Poems of Sorrow and Hope

As I wrestled with my feelings after October 7th, I found that poetry offered me an unexpected outlet. Whether reflecting on the lives lost, the joy of seeing hostages come home, or the comfort I found in our traditions, writing gave me a respite from the complex emotions I was experiencing. I hope that these poems speak to you as we mark this anniversary with deep grief and sacred remembrance.

In His Pocket (2024)

I wrote this when the first round of hostages were released in November 2023. The jubilation of seeing women and children finally freed after 49 long days of captivity was like nothing I had felt before. This feeling returned when we  watched the release of the 11 months later in January 2025. We were thrilled to watch their reunions with their families and see them come home after 471 grueling days of captivity.

The rabbis
Advised:
Keep two truths
In your pocket,
One should read:
I am but dust and ashes
And the other should read:
The entire world was created for me.

An 8-year-old
Has something else
In his pocket.

Confetti.

Why?

It’s his emergency confetti,
He says,
During these raw days
He carries it with him
Everywhere
Just in case
There is good news.

Silent Witnesses (2024)

I wrote this poem soon after our family trip to Israel in December 2023 and our visit to Re’im, the location of the Nova Festival where nearly 400 people were slaughtered and over 40 taken hostage. We were horrified to imagine what took place on this now holy ground.

When you go to Re’im,
To that sacred ground,
Notice the trees,
Silent witnesses
To the horrors,
Dazed and rooted,
Their bent limbs
Could not lift up
The fallen,
Their sturdy trunks
Could not shield
The vulnerable,
Their broad leaves
Could not shelter
The wounded.

When the breeze comes
In the south,
If you listen carefully
You can hear those trees,
Somber filigree pillars,
Always rising,
Reeling,
Whispering,
Yitgadal,
Veyitkadash,
Shmeh rabbah,
And in the distance,
The shifting sands
Utter a mournful
Amen.

Reluctant Light—Nir Oz (2024)

In February 2024, I had the chance to travel to Israel again to help my daughter move into her dorm at Tel Aviv University. We had the opportunity to travel to the Gaza Envelope and visit Kibbutz Nir Oz. As I walked and took in the destruction, I realized this was my first encounter with pure evil. I was devastated to learn that one in four people in Kibbutz Nir Oz were either killed or taken hostage on October 7th.

The birds chirp a high pitched,
Mourning song in rounds,
And the cat winds around my leg,
So eager for any kind of touch.
The lemon tree is full of fruit,
Next to it, the lonely trampoline
Is reduced to a burnt metal frame.
Inside the house, once rich with
Warmth and laughter and comfort,
A sippy cup lies on its side
No longer holding any milk
And men’s clothes hang
In closets waiting patiently, endlessly
And dry, cracked soap sits in a dish
Next to towels parched from disuse
While bullet holes in windows
Let the reluctant light in.
There is soot on the ground
And on the walls of the houses,
And the cat lies on the gravel,
Her white fur, now gray with ash.

Everywhere (2024)

After 200 days of the hostages’ captivity, the pain worldwide was deep. The violence of October 7th, retold by survivors, was becoming a matter of public record. The reports of rising antisemitism reminded us of another wretched time in history. Israel was frightfully busy fighting multiple proxy wars on five fronts. Each day brought more terrifying news. This poem was an attempt to put words to this global pain.

Where should I kiss?
The universe asked
The land.

Devastated in the north.
Bereft in the south.
The land was hurting
And stayed silent.

Where should I kiss?
The universe asked
The people.

Broken by history.
Betrayed by allies.
The people were hurting
And stayed silent.

Where should I kiss?
The universe asked
The child.

Everywhere,
The child responded,
I hurt everywhere.

There was laughter (2024)

As we learned more about what happened on October 7th, we understood that entire families were destroyed. As a parent of four adult children, my husband and I could not imagine the depth of this loss. “There was Laughter” is in memory of the Siman Tov and the Kutz families, who were all murdered on the same day.

We were a family,
Two parents and
Three children.

We knew how
To laugh together and
How to share a challah.

We didn’t realize,
We also knew how
To scream with terror.

We can’t tell the story
Of our end but it happened
In one shocking instant.

We died together,
By force, and that is how
We will forever be remembered.

But we would much rather
Be remembered
For how we laughed together.

Inhale (2025)

Fourteen months after October 7th, I was trying to articulate the breathlessness I felt on a daily basis with “Inhale.” Focusing on the respite of Shabbat and the ritual of havdalah, I found myself holding the spice box and wanting to fold myself into it, getting lost in the comforting scent of cloves, forgetting the harsh world around me for just a moment.

When Shabbat
Ends this week,
And you need a respite
From the world’s anguish,
Inhale so deeply
That you become
A spice box,
Your arms and legs,
Two cinnamon sticks,
Your tired eyes,
Round cloves,
Your mouth,
A cardamom pod,
And your nose,
An anise star.

Stay there,
And breathe,
And breathe,
And be comforted.

For a moment,
Your ache will cease.

Stay there,
With that extra soul,
And breathe,
And breathe,
And be comforted.