Biography of Shalom Freedman
Poetry has been with me all my life. My father of blessed memory Reuben Kelly Freedman loved to recite outloud favorite passages. I learned from him the love of the sounding voice. My mother of blessed memory, Edith Zeibert Freedman loved music, and music was in her soul. I from an early age loved to read, and I found in those readings reflections of my own soul. In the American schools of my day 'memorization' of poems was a required task. But to me it was more than required. It was a passion. To memorize the lines and hold them deep inside was to enrich oneself. One can walk anywhere with a poem one has and bring it back any time, and with it give oneself energy for the heart and soul. I have loved to read Poetry all my life.
I could tell the story of my first small groping efforts to make my feelings felt in words. They were strengthened by readings and rereadings of anthologies of Poetry including one little yellow- covered Mentor volume a good share of the poems of which I have by heart to this day.
'Psalms I loved
and next to Psalms
Wordsworth and Shakespeare,
And nothing of Donne and Hopkins
Coleridge and Dickinson was strange to me.
Stevens and Keats and Whitman too
like those words of Ecclesiastes
seared my soul
Poetry has been my life
and all those lines of others
greater than my own
mingle with mine in my heart
And in their sounds of love
as sacred lines
and thoughts remembered
make us more grateful and glad
And in the subsequent years I have reading and writing Poetry.
There is one book of poems published, 'Mourning for my Father'.(Field Books 1989) And there is another book of poetic thought: 'Life as Creation: A Jewish Way of Thinking About the World' (Jason Aronson,1993) .
But the overwhelming mass of my poems are scattered among old papers, most likely never to be redeemed.
Out of a sense that all would go without ever anyone knowing about it, I took the opportunity offered by the most poetic - friendly site, I know, 'Poemhunter' to post poems here. I hope they bring some light and enjoyment, some music and consolation, some inspiration and insight to any and all who read them.
Shalom Freedman's Works:
'Mourning for my Father'.(Field Books 1989)
: 'Life as Creation: A Jewish Way of Thinking About the World' (Jason Aronson,1993) .
- Life Is This Passage -new-
- This Poem Has Been Written/Many Times Be... -new-
- Does G-D Need My Unconditional Faith In ... -new-
- I Am A Dream That Did Not Come True -new-
- The Time Has Come To End The Longing -new-
- What Is Life? And Why Do I Long For It S... -new-
- The Real Questions -new-
- And Watch The World Go By -new-
- Happiness In Old Age/Is Courage In A Way -new-
- My Father's Rage -new-
- The List Of Friends Grows Shorter
- Every Morning Has Its Own Sadness
- How Lonely I Have Become Again
- I Know I Can Go On
Shalom Freedman Poems
The Beauty Of A Poem
The beauty of a poem The beauty of music The beauty of light The beauty of life
A Man Alone
A man alone is a night alone is a poem alone a man alone
Poems About Poems About Poems
Poems about poems about poems- More poems and more poems and more poems-
A Few Kind Words
A FEW KIND WORDS A few kind words From a stranger far away
A Life Is Lived The Way It Is Lived
A LIFE IS LIVED THE WAY IT IS LIVED A life is lived the way it is lived I did what I did
A Poem Of Frustration, Rage, Bitterness,...
A POEM OF FRUSTRATION, RAGE, BITTERNESS, RESENTMENT, DISAPPOINTMENT, ENVY, SADNESS, SICKNESS, DEPRESSION, FEAR A poem of frustration, rage, bitterness, resentment, disappointment, envy, sadness, sickness, despair, depression, fear- All feelings of down and darkness and shame and lust and emptiness
A Man Walks Slowly To His Own Grave
A man walks slowly to his own grave And whether he stops or runs, A man walks slowly to his own grave wherever he is,
My Despair Comes And Goes
My Despair comes and goes It is not the ultimate despair The despair of those who have forever lost hope The despair of those who have lost what they never will regain
There Are So Many Poets
THERE ARE SO MANY POETS There are so many poets Many have won prizes
Let's Leave The 'Poems' Without Metaphor...
LET’S LEAVE THE ‘POEMS’ WITHOUT METAPHORS Let’s leave the ‘poems’ without metaphors Bare and stark and original
I Cannot Say What Death Is
I CANNOT SAY WHAT DEATH IS I cannot say what Death is Or what it means
When There Is No Hope And Nothing To Hop...
WHEN THERE IS NO HOPE AND NOTHING TO HOPE FOR When there is no hope and nothing to hope for When no specific path presents itself
I May Not Have Been A Very Good Poet
I MAY NOT HAVE BEEN A VERY GOOD POET I may not have been a very good poet Not even a good poet
A Poem Means More Than It Says
THE POEM MEANS MORE THAN IT SAYS The poem means more than it says. It hears within itself the sense of what a page can’t know-
Words Against Death
WORDS AGAINST DEATH
All the immortals are moral:
Tubercular Kafka spared Treblinka
Lunatic Nietzsche banging a piano to oblivion
Great Tolstoy escaping to a railroad coach,
Gentle Yeats frigid at Ben Bulben.
What lives is a work and that imperfectly: