Somewhere in Lithuania, my Jewish ancestors consider the Modern World.
My great-grandparents, my great-uncles and aunts, my many cousins woke up in their graves and dug their way to the surface. It had been so long that even their bullet holes had disappeared. They looked around the green earth—blossoms, unfurling leaves, birds. They looked at the poets.
—After what happened to us, surely writing poetry is impossible now.
—No, poetry continues because of poetry.
They looked at the soldiers.
—Then at least killing is impossible now?
—No, killing continues because of killing.
—And fear?
Then something like love or sorrow passed over their missing faces.
Hi Gary, I saw your poem on Dave Bonta's Via Negativa site. Your poem is powerful! My family (like many in the US) is from Lithuania...I wrote a poetry sequence about the power of the forests (killing fields) when visiting there. Your focused questioning about poetry/killing is of the essence. May poetry and memory continue.
Haunting. Sad. Necessary.