This one isn't a classic-- yet-- but it's from a volume that I'm anticipating: Slicing the Bread, a collection of poetry that offers a child's perspective on war-torn Poland. The concept grabs me, as my mother and uncle-- children of Polish forced laborers-- had been born in a displaced person's camp after World War II. What was it like? The perennial question.
Maja Trochimczyk, Slicing the Bread(publication: October 25, 2014)
From the title poem:
"Every week, her mother ate dziad soup –
fit for a beggar, made with crumbled wheat buns,
stale sourdough loaves, pieces of dark rye
soaked in hot tea with honey.
She liked it. She wanted to remember
What was it like? Perhaps poetry offers the best possible answer.