A potpourri of Jewish poetry

By Eileen Wingard

LA JOLLA, California — The fifth season of “Jewish Poets—Jewish Voices” concluded  last month at the Astor Judaica Library in the Lawrence Family JCC. During its first five seasons, the series featured local poets and song writers expressing themselves not only in English, but also in Yiddish, Hebrew, Ladino, Russian, Spanish and French.

Three poets were usually featured each evening during the first hour. This was followed by a half hour of open mike.  During the first five years, two evenings were devoted to young poets. These young writers from the San Diego Jewish Academy and the Soille Hebrew Day School were a special treat.

Next season, now being planned, will include the first evening devoted to a great Jewish Poet of the past, Chaim Nachman Bialik. Gabriella Hartstein Labson, who specialized in the study of this great poet at Stern College, will organize the evening and speak about Bialik’s life and times. Selections of his poetry will be read. The Havurat Zemer Choir will sing several settings of his poetry and in my capacity as a violinist, I will play several melodies on the violin to which his poetry has been set.

The last two evenings from the 2013 season included the following poems:

JERUSALEM, CITY OF STONE
(c) Margie Lipman, read by her granddaughter, Audrey Jacobs

Look to the hills and the valleys of
Jerusalem, city of stone.
Stone buildings climb the hillsides,
Huge boulders stand alone.

Terraces gird the hillsides,
Braced with Jerusalem stone.
There, grudging, the earth is yielding
And forests and orchards are grown.

Pink and grey and golden,
Stones every shape and size,
Textures that scrape your fingers,
Textures a smooth surprise.

Look at the people who live here,
Sabras and those from afar,
Of every kind and color—
How, like the stones they are.

How, like the stones, they stand there,
Stubborn, determined to stay,
To keep this city of history,
And no one shall drive them away.

To guard every stone and hillside,
To plant and reap and sow,
To work and play and study,
In the city’s golden glow.

Where each one is free to worship
His creator, Allah or God,
In this heart of the world’s religions,
On Jerusalem’s ancient sod.

Stay then, eternally watchful
The people, the stones and the hills,
Intransigent in Your purpose,
Undaunted in Your will.

*

BALI REVELATION

(c) Aimee Greenberg

Cold hard plates who stole the cookies from under the covers
where the back rubs were too short or too hard
where daddy carried me out of his bed to my own
where the boogie man left his calling card only seconds before

the grease is thin in the matzoh ball soup this year
congealed fat like yellow jello
the hallmark of Jewish cooking
every parent has a favorite child

she was his.

*

SANDY HOOK SANTA
(c) Aimee Greenberg

He steps off his plane onto his sleigh
into the cold Connecticut air
heavy with the taste of pain

A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck
weaves in and out of his brain

The weight of the world
pressing his chest
He gasps for air as he enters
the tiny high school music room where faces
torn and battered with one part hopeful collapse
and stiffen at the empty handed Santa

Where are our children? (their faces read)
they bring stories too fresh for human ears|
Every tragedy has a silver lining the flash says
as loved ones snap pictures with dazed and wiggly siblings on Santa’s lap
restless for the missing piece of the family puzzle

It wasn’t the Christmas planned
the one expected, predicted
a kiss and a peck and a hug around the neck
a hug around the neck
a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck

Jesus was a Yemen
Papa was a rollin’ stone
Santa is a black man in this fallen town.

*
JOSEPHINE
(c) Heidi Lerner

I would like to introduce you

to Josephine,

She’s a woman

I once worked with,

Who taught me

what TRUE CARING means.

A sweet lady –

Who lost her balance,

Fell down the stairs,

Though she didn’t want to,

She needed to

accept help with personal repairs.

 

I’d come in and help her

adapt and cope,

She’d say that I’d cause her

to salvage some hope.

When she’d come upon troubles,

The two of us would strategize,

To avoid her efforts coming to a demise,

We’d individualize,

Then she’d try that on for size.

 

She remained a proud woman,

In private

her personal affairs were kept.

I’d aid her only

with what she’d accept!

 

I cherished

that delicate, fragile lady,

for the inner peace and strength she contained;

And that’s observing her with a traumatized brain!

 

She was a single mother of two

in the time of the Depression,

A counselor in her day –

Now, friends would call on her

for her sweet-hearted intercession.

 

She knew of my personal struggle

with injury to the head,

This really helped her,

as she continually said.

 

I was there

to be of service to her,

And I would leave her place

feeling afreshed,

Angel of a lady –

In helping her,

I’d come out feeling blessed!

*
TWO SLIPS OF PAPER
(c) Jodi Friedman

Two slips of paper
are kept in my pockets-

In the right,
the message reads
‘The world was created just for me’

In the left,
‘I am merely dust and ash.’

When a soul in need approaches,
which pocket do I choose?

I am nothing,
I cannot, do not know how?

No, I see I have what is needed and people and ideas will fill in
where I lack.

When a soul in need
deeply troubled,

slanders, mocks,
or throws arrows at my head-

Do I anger and say,
“But the world was created for me!”

No, I reach into my left pocket
and remind myself,

‘I am merely dust’
These words do not belong to me-

They stick to nothing.
The troubled soul is shouting to himself.

Two slips of paper
were planted in my pockets-

Use them wisely
and prayer may be saved for impossible times.

Day to day,
God left these notes in my care.

 

*

 LOVE IV
(c) Jodi Friedman

Thirteen grueling hours of laborious pain-
Sweat tasting good
on my thick tongue.
Thirsty, without any appetite to move-
I lie, eyes wide/searching the room,
panting for a minute-respite.

Again, I am torn open
Pushing out.
I know she will be beautiful
or he, yes, he will be loved.

Bracing down,
I pack all my energy against
and push.

No cry- only scrambling bodies,
a blur of green scrubs all around me.
I close my wet eyes
and clench my teeth-
I cannot bear to ask.

*

Wingard is a freelance writer and retired violinist of the San Diego Symphony.  She may be contacted at eileen.wingard@sdjewishworld.com