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V. Nowhere Else to Build
IN A MIND’S EYE
Safe behind the window glass of a country inn, I study the bees gathered at red spikes blazing across the lawn. Spinning clouds carelessly shroud the neighboring castle, ghostlike. It is early morning in Konigstein and a pale young man, too young to remember, confidently offers me foaming kaffe mit milch on a silver tray. The English guest politely prefers a tisane, cheerfully wishing me a good day. I picture my family snug upstairs, asleep under thick white comforters, shuttered against the sun. It is the unctuous manager, suddenly at my table, who sounds the alarm in my head. I laugh out loud to scare away danger upsetting the early morning’s fragile balance. Insects feel spied upon, give up their red flowers. Clouds drift away. The castle, now perfectly revealed, is even more mysterious— like the early hours in a Saxon village, unpredictable, unknown. My coffee is cold and tasteless. I race upstairs to awaken the others, to hurry them away. I fear exposure. There is no time to waste. We must move quickly.
—Virginia Wyler
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TORQUEMADA: IN SITU
She breathes in deeply sucking her bruises into her body each breath curls in the full of the sun not quite whole not frail a lost puzzle piece mis-placed shrugged off sets gaps in her puzzled face why eyes trick eyes in noon glare smudge the landscape speck the lid’s corner I rub at the fringes torn satin dress in twirl great-grandmother’s relics uncovered laced black mantilla pulled wide round the tiny girl’s neck la chica memoirs unlocked rooted distress so distant so hoary whispers and echoes auto-da-fe ungodly disciples savage Inquisitors The Grand Inquisition scribed told and mourned bodily jointly ours the twelve tribes Conversos Marranos hands tied lips gagged foreplay inflamed Isabella The Final Expulsion The Final Solution badges of yellow omens of terror fire Der Fuhrer massacres mass acres ever forever undying massacres holy revulsions scrapheaps my heirlooms my cup runneth over I carry my story I carry my shadow barely aware storm amid sun my universe hovers lodestars to darkness squalls at the door-jamb brutal tormenta I inhale deeply I must keep small. —Virginia Wyler
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BORN TO THE MELTING POT
When a fire heats a vessel, a melting down process ensues, removing most distinguishing features, creating a uniform substance of sorts. The vessel’s a melting pot like the Hillside Homes of my childhood— the first US housing project funded by federal monies to melt down Americans.
When a fire blocks all exits, allowing no escape, whatever is true metal is branded bright in sonnets, odes and free verse music, rhyme and metaphors to vanquish the sight, smell, the feel of terror’s katyushas and slit throats.
When a fire ignited from within burns its way out, desperate to release a thrust of energy, scathing in its heat, the fire soars from the Sabbath candles to a lighter place with panoramic vision. —Leah LJ Gottesman
STORY-TELLER
No tree, no leafy bush, but endless sand and rock stretch towards infinity. No scorpion, snake or desert fox scurries through the sand or over the rock.
Sometimes in the evening we come with tambourine or drum and gather near the center of the camp and sing songs of yearning, songs celebrating our new freedom.
And in the center of our circle, with a colorful wrap around her shoulders, and her deep eyes dancing from face to face, Miriam tells stories of our fathers and of the promise that awaits.
Transfixed, we sit on a woven mat spread across the sands, our eyes on the prophetess, our ears clinging to the intonation of her voice and to the gems that leave her lips.
—Ruth Fogelman
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CIRCLE OF RETURN: ON THE ROAD TO BETHLEHEM
I. Ruth Reminisces
What made me marry someone from a strange land?
I
struggled when my family cut me off
he’s not one of us, and when my friends vanished, one by one.
I never felt happy in the palace, did not relate to gods of wood or stone. There must be more to life, I thought, for no idol created the stars, the moon, the sun.
Could be that’s why I married Chilion; somehow he held a key to higher goals. Or did I marry him to get close to his mother— a woman of silent strength?
While Chilion taught me the laws of Israel I struggled with years of childlessness, maybe next month, he always encouraged me, but he left me – a widow without child.
Widowhood in Moab means you are no longer a person. Naomi alone supported me, sharing my loss, and continued teaching me the ways of Israel, reminiscing on life in Bethlehem.
Was it hard for me to pack up, pick up and leave my country, my birthplace, my fathers’ home? Emotionally, I had long ago left, little by little, until no roots remained.
A voice within, like the sound of a candle’s flame, whispered, Arise, go with Naomi.
II. Naomi Remembers
Heaven knows I didn’t want to leave Bethlehem, despite the harsh famine – to go to a strange land with monstrous gods and profane tongue, stealing away at midnight so neighbors would not see or hear.
Oh, the journey through the night, the steady plod of donkey hoofs, rumble of wagon wheels on rubble paths and howl of jackals in the hills.
My Elimelech – when did he ever listen to me? Oh, the struggle of gagging my tongue and follow my man. And the boys? They dared not argue, especially when he spoke of taking us to a place with food. His arguments made sense: Why should we stay, pay such prices for wheat when there it’s cheap? Should your mother go out, searching for wild mallow to cook?
The boys shook their heads, looked down at their feet and at the barren earth whose wide cracks, like open lips, screamed for rain, and the boys did not insist on staying in Bethlehem with their friends.
Oh, the struggle of living among strangers— their eyes shot disdain when we passed them on the way; their lips curled in a sneer as they mocked the G-d of Israel, the Law of Israel.
And now, alone I return with Ruth.
—Ruth Fogelman *
WHISPER
Whisper under the olive trees And the birds will sing
Distant tambourine Carry it everywhere They will come
From behind spidery silken threads And thin green blades
And they will delicately peck at the words And form their own In a cacophony of Hodu. —Mindy Aber Barad
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OVER THE OCEAN
What I seek Is not over the ocean But under an olive tree
My beloved is the expectant sky Awaiting its first clouds The bubbly dark ones Whose job it is just to quench
The answer is just beyond my lips A taste away from pure immersion I anticipate the encompassing The flow around me and within
Not over the ocean But from the replenished spring That nourishes the olive tree.
—Mindy Aber Barad
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DESERT MOUNTAINS
Mountains, dark, stark Viewed from above Rocky facets, sharply cutting the air Resting on a relentless, wrinkled expanse, A vast tan desert landscape Etched by dried streams. Powerful sculptures by the world’s master.
—Don Kristt
* LANGUAGE OF LONGING
The great and sequestered light moves through us in tremors of longing,
yearning, ardor and great stirrings of languish and we are sick of love.
Raindrops beyond number, each contain a world ten thousand windows of spectrumed light.
to awaken the flowering fruit of the brave Caper likened to Israel, it thrives undaunted among sharp rocks,
stamens, petals and fruit berries, strong scented spider flowers to intoxicate pollen bearing lives.
When it is time how shall I part from this parched and beloved land so sorrowed of longing from this scented earth that languishes with desire.
After winter rains earth stirrings can be heard. A kiss of dew brings forth new song. –Shira Twersky-Cassel
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FOR THE SAKE OF THE LIVING AND THE DEAD
Rachel, continue to weep In the wide open spaces In the clefts of the rock On the heights of lofty mountains In deep cavities of the earth
Weep for the dead who could have lived Weep for the living who could have died For all of us who live holding our satchel of death Terrified to let it down To drop the burden and release the mangled bodies Unclothed, cold, exposed to wind and rain
Weep for the children Alone and hungry Crouching, whimpering, in desolate fields Weep for the mothers, hoarding bread For the children they see only in dreams Weep for the kingdom of dreams Ripped open, ravaged, laid bare Weep, mother Rachel, weep bitterly And comfort us By refusing to be comforted —Gila Landman
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Naftali Fraenkel (16, from Nof Ayalon), Gilad Shaer (16, fromTalmon), and Eyal Yifrah (19, from Elad)
*
WE PROMISED
for Naftali Fraenkel, Gilad Shaer, and Eyal Yifrah hy”d
So, when we prayed, you were already sleeping. We searched for you — you were already home. A joyful innocent smile, magnified Above the stage, will remain with us, and also The song we sang and will keep on singing. We’ll keep awake. We’ll not let the enemy divide us. And with this we’ll keep on raising you, our sons.
—E. Kam-Ron
*
[UNTITLED]
Dove of Israel, a torn-off leaf in her mouth, wishing that "the sword will not pass through" As He is compassionate so you. The disciples of the priests desire peace.
Dove of Israel, bathed in blood. Pure lamb surrounded by wolves,. We were born with no choice of birthing-stool. Sweet nectar was poured out like water, The level of blood rose up to heaven.
We returned to Zion beaten and bruised We were almost cut off from our root in G-d The leprosy has spread in the land without restraint: Cruel robbers seek blood, lie in wait for us within and without.
Our land is desolate for them They will take no compensation for it We are a thorn in their side, In their hearts are thoughts of violence and burning Our blood will water the capital.
We wrote "peace" on a white flat. We gave them our sanctuary, sovereignty and territory— we became like Achan. Dens of vipers they secretly dug. They repaid us with a sharpened cleaver.
If they were wise they would understand this: The tears of mothers bereaved of sons The tears of joy of the mothers of suicide bombers. Peace brings war. But war brings peace.
L et us begin by separating and end by joining.Let us stiffen our neck to a mighty people. Let us remove from our necks the yoke of the hairy one. He will return vengeance to His enemies and the land will atone for His people. The One who dwells in the burning bush will make your light shine. Mashiach ben David will redeem Zion. G-d will dwell in the tents of Shem. We shall put on the diadem, the candelabrum and the olive tree. I, G-d, in its time will hasten it. —Elyakim Hirschfeld from the Hebrew: E. Kam-Ron) *
SO MUCH CLOSER
After the Har Nof Massacre 5875 "I will be sanctified by those that cling to me" (Lev. 9:3)
They were closer to You, they spoke, how can it be that innocent souls whose lips that called Your Name each day, and nothing else. They fell to a fire of them that spread, profane
thoughts wrapped with gilt edged exteriors, so pure it seemed, guile deceived as sanctity, ah yes with the ring a sharp sword meant to bless the wounded with words that fall. It was a cure
perhaps, at the perimeter, at the cusp of where they sought to touch, a kiss, to somewhere else the space between the gaps
to Eternity, it was their time to clasp hands, to touch the Endless plane, all of this, all at once fill the gaps, take hold, and grasp. . —Zev Davis
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TO AMERICA, ON THE EVE OF THE DAY OF ATONEMENT
I loved you once, America; and still that love, perhaps, is not quite dead in me, could I but see you as you were until you fell to folly—brave and proud and free.
I dwell with friends to whom you are untrue and, proving so, your deepest vows unsay. Could you still hear a voice that summons you back to yourself, though from so far away? —E. Kam-Ron
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SUNDOWN FRIDAY
The trees up on the ridge sharp silhouetted, sky sundown pink, translucent evening.
On the flat roofs below a horde of white cylinders and solar panels, and deformed derelict television antennas.
All at rest. No movement.
In the street's sudden quiet, the siren marks the start. The week's burdens shed in the tranquillity. Shabbat. —Michael E. Stone 31.1.14
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[5353] EREV YOM
KIPPUR *
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