Ben Zion Black’s Poetry

Many of Ben Zion Black's poetry volumes are located within the Silver Special Collections at the University of Vermont. These poems were typed on Black’s Yiddish typewriter.

These poems have all been translated in 2025 from Yiddish to English by Tina Lunson, (M.A. Jewish History), a Yiddish Language Specialist and Translator for the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C.

The right side images are the Yiddish scans which read from right to left; Collections; the left side images are the English translations from Tina Lunson.

These translations are copyrighted by the Lost Mural Project and cannot be reproduced or shared on any media without the express written permission of the Lost Mural Project. 

Just there, over countries and oceans,
is found a cordial city:
I carry her name deep in my heart,
as if a sacred commandment.

I guard pictures of her since then,
and my eye and gaze grow moist
when a stream of memories arrives,
and carries me back there again.

Now I am back in the streets,
the parade-plaza, the bridge, Aleksotas,
where once I wandered,
searching for closeness to God.

And the Nieman flows so calmly;
the distant sun and its flaming descent.
The night steals quietly in,
and spreads its mood about.

And there, over the land and sea,
is found an enchanted place;
I strayed around there in my youth,
which I deserted there.

Memory wanders around to places
where I once wandered too,
the beloved streets and lanes,
where I'd woven countless dreams.

That is where my cradle stood,
and a nest for my childhood;
There I had father and mother –
left, never to see again.

And when I must disappear
and close the door forever –
even then I will think of your soil –
whose touch I have always felt!

Ben-tsien Blokh

I am a dreamer, a collector of dreams.
and do not fit into any frame.
I am one of those remnants
who live on in the old lineage.

I am a singer of the generations
who are vanishing already.
I know I am the last inheritor
and suffer as the row becomes shorter.

And late in the lonely nights I record
that which was and has gone away.
And I collect each old dream
and seek again to make it new.

I know I will be forgotten
along with my word and song,
no one anymore will hear
the singing of a dreamer-Jew!

Ben-tsien Blokh

My grandfather authored holy books,
my father became a scribe;
my mother saw only graves,
read only mournful Yiddish prayers.

My grandfather in talis un tfiln
dealt his account with the Creator;
mother bent to the wills
of God and the sap of married life.

And I clung to them
and always lived in fear [?]
even while making merry
at a Torah celebration.

The Jewish sorrow that I carried
along with father and grandpa –
I dragged that Jewish wagon, it
clutching me and would not depart.

And then a generation arrived
calling for breaking down fences,
and ambushed us with temples and flowers –
my tribe cannot do it, I am profaned.

So I’m left standing between
my breed and strange demands,
living in a world half-shredded,
while meanwhile a life goes by!

Ben-tsien Blokh

O, Yiddish, my Idish, my mother's tongue: you,
many generations have spoken through you,
you have always kept us together,
in joy and in gladness, in pain and in plea.

You have illumined our paths for us,
bound us closely, kept us together;
whenever a Jew comes upon you
there's a Jewish welcome in anyone's land.

One shouts "Leyvi Itsik" to God, so he'll hear,
and "Perets" bewitches your words from a stone,
and "Sholem Aleykhem" laughed with the tears,
and who but us Jews would understand that!

The "Rebi Salanter" schooled our character,
the "Vilner Goan" locked on to God:
they spoke a sanctified Yiddish –
sacred as an eleventh Commandment!

And "Rov Itsik Elkhonen" spoke with us Jews,
with kindness, with love, to the poor and the rich –
and "Avrom Reyzen", the singer of the plains,
they both, through you, made us all equal.

O Idish my Yiddish, the word of my people,
how could we do without you...
we would be left in a life without revival –
if ever heaven forbid you would leave us.


Ben-tsien Blokh

An end-of-Shabes sadness,
I see you still, so clearly,
although times now distant have passed,
and the date wiped out of my memory.

Mama recites "Got from Avrom",
father's by the shul's western wall,
and dark shadows come over
everything here in the house.

Mama finishes her prayer,
father's returned now from shul;
he waits (as he does not enter
when the fire has not been lit...)

We ourselves light some lamps.
Father recites havdole now, the
separation has tones of the week,
as he sadly looks at his nails.

And I, still a young child –
already feel the Jewish yoke –
I know after the joy of the Shabes
there comes a lackluster week.

Ben-tsien Blokh

Don't go, don't go, stay away,
keep a distance from the fray –
do not think you live in times
when you were one of them.

There is nothing you can give them
that will make them friends,
they don't understand your endeavors,
you will only make them hate.

It's all laughable for them,
you with your free and open glance;
you would just become a guard
protecting things already past.

Your ways are still strange to them –
strange your seeking, strange your way –
and they will ask you questions,
and your pretext misunderstand.

Don't go, don't go, stay in your corner,
though blocked in by your solitude –
hold onto that last little glimmer
before it dies away!

Ben-tsien Blokh

I am the last one from my father's house,
no way to get back anymore –
years now since I left that place.
Long-broken lie the fence and bridge.

I am that last one of my mama's generation,
and I am alone in a strange world;
I long for that distant day, and year,
and ache to visit the ancestors' graves.

I am the last on my generation's path,
remaining empty, empty is my place,
and clearly see the unavoidable shore
where my prayerful word will end.

I am the last one with my Idish song,
my child will remain a stranger to my singing.
Once a touching poetic Jew,
and now the last strains are dying.

I am the last, and bravely bear my woe;
many generations stand behind me –
fallen – life wants it so –
and I, the last, will lock the door!

Ben-tsien Blokh

Jews sit in the evenings,
and talk about the past,
of a rabbi ignoramus,
of a cantor with no voice;

Of holidays and sabbaths,
of trouble, of joy;
of a Jew who sold
the entire world to come for a profit;

Of the "lamed-vov" righteous,
of the "Bal-shem-tov", the marvel;
of cemetery stories,
of a grave without a corpse.

About a "dybuk" whom a holy man
spared from excommunication –
conspiring with black candles,
he lured the dybuk out.

Of a Graff called "holy convert",
how he burned up at the stake;
and the trees growing from his grave
looked like priestly hands.

And I sit there with them
between minkhe-mayriv times,
carried away to the past –
and it seems... I am no longer here.

Ben-tsien Blokh

*The abbreviation lamed-vov refers to the 36 righteous souls always embodied in the world to support the world; no one knows their identities.

I will myself to seclude in the old study-house,
in the quiet evening, alone in a corner,
in longing for generations like cycles,
away and gone and on their way

and be carried back to the old times –
when I spent my youth there in Torah,
and feel again like in those days,
when I only thought of divine heights.

Recalling the Jews who have vanished,
who once lived Jewish lives there,
bearing Eternal Flames alight in their hearts,
and weaving a Yidishe dream.

Recalling the prayers and the thoughts in my mind –
sincere generations of pleas up to God,
that came from grandpas and grandmas,
from fathers and mothers with pious requests.

And I want to do the last final favor,
a reminder, not quickly forgot –
I will place a gravestone for them in my heart,
and recite there a kadish, for them and – for me!

Ben-tsien Blokh

Don't ask me to sing about oceans –
I have so rarely seen them;
the only "sea" I 've seen, back there,
was the "muddy Vilija" River.

Don't ask me to sing about might –
I have seldom seen her greatness;
the rebi, the judge, the ritual slaughter,
were far from valorous men.

Don't ask me to sing of flowers,
so few of those I've seen;
the only flower in my home was –
a fresh willow twig for Sukes.

Don't ask me to disrupt a dream,
it should stay as I saw it then;
it is so near and dear to me,
the distant "once there was"...

Ben-tsien Blokh

Jews of mine, brothers mine,
forgive me for my sin –
I have eaten, I have drunk,
okh and vey, alas.

I have seen you at the slaughter,
imagined clear in me...
and was silent, did not scream,
did not rip out my hair.

I have seen the pits of bodies,
filled up with Jewish dead,
and the hangman's ugly dogface
at his gruesome pass-time job.

I felt the gassy chamber
where my nation was burned up:
just my pain and horror
was enough to suffocate.

I heard the heavens wailing
for the mothers, fathers, child –
and yet I did not lose my mind –
oh, how great is my sin!

Brothers mine, Jews of mine,
my guilt has no compare.
Please forgive, for I was not
beside you then and there!

Ben-tsien Blokh

The sincerest poem from my heart:
I have wanted to write for you,
seeing all through blackness,
when I approached the paper...

I haven't written anything for you,
my pen does not express;
my woe remains within my heart,
no words do I possess.

I know that we will have to part,
my heart melts into tears;
I have so much to say to you,
who knows – but could you hear?

I know that you will think of me,
and mention days now passed;
you will long for those days before,
and will over-shadow your path.

My sincerest poem I would wish
to take my place with you;
I know that I'll be absent but –
may my word be a comfort to you.

Ben-tsien Blokh

A town once stood, a Jewish town, in
beautiful Vermont, on the shore of Lake Champlain –
with Jews from Tshekishok, Zetel,
from Ponevezh, Kovne, from Brisk and Rasayn,

who brought Jewish ways from their homes,
lived as their fathers and mothers of old,
always a rov to answer their questions,
a cantor to marvel, his praying, his voice;

rejoiced on holidays like brothers and sisters,
bore together their sadness and pain;
the wealthy of the town, the biggest leader,
in their midst, and equal to them.

On Shabes and yontiv forgot their worries,
observed together the Jewish pleasures,
not concerned over what comes tomorrow,
since God their protector never sleeps on His watch!

They came to the shul, curious to hear
the rov with his Torah, his penalties for sin;
the women accompanied his sermons with tears,
hoping their sons would be their next rov...

In melamed's homey kheyder he
tutored children to be good Jews:
So went continuous generations –
into their sincere Jewish lives.

There was, and is gone, a small Jewish town.
No one, ever, will occupy its place.
Vanished the Jews, from Tshekishok, Zetel,
with Idishe stories, with Idishe words!

*The Lithuanian towns Čekiškė, Zetel, Panevėžys, Kaunas, Brisk, Raseiniai.

Leafing through my book of poems,
of my distant youthful songs;
a visit to my youth –
further into memory.

I see myself back then
a young, pensive dreamer;
I wander on hills, in valleys,
between shadows, among trees.

My heart longs for something fine
for which there is no name.
Maybe someone will come along?
But I don't know who, from where...

Once a door was opened
and she came inside –
she easily took my heart.
then captured it forever.

Her charm captured me,
all else driven from my heart;
I have absorbed her visage,
it remains a part of me.

Her voice like purest silver,
a thousand flavors in her speech;
her walk is full of so much charm –
it's hard for me to part from her.

Beloved summer arrives,
the air is all perfumed –
I place a bet on everything
to tell her of my arrival.

I meet her on the aleja,
on a bench, and pensive.
We chat of regular things:
books, love and destined things.

Now I want to tell her
what I carry in my heart –
the words stick in my throat
and I cannot say it.

She reads it clearly in my glance,
and understands my hesitation –
I feel in her silence, happily,
that we will not part.

I leaf through my book of poems
with the old heart's songs;
I take my visit further,
where I went walking with her.

I get close to what's now far,
but sadly, fall asleep.
That time still lives within my heart,
when I met her that day!

Ben-tsien Blokh

* Laisvės Alėja, a long, tree-lined walking street through Kovne.

I look at these old pictures,
a sadness weeps in my heart;
I see my younger days then,
which I thought would last and last.

I strode full of hope in life,
believed all, that wonder would come;
but no wonder arrived,
desire remained a mute.

Life drove me with a whip,
along paths of storms and winds;
I lost my dreams in anguish,
because dreaming then was sin.

I look at the old pictures,
and the years march by –
I see them in light and in shadow,
certainly not new to me.

These were my friends –
who accompanied my life,
and now forever gone,
carried off, forgotten, beyond.

I look at these old pictures,
a sadness weeps in my heart;
it did not come true –
so was it,
so was it worthwhile?

Ben-tsien Blokh

That was the last holiday, it
remains etched in my heart;
my home that I lost forever,
where Fate drove me away.

The table stood ready:
candles lit, holiday dishes,
I so much wanted to stay –
instead, a long trip away.

Father already made kidish,
in words were choked with tears;
Mama tried to be happy
(disruptions are forbidden).

And now the pictures keep coming
from all those once-upon years –
happy holidays with joy
that never were disturbed.

A childhood, a youth without worry,
a home with two parents too,
I thought it would never change,
we'd stay together so well.

Suffering presses my heart,
I clearly saw it was the end;
a home with a tate and mama
remains a legend to me!

Ben-tsien Blokh

I have made my home with you,
you beautiful, lovely land Vermont;
I brought my youth to you –
but I cannot be yours!

I have for years longed backwards –
there where my youth was passed;
longing glazed my eyes with tears –
In you I saw all strange, all new.

Those days stand fast
where my boyhood passed
and set me out on the path
to go to you, with heart and word.

You have given me much
and I feel in debt to you –
you provided bread and roof,
for my dearest and for me!

My eyes so thirstily imbibed
your enchanting land;
you reached your hand out
with neighborliness and a bow.

I stand in the middle, between
two lands, two homes;
I cannot part from you –
yet long so for the other too!

Still pressing my heart, a lament
for all I abandoned there;
but know, that when my time is done
my last place remains with you!

Ben-tsien Blokh

Do you remember the Friday nights?
Father was off in shul,
candlelight shone through the windows,
the street was full of Shabes.

We went for a stroll...
two doves, two young from the nest.
We did not understand then,
that life can extinguish one's dreams.

The air then smelled of Spring,
the Nieman quiet and calm;
it lapped at the shore and
evoked sad feelings in hearts.

The shore near the bridge above us
was covered completely in green,
and fields to be seen in the distance
beckoned to us to come there.

But when it got dark, we felt
as though the dream had been torn;
the streets now are still, we hurry –
father awaits at the table.

Now there's no father, no street there,
no more a Friday eve, and
the book of those dreams –
remains forever shut tight.

Ben-tsien Blokh

I will not write my final poem,
I will take its name with me;
it will remain the one untold,
after my last steps.

It will accompany me to the end,
it will never part from me,
remaining the end of the legend –
in which I have so believed.

It is a dream that I began
and based my youth upon;
and I go, I have gone,
where the dream has led.

But the dream has long since vanished,
never to return –
and left its wounds inside my heart,
in my eyes a resignation.

I will not write my final poem,
no words do I possess;
a silent kadish it remains,
that never will be spoke.

Ben-tsien Blokh