Harold Macdonald's Muse

So Great My Grief

Holocaust Poetry

So great my grief that all is tears;

Being itself is overflowing,

infinitely deep with sorrow. Fears

prompt the brooding Spirit,

going

back and forth in agitation,

glistening;

wishing not to know its knowing

wishing not to hear its listening.

If only righteousness were where it stopped,

Not leading on to goodness, then to love!

For penalties and rigour I could opt.

Or goodness: I could have raised Myself above

the mess

and not be blamed.

But what is perfect goodness if not love?

To be less than love then God is shamed.

Perfect Me! Affection fits me like a glove.

And hence the tears, the endless grief;

For what I see breaks heaven’s heart -

A future that’s beyond belief;

where human kind distains to play its part

will not respond in freedom to attain the good

nor with love redeem

nor love return as I desire they should

nor serve, nor help, nor be, but seem.

And yet they think I can protect them from themselves

As father; and for them to pay the cost.

And love becomes a toy with other toys upon the shelves

While they ignore my tears at Holocaust.

Will I give them space, another chance?

Suspend my sorrow, produce dry land, once more?

Begin again creation’s dance

in hope’s they reach, this time, the other shore?

Together, will we go the lovers way

and find the good beyond all good?

Pretend to set aside foreknowledge for a day;

And stumble on another tree, another cross of wood?