Master Immij, Moelten Immij

The following poem is part of a long narrative, written as a collection of short, lyrical, semi-discontinuous image/moments. It is taken from Bouk 6 ov The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming. Bouk 6 is the story of a Jewish woman’s attempts to escape the net of European nazism during the Shoah. Altho many of the images and ideas in this 36 line poem are connected to previous scenes and images in the 5 prior books, I hope it can still be read and appreciated on its own.

This poem presented particular difficulties to me because of its technical requirements. I am trying to capture the fluid, morphic nature of thought thru the fluid, morphic semi-rhyming of the poem. In the course of arriving at this stage in the poem, I have written enough stanzas, and versions of phrases, to easily quadruple its length. In this post I am presenting only the poem, itself. In my next post I will pull back the curtain, and show some of the phases of the poem’s aural, visual, and conceptual development.

As always, your critical feedback will be of great value to me.

Master Immij, Moelten Immij
    Devowwerd.
The areyanz kame down like a woolf on the foeld,
    Like a woolf in the koeld
    Lakking trueth in thaer kode.
And thay bernd owwer bouks and thay bernd owwer marterz.
    How thay glorreed in thaer fiyer.
    How thay glowwerd and thay merderd.
This land wuz goedless and I, I dident kno it,
    And I, I shoud hav fled it,
    And now insted I feed it.

    Hu ar theze spekterz?
A long-horn ram iz lasht tu a log .
    He chaenjez tu a man,
    Chaend tu my hand.
A preest undressez me in hiz rume;
    So plezzent, I swune.
    Like a beest. Unkleen.
A temptress deklaerz, "faeth will be restord."
    Swaerz she iz an empress.
    A raeth, she faedz.

    Owtlawz stok me intu my dreemz.
My Soel haz rooten deep in this soyel;
    By degreez I abzorbd it.
    Deeplee I am soyeld.
Beests and goests rize owt ov the grownd,
    Poke at my chest,
    Kroek in my throet.
I am shatterd, a meerer, a fase in eech frag.
    Sum point and akkuze.
    Sum faent with abbuse.

    Wuended by hope.
Ar yu areyan woryerz, godless and wield?
    Yur handz ar not bluddee.
    Yur glans iz not brutish.
Torn by my oen remors and disgrase,
    I kan taest my teerz
    Az I choke on my feerz.
Yu glare like a kween and deklare az I kowwer:
    ‘Servile no mor,
    ‘Yu serven ov the Lor.'