Kaddish, poem by Dorothy Nash 1977

Kaddish

David is dead.

David my brother is dead.

    Yis gadal, v’yis kadash…

I was my brother’s keeper.

For a few short years

I was my brother’s keeper.

But time did change the roles

And he became my strength, my rock.

Now he is dead.

——-

From inherited memories of Russian pogroms,

From the sweatshops of New York,

From the hills of Massachussetts

To the cities of the world,

An urban and an urbane man

Whose clarion voice was ever heard

Against hypocrisy and cant;

He wandered

And stopped awhile

And traveled on again

Until he came to Susqeuhanna country.

Standing at his window,

Looking at the broad lawn sloping to the river:

Susquehanna and Chenango

And, from his childhood,

The Housatonic, too.

What wonderful river names

The old, sweet-sounding Indian names.

What wonderful country

The green and rolling hills,

The wild flowers of this land,

Goldenrod in golden waves,

And Queen Anne’s Lace

And purple mallow.

Now here at last he found his home,

His work, his friends, his people.

Susquehanna country.

——-

Can I say

That he is gone?

And must I cry forever?

For this I know

Beyond the tears,

Beyond the thrusting pain:

     All that he was

    Remains as long as memory remains.

—Dorothy Nash, (197?)