Verses of war

There is something about war – the violence, the worry, the loss, the fear, the love, the grief, the hopeful prayers – that summons poetry from deep within the soul. There is something about our war, more than 400 days of it, that compels Jewish poets to attempt to capture something ephemeral. 

Poetry is a vehicle for that.

Of the myriads of poems written since last Oct. 7, we present six that highlight our collective thoughts and emotions. Being weary of war. Dealing with national grief. The perplexing notion that Israel is accused of having genocidal ambitions. The desire of a mother to protect her soldier son. Reclaiming Simchat Torah for joy. Coping with the swirl of conflicting emotions while staying connected to God. 

All this, and more, are spoken about in these verses of war.

The Last Nectarine of the Season

By Mindy Aber Barad

I

In the last hour 

Of the second day

Of the new month

I dare

To eat a nectarine

The last of its kind

This is the way

Its world ends

Several bites

In less than 90 seconds

Plenty of time

To get to the shelter

At the next siren. II

I don’t want to dwell on it

The war

The boys

The 90 seconds.

Each war tugs on me

Just a little more

First one, then two,

Now three generations

I am ripped apart

When I think

Of my descendants

Eating fruit

Beneath descending missiles. 

Until the next season.

Poet’s statement:

During the summer of 2006 (what was the name of that war?) while I had a 10- and a 12-year-old to entertain, I wrote a poem juxtaposing regular summer activities with volunteering (and worrying).

2014, two soldiers. A poem then spoke about what they wanted to eat when they came home.

2023- 2024 three generations of Barads are bombarded; and I still weave the mundane and the strain of war. The line “This is the way the world ends” is, of course, lifted from one of my earliest writing heroes, T.S. Eliot.

Bio:

Mindy Aber Barad moved to Israel in 1977, has a BA from Washington University (St. Louis), and an LLB from Hebrew University. Mindy’s first love is writing; her prize-winning poetry, stories, book reviews, and essays have been published in English and Hebrew. Mindy is the co-editor of The Deronda Review. Her book of poetry is titled The Land that Fills My Dreams.

Do you understand what we mean when we say that our people were killed?

By Adina Kopinsky

We mean an earthquake would have been a blessing

a tsunami, a plane crash, a forest fire, really anything 

We know the script that follows this grief, rehearse 

the ancient words, in muttered frenzies choose

paragraphs and divvy up books. Daven, Yiddish; 

to pray. From Middle Dutch to rage, to rant, 

to shake, to tremble, to waver – yes!

My words will shake Your scaffolding for the pain

that You have inflicted. You who are Good. You of love, 

You who contain the mysteries of the world –

mysteries like that of a small black bag that holds 

what remains of a father and a son, 

embraced. The husband and wife who will be buried 

together, as in death. I do not consent

to be a poet of witness. I can only continue

to pray, Almighty God who will not slumber,

that I may hear the sirens in my sleep,

but it will be wind – and as false as the jasmine that blooms

for the sake of the night, yet still each morning trembles

fragrant and imperiled in the sun.

Poet’s statement:

What do I want my war poems to communicate? This is an impossible question to answer, as impossible for me as “Why do I write?” Grief, laughter, turns of phrase, the novel ways my children interpret the world, sometimes simply a line in a book will spark my brain into a path of poetry that, if I am lucky, I will be able to transcribe and return to forming more fully later. My poems are a communication of my selfhood; an offering of friendship to those in the world that might speak a similar language of the soul. 

Bio:

Adina Kopinsky is attempting to balance poetry, motherhood, and contemplative living. She is originally from Los Angeles and now lives in Israel with her husband and four sons. She has work published or forthcoming in Crannog; PANK; SWWIM Every Day; and Glass: A Journal of Poetry, among other publications. She is also a board-certified lactation consultant and language editor at The Journal of Human Lactation.

They say 

By Hanna Yerushalmi

They say my people 

are committing genocide. 

How can it be? 

Our hands are busy coaxing blooms 

from a barren and rocky land. 

Our minds are inventing new words 

from an ancient language. 

Our souls are renewing an old faith 

and making it young again. 

Our bodies are reviving a shattered nation 

and helping it thrive against so many odds. 

Our legs are racing to rise again 

after years of being left behind. 

They say my people

are committing genocide. 

How can it be? 

We are too busy making water out of air, 

and inventing monitors to prevent crib death. 

We are too busy healing our broken hearts, 

and holding fast to our surviving family members. 

We are too busy taking the dog out for a walk, 

and helping children with homework. 

We are too busy securing our borders,

and safeguarding our neighborhoods. 

We are too busy trying, every single day, 

every minute, every second, just to survive. 

Poet’s statement:

I write poems about the war in Israel for two reasons. First, to provide an emotional outlet for the teeming feelings of despair, heartache, and terror I have felt since Oct. 7. By sharing them on social media, I have offered many a similar outlet, and I’m honored that my work has been included in many vigil events, memorial services, and as liturgy by rabbi colleagues.  

Second, I hope to bring awareness to the dire situation [in which] Israel finds herself and act as a witness, through my words, to the devastation of Oct. 7, the need for the IDF and their families to know Jewish and world support, and the continued, pressing objective to release the hostages immediately.

Bio:

Hanna Yerushalmi is a Reform rabbi and licensed mental health counselor working with couples.  She lives in Annapolis, Maryland, and together with her husband, Rabbi Ari Goldstein, is a parent to four young adults. She is the author of two books of poetry – Strip of Land and October Shiva.

How Can I Keep Him Warm Now? February 1, 2024 – Day 118 of the Simchat Torah war: Operation Swords of Iron

By Ruti Eastman

How can I keep him warm now?

When he was tiny

I snuggled him inside my jacket

away from the Bavarian snow.

How can I keep him warm now?

When he was eight

I gathered him into my arms

away from the cold remarks of kids.

How can I keep him warm now?

When he was twelve

I pulled him, feigning reluctance, inside my “sleeping bag coat”

away from the icy Jerusalem rain.

How can I keep him warm now?

I can’t follow him into Gaza.

I can’t warm his can of tuna

or give him milk for his tepid coffee.

I can’t heat the shower he hasn’t time to take anyway.

I can’t take the chill off the walls of the bombed-out house.

I can’t warm him after the death of a friend freezes his heart.

How can I keep him warm now?

I can trust him to be the man he is.

I can listen when he has the time to talk.

I can warm him with words of welcome rather than wisdom.

I can pray.

How can I keep him warm now?

Poet’s statement:

I’m hoping that the poems validate what people have been going through: mothers sending sons off to war; watching their children become too life-wise before their time; doing what they can to help and never feeling that it’s enough. All of us feeling and dealing with loss in our different ways. The different conversations we have at different times with our Father in Heaven during this spiritual upheaval.

Bio:

After serving in the US military, Ruti Eastman married her hero, discovered Judaism, homeschooled four sons, and made aliyah in 2007. Ruti’s articles and poetry have been published in a number of online journals, and she is the author of several books, with a volume of poetry about the Simchat Torah/Swords of Iron war, Wake Me When October’s Finally Over, coming out this month.

Salvage

By Jessica Levine Kupferberg

I wonder if,

with gloved hands and

ever so gently,

I can pry October Seventh

from Simchat Torah

they were bound together

and burned

still hugging each other

I want to unfurl the Seventh’s fingers,

bury her remains

with care and love

and ask for her forgiveness;

maybe then she can release the Eighth

so it can soar, unbound

shemini

to

simcha.

Then, we can dance again

the hakafot of centuries

hora in desert, in envelope, in sanctuaries

in kibbutz, in city, on battlefield

for the People of the Book

know that when we end

we must begin again.

Poet’s statement:

Writing poems during the war is my way of harnessing these exquisitely painful, perplexing moments which are so heavy and intangible and distilling them into something more concrete and accessible. I think of these poems as little soul souvenirs helping me process this devastating yet hopeful journey, and I am grateful when others tell me that they help them connect or process too. 

Bio:

Jessica Levine Kupferberg made aliyah with her family from La Jolla, California, during the 2014 Gaza war. A writer and poet, her work has appeared in numerous publications, such as The Jerusalem Post, Project 929, Aish.com, and The Jewish Press, as well as in print anthologies about aliyah, COVID-19, and Oct. 7 and its aftermath. Her poem “In This Strange Springtime” was made into an artist’s book by American-Israeli artist Andi Arnovitz. A former attorney, she is a wife, mother, and grandmother who loves reading, travel, and food.

The Paradox of Redemption

By Rivkah Lambert Adler

Just as the seventh plague rained down

Hailstones and fire – an unnatural mix –

Light and darkness

Are holding hands now.

Knit together in some Divine, inscrutable pattern. 

Grief and relief.

Misery and miracle.

Anguish and exhilaration. 

How am I meant to contain this paradox?

Breathe into my ear, “It’s Redemption.”

Help me hold onto the fiercely shaking rope

just a little longer.

Poet’s statement:

From junior high school until college, I wrote poetry compulsively. Every now and again, I published one. The publishing world was very different back then. Over the next many decades, life changed focus and I all but stopped writing poetry (except very occasionally). Since Oct. 7, poetry has come back to me. The need to capture the complex emotions of living in Israel during this prolonged war sent me right back to my identity as a poet. ■

The writer works as a freelance writer/journalist, specializing in Jewish and Israeli subjects. She is the editor of Ten From The Nations: Torah Awakening Among Non-Jews and Lighting Up The Nations.