I know of the place
grasp the times
but not
the
places
little of
their times
Russian Jews
my grandparents came
to America as
part of the diaspora
From where, precisely
remains unknown to me
‘country of origin’
Russia –
imprecise vastness
the only clue on
grandfather’s
immigration papers
grandmother’s only
identifier
scrawled in midwife hand
on my father’s
birth certificate as
‘Austro-Hungarian’
as vague a delineation as
‘over there’
Both of them died
just before
I was born
neither met my mother
per same timing
my grandparents,
my father
his lone brother
not at all close
dad, forever
tightlipped about
family
my only cousins
incommunicado
I know of the time in
which
grandma and grandpa –
Grandmother, Grandfather?
Papa and Nana?
Zyde and Bubbe?
Which would they
have preferred?
I can surmise only that
they lived all
the harshness
that was being a Jew
had to offer
there, then
Time and place
obliquely sort of specific
Roiled by revolution
and hatred
the region dislodged its
Ashkenazim
to many places
My grandparents to
New York, then
Minnesota
Chicago
back to St. Paul
finally back to Brooklyn
All the while they toted
their
mystery, misery in lost
steamer trunks
and secrets
At least I think they did.
What they did as new
Jews in America is
unknown to me
where they did it, I know
how, why – pertinent
details
what the times were
lost to me
lost to time
City directory entries
easy mouse clicks away
other answers…?
Where they
came from what
they left
I can only speculate
anecdotal stories repeated
by other immigrants
preserved in
various forms, places
I can find.
The essentials on
Morris and Fannie
ethereal questions in
search of solid evidence
Being Jewish
I am learning while also
longing
to return to
places I have
never known to try
and understand
what I have lost
having never had it at all
seems selfish
yet nags at me
persistent in its guise of
closure
I know will only lead to
more openings
Like Dorothy in immigrant
American Oz
I feel there truly is
no place like home but
without even knowing
where home
may truly be
I am at the mercy
of a place I can’t even
find on a map
yet that is very much alive
crystal clear and calling
in the
deeper reaches of
my soul.
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2020
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
STRUCTURE AND WORD CHOICE:
I know of the place
grasp the times
but not
the
places
little of
their times
The way a poet structures lines points readers to how the poet wants the poem read. I like the structure of the first stanza .. separating into short iines, bits of sentence in each line as if to separate out the pieces and give each one weight at the same time making them incomplete. And mostly monosyllabic words — except for “places” and “little.”. Was this intentional to make those words call attention to themselves or force the reader to linger over them?
Do you also write prose? I think I saw the in your bio when I commented on a different poem last week. Some of your lines read less like poetry than prose:
“as / part of the diaspora”
“per same timing”
“finally back to Brooklyn”
If they came from Russia, they would be already part of the diaspora.
The words “per” and “finally” lose the poetic rhythm, sensibility. Perhaps different word choices, a bit of rewrite?
CONTENT/MESSAGE:
Being part of the African diaspora, I personally identified with some of your story, unable to pinpoint an “ancestral home” to go back and visit and search for lost connections, origins. I also had family reluctant to tell the stories that must have been painful. I’ve written poems about what I imagine they don’t want to remember, don’t want to pass down.
I strongly identify with the wistful tone.
However, I envy that you can name a country while I can only name a continent. You even have documentation!
“identifier
scrawled in midwife hand
on my father’s
birth certificate as
‘Austro-Hungarian’”
This is missing from my family’s history until the first census I’ve found (1920) when they’re named and documented.
My great-grandmother could collect Social Security only because of the records of her daughter’s birth on her grandchildren’s birth certificates. (She lived to be 110 — or more since the exact year could only be guessed. “She must have been at least 12 oe 13 years old when her daughter’s oldest sibling (my grandmother BTW) was born,” they justified.)
I can’t find census records before 1920 but they have to go back to the 1870 census, shouldn’t they?
Consider yourself lucky at the little pieces you have. You have more than others. I like how you keep the timeline uncertain but at least you know a little of the time. Still, I wish you had said a little of the time so we know why they left their home.
I like this one.
Thanks for the great feedback Shirley. Greatly appreciated.
Yes, the word choice and line breaks were very intentional, but that is the first draft me – not a revision. It just seemed to flow that way.
Good perspective. Thanks for the reading, comments, and insight!
Being Jewish
I am learning while also
longing
to return to
places I have
never known to try
and understand
what I have lost
having never had it at all
seems selfish
yet nags at me
persistent in its guise of
closure
I know will only lead to
more openings
Like Dorothy in immigrant
American Oz
I feel there truly is
no place like home but
without even knowing
where home
may truly be
I am at the mercy
of a place I can’t even
find on a map
yet that is very much alive
crystal clear and calling
in the
deeper reaches of
my soul.
– Mark L. Lucker
I copied the part of your poem that makes the greatest impact. I love this! I think you can do away with the other parts or make it smaller as an addition to the foregoing
PS: I read Mila 18 which made me understand the untold suffering if the Jews.
I freaking love and salute the courage and resilience of Jews!
Thumbs up!
Thanks for the feedback. I appreciate your perspective.
This really resonates- I’m a European mutt by birth, English, German, Polish but as a reporter I’ve talked to people who survived the Holocaust and why people did what they did – flee Europe for America for safely. My husband’s great grandparents did the same thing to flee the oppression of the Italian mafia. But I love this poem because it speaks the question of all of us, who were our ancestors because it makes us feel whole. Well done.
Thank you, Sandra. The first draft of this flowed pretty easily, and I am glad it resonated wth you in the way it did. Thanks for the read and the feedback!