands till this black soil?
Poet’s Notes: In Evelyn Waugh’s novel, Black Mischief, the civil war in his mythical African country was won with two of the world’s oldest weapons, lies and long spears. While not many long spears are deployed in Ukraine, lies are all over the place. Unfortunately, some of the leaders who should know better are the ones who operated in fabrication. I am sure that Putin blames someone else for his bad decision, just as Adolf Hitler blamed the German people before he committed suicide in the bunker for the loss of the war that he so foolishly started.
Editor’s Note: I would have said lies and beans, but Tyson’s poem drives home an important point about the propaganda that fuels war. This is especially true in our Age of Information. I think this angle on the war is important to tell and food for thought. SWG
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Frequent Contributors
Peace Movements
Karla Linn Merrifield
This will not stop the tanks
in Ukraine but bounces on wings
of early butterflies, dragonflies
off Army steel, olive, camel flanks
of decommissioned armored vehicles
come to an artificial halt
at Georgia’s
Memorial Veterans
State Park. It does not deflect
the bombs into Andromeda from
surgical trajectories toward insurgent
strongholds near Kyiv, being
as it is of catbrier tendrils, spider
silk as it glides off the fuselage
of a B29 Superfortress parked
behind barbwire just beyond
twin howitzers my husband
was taught to repair during
the first war after the war
to end all wars of his boyhood.
It merely flutters, darts, twines,
spins away from commemorative
military grounds, battlegrounds
half a planet away, into the
longleaf pinewoods to stitch
a peaceful morning after.
Editor’s Note: Great message! The threat of war is what preserves peace. The demand for peace usually does little to stop a war already in progress, and has about as much influence as the distant stars. SWG
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Fear in Ukraine as Russia Invades
Vivian Finley Nida
travel thousands of miles to Ukraine
where Fear
walks tightrope
High above war’s abyss
Fear scrutinizes Grim Reaper
swinging scythe in wide arc
like needle on Geiger counter
after enemy captures
Chernobyl nuclear plant
Fear sees a split second become eternity
when Russians, like violent tornadoes, explode homes
burn schools, cripple hospitals, shatter bones
No whiff of savory broth rises, Fear breathes
rancid air above cratered earth where Russians
torture, execute, and toss civilians into mass graves
Fear understands high wire’s tension
There’s no changing and no desire to change
attachment from beginning to end
Tightly holding weapon for balance
Fear takes a step to safeguard dignity
then steps repeatedly to secure freedom
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Bridge of Toys
Charles A. Swanson
Meeting each child, a bridge with toys,
plush animals, stuffed with kindness.
The givers’ intent, perhaps, is joy
to meet each
child, this bridge of toys.
Little refugees, girls and boys,
flee here. This wooden walk is dressed
to meet each child, this bridge of toys,
plush animals, stuffed with kindness.
Romania is not Ukraine,
not war-torn, but still not home.
Dad is not here. He must remain.
Romania is not Ukraine.
Each child picks a toy, tucking pain
into glass eyes. The toys make room
in Romania, not Ukraine,
not war-torn, but not home. Not home.
Poet's Notes: Many stories come out of a war-torn country, but the stories of the children's plight touches me deeply. I'm so glad that those in neighboring countries such as Romania understand that small gestures can help soothe the pain of loss and separation. Truly, the bridge of toys is a bridge of consolation and hope. https://universul.net/romania-welcomes-ukrainian-refugee-children-with-fluffy-toys/
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To Survive
Charles A. Swanson
I wasn’t there when his leg fell off, casually,
a bit of everyday awkwardness. He made
college life
easy, or so my son told it.
I wasn’t there when he slipped from a rolling box car,
somewhere in Ukraine.
I’m not there today to hear his opinions about the war,
this boy I met from Kerch, from disputed Crimea,
his father a Russian oligarch.
I remember his dark hair, his wide smile,
the way he walked, as if he had no prosthetics,
the way his Junior Olympic muscles and clear skin
spoke of youth, magnetic beauty, the way his imperfections,
tragedies, hid like survivors under wide pants’ legs.
A dream, a nightmare, imagining him a little boy,
a train yard, rails and engines, cinders and dust,
seeing him jump into cars, lose his grip and plummet
under a turning wheel, iron and unforgiving,
see him crawl his way home, trembling, clenching
teeth, muscles, mind—dragging his mangled body
through the grit, grime of Crimea.
He stayed with us several days on a college break,
a friend of our son, his distance too far from home.
Surely, he has opinions about Ukraine,
one of his adopted countries, and about us,
the land of his higher education. How
are we failing him? I wonder.
I’d love to hear him speak, tell me
about his childhood accident, about
loyalties and loves, about the war.
But if I saw him, I’d think and think
about legless men in conflict, men whose
bodies lie bleeding, men who cannot
find a way home with their bloody stumps.
Poet’s Notes: I’m not on the battlefield in Ukraine, so I feel unfit to write about the conflict. I know that pain, injury, and devastation lie heavy on the countryside. The way I can access some small part of the sorrow is to write about someone I know and his journey. This is how I often begin to see the larger picture—by looking at a small part of the scene. I can empathize with the pain of one person more successfully than with the pain of many. I cannot fathom the pain of a multitude. I’m not strong enough.
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Zog Nit Mariupol
Shlomo ben Moshe HaLevi
As we watch the glowing fade from our last lamp
As our enemy surrounds us and draws near
Our song beats
out the message, “we are here!”
We are prepared to fight, prepared to die
With our last breath our mighty foe we will defy
Be it our doom tomorrow or be it today
Cossack honor will show us all the way!
We will never see the sun again, we know.
We will never see the moon, its silv’ry glow.
We will never see our homeland, oh so dear!
Yet our hearts beat out the message, “we are here!”
The battle ends with us but not the war
And no one can be sure of what’s in store
But one thing is sure as we all disappear
That the echo of our song rings, “we are here!”
Poet’s Note: This song is modeled after the Yiddish song “Never Say” (“Zog Nit Keynmol”) that my father, in his high-pitched little pre-adolescent voice, and other Jews sang in the Vilna ghetto to keep up their spirits as they resisted the Nazis. Please visit http://arlsoft.com/mbr/public/songs/Zog_Nit_Keynmol-RosenthalTranslation.html & https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFiTUuuwIHc.
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Monsters
John C. Mannone
Drinking a Bulgarian pinot noir
with my pasta dinner while listening
to ABC News, 2022
Mine has needles for teeth
that puncture skin but the pain
of fear is a
far greater ogre.
On TV, a blur of images
continues to haunt me. I shake
off the idea of ghosts—
electrified nitrogen beings
from The Outer Limits—
when the syringe injects
pain, instead of vaccine
against microscopic demons
into the arm of a man, I cringe,
though it could’ve been
an alien-infected human
changing into monster. Changing
stations, the static noise
is not from an afterhours
Zenith set from the 60s,
but rather the black & white
raster of smoke from Russian
bombs pummeling Kyiv.
Sometimes monsters growl
and sometimes they hiss
like a snake. At the moment
I wonder why the Russians
feel cornered by hostile powers,
they’re the ones crushing civilians,
destroying hospitals—they shouldn’t
be military targets. How long
before Poland and Romania fall
to the rabid dogs of war? How long
before we feel their hot breath
glowing across the Atlantic?
Poet’s Notes: In the poem “Monsters,” I talk about something else, a different monster, that affects me personally, and use it to set up the fear, the mood, the outrage for the monster lurking in the Ukraine, whether thought of as war or as Mr. Putin. The transition from my monster to that monster will hopefully catch the reader by surprise.
What prompted the poem was a TV news broadcast about COVID vaccinations and my painful booster experience from a vaccination a few weeks earlier. This broadcast was at the heels of the war situation in the Ukraine. War too produces suffering on unsuspecting and trusting humans but on a much more egregious scale. This poem alludes to the fear of a growing threat that could go global.
Editor’s Note: The imagery is chilling, and I am afraid that the final stanza is all too prophetic. SWG
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The Pity of War, Ukraine, 2022
Howard F. Stein
“My subject is War and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the Pity” (Wilfred Owen, British poet, World War I soldier and victim)
The pity of War is
The pitilessness of War,
When aging leaders
And generals send
Their youthful men to kill
The foe’s youthful men,
And in turn to offer themselves
As blood sacrifices
To their sacred mother country.
The pity of War is
The pitilessness of War,
When the blank face
And taut posture
Of Russian President Vladimir Putin,
Schooled in total control,
A demeanor of carbon steel
Forged into an invulnerable
Machine, impeccably appointed
In fine suits and ties,
Walks down a long hall,
As applauding loyalists line
Both sides of the corridor.
This Pretender Czar of a
Resurrected Russian Empire,
Approaches a table to deliver
A speech about why
Russia must invade Ukraine
To save Russia from the West,
Crush refractory Ukraine,
And expunge Russian history
Of all violation and shame.
The pity of War is
The pitilessness of War,
When Russia’s
Futile quest to rid itself
Of an ever-present past
Haunts every present moment
In a trance that cannot lift.
To President Putin –
Vladimir the Great incarnate –
NATO and the US only repeat
The frozen tale of a Russia
Surrounded, hemmed in,
Suffocatingly swaddled
In place and time,
Certain of the next invasion.
The pity of War is
The pitilessness of War,
When a well-tuned orchestra
Of bombers, fighter jets,
Missile launchers, carpet bombs, cluster bombs,
Waves of tanks and troops –
All doing what they are made to do –
Create swift rivers
Of warm, flowing blood,
Mutilate bodies, buildings, city blocks,
Burn everything in their path.
The pity of War is
The pitilessness of War,
When Ukrainian babies’
Disfigured corpses,
Strewn along empty streets,
Are lovingly placed inside plastic bags,
Gently lowered into
Long, deep tranches –
Like the mass graves
Of civilians, Russian soldiers
Shot – executed –
Then tossed into open pits.
The pity of War is
The pitilessness of War,
When over four million Ukrainians
Must flee their saturation bombed cities,
In hope that neighboring
Countries will offer them asylum.
The pity of War is
The pitilessness of War,
When unsuspecting Ukrainian refugees
Are betrayed by Russian soldiers who
Shell upon them exploding mortars
As they flee on escape roads
Called “safe passage,”
Reassurance, a trap;
Protected route, invitation for ambush.
The pity of War is
The pitilessness of War,
When people crowd into
A theatre, seek safe haven from
Missiles and bombs that
Still find them, ravage
Their sanctuary and their lives –
This shelter, no shelter.
The pity of War is
The pitilessness of War,
When the Ukrainian landscape
Is a canvas of bombed out
Apartment buildings, hospitals,
Schools, stores, train stations,
Razed cities, ashen worlds;
When even on a television screen
You can smell smoke,
Touch brokenness,
Ingest this panorama in videos
Taken from planes far above
The rubble of grief.
The pity of War is –
But when? –
To awaken from
The thrall of pitilessness.
Only if the dream
Of restored glory
Becomes a nightmare,
Can closed hearts
And shut eyes open
To the atrocity
War has always been;
Only then is
The pity of War
Possible.
Editor’s Note: Howard captures the senselessness of war and treats the aggressor with understanding but not acceptance--something no other poet who submitted has done. SWG
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Art Gallery
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| "Kyiv" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
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| "Swallow's Nest Study" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
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| "Motherland's Tears" | Ink on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
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Guest Poets
Limo Driver
Lauren McBride
accent thick, when I complimented
his driving - smooth despite
rush hour. I
hadn't meant to start
a conversation, but then he was
telling me how he'd only been
here a few years. His wife
was still in Ukraine.
What does a person say to that?
Right then I knew that I would
see his face at every mention
of Putin's war: wonder if his wife
was still alive, wonder if he
would have a country to go
home to someday.
"The tip is included," he stated
when I held out the bill in my hand
at the end of the ride.
"I know," I said, thinking of the other
drivers over the years who had all
taken the tip.
"I can't accept this," he protested.
"Then send it to Ukraine," I suggested.
He smiled then, and so did I
despite the smallness of the gesture.
Poet's Notes: One of my goals when putting pen to paper is to try to write something worth reading, whether it brings a smile, shares the beauty of nature, or in this case contributes to a noble cause, thanks to the vision of Steve Gordon. With "Limo Driver" I sought to put a human face to the tragedy unfolding overseas by approaching the war on a personal level, a chance encounter as it happened to me.
About the Poet: Lauren McBride finds inspiration in faith, family, nature, science and membership in the Science Fiction Poetry Association. Her poetry has appeared in dozens of publications including Asimov's, Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Your Daily Poem. She enjoys swimming, gardening, baking, reading, writing and knitting scarves for troops. Lauren was a Frequent Contributor to Songs of Eretz from 2016 - 2018.
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Gathering
Tony Daly
Nightmares begin when sleep ends –
thunderous explosions shaking dust
hidden for generations in ceilings,
falling like rain upon families huddled
underneath dining room tables –
once gathering places for laughter,
for prayer, for coming together
and discussing fluid dreams
of aspirations not yet undertaken,
of expanding the table
for a new spouse or child
who no longer needs a seat.
Poet’s Notes: This poem was inspired by images on the news of war-torn Ukrainian communities and blown out homes; coupled with mental images of family get-togethers we haven’t been able to hold for the past several years--overlapping the images, and imagining others’ plight. Imagining the pain, the loss, and the fear.
About the Poet: Tony Daly is a Washington, D.C. area poet and short story writer of fantasy, science fiction, horror, and military fiction/nonfiction. His work has recently been published in Poetry for Ukraine from the Poet Magazine as well as in Star*Line, Paddler Press, and The Horror Zine. A retired U.S. Air Force medic, he has been an Associate Editor with Military Experience and the Arts. For a list of his published work, please visit https://aldaly13.wixsite.com/website or follow him on Twitter @aldaly18.
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Duty
Harris Coverley
For Vitalii Volodymyrovych Skakun
Duty is
The leap
Between man and manhood
The ultimate in
Fealty
And faith
And towards Life’s finality
To give it all
For everything immediate
Farmland and factories
Forests and sands
Brothers and sisters
Spouse and offspring
Even for one’s own local enemies
When facing that greater evil
And when the act is done
When the sacrifice is granted
In a grind of flame
And fearsome rage
With the blessings of Saint Olga
Our Lady of Defiance
When the steel
And the tarmac stops dropping
The soil scraping
The wash spraying
And the dust clears at last
Your own red
And white dust is scattered
Amongst the rest of the cosmos
And only the gods will know
Your final thoughts
Or maybe perhaps
Upon the pebbles of the riverbed
The wreckage will know
Breaking that roadway
Letting those free waters flow
For another day at least
One long river
In one wide land
And one brave man
And one brave people
Know why.
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| "Vitalii" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
Poet’s Notes: On 24th February, 2022, Vitalii Volodymyrovych Skakun, a military engineer, was in charge of setting the explosives on the bridge outside the port city of Henichesk to slow the Russian advance from occupied Crimea into the Kherson Oblast. Realizing that he did not have enough time to withdraw from the bridge, he radioed his comrades one last time and blew himself up with his target. His sacrifice enabled his battalion to re-group and carry on the fight against the invaders. Owen was wrong—dulce et decorum est pro patria mori is not an "old Lie".
About the Poet: Harris Coverley has had verse published in Polu Texni, California Quarterly, Star*Line, Spectral Realms, Scifaikuest, Novel Noctule, The Five-Two, The Cannon's Mouth, The Crank, Apocalypse Confidential, View From Atlantis, and many others. He lives in Manchester, England.
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Sunflowers in Flaming Fields
Suzanne van Leendert
Having climbed all the way out of darkness,
they took time to grow,
to feel the ground beneath their feet.
With heart-shaped leaves,
they embraced life, all together
and in sync turned towards the light.
Lined up in yellow uniforms, they learnt
how to stand tall, to keep their backs straight,
above them a clear blue sky.
Only when the late light disappears,
they bow their heads like one big sun,
still shining but invisible in the dark,
waiting for morning to come,
all the while knowing,
it will.
About the Poet: Suzanne van Leendert lives in Utrecht, the Netherlands. She writes in Dutch as well as English. Apart from being a writer, she's an award-winning documentary maker. Using images and language, she questions life and tries to give it meaning. Visit www.uandeyemedia.nl for more information.
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Young Soldier Sent to Fight Her Neighbors
Gurupreet K. Khalsa
A “Golden Shovel” Poem
So perish all whose breast ne’er learned to glow
for others’ good, or melt at other’s woe.
-- Pope, Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady
The news displays blasted neighborhoods, so
gray and brown, blossoms doomed to perish
amidst choking ash or smoke, all
certainty upended, and for those whose
hearts ache within the communal breast
we weep, we suffer, as sunlight or Spring ne’er
pierces through shadows. Each new soldier learned
to forget from a distance, to shoot, to kill, to
reject war’s reality, blocking the glow
of compassion as she bombs, not stopping for
any town or neighborhood, refusing others’
pain; mud and camo and guns good
to demolish delicate red roses. Psyche broken or
grown too icy in columns of rolling tanks to melt
her young heart, she does not see at
daybreak a glimpse of recognition in taking others’
lives, destined to carry burdens weighted with woe.
About the Poet: Gurupreet K. Khalsa is a current resident of Mobile, Alabama, USA, having lived previously in Ohio, Washington State, India, New Mexico, and California. She holds a Ph.D. in Instructional Design and is a part time instructor in graduate education programs.
As a poet, she considers the intricate complexities of inner space, family space, world space, cosmic space, and semiotic space. Her work has appeared in The Poet, TL;DR Press, New York Quarterly, Far Side Review, Necro Productions, IHRAF Publishers, aurora journal, Last Leaves, Delta Poetry Review, Ricochet Review, Pure Slush, and other online and print publications.
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Sixty miles to Tiraspol
Elizabeth Caplun
In the darkened dawn
I feel your angst
mother of three
as you’re fleeing in your packed car
no longer children as of today
Where are you going
Mother of three
Your thoughts black and frozen like the road?
The road is jammed with cars like yours
Wide-eyed children squeezed in the back
wear lion-themed jammies
under heavy parkas
Children’s dreams awaken too early
flee through exhaust pipes
mixed with lead not yet bullets
And you sleep-deprived mother
hands clenched on the steering wheel
you avoid your fears like potholes
You hugged their father goodbye
There was no time for tears
Twenty miles out you’ll learn to hope
and lie to your children
for their sake and for your own
Everything will be alright you'll say
You’ll say daddy will find us
Daddy is busy making peace
He’ll bring you a new bike
And you, mother of three
chocking on words you’ll fight
to put a smile in your voice
One eye on the road
and one on the rearview mirror
where home fades into smoke
you pray your children sleep
the sleep of children
You pray you have enough gas
to make it to the border
You hope small hopes
because that’s what sustains you
You hope small hopes
because big ones seem hopeless
Hang on to hope
mother of three
Sixty miles to Tiraspol
About the Poet: Elizabeth Caplun lived in four countries and on two continents before settling in Bishop, California, a small town on the East side of the Sierra Nevada. Recently retired, she devotes her time to writing, heading the High Desert Mussar circle, hiking, and tending her garden. Her writing weaves memories and stories of displacement with a yearning for a place called home.
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Women’s Day
M. L. Brown
On a day in
March 
that wanted to be spring
the earth said, Get away from me.
In Kyiv, men picked uneven numbers
of snowdrops for their sweethearts,
but the sweethearts had all fled.
On a day in March in Moscow
the street said, Get off of me. Your rubles
are worthless. Go find the truth. Go!
On a day in March
that was Irpin in rubble, a mother
lay covered in blood and dust.
The earth said, Come into me.
Here, here, you are mine.
About the Poet: M. L. Brown is the author of Call It Mist, winner of the Three Mile Harbor Press Book Prize. She is also the author of “Drought”, winner of the Claudia Emerson Chapbook award. Her work has appeared in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, The Nonconformist, and Cave Wall among other journals and anthologies. When not writing, she devotes her time to raising funds for a nonprofit healthcare organization. More at www.Emelbrown.com.
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Bonnie Larson Staiger
What right have I to sigh at the sight
of bright sun melting winter’s snow
and listen to robins in full-throated exuberance
while Ukraine is being bombed – air choked with smoke
blood glistens on fresh snow and apartments in rubble
A mother writes family contacts on her toddler’s back
in case she is killed and her child survives
Others birthing in hospitals sprayed by shrapnel
and grandmothers fight back making Molotov cocktails
How can I enjoy happy hour cocktails with friends
when my dreams are fraught with falling downstairs
or a man holding me to the ground – to write
a number on my stripped back with a marker
or racing to get my grandsons dressed
because Russian soldiers are coming up our street
Where would we run? Where could we go?
My friend’s grandparents walked for days
to escape Cossacks invading that same L’viv in WWII
or those who survived but were forever tormented
by nightmares and marked for life
by numbers etched on their wrists – admonishing me
Never say never because you don’t know
what you might have to do to survive
How long will I have the right to write without fear
when poems like Ihor Kalynets’ were written
on cigarette papers and smuggled out of a Soviet gulag
I claim the right to turn off the news when dithering leaders
grovel before a madman again – cut deals with devils
while Americans fret over the threat of cyber attacks
About the Poet: Bonnie Larson Staiger, a North Dakota Associate Poet Laureate and ND Humanities Scholar, is the recipient of the Poetry of the Plains and Prairies Award from North Dakota State University Press (2018), the Independent Press Award: Distinguished Favorite (2019) for her debut collection, Destiny Manifested. Her second book In Plains Sight (NDSU Press 2021) was nominated for the PEN America Literary Award and is a 2022 finalist for the Midwest Book Awards.
Her award-winning poems have been included in numerous anthologies, literary journals, and publications. Most recently, she received the Poetry of Courage Award from the North Carolina Poetry Society.
She thrives on the Great Plains not far from the Badlands of North Dakota. There she often writes of the poignant subtleties of life on the high plains of the New American West, as well as a view of the world observed from that place.
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Jersey Girl
VA Smith
CNN blazes blocks of buildings
shredded by Russian missiles,
only steel arches standing,
smoke snaking across rubble
like sci-fi disaster movies.
Watching bombs light my
country on fire from our
East Orange condo, my
past six-year plan
looks like vain blonde ambition:
from Kyiv to my J-1 Au Pair Visa
and job, a fast found marriage,
Green Card, naturalization, also
nursing school. Now I witness
Kharkiv apartment balconies
spew children’s sleds & skates across
bombed sky, onto charred ground.
From safe America, I see this.
New friends’ texts crowd my phone,
sad emojis & “we’re with you.”
“No,” whispers my gut, “you cannot be.”
My family, there have no heat or food
through freezing nights. Putin’s mortars
explode teen flesh fleeing Mariupol,
maternity hospitals also, where dark
crowns push vulvas as mothers’ breasts
tear open, blood flowing like milk.
Do Americans want points when
they swarm my screen with
“Zelensky’s a f’in rock star!”
What should I say to that?
Yo, ya, he’s our homeboy!
But when Kate MacKinnon
opened SNL with “the Ukrainian
Chorus Dumka of New York,”
sunflowers clustered in tall glass
beside girls in vyshyvanka dresses,
singing “Prayer for Ukraine,”
burning votives spelling Kyiv,
like church. Not since a child
had I knelt, formed a cross
on my chest, prayed to darkness.
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Orthodox Lent
VA Smith
The St. Nicholas Ukrainian Catholic Church
cradles 24th & Ringgold’s corners,
gold onion dome & spires
flashing Byzantium across
our brick row homes,
giving what for
to the sun setting off
our roof decks.
These days tiny yellow & blue rectangles
twitch like prayer flags on clotheslines
across St. Nick’s church garden,
vinyl signs draped
over its iron fence declaring
Humanitarian Aid Dwindling
for Ukraine, then a rare bid
to enter, April 8-22, 2022:
pierogies for sale.
Crossing the vestibule, I step down
in darkness to the 50’s kitchen,
Formica counters lined with
thousands of potato-cabbage pillows,
dough rolled, stuffed
and packaged by aproned & stooped
congregants, my face flashing red
when the customer beside me asks
to pay with Venmo.
The half-block home
I hold my pierogies
tenderly, shaded in shame
at my pleasure in Redbud branches
twisting with plenitude,
with tight pink pods
about to explode.
About the Poet: VA Smith is an award-winning, retired professor of English at Penn State and founder of Chancellor Writing Services. VA has dropped poetry into dozens of literary journals and anthologies, among them: Blue Lake Review, Ginosko Literary Journal, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Mobius, Oyster River Pages, Calyx, Quartet, The Southern Review, Verdad, Third Wednesday, Tipton Poetry Journal, Feels Blind Literary, West Trade Review, and Evening Street Review. Kelsay Books published her first poetry collection, Biking Through the Stone Age, in 2022. She is currently searching for a home for her second collection, American Daughters.
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Frequent Contributor News
Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to announce recent publications, awards, and/or presentation credits among current and former Frequent Contributors and staff.
Former FC Mary Soon Lee
Her short story "Paw and Prejudice" is in Daily Science Fiction:
https://dailysciencefiction.com/fantasy/modern-fantasy/mary-soon-lee/paw-and-prejudice
Her poem "Vintage Science Fiction" is in Star*Line #45.2, Spring 2022.
Her poem "Jingwei Tries to Fill Up the Sea" is in Uncanny Magazine #45, March/April 2022, https://uncannymagazine.com/article/jingwei-tries-to-fill-up-the-sea/
Her poem "Anodized Titanium" is in Eye to the Telescope #44, April 2022, http://www.eyetothetelescope.com/archives/044issue.html
Her poem "After Inventing Time Travel" is in Apparition Lit #18, April 2022, https://apparitionlit.com/
Her short story "On the Disappearance of Dragons" has been published in Daily Science Fiction, 4/28/2022, https://dailysciencefiction.com/hither-and-yon/sf-fantasy/mary-soon-lee/on-the-disappearance-of-dragons
Her poem "Ming Dynasty Cats" has been published in Rune 2022, the literary magazine of Robert Morris University.
Her poem "A Reimagining" has been published in Utopia Science Fiction, April/May 2022, https://www.utopiasciencefiction.com/product-page/apr-may-2022-digital
Her poem "Phalaenopsis Orchid" has been published in Uppagus #51, May 2022,
https://uppagus.com/poems/soon-lee-orchid/
Her short story "Tea and Bamboo" has been published in Daily Science Fiction: https://dailysciencefiction.com/science-fiction/virtual-reality/mary-soon-lee/tea-and-bamboo
Former FC Lauren McBride
Her poem, "To The Makers of Bath Products," Your Daily Poem, April 18, 2022 https://www.yourdailypoem.com/listpoem.jsp?poem_id=4059
Two of her poems, "How I Got Rich Selling Lipstick" & "show me, I said", Dreams & Nightmares, issue 120. https://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2022/04/041322.html
Her poem, "My Country Retreat", Kaleidotrope, Spring 2022. https://kaleidotrope.net/spring-2022/my-country-retreat-by-lauren-mcbride/
Three of her poems, "Ginny Goes to Mars," Altered Reality Magazine, April 7, 2022. https://www.alteredrealitymag.com/ginny-goes-to-mars-by-lauren-mcbride/ & "To Mars on MAVEN," https://www.alteredrealitymag.com/to-mars-on-maven-by-lauren-mcbride/ & "Transplanted to Terraformed Mars Too Soon," https://www.alteredrealitymag.com/transplanted-to-terraformed-mars-too-soon-by-lauren-mcbride/
Former FC Alessio Zanelli
His poem, “September”, has been translated into Persian and published in Tashdid.
He has four poems in the latest issue of The Stray Branch, published in Dayton, Ohio. https://www.thestraybranch.org/current-issue-2/29-spring-summer-2022/
He has five poems in the latest issue of Gradiva: the original English poems are published in parallel with the Italian translations, either by myself or by Dr. Laura Riviera (a translator and critic based in Turin). https://www.gradivapublications.com/
His long poem, “Transition Hendecapoem”, has just been published online by Poetica Magazine, https://www.poeticamagazine.com/alessio-zanelli
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| Lana the Poetree Summer 2022 | Digital Photo |SWGordon |
Forthcoming:
A Message from the Editor-in-Chief
Songs of Eretz Poetry Review will be on hiatus until the spring of 2023, while we transition operational control of the e-zine from me to Terri, and I assume my new role at the strategic level as Chief Executive Editor. Our submission window for our spring 2023 issue will be February 1 - 15, 2023. The themes for 2023 have yet to be determined, so stay tuned!
I am sure that Terri will want to put her personal stamp on the e-zine--that’s the best part of being an Editor-in-Chief! She will have free reign, within reason, at the operational level. She is full of fresh ideas, and I anticipate with excitement the different directions she may choose to go.
We will be actively recruiting for a new Art Editor, as Jason moves on to other projects. Full disclosure--we do not provide stipends for any of our editors or staff, but the Art Editor is uniquely situated to make the position pay. Songs of Eretz Poetry Review enjoys an average of 400 to 800 “hits” a day, which is excellent exposure. The Art Editor has the opportunity to sell his or her art through Songs of Eretz, with 100% of the profit going to the artist. The artwork made for Songs of Eretz often sells well outside of the venue, too. Jason made thousands of dollars during his tenure. Finally, being our Art Editor can be a stepping-stone to greater things, an excellent bullet point for an artist’s resume.
The ability to marry art with poetry is a special talent that not every artist possesses. Artists that believe they may have what it takes are welcome to send their resumes directly to me at SWGordonMD@Gmail.com for consideration.
Steven Wittenberg Gordon, MD
Editor-in-Chief
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SONGS OF ERETZ POETRY REVIEW
SUMMER 2022 "SPECIAL CHARITABLE FUNDRAISING INVASION OF UKRAINE" ISSUE
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