By Eileen Wingard
LA JOLLA, California — With three outstanding featured poets and a large number of poets reading for open mic, last Tuesday evening’s Jewish Poets –Jewish Voices program was a memorable event.
Alecia Rodney opened with two poems about the trans experience. Another piece dealt with her affirmation of her Jewish identity. Her delivery was dramatic and captivating.
Michael Moskowitz presented poetry which reflected his keen sense of humor. One was about cell phones, another about a female widow who is looking for Mr. Right.
Guri Stark read one of his Hebrew poems in its original language, then in its English translation. He followed with other English translations of his poetry. Subjects included the grandfather whom he never met because he was a victim of the Holocaust, his mother on the street where Guri grew up, and other biographical poems.
Joy Heizmann served as emcee and Jane Zeer provided the refreshments for the reception that concluded the evening.
Here are examples from the three featured poets:
THE NIGHT MY EGG CRACKED by
© 2023 Alecia Rodney
It’s 3am on Feb 24th, this year.
I’m 45 days into a journey
that I didn’t know I was meant to take.
It’s an ungodly hour
And I’m still wide awake.
Closed down the bars,
Went back to my hotel
I should be off to bed
But, oh, what the hell!
Away from my wife, I’m standing before this beautiful woman
whom I didn’t know I was meant to meet.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking,
This guy’s just another cheat!
Her 4-inch wedge heels placed on the floor
Her Ferragamo clutch dropped near the door.
I take a look in the mirror
and feel my heart race
That angelic hair,
that beautiful face.
I’m enthralled by her sultry voice;
Strained from talking over the bar room cacophony all night long.
I’m enamored by her colorful choice;
Of a purple dress and white pearls, too elegant for this small ill-lit room
I’m enraptured by her radiant smile,
Outlined by faded lipstick and energizing the air.
I’m entranced with her elegant style,
As our eyes lock in an unending stare.
If this sounds like a adultery,
Then the tale gets more sultry
I proclaim I never want this night to end
Please think about your wife
Does your marriage need this strife
Some actions you just can’t defend
Yet I’m in the room alone
Except for an image on my phone
You think she’s an imaginary friend?
You couldn’t be farther from the truth;
There’s nothing sordid about this moment!
She’s real; her presence intense.
Through the first 45 days of courtship
I had only caught glimpses of her.
Today I shed all pretense!
This beautiful she
Is a transformation of me
Who’s been in my soul all along.
As I let her reign free
I’m now meant to be
Feminine, prideful and strong!
This day started with a makeover
The night ends with a do-over
Of a life that’s walked 57 years in one incarnation
Moreover, tonight my egg cracked,
And I can never go back
Because I have some new information!
Alisha’s outward beauty exceeds my expectation,
But doesn’t come close to matching the inner light
She’s graced upon me for the past six weeks.
I’m not just coming out female;
I’m coming out happy,
I’m filled with self-love!
I fill others with joy!
I’m radiant with pride,
So come along for the ride
As I’m building a better me
Whose pronouns are her, hers and she!
*
SOMETHING S WRONG WITH MR. RIGHT by Michael Moskowitz
He’s the one I’m looking for,
According to his profile.
Politics are just like mine.
His clothes and hair have style.
Height and weight are what I want,
His face is a delight.
But always there’s an issue,
Something’s wrong with Mr. Right.
I’m hoping when I meet him,
He will be the perfect catch.
And all my expectations,
Are unquestionably matched.
Anticipation building,
So excited and alive.
Enduring all the frogs,
The prince has finally arrived!
The high hopes and the dreams,
Were just not meant to be.
The knight in shining armor
Was not at lunch with me.
Nice enough and so polite,
Expressive with a flair,
But there was nill excitement,
Not a spark flew in the air.
The note is soon to follow,
Can we have another date?
The would-be knight still thinks that
He has found his lifelong mate.
There will not be an encore,
A new prince looms in sight.
But that won’t work out either.
Something s wrong with Mr. Right.
*
THE HOUSE ON JABOTINSKY STREET by Guri Stark
On 23b Jabotinsky Street,
There is an old house, really old indeed.
A house where the walls are peeling,
And bathroom faucets are leaking,
And the tiles on the roof are broken and worn,
And the rain seeps in whenever there is a storm.
Next to the garbage bins are cats’ remnants,
Weeds grow wild on the path to the next-door tenants,
And the stairs are a bit broken it appears,
But it’s been like this for a good many years.
The street is narrow and crowded and small,
Cars rush and honk their horns as the traffic stalls,
No one has time, they are all rushing, rushing,
And when you need it, you can never find parking.
And the sidewalks are cracked, deep potholes and ruts,
Television antennas with drooping masts,
And a canopy of tall trees with shadows so vast.
From the apartment on the second floor above,
An old woman comes down with a basket in her hand,
Step by step, she descends as if in a crawl,
Holding the railing so she doesn’t stumble and fall.
She goes out into the street, hesitantly stops looking for a clue,
For a moment she forgot where she was hurrying to,
But she shakes it off quickly and she walks straight ahead,
As she is on a mission to buy fruit and vegetables, and butter and bread.
She skips heavily over sidewalk cracks and bricks,
Her unsteady hand holding a walking stick,
Trying not to stumble, not to fall, not to fail,
After all, her path has always been rugged and frail.
Waving hello to an old man she knows,
But there is no time to stop, she continues at all costs.
She is even humming, faking a song,
Really in a hurry, she must move along,
As she knows the main purpose of this affair,
Is to get out to the street and breathe some fresh air.
In the apartment on the second floor,
One living room, one bedroom, and no more,
And a long, narrow balcony, you know,
One that overlooks the neighbors down below.
Stone tiles on the floor and a kitchen tiny, small,
Dolls on a shelf, drawers full of chocolates balls.
An old sofa covered in a pink blanket,
An armchair in front of a picture by a strange artist,
Hebrew Encyclopedia books fill a shelf wide,
Laundry on the line that has long since dried.
And a dining room so tiny and small,
There is barely room for a table at all.
On 23b Jabotinsky Street, the place where I lived,
When I got there, I was just a little kid.
There I found friends, there I played hide-and-seek happily,
And my mother watched over me from the balcony.
I played doodles with a stick I found,
When I was hurt, I put tons of band-aids on my wound,
I was naughty, and I got into fights,
And chasing the girls was a special delight,
I didn’t care much about respecting the old,
And I ran fast, so I was told,
To the Gordon School at the end of the road.
There at Gordon I learned to write, there I learned to read,
The entire Bible and Hebrew literature indeed,
And art, and some painting,
And carpentry and sports training,
And also a little bit of history,
And English (mostly in theory),
And grammar and punctuation,
And even about the history of the nation.
There at Gordon I learned all the above,
And there I also learned… to love.
The old woman is already returning with baskets full to the max,
She stumbles back between the folds and the cracks,
She climbs up heavily one step at a time,
I’m fine she says, don’t worry, I’m fine.
And then when no one could watch or see her,
She sits down to rest in an old armchair.
She breathes for a moment, filling air in her lungs,
Then she rushes to the kitchen, there’s plenty of work to be done.
Her picture will remain with me forever,
Because after all, this old woman – was my mother.
The street has now been renovated, tall towers are built all-around,
Everything looks almost painfully modern, no quiet to be found.
The small houses are completely gone, disappeared,
And with them the pictures and the smells and the songs that I revered,
The street is still small and narrow and crowded,
Modern cars rush and honk as they turn the corner,
No one has time, not even a second to spare,
And finding a parking spot is still a challenging affair.
And the sidewalks are still cracked, and the grooves are vast,
And there are still a few antennas with drooping masts,
And the trees that were there were cut down – they didn’t last.
So when I come to visit, everything looks different and flawed,
The tall houses, and the bustling road.
Children no longer play hide-and seek happily,
And that old woman no longer looks down from the balcony.
When I come to visit, everything looks odd, like it all moved along.
And me, I feel a bit of a stranger, as if I don’t belong…
23 Jabotinsky Street is the paradise of the childhood I used to have,
Every time I pass by,
I am still searching for a glimpse of myself…
*
Eileen Wingard is a freelance writer specializing in coverage of the arts.