Beregovsky Nigun (Kane Street Nigun) - Joey Weisenberg
“Simple recording of an old melody, collected by Moyshe Beregovsky(Moisei Iakovlevich Beregovskii)in the early 1900s in Ukraine, later rediscovered in Kyiv, and subsequently adapted by Joey Weisenberg as the "Kane Street Nigun."
May the joyous energy of this nigun be a source of hope in a time of needless destruction and wanton violence now plaguing the region where it originated.”
Learn more about Beregovsky: yivoencyclopedia.org/article.aspx/B…ei_Iakovlevich
“Simple recording of an old melody, collected by Moyshe Beregovsky(Moisei Iakovlevich Beregovskii)in the early 1900s in Ukraine, later rediscovered in Kyiv, and subsequently adapted by Joey Weisenberg as the "Kane Street Nigun."
May the joyous energy of this nigun be a source of hope in a time of needless destruction and wanton violence now plaguing the region where it originated.”
Learn more about Beregovsky: yivoencyclopedia.org/article.aspx/B…ei_Iakovlevich
Decomposition
nothing changes on the eastern front
well, I’ve had it up to here
at the moment of death, metal gets hot
and people get cold
don’t talk to me about Luhansk
it’s long since turned into hansk
Lu had been razed to the ground
to the crimson pavement
my friends are hostages
and I can’t reach them, I can’t do netsk
to pull them out of the basements
from under the rubble
yet here you are, writing poems
ideally slick poems
high-minded gilded poems
beautiful as embroidery
there’s no poetry about war
just decomposition
only letters remain
and they all make a single sound — rrr
Pervomaisk has been split into pervo and maisk
into particles in primeval flux
war is over once again
yet peace has not come
and where’s my deb, alts, evo?
no poet will be born there again
no human being
I stare into the horizon
it has narrowed into a triangle
sunflowers dip their heads in the field
black and dried out, like me
I have gotten so very old
no longer Lyuba
just a -ba
LYUBA YAKIMCHUK, Ukrainian poet
Translated from the Ukrainian by Oksana Maksymchuk
and Max Rosochinsky
nothing changes on the eastern front
well, I’ve had it up to here
at the moment of death, metal gets hot
and people get cold
don’t talk to me about Luhansk
it’s long since turned into hansk
Lu had been razed to the ground
to the crimson pavement
my friends are hostages
and I can’t reach them, I can’t do netsk
to pull them out of the basements
from under the rubble
yet here you are, writing poems
ideally slick poems
high-minded gilded poems
beautiful as embroidery
there’s no poetry about war
just decomposition
only letters remain
and they all make a single sound — rrr
Pervomaisk has been split into pervo and maisk
into particles in primeval flux
war is over once again
yet peace has not come
and where’s my deb, alts, evo?
no poet will be born there again
no human being
I stare into the horizon
it has narrowed into a triangle
sunflowers dip their heads in the field
black and dried out, like me
I have gotten so very old
no longer Lyuba
just a -ba
LYUBA YAKIMCHUK, Ukrainian poet
Translated from the Ukrainian by Oksana Maksymchuk
and Max Rosochinsky
We Lived Happily During the War
And when they bombed other people’s houses, we
protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not
enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America
was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.
I took a chair outside and watched the sun.
In the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money
in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)
lived happily during the war.
BY ILYA KAMINSKY, Ukrainian poet
Great article about the background for this poem by the poet
And when they bombed other people’s houses, we
protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not
enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America
was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.
I took a chair outside and watched the sun.
In the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money
in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)
lived happily during the war.
BY ILYA KAMINSKY, Ukrainian poet
Great article about the background for this poem by the poet
Reb Nachman (of Bratzlav)
“taught that the only way to find genuine happiness is by learning to take delight not in material pleasures, most of which are in any case imaginary, but in the only things that endure forever: Torah, mitzvot and good deeds. For him, each little prayer, each act of kindness and charity and every other good deed is a “good point” or “good (musical) note.” Our task in this world is to seek out these good points or notes and gather them together one by one. This way we create a melody. Each person has his or her unique good points and unique song. This is the music of life that banishes depression and negativity, bringing vitality and joy into the soul.” From Jewish Action
“taught that the only way to find genuine happiness is by learning to take delight not in material pleasures, most of which are in any case imaginary, but in the only things that endure forever: Torah, mitzvot and good deeds. For him, each little prayer, each act of kindness and charity and every other good deed is a “good point” or “good (musical) note.” Our task in this world is to seek out these good points or notes and gather them together one by one. This way we create a melody. Each person has his or her unique good points and unique song. This is the music of life that banishes depression and negativity, bringing vitality and joy into the soul.” From Jewish Action
Home
no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilet
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here.
Warsan Shire
Warsan Shire was born in Kenya to Somali parents and lives in London
great article from Facing History: https://www.facinghistory.org/standing-up-hatred-intolerance/warsan-shire-home
no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilet
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here.
Warsan Shire
Warsan Shire was born in Kenya to Somali parents and lives in London
great article from Facing History: https://www.facinghistory.org/standing-up-hatred-intolerance/warsan-shire-home
In The City of Slaughter
The great modern Hebrew poet Hayyim Nahman Bialik wrote this poem as a tribute to those murdered in the Kishinev Pogrom: https://www.wzo.org.il/index.php?dir=site&page=articles&op=item&cs=3140&category=3032&language=eng
thanks to Rabbi Andrew Strauss for this
The great modern Hebrew poet Hayyim Nahman Bialik wrote this poem as a tribute to those murdered in the Kishinev Pogrom: https://www.wzo.org.il/index.php?dir=site&page=articles&op=item&cs=3140&category=3032&language=eng
thanks to Rabbi Andrew Strauss for this
Babi Yar
By Yevgeni Yevtushenko
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
No monuments stand over Babi Yar,
A sudden drop sheer as a gross graveslab.
I am here terrified.
Today I am
As old as all the Jewish people are.
Now it seems that I am
an Israelite.
There I am wandering Ancient Egypt's lands,
And there I perish, pierced and crucified,
And to this day bear nail-scars on my hands.
And Dreyfus too is
me,
there I have been
Sentenced, sold out
by petty philistines.
I am behind bars,
rounded up and battered,
I have been
hounded, hunted,
slandered, spat on,
And demoiselles dolled up in Brussels lace
Shrieked as they poked their parasols in my face.
And now I am
a boy in Białystok.
Blood runs across the floor. Blood on the wall.
The bar-room rabble-rousers run amok
Reeking of onion and hard alcohol.
Boots kick my body aside, helpless. Head gushing,
I plead in vain with thugs of the pogrom
To hoots of
"Smash the fucking kikes! Save Russia!"
And some grain-seller beats and rapes my mom.
My People! Russian nation!
I know,
you
Are internationalist at the core,
But men with filthy hands too often boomed
Your clean sweet name into a jingo roar.
I know the good, the kindness of your land.
How vile it is
that, with no pinch of scruple,
those pompous antisemites tried to brand
themselves a "Union of the Russian People."
It seems that what I am is
Anne Frank
Transparent
as a fragile April branch.
And I love.
And I need no puffy phrase.
I need for us
to meet each other's gaze.
So little we can see or smell,
we who
Have been denied the sky,
denied the leaves.
But we can do so much:
to tenderly
Embrace each other in a darkened room.
"They're coming!"
"Don't be scared.
That's just the clamor
of early spring.
It is spring coming here!
Come here.
Give me a kiss, quick."
"Are they ramming
The door?"
"Shhhh...no, that's cracking ice you hear."
The wildgrass rustles over Babi Yar.
Trees stare down stern,
judicial,
cold as day.
All things scream silent here.
Hat in my arm,
I feel myself now
slowly growing grey.
And I myself
am one all-out soundless scream
For the thousand buried thousands in this char.
I'm every old man
shot in this ravine,
I'm every baby
burned in Babi Yar.
No fiber in me
will forget this ever.
Let the Internationale
thunder forth
When we have buried, finally and forever,
The final antisemite on this earth.
There is no Jewish blood in me, it's true.
But with their callous ossified revulsion
Antisemites must hate me like
a Jew
And that is what makes me
a real Russian.
thanks to Rabbi Diane Elliot for this.
By Yevgeni Yevtushenko
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
No monuments stand over Babi Yar,
A sudden drop sheer as a gross graveslab.
I am here terrified.
Today I am
As old as all the Jewish people are.
Now it seems that I am
an Israelite.
There I am wandering Ancient Egypt's lands,
And there I perish, pierced and crucified,
And to this day bear nail-scars on my hands.
And Dreyfus too is
me,
there I have been
Sentenced, sold out
by petty philistines.
I am behind bars,
rounded up and battered,
I have been
hounded, hunted,
slandered, spat on,
And demoiselles dolled up in Brussels lace
Shrieked as they poked their parasols in my face.
And now I am
a boy in Białystok.
Blood runs across the floor. Blood on the wall.
The bar-room rabble-rousers run amok
Reeking of onion and hard alcohol.
Boots kick my body aside, helpless. Head gushing,
I plead in vain with thugs of the pogrom
To hoots of
"Smash the fucking kikes! Save Russia!"
And some grain-seller beats and rapes my mom.
My People! Russian nation!
I know,
you
Are internationalist at the core,
But men with filthy hands too often boomed
Your clean sweet name into a jingo roar.
I know the good, the kindness of your land.
How vile it is
that, with no pinch of scruple,
those pompous antisemites tried to brand
themselves a "Union of the Russian People."
It seems that what I am is
Anne Frank
Transparent
as a fragile April branch.
And I love.
And I need no puffy phrase.
I need for us
to meet each other's gaze.
So little we can see or smell,
we who
Have been denied the sky,
denied the leaves.
But we can do so much:
to tenderly
Embrace each other in a darkened room.
"They're coming!"
"Don't be scared.
That's just the clamor
of early spring.
It is spring coming here!
Come here.
Give me a kiss, quick."
"Are they ramming
The door?"
"Shhhh...no, that's cracking ice you hear."
The wildgrass rustles over Babi Yar.
Trees stare down stern,
judicial,
cold as day.
All things scream silent here.
Hat in my arm,
I feel myself now
slowly growing grey.
And I myself
am one all-out soundless scream
For the thousand buried thousands in this char.
I'm every old man
shot in this ravine,
I'm every baby
burned in Babi Yar.
No fiber in me
will forget this ever.
Let the Internationale
thunder forth
When we have buried, finally and forever,
The final antisemite on this earth.
There is no Jewish blood in me, it's true.
But with their callous ossified revulsion
Antisemites must hate me like
a Jew
And that is what makes me
a real Russian.
thanks to Rabbi Diane Elliot for this.