Gardens, Grammar and The Nature of Things [by Janet R. Kirchheimer]

When I started writing poetry, I was consumed by words. I had dreams, saw myself plucking them from the air. Poems were coming faster than I could write them down. The stories I heard from my parents about the Holocaust had been pent up for years and now had an outlet. Sometimes I was working on three to five poems a week. Poetry was everywhere. 

My father spoke poetry to me. One evening during the summer about ten years ago, I called home and asked how the gladiola plants were doing. He said, “Some are coming, some are going.” That line is in a poem called The Nature of Things. Another time, we were working in the garden planting carrot seeds, and my father told me, “Stay in the middle of the row, don’t go too far to the left or too far to the right.” His words are part of Planting. My mother spoke poetry, too. One day as we sat at the kitchen table, she told me of seeing the statue of the Lorelei for the first time and sang me her song, something every German schoolchild learned, “I do not know what it should mean that I am so sad, a legend from old days past that will not go out from my mind.” The Way to a Visa contains her words and song.

Another place I found poetic inspiration was in the Hebrew Bible. During 2006-2007, I received a Drisha Institute for Jewish Education Arts Fellowship and studied biblical Hebrew grammar. I became a grammar geek, memorizing verb declensions, learning the roots of words and how most often each contained more than one meaning, finding similar words in cognate languages, and diving deeper into Biblical text and interpretation. During the year, my poetry began moving in a new direction. I was writing with biblical cadences and playing with words and definitions from the BDB, the Brown, Driver, Briggs Hebrew and English Lexicon. I would spend time reading entries and using the words to inspire poems. It was my own personal workshop.

After writing for about fifteen years, studying the craft of poetry, reading as many books as I could, taking workshops, sending out submissions, getting rejections and acceptances, my book How to Spot One of Us came out in November 2007. Poems about my family and the Holocaust and what it means to be the daughter of survivors, it was published by Clal-The National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership, where I’m a teaching fellow. I started out wanting to write my family stories. Now I had a book. And what has happened since is such an honor. I am able to combine my love of teaching Jewish wisdom with poetry.  I’ve spoken to survivors and their descendents, and taught teens and adults, many of whom have no direct connection to the Holocaust. We discuss and learn about the Shoah through poetry. I am always asked by teenagers why is it important to still remember an event that happened long before they were born. I tell them, that for me, the reason is simple. Genocides keep happening. Giving many readings, I’ve also taught poetry and creative writing workshops using my poems as a springboard for participants to write about their own family history and stories. I was awarded a Certificate of Appreciation from the 261st Signal Brigade for my work in the 2009 Multi-National Forces Days of Remembrance Holocaust Memorial Service held at Camp Victory in Baghdad, Iraq, and judged a poetry contest for soldiers. I’ve received emails and letters from people saying that my book has affected them. Perhaps the most gratifying came from a daughter of survivors, “You put into words everything I felt growing up” and a 6^th grade class where each student wrote me a thank you letter after I spoke. I keep every letter.

I have days when I doubt myself and my writing, but I’ve seen my growth as a poet in my work over the years. I have a vision, a voice, and something to say. When people ask me what I do, I feel proud to tell them, “I’m a poet.” And over the past year when people ask, I say, “I’m a poet who’s producing a poetry film, called BE•HOLD.”

Comments

[Chaya Rosen]

You did it again, bringing back my childhood memories of living among survivors. I love your descriptions. The are clear, vivid and just before the last sentence, the heart aches again. I miss my parents and the way their words brought back their entire tragedy in the most mundane moments. Kudos for the gifts you share.

[Judith van Praag]

Dear Janet,

Gardening and poetry goes together like ... Yes, indeed. I didn't realize you'd be posting each day of this week, what a great concept, we really get to know more about you, the guest blogger. Got to love that! A great opportunity for writer and reader.

You: "I have a vision, a voice and something to say", I'd say plus, and that is a Big Plus, You've got An Ear for Listening and Hearing. Kudos for all you've accomplished, for sharing, reaching out and teaching. You seem fearless.

[Janet R. Kirchheimer]

Thank you Chaya. You are correct, the Shoah comes back in the small moments - the moments that seem so innocuous but are so loaded with meaning.

[Janet R. Kirchheimer]

Judith, thank you for your kind comments. Gardening and poetry do go together, don't they! They are both about the cycles of life. I am glad you like the idea of an author posting for five days - it gives the reader a chance to know the author more. I'm posting again tomorrow and Friday.

[Mark Braverman]

Dear Janet,

Yes, genocides keep happening. I wonder if our poetry and sensibility as Jews can now include the experience of the Palestinians and the devastating losses that they have suffered and continue to suffer, if their memories can penetrate, indeed become part of our experience, given how our own suffering and our search for continuity and wholeness is intertwined tragically with theirs. I am reviewing a book submitted for publication by a woman who grew up in a Khan Younis refugee camp in Gaza. Her opening chapter is about her grandmother, who was expelled from her village in Palestine by Jewish forces in 1948, who then destroyed the village in order to prevent the villagers from ever returning to the land that had now become the Jewish state. I have changed the name of the village and the people because the book is still not published.

"In the eighties, my grandmother visited Beit Zachra. In great shock at the level of destruction and unable to locate her home, Najwa asked her son to leave her alone for some time. She started to walk around the beautiful village that had completely vanished. 7 She first found the old quarry had been overrun with sand for many years and overgrown with grasses. Then she recognized a small part of the mosque foundation, but the rest had been destroyed. Finally she located her home. A part of the wall from her house remained. She hugged the wall and then the rubble and sobbed over her sweet home with all its memories that had become a pile of small stones. She also wept where the sycamore tree no longer grew – a place where she used to rest every day. After returning to Khan Younis from Beit Zachra, she was sick for a month, and she then understood the reason why her father did not visit his village after the expulsion.

When I saw my grandmother in November 2012 she was unusually happy. Surprised by her high spirits, I asked for an explanation. She looked me in the eye and, to my surprise, said that she was no longer worried about Beit Zachra. Neither was she worried about the water well, the land, the farms, and the sycamore trees, nor about the passage of time and the future that she's wanted for so long. Then she said, 'For many years, I felt as if I were walking alone. And as you know walking alone is not a pleasant way to make a journey. Now, because of my age, I cannot walk, but I'm not alone anymore. I can now rest in peace even if I am not yet in Beit Zachra. I now know that Beit Zachra is in your heart, and I also know that you are not alone in your journey. Don't be discouraged. We are getting there.'"

Mark Braverman