Anne Frank's Fragments from Nowhere


Bernard Kops life and achievements have been well-documented - and deservedly so. Indigo Dreams has a short version below.


Bernard Kops, now 88 years old, is one of the great post-war Jewish writers.


Born in the East End of London of Dutch-Jewish working-class parents, Bernard achieved international recognition for his first play The Hamlet of Stepney Green.


Since then he has written more than 40 plays for stage or radio, 11 novels and 8 poetry collections.


His autobiography, The World is a Wedding, and the second instalment, Shalom Bomb have received international acclaim.  


He is considered a seminal voice of his generation.



For a fuller appreciation go here:


or here

Bernard Kops


Anne Frank's Fragments from Nowhere


ISBN 978-1-90935-91-4


Indigo Dreams Publishing




138 x 216mm


36 pages


£6.00 + P&P UK


PUB: August 2015










Rosh Hashanah


Today we will go to Regent’s Park

with our daughters and our son.

We will stand beneath a chestnut tree

and aim as high as clouds for conkers.


Our laughter will rise into the sky

above these clouds, higher than

those other sounds

our children do not seem to hear.


Then, hungry, we shall hurry home

and spread our harvest all

around the floor.

And I suppose we shall sing,

for songs are the dreams

we capture from the dark;

songs and prayers of the irreligious.

Meanwhile all this will have to suffice

for miracles.




For the Record


They came for him in Amsterdam, my grandfather David,

and with minimum force removed him from his home.


He surrendered to the entire German army,

and that was that.


It is of little consequence now;

so many die alone in foreign lands.

But for the record I must say

they gave him a number, helped him

aboard an eastbound train.


It was a little overcrowded,

but then again they had so many to dispatch.


You might call him part of the biggest catch

in history of those who fish for men.


Anyway, to cut a long story short,

he was never seen again.


I cannot put my finger on the exact day he died.

Nor the time, nor the place.


Suffice it to say it was by gas and in the east.


I write this merely to record the facts

for my descending strangers.


Furthermore, today is the 21st of December

in the year of our Lord 1968.

And it is getting rather late.

It rained this evening but now the wind has dropped

and the moon is shining.


It is 11.33 p.m. Precisely.



“Inspirational! As always, Kops' tales and rhymes of the East End and lost journeys of the Jewish tribe will always retain their energy and compassion. He continues to defy age and sing his soulful ethnic chants with memorable gusto.” 

Pete Brown

Songwriter, Poet  


“Shalom Bomb is powerful, ecstatic ... incomparably imaginative, committed and aware writing.”  

Michael Horovitz



“Bernard Kops’ work is poignant, life-affirming, deceptively simple, honest to the core and steeped in his Jewish identity. He is one of the great poetic voices of his generation.”  

Chry Salt, MBE

Poet, Playwright, Producer








Walking With Peter


Walking with Peter

we were like children

happy and silly

and singing lost songs.

A trio of friends.

Across Hampstead Heath

and in Golders Hill Park.

Erica and Peter and

me in the middle.

We dawdled together.

Every day we were there

talking of angels and god not all there

and Peter hugged trees

in Kenwood in the rain.

And we laughed in the sunshine

for this was our world

in that forest of dreams

where life was forever.

And ever and ever.

And nobody cried.

And nobody died.




Hall of Mirrors


He came for me tonight with shooting stars.

He came towards me in the dark

firing crimson grass.

I love you my brother, creeping through the dark;

I wait for you to hurl the flash and chant the black.


He came for me tonight and sang the trees.

Into the hall of mirrors he scattered eyes.

We elongate, distend and try to pray

and point and grimace, laugh; then blend and sway

into the passage of our father’s psalm;

and end our dream of days and shattered glass.


Shattered glass always figures in my dreams;

in this hall of mirrors where I wait for him.

I wait for him to roll me up in earth,

to take me to the ocean made of mothers’ tears.





bern amend af 72 IMG_6665


For my muse Erica! Who else?