Poetry has long served as a mirror to the human condition, reflecting our deepest joys, our profound sorrows, and the complex landscape of hope and despair. While some poems lift the spirit, others delve into the very heart of hopelessness, articulating the weight of the world when it feels too heavy to bear. Dara Barnat’s powerful poem, “One Kaddish For the World,” is a poignant example of this, capturing the raw, multifaceted experience of despair amidst global conflict, political turmoil, and personal grief, culminating in the arresting image of “a hopeless peace.” This article delves into Barnat’s poem, exploring how it navigates these difficult themes and embodies elements of what might be termed “hopeless poetry.”
“One Kaddish For the World,” set against the backdrop of specific, recent events in Tel Aviv during late 2024, weaves together the intimate details of the poet’s life with the overwhelming scale of public suffering and political disappointment. The poem’s structure, broken into four sections, mirrors a fractured state of mind, jumping between the mundane (walking the dog, teaching class, making breakfast, math homework) and the momentous (a consequential US election, ongoing war, hostages, protests). This juxtaposition is key to the poem’s power, illustrating how personal existence continues alongside – and is indelibly shaped by – global crises.
The poem opens with the stark reality of the aftermath of a significant political event, immediately framing the world in terms of endings (“podcasts about the end of the world”). The pressure of being a parent in a war-torn country, feeling unable to fully protect a child who “has lived through too much darkness,” introduces a deeply personal layer to the sense of hopelessness. The child’s simple, profound statement, “You can be brave too, Mama,” is a moment of light, but it underscores the immense burden the parent feels, struggling to be strong when the world feels overwhelming. This section establishes the internal conflict: the duty to carry on versus the crushing weight of external events.
The daily routine continues into Section II – “Breakfast has to be made. Lunch, dinner.” – but it is constantly interrupted by grief and political fear. The reference to the Mourner’s Kaddish, “Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba b’alma di v’ra chir’itei,” brings a sacred, communal language of mourning into the domestic space. This isn’t just personal grief (father, grandmother) but a Kaddish for the world and its mounting sorrows, particularly since the specific horrors of October 7th. The desperate, futile wish to “Rewind” highlights a profound lack of control and a deep longing for a past free from current suffering. The mundane tasks – shopping for shoes, keeping the house “organized for war” – are chilling reminders of the abnormal reality. Yet, even in this, there’s an acknowledgement of relative fortune (“in this we are the lucky ones”), adding another complex layer to the despair – the guilt of survival or privilege.
Section III directly addresses the struggle to find solace, even in poetry. For a “scholar of poetry,” admitting that “even poems… are not enough” is a powerful statement of the depth of the current despair. Whitman, a poet often associated with expansive hope and connection, fails to provide the needed comfort; a line about “peace restored” feels bitterly ironic in the current context. The constant, public presence of the hostages’ faces and the grim reality that “The war keeps getting worse” solidify the feeling of being trapped in escalating suffering. The repetition of “suffering only leads to suffering. War only leads to war” articulates a cyclical, seemingly inescapable pattern of despair. The continued recitation of the Kaddish (“v’yamlich malchutei b’hayeichon u-v’yomeichon, uv’hayei d’chol beit yisrael”) underscores the ongoing nature of mourning and the prayer for peace, even as peace feels impossibly distant.
The final section (IV) addresses the split identity (“split down the middle between here and there, somehow never anywhere”) and the persistent engagement in political action (“I vote. I protest”) despite the feeling that “There seem to be too many who want war.” The act of reassuring the child (“We will be okay. Put your seatbelt on. We’re driving to school”) is a poignant symbol of attempting to maintain normalcy and safety within the chaos. The Kaddish continues, connecting the present moment to personal history and tradition (“like when I was a little girl in synagogue, in a Friday night service… next to my father”). The poem culminates in the line, “May this Kaddish somehow evoke a hopeless peace.” This concluding phrase is central to the poem’s exploration of hopelessness. It suggests a state where peace, if it comes, will not be one of triumph or resolution, but one born out of exhaustion, loss, and the crushing realization that the profound damage inflicted cannot be undone. It is a peace devoid of hope for a return to a better past or a truly healed future.
<strong>One Kaddish for the World</strong><em> - Tel Aviv, November-December 2024</em><span> I. Where even to start? Maybe at five in the morning after the US election. I take out Lily, the dog. In the dark we walk, and I listen to podcasts about the end of the world. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Right? I have a class to teach at eight-fifteen. The students look at me like I am supposed to know something, which always surprises me. I would start with a poem, a prayer, or an apology, but this class is not about poetry, religion, or politics, so we talk about styles of citation. On the way to campus, I drop off our son, who in his seven years has lived through too much darkness. His Hebrew is far better than mine, so there is no language to speak to protect him. He understands when I am upset – when it’s hard to be a parent in a country in a war, which is also a country that is only partly my own. He is allergic to mosquito bites, and once, during an allergy test, said to me, </span><em>You can be brave too, Mama</em><span>. </span><em>Yes, my son. I will try</em><span>. I do try. Sometimes, I feel like I succeed, but too often I feel like I let the world weigh too heavily on me, which causes the world to weigh too heavily on him. </span><em>Forgive me. I will try to be stronger.</em><span> II. Breakfast has to be made. Lunch, dinner. With the US election, exactly what I feared has happened. What great hope so many of us held onto. My list of griefs grows ever longer. My father, my grandmother. In this country. In that country. In the kitchen, the Mourner’s Kaddish comes to mind – </span><em>Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba b’alma di v’ra chir’itei.</em><span> The list grows ever longer, since the election is far from the worst this year. If only I could rewind to before the 7th of October. Before before before. Rewind the government, rewind whoever wasn’t paying enough attention to what was going on for so long. I would rewind all the bombing, every death, every moment of suffering. But the days, they refuse to go backwards. We are at some hundreds of them in this war, and so, so many before that. It’s impossible to count. Our son has math homework, he needs a new backpack and shoes. Go shopping. Keep the house organized for war, so just in case, buy flashlights. I know full well that in this we are the lucky ones. III. Sometimes I read poems that offer brief solace. But even poems, for the first time in my life, are not enough. Even Walt Whitman, my Walt Whitman, is not quite enough, even the poem that Ed read from that time from afar, </span><em>In the freshness the forenoon air, in the far-stretching circuits and vistas again to peace restored.</em><span> Such a beautiful line from “To the Leaven’d Soil They Trod,” yet peace is so far from restored. The faces of the hostages are up, always up near the supermarkets. The war keeps getting worse. Every time you think it can’t, it does. About that everyone seems to agree. Hersh, Ori, Eden, Almog, Alexander, Carmel – you have no idea how hard I prayed for you to come home. The day we heard it was the height of summer. Remember how it rained as if the sky, too, was suffering? The sky must know that we are all suffering. Suffering only leads to suffering. War only leads to war. I know this. I continue with the Kaddish – </span><em>v’yamlich malchutei b’hayeichon u-v’yomeichon,</em><em>uv’hayei d’chol beit yisrael.</em><span> Every chance I get, I vote against the right-wing government. In the two countries in which I am allowed, I vote and vote. IV. My life: split down the middle between here and there, somehow never anywhere. I vote. I protest, as do many. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands, flooding the streets. There seem to be too many who want war. My son – I try to reassure him. </span><em>We will be okay. Put your seatbelt on. </em><em>We’re driving to school</em><span>. I drive and continue to say the Kaddish in my mind, like when I was a little girl in synagogue, in a Friday night service in that small temple, next to my father before he too left the world – </span><em>ba-agala u-vi-z’man kariv, v’imru amen</em><span>. May this Kaddish somehow evoke a hopeless peace. </span>Through powerful contrasts and raw honesty, Barnat captures the essence of despair when hope seems not only absent but perhaps irrelevant in the face of persistent suffering. The poem is not merely descriptive; it is performative, incorporating the act of reciting Kaddish, a prayer meant to affirm God’s name and kingdom even in the face of profound loss. Its inclusion here, as a repeated thread through the poem, suggests a search for meaning or endurance within the hopelessness. It’s a traditional response to grief repurposed to confront the grief of the world.
This form of “hopeless poetry” doesn’t necessarily offer solutions or comfort, but rather validates the feeling of being overwhelmed by circumstances beyond control. Unlike poems that might offer solace through nature, love, or philosophical reflection, “One Kaddish For the World” finds even traditional sources of comfort insufficient. The contrast with more traditional or perhaps lighter poetic themes, such as those often explored in [sonnet poems examples] or [cute romantic love poems], highlights the poem’s dedication to unflinchingly facing a grim reality. Even personal moments, like the interaction with her son, are tinged with the pervasive anxiety of the outside world, a stark difference from the simple tenderness captured in [short love poems her].
Dara Barnat, scholar of poetry and author
Dara Barnat is a scholar of poetry and creative writing with a Ph.D. from Tel Aviv University, where she also lectures. Her academic work includes a book on Walt Whitman and the Making of Jewish American Poetry, and she has published critical essays on poetry in various reputable journals and handbooks. As a poet, she is the author of three collections: The City I Run From: Poems of Tel Aviv (2020), In the Absence (2016), and Headwind Migration (2009). Her expertise both as a scholar analyzing poetry and as a poet crafting it lends significant weight to the raw, insightful commentary found within “One Kaddish For the World.”
Cover of Dara Barnat's book 'The City I Run From: Poems of Tel Aviv'
Barnat’s work, including collections like The City I Run From, often engages with the complexities of place, identity, and difficult realities. “One Kaddish For the World” is a powerful example of how contemporary poetry can directly confront political, social, and emotional crises, offering not catharsis or easy answers, but an authentic articulation of lived experience in the face of profound despair. The poem stands as a testament to the power of poetry to articulate the seemingly inarticulable, giving voice to the weariness and sorrow of a world yearning, perhaps hopelesly, for peace.
The poem doesn’t resolve the tension; it embodies it. It is a Kaddish recited not just for the dead, but for a world that feels irrevocably broken. The call for a “hopeless peace” is a haunting conclusion, suggesting that the deepest form of peace that can be hoped for is one that acknowledges the impossibility of undoing the past or fully healing the trauma. It is a peace tempered by the enduring scars of conflict and loss, a peace born not of victory or reconciliation, but of profound, weary resignation. Such poetry, while challenging to read, offers a vital space for acknowledging and processing the pervasive sense of hopelessness that can arise from contemporary global realities.
This honest engagement with despair distinguishes certain works as powerful examples of “hopeless poetry,” forcing readers to confront difficult truths alongside the poet. While we might seek comfort or celebration in poems for occasions like [love birthday poems] or explore the dynamics of relationship in [love poems for husbands], Barnat reminds us that poetry’s scope must also encompass the moments when hope feels most elusive.