By Eileen Wingard
LA JOLLA, California — The ninth season of Jewish Poets–Jewish Voices, opened Tuesday, January 17, in the Astor Judaica Library of the Lawrence Family JCC, with a stellar trio of local poets who came from three different regions of the world and shared poetry in Hebrew, English and Yiddish.
Israeli poet, Ilana Brosh, residing this year in San Diego with her husband, Oded Brosh, the visiting professor at SDSU’s Judaic Studies Program, read her poignant poetry, first in Hebrew, then the English synopsis or translation. Her poetry was serious, dealing with subjects such as her longing for home and reflections on Yom haZikaron, the Israeli Day of Remembrance.
Marc Rolnik, who was born in Brooklyn, delivered his poetry in English. It was filled with creative imagery and imaginative word choice. He also showed how various poems were laid out on the page. He was not ready to share any samples for this article.
Samantha Lennon’s poetry reflected her life experiences. She is a native of South Africa. She opened with a poem about her love for her son.The example below of her poetry has many Yiddish expressions intertwined with the English.
During the open microphone portion, six audience members shared their works. Afterwards, most of the thirty attendees remained to chat with the poets.
Always in the Chamsin by Ilana Brosh (in Hebrew, then
in English)
תמיד בחמסין
אילנה אלראי-ברוש ירושלים תשע”בפעם היינו חוגגים יומולדת לאבא מיכאל
ליד הקבר אחת לשנה בעשרים ושבעה ביוני.
וOPA היה מתחיל לקרוא:
יתגדל ויתקדש.
ומיד נשנק.
מעביר את הסידור לדוד רפאל
ואומר בבכי:”איש קאן נישט מער”.
שמה רבא.
וסבתא מלי ודודה רות ודודה סופי היו
חובשות צעיפים שקופים לראשיהן.
רק אמא לא.
כי היא הייתה גרושה.
ועירית הייתה בוכה.
ואני לא.וביום שני ה-18 ביוני
תשעה ימים לפני היומולדת
אבוא לבדי
לבדוק איך זה מרגיש לך
ככה אחרי בדיוק חמישים שנה
של הקץ העצמי ברחוב בצלאל בבאר שבע.
וחושבת שחבל שאני לא מאלה שמשתטחות על הקברים.
ככה להשתטח עלייך.
פנים אל פנים.
אבר אל אבר.
להרגיש
איך זה מרגיש.
ככה למות.
לבד.
בחמסין.
לפני חמישים שנה.תמיד בחמסין*
We used to celebrate Michael’s – our dad’s – birthday once a year by his grave on June 27th.And Opa – our grandfather, would start reading;Yitgadal VeytkadashAnd immediately choke up.He would hand the Siddur over to our uncle Raphael and would say in a tearful voice – Ich kann nicht mehr.Shme Raba.And grandma Malli and aunt Ruth and aunt SophieWould wear thin see-through head scarfsOnly Mom did not as she was divorced.And Irith would cryAnd I would not.
And this coming Monday on June 18thNine days before your birthdayI will come alone to find out how does it feel exactly after 50 years of taking your own life in Bezalel St. in Beer Sheva.And I keep thinking that it’s a pity that I am not one of those that lie down on the graveJust like thatFace to faceLimb to limbTo feelHow does it feelTo die just like thatAloneOn a ChamsinFifty years ago.*Chamsin – a dry, hot, sandy local wind making the weather very hot and dry in the summer. Usually beginning in June.
I wrote this poem 4.5 years ago. My father committed suicide when I was nearly 8 years old and this is a recurring subject in my poems. In the poem there is also a reflection of a custom in Israel mainly by Jews from North Africa to lie down face to face on graves of Zadikkim and deceased loved ones.*
Excerpt from GRANDPARENTS’ DAY, OY VEY! By Samantha LennonToday I am visiting my libe Bobe-Zeyde
When we arrive at their house,
I ring the bell,
I knock,
I ring.“He’s here, he’s here,” the kveln begins.
“Vos makht ir?” I say.
Plopping my suitcase on the floor.
“Zol zayn mit mazel!”Tate says to my Zeyde,
As my parents dash out the door.It’s not easy taking care of grandkids these days,
For we love to trick you
In our kinderishe ways.
It’s not simply fun and games,
You see,You’ll be zitsn oyf shpilkes
Taking care of me!
You put things together,
I take them apart.
I like to to practice my balancing shtiklekh
With your very expensive art.Yet you forgive me.
There’s no time for grown up shmuesen,
No altetchker snoozing
When I’m nudzsh’ing and nu’ing around.
The moment you sit down to khap a bisl nosh
I spill something on the ground!“Dayge nisht” says Bobe, turning my sorrow around.
Such love I feel.
I’m always certain to kvetch un plats mit gelekher
When we are shlepn about
Putting your makh shnel-ing into a balagan, no doubt.I protest and I kvetsh
I get all tangled up in a mess.
Still, you have pride in me.
“Aza nakhes fun kinder!” Zeyde gleams when I’m around.*
Wingard is a freelance writer specializing in coverage of the arts. She may be contacted via eileen.wingard@sdjewishworld.com