Reap the Harvest

 


Emptiness.  Unfilled shelves and barren

cupboards stared back at me.  The win-

dows had been smashed in when they

couldn't get through the door.  Shards of

glass littered the muddy carpet.  Not a

trace of food was left and every precious

bottle of water taken; the tap hadn't work-

ed for months so we were left with literally

nothing. They even took my mother's

insulin.

 

The baby was crying, eager for the milk

that they had stolen.  At least they hadn't

harmed the small children, or the elders. 

My husband's arm was broken when he

resisted, but all in all our injuries were light. 

They could have killed us all.  And then

burned the house to the ground.  It's hap-

pened before.  However, they knew we would

get more provisions and that they could re-

turn at their own convenience.

 

Of course they raped me and my teenage

daughters, but they didn't kidnap one of

them.  Probably they were unwilling to share

their loot with captives.  Very prudent on their

part, I thought emptily.  They were a roving

gang of mostly young men and women, mar-

auding from town to town, one household to

the next, as if they were reaping a harvest:  of

food, money, medicine, anything they needed,

anything they wanted.  Then they left.

 

Next, I prayed aloud.  I asked God that none

of the women would become pregnant from the

assaults.  And that the children would overcome

the shock that the bewildering attack had caus-

ed them.  Had caused all of us.  And finally, I

prayed that for a change, the crops would grow

this year; that John could find work; that the

drought and the plague would be over and that

the wildfires and the war would end.  I prayed till

I was hoarse and had run out of breath.

 

It was a lot to ask for, a tall order, but after

all, what other recourse did we have?  The

government had been dysfunctional for

years and now distributed food and medicine

only twice a month.  Yes, I decided, if I were

a gambler, I'd have to bet not on politicians or

police or the warm heart of a stranger, but on

a higher power, so-called.

 

We had to wait three days before a doctor could

set John's arm.  We got more milk for the baby

but once again all our clothes hung a little looser

on us.  The new year is just four days away.  It'll

soon be 2028 and I truly believe that it will be a

better year all around.  It must be.  After all, it is

an election year.
 

 

 

 

Adah and Me

 

I was wakened by the touch

of Adah's small hand on my

shoulder. She whispered,

"Miriam, the rockets are

falling again."

 

I sat up, to find the stone walls

shuddering, wondering how I had

slept through the bombardment.

One can perhaps get used to

anything, I suppose.

 

The Israelis told us to go

south, but my grandmother

couldn't walk and we couldn't

find anyone to help us, so

we stayed with her. Last

week, Jida was killed in a

missile strike, so Adah and

I are alone now.

 

I don't know where the

rest of my family is. My

parents and my two

brothers. There's just

Adah, six years old, and

me. I'm thirteen -- just

today!

 

It's amazing how you

can forget what's

ordinarily so important

to you. There won't be

a party.

 

There's little clean water

and almost no food. The

nahibs have taken

everything. I don't

understand; they are

Palestinians like us -- but

not like us, I suppose.

 

I want to take Adah and

go back home. But, there

is no home remaining.

Just the rubble.

 

 

 

 

I Held My Breath

 

 

We had been crowded into a low-ceilinged

room the size of a small church.   Cement

walls and floor.   The soldiers had confis-

cated all our clothes, our shoes, what jewel-

ry and personal effects that had remained

with us.  Most of it had long ago been

bartered away for food or clean water or

other privileges scarce in the compound.

 

We were completely naked:  the men, the

women, even the little children.  Our heads

had been shaved.  Rumor had it that the

Huns stuffed their pillows and mattresses

with our hair.

 

The room was entirely vacant but for the

human bodies; our pale white flesh was the

color of a fish’s belly, and we were stuffed

into the room like oysters into a turkey.

 

We had all been shipped to the death

camp--Todeslager--like cattle to the

slaughter, in box cars, with no food or

water.  With scarcely enough room

to breathe.  Once or twice a plane flying

overhead had strafed the train with

machinegun fire.  Perhaps our own

brave pilots.

 

There were no youths or middle aged men

and women; they had all been absorbed into

the vast slave labor network the Huns oper-

ated.  Only the crippled, the maimed, the

feeble and the old, like myself, were here,

save for the very young, who weren’t hardy

enough for slave labor.

 

We were in Treblinka.  It was June, 1943

and the rumor was that the camp would

be closed soon.  We had no room to lay or

sit or even turn around.  We were like the

kippers that were packed in oil or mustard

and that the inmates in labor camps--the

Arbeitslager--got from the Red Cross.  At

Treblinka we never received our kippers.

There were nothing but rumors flying

throughout the compound:  I had heard it

said that the German women made lamp

shades with our skin.

 

Some of the old men stared up at an aperture

in the ceiling, about a foot and a half over our

heads.  That, they said, was where the Ger-

mans would deposit the Zyklon B, the poison

they would gas us with.  The Commandant,

addressing the prisoners some time ago, had

bragged that superior German industry had

created many wonderful things.  This was per-

haps the example he had in mind when he

said that.  He had seemed very proud.

 

One of the younger of the men had been a

helper, removing the bodies from the chamber

after the gas had dissipated.  After everyone

was dead.  He told us all about how it worked. 

The poison--prussic acid--he said, worked fast. 

There would be a rattling over our heads, in the

chute that the poison was fed into.  Someone,

he said with a grotesque grin, always tried to

keep the pellet from descending.  But fall it

always did.  For his labors he had received

an extra crust of Brot.

 

We waited.  And waited.  Suddenly there was a

clattering overhead, in the chute.  The pellet of

Zyklon B was descending.  A tall man, as if act-

ing a part in a movie, attempted to prevent the

pellet from falling, where it would crack open and

then dissipate in a cloud of murderous vapor. 

His hand slipped.  Suddenly, a large white pellet

crashed to the floor, burst open and a deadly,

diaphanous cloud rose up.  A woman cried out.

The lethal “showers” had begun.  I held my

breath.

Tammy Higgins was published in ‘Amulet’, ‘Atlantic Pacific Press ‘Conceit’ ‘Iconoclast’ ‘The International Library of Poetry and Photography’, ‘Noble House’ ‘Out in the Mountains ‘Ultimate Writer ‘Samhain Secrets of Irish Horse Anthologies’ ‘2019 Best New Emerging Poets of New Hampshire, ‘Trajectory’ and won a contest sponsored by ‘The Oak’ magazine, ‘Barbaric Yawp’. Was included in the US/THEM Wolfsinger Productions ‘Second Wind’, ‘Dear Loneliness Project linktr.ee/dear loneliness, the longest letter to fight loneliness, 290 meters, three football fields or almost 1,000 sheets of A4 paper. Also had three photos in The Connected World 2020 Los Angeles Center of Photography & photo Submission in ‘Urban & Health 360, Art Impact International, The Porta Potte.’ Also a photo was published in Typehouse, Carolina Muse and Anti-Heroin Chic.

Tammy Higgins is 57 years old and was born and raised in Northern New York and lives in Southern New Hampshire.  She has MS, Diabetes Type 2, and fibro, loves the outdoors, wildlife, writing, photography, dining out, nature and gardening, gaming online, slow cookers, and learning to play my Washburn electric guitar. She listens to heavy metal and loves cats and weed.

***
red bones boiled in night porridge
my grandmother coughed every time bypassing the cemetery which does not exist
an inconspicuous shadow hangs on the wall of our high-rise building
birds peck at this shadow from hunger
crumbs of pigeon bread here stick to the asphalt
every grocery store in our area is going bankrupt
even the cats here don’t dare to leave a dead mouse without eating its flesh to the
end
glue for eyes and fingers in the form of world history falls on the eyelashes with
crumbs of hunger

https://thegorkogazette.com/2024/03/07/poems-by-mykyta-ryzhykh/      

***
the sky is so vain that the rain ends
a stranger with the face of death gives a dead kitten
dead kitten nibbles milky evening
and its dark around after the airstrike

https://thegorkogazette.com/2024/03/07/poems-by-mykyta-ryzhykh/

***
moonless night sensors
couple in love in blood and happiness
pleasure of the flesh develops into a play of shadows
the iron doors of the bedroom are bashfully silent
light bulbs don’t light for some unknown reason
only something inside the bellies warms the whole bedroom

https://thegorkogazette.com/2024/03/07/poems-by-mykyta-ryzhykh/

***
hungry children racing
with pigeons run to the yard
bread of tears and water of bodies –
in that order
little sons die each
time trying to
resurrect

even snakes share
their apples with the
starving

https://thegorkogazette.com/2024/03/07/poems-by-mykyta-ryzhykh/

***
broom of glances
forgive me for love
I will never forbid you
to die alone again

https://thegorkogazette.com/2024/03/07/poems-by-mykyta-ryzhykh/

***
I want to be a killer sleeping on crumpled grass
I want to be buried in crumpled grass

I want to kill
I want to be

Buried under the grass is a home for worms and insects
The buried has no room for error

I want to kill the war
I want to be home

https://thegravityofthething.com/untitled-poem-mykyta-ryzhykh-2/

***
The bush is devoid of all berries
Autumn is now stripping off the leaves too
The future is uncertain

https://boatsagainstthecurrent.org/poetry/3-poems-by-mykyta-ryzhykh

***
By dying like the first time you teach me to feel sorry for you
A cry torn off by the wind is carried away leaving a silent emptiness
I don’t know how to feel sorry for you because you are indifferent to my regrets
Death is just a surprise box that you finally gave me
This is your first gift to me
This is the last gift

https://boatsagainstthecurrent.org/poetry/3-poems-by-mykyta-ryzhykh

***
I grab the tree but its branches don't care
I'm walking through the cemetery looking for life
I cry about the living because the
dead are indifferent to everything
I don't find anyone alive anywhere in this world
Only photographs on graves speak to me of love

https://boatsagainstthecurrent.org/poetry/3-poems-by-mykyta-ryzhykh

Trapped in the Blinding Contrails

a star has jetted down the sky,
drowning me in its blinding contrails,

my legs flail in their search for footholds, 
but they sky holds none.

weathered scrolls with evanescent words map my cavernous world,
ruling out the life my heart considers a cocoon.

i seem to be lost on this winding path,
despite the plethora of hands pushing me forward.

being myself isn’t an option when my life
is a totality of my predecessors’.

my struggles in the contrails are measured by perfectionist eyes.
let me out of the sky, find me somewhere beneath the earth.

i wish to be a lone ‘one’ and not just a product of one and one,
i wish not my life to be thrown into the mausoleum of my predecessors’.

and while I stay adrift in the skies tonight, i try not to drown my successor
in the blinding contrails i leave behind.



What Father Calls Language

I come from a corner of the world
where you have to clip the wings of your words with scissors
so they don’t fly from your throat
into your audience’s brain through the wrong hole.

Father says I don’t have to move my lips
before the words ooze into my listener’s brain
because language isn’t what I speak or write,
it is that which revolves in my head.
unsaid. unheard.


When it Climaxes…

my eyes widen, the cornea stretches,
the brown pupils growing rounder and larger,
multiplying the proximity between the eyelids.

my lungs call for air but air seems to stop moving
at the vestibules of my nose.

the airs on every part of me arise like soldiers
responding to the call of duty.

my right hand, despite being shackled by my wristwatch,
flails freely in the air, the popcorn in the captivity
of its fingers roll backwards, finding the way out,
while the left one grasping the popcorn cup remains immobile in the air.

my legs are caged in my canvas shoes,
rooted to a spot like the iroko.

a piece of popcorn awaiting its fate
-- to be crunched to death by the ruthless molars
and drowned in the sea of saliva that flows down my belly --
drops back into the cup, followed by
a drop of saliva that my tongue catches mid-air.

my eyes dart left & right, front & back,
searching through the myriad of faces that swarm around me,
for whoever might have seen me drool.
but none! everyone else suffers this fate.

my eyes fly back to the huge wall before me
where the pictures move, move & move again.

that’s a huge plot twist, i must confess.


When Love Beckons

follow with your head and not your heart,
cause the heart is a fool that makes too many mistakes
that put your poor head in trouble,
and let it resound through the chambers of your ventricle 
that love is but blind,
so keep your eyes open,
as you traverse the realm of love,
so you don’t crash into the disaster that shatters your heart.

Maurizio Brancaleoni is a writer and translator. 

His poems / haiku / short stories / pastiches have appeared in several journals and collections. 

He manages “Leisure Spot“, a bilingual blog where he posts literary gems, reviews and translations.

“Uno o l’altro verso tante direzioni comunque”, the original Italian version of the poem published here, won second place in a literary contest on “the new places of contemporaneity” in 2015 and was published on the website of the poetry zine “Versante Ripido” (“Steep Versant”).

I Suck Love


The spring walks around me
The flowers spread fragrance 
The birds adorn each other
The gentle breeze changes time 
The mountain sings the song of love
The fountain touches the gypsy girl
The river kisses the waves of the sea
The  memories take place in the flute
The cowboy tends  the sound of whisperings 
The moon dances in the eyes of dream
The stars fly here and there
I suck love from the cup of Nature
And what is about you?