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IV. Stages
Yes, No, Maybe So, or in the
Barrel
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University Days
I read a book review in the New York Times recently. It was a review by Sandra Simonds of a book by Jorie Graham and in the last paragraph it said, “In our historical moment, the question is not only what poetry can do, but whether it can make experience legible at all.” I read that sentence and I read it again and I read it a third time but I still didn’t get it.
And it brought me back to my university days, when I would sit silently in the seminar room, observing the lively discussion among my classmates but never joining in, afraid to open my mouth and confess that I didn’t understand something lest they all laugh at me and conclude that I was a dummy who should never have been admitted into that fine university in the first place.
But that was a long time ago. Things are different now. I am a grown-up, mature and independent, brimming with self-confidence. Shy no more. I read the sentence out loud: “In our historical moment, the question is not only what poetry can do, but whether it can make experience legible at all.” And I asked my question: “What in the world is that supposed to mean?” And the cat, who had been curled up on the chair next to mine, yawned and stretched. She shot me a withering glare of disdain and, tail held high, she marched out of the room.
Like my classmates of yore, Fluffy does not abide dummies. —Pesach Rotem
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On the Fourteenth of July
for Jimmy
Please have a happy birthday, dear. Just minimize all awkwardness. You have survived another year.
Be thankful that you are still here. There is no reason for distress. Please have a happy birthday, dear.
Assume each greeting is sincere. You heard from Jason, Jack, and Jess? You have survived another year.
Would you prefer to disappear? Not in a minute is my guess. Please have a happy birthday, dear.
Attempt to feel a bit of cheer. Rethink the meaning of success. You have survived another year.
Would you like cake? Some wine or beer? Tomorrow you can convalesce. Please have a happy birthday, dear. You have survived another year. —Jane Blanchard
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Becoming Us
I didn’t think that anyone could know you better than yourself, but someone knew me, one time, better than I knew myself. I don’t remember who, but do recall the revelation, back in second grade. I’d learned what obstetrician meant and had decided that’s what I was going to be when I grew up for O to bring a life into this world—and every day! It could not have been my mom; she would have been thrilled for me to be a doctor. It could not have been my dad; half-German, he would never talk about feelings although, half-Irish, he had his share of them. Perhaps an aunt or older cousin; all my cousins were much older and available to talk on serious subjects. So when someone asked,
How would you cope were you to lose a patient?
when I was seven, I knew instantly they had a point. And, notwithstanding how much I loved science, and was good at it, I realized that I would not become a doctor. And only as an adult I learned that Research might have been an option. By then, though, I’d already become me.
Years later still I learned that in Research they used a lot of animals, which would have closed that door to me as well. And as for losing a life, just the loss of you, I can’t get over. But at least you’re still alive so there is hope, or there might be, if I can only get you deprogrammed, out of that lynch mob, less fond of the noose, to hear The Doctor, learn what you’ve become, what it will take for you to be re-born, if such a birth is even possible. —James B. Nicola
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Book XXIV: The Great Rooted
Bed*
*
on our Wednesday half days I drive you take a book of my poems from your pocket I will read it aloud you say
your voice caresses the lines a slight hesitation as you reach for meaning your smile at the shock of discovery as images reveal their layers
you follow my footsteps as if in snow observe tracks alert to nuance and direction
and I follow you as you follow me the fullness of your silence between stanzas I hear my words in new patterns fresh from your mouth at the final line you bow your head
I am twice blessed —Judy Belsky
*
The Narrow Band
I wear this narrow band daily, I’ve had four of them, falling loose, misplacing, replacing. And my husband stays by me wondering where I put them, never angry, just knowing I don’t pay for the rings nor do I pay attention to where I lay things down over decades. The ring, now slender gold with petite diamonds across the front, I paid for thinking it was time to pay for my losses. The details of his caring, providing, fathering, fixing broken objects hoses, sinks, light fixtures, “Daddy-fix it!” our young children cried out, bringing him a broken truck, a doll’s twisted arm…. Yes, the children are now past middle age, graying, balding (our son), dyeing hair (our daughter), has we walk through the autumn of our lives through illness and health, as if we were taking our vows once again. I hold this ring, dearest to my heart. So many stages, passing from youthful twenties to early thirties having no idea of death before us, waiting patiently for our arrival. It is no time for regrets. What’s past is done. The preciousness of each day overrides all that’s gone. —Paula Goldman
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CHRYSALIS
I have other things to do, other places to go. Like the monarch butterfly that takes five generations to make each major migration, my soul seems to need a chrysalis before it breaks into each new stage of its journey, a period of quiet, growth and peace, a solo existence.
The epiphytes here hang from that branch drawing their water from the air. Threatened, like me, they yet still hang on, cling to life, drinking each drop of moisture sucked from humidity, and mineral and other nourishment with it.
Kind HaShem, grant me the strength to carry on through each of the forty-nine stages of my journey. Help me to peel open a new life and fulfill its utmost within each phase that yet remains. —Alyssa A. Lappen
* Re-born
My father hoped I’d be a boy but accepted me with unbounded joy, new born I lay, all squeals and kicks, a little sister for Ruth, aged six. I married the man who stole my heart, re-born as wife, a whole new start in another country across the sea, in time becoming mother of three. For nearly forty years as wife through all the ups and downs of life, ‘til husband’s illness - slowly worse, I was re-born as thankless nurse.
I watched him fade for thirteen years towards oblivion, hid my tears, forgetting all he’d ever known; re-born as widow, free, alone.
I met a gentle, loving man, re-born, a full new life began, deprived of “golden years” before I had them now, and so much more.
My children married, their children too, as years slipped by my family grew, re-born as matriarch of them all I’m keeping track of big and small.
I moved to a flat, compact, brand new above grand-daughter, splendid view, re-born as pensioner, duties shed, now they all care for me instead.
At ninety-one, a ripe old age, I’ve been re-born at every stage, through joy and sadness, loss and gain, I doubt more stages still remain. —Rumi Morkin
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*
[untitled]
I turn my gaze toward you I/eye see a broken vessel
shattering my broken heart Bend down to gather those scattered pieces remnants of a wholeness bringing light and joy to those who behold I clutch them close each reflecting a memory, a story a subtle smile a naughty nod a reflective radiance a melancholy murmur a mischievous moment all loving labor I stop my steps lost in the mind of eternity and ask, can these pieces be reassembled into perfection? or will signs and scars leave their mark on man? the hurt heart will heal [perhaps] and life will reclaim its rhythm plunging into uncharted places —Golda Rivka Warhaftig
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On The Way To The Ballet
The old ladies march Onto the elevator, Steadied by their canes, Each a shrunken frailty Wrapping an unending Soul—they are going To watch young people Dance dances of grace And beauty, while re- Calling their own beauty Long dissolved in the Acid of time. Yet, they Are happy—I even joke With them as I lean on My own cane: “Come Ladies! Let’s have a Foot race!” They all Laugh, as the young Girls within their Tattered frames Flirt with the potent Young man hiding Behind my time- Marked mask. For a moment We all feel a jolt Of that spark We call life. —Nolo Segundo
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“THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE”
When I consider that the greatest share By far, of my sublunar days is flown, And that how long I shall remain aware Of all that I have witnessed, is unknown, Then friends and places pass before my eyes As if glimpsed briefly from a railway car, And though placed out of reach, the heart's surmise Would have me think of them as things that are; Or like some house where now I cannot go But still it stands, while memory holds a key: Its heaped-up goods, its windows still aglow, Will vanish when the light goes out of me. O could that world somehow obtain reprieve, For breath itself perhaps, I would not grieve. —Esther Cameron
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End of Fall
Leaves flowing swiftly to the ground, as I fall into the winter of my life, how did this all come about? No more pennies. Where is my copper hair. Dying it monthly to stay myself, yes, potions and lotions can’t remove the journey of my life bringing me to the end of fall. Warm and beautiful fall’s Wisconsin, deep reds, bold yellows, life giving greens, all dying out. And now color comes in tubes, lipstick, rouge, eyebrow fillers added to a pharmacy of lotions and potions which cannot erase my life’s journey. And why would I want to? Because I want it back like lost keys, lost scarves, lost shoes. I cannot dwell in loss. And now “till death do us part” is hunkering in the house with an ill husband. What do I see next? The news isn’t good. —Paula Goldman
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LITTLENESS AND GREATNESS
I move my lips in the rhythm of your lips without your seeing I engrave your explanations on my skin Without your seeing You who begot me you old gray sinking And you know the whole Torah In the beginning of conception was union And then the drop issued in the aspect of ten kingdoms And afterwards in gestation these Ten spheres were perfected— The external ones— I quiet my demons with clown-like movements Without your seeing You were pleasant to me how pleasant you were to my bleating body And you explain to me about the thickness of the root About the issuance of a new countenance the male and the female in the body of the points And about and about You explain to me the general rule And skip over the particular Like the beloved skipping over the mountains unhurried fearless And you say birth means the issuance of the second person to a countenance with a name singled to itself And thus the wheel turns and returns turns and returns And after the suckling The second aspect, of love-judgment-compassion enters with nine joints I want to grow old with you To stride before you all flashing rejoicing Your wisdom is braided into me fastened inside me hidden And afterward in greatness Enter Wisdom-Understanding-Knowledge in 9 spheres And are gradually enclothed O mind O greatness Soul higher soul supernal soul — revelation! Raising from the supernal illumination of the lower descent of Kingdom Enclothing in the Ancient of perfect lights
I concentrate on the breath of your mouth the Urim and Thummim Outside a dark dawn is rising elongated reddened cypresses From the house a baby’s crying As she seeks consolation at her mother’s nipple — Chana Kremer
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FIVE POEMS by JUDY BELSKY
in the end the calligraphy of strain, of illness slides off your face like disappearing ink Is there a message tucked in the folds of shrouds? at the last possible moment your skin is lit from within with anticipation for a new story
early on someone named you named, you are released from the tight husks that bind your DNA but then you edit down your parts hiding overcome with confusion lost in translation lacking a bridge of words now a second naming takes place the whole of you marches out of your tired body bold you spring forward out of the shadows as if there never was a secret
the banal the petty the spiteful the rages interred easily like light pebbles among the inert stones your powerful deeds form a golden arc you ride it to Heaven
like stars against a clear night you appear your intentions organize constellations everything makes sense now finally you relax
your tiers crown you like the twelve stones around Jacob’s head
you leave in the instant we get to know you one glimpse and you are gone
you get to sleep safe from wars plague and tiresome journeys we are almost envious
*
today I find a small package of replacement buttons even buttons tell a story how your hand eased open the heavily starched hole and no they never got it right and no you never complained you made them feel like royalty and the tradesmen lined up weeping as you passed the way the king’s subjects line the road to catch a last glimpse.
the pearly buttons seem to have grown and must be pushed into place a tale of struggle—arthritis and learned patience
year before when we move to Memphis you are still pulsating on New York time in the parking lot of eastgate shopping mall you ignore the vast, empty spaces double park leave your engine running you shake up the staid atmosphere in the dime store as you urgently request white thread and needles you seethe as the molasses girl carefully wraps the package hands you change, thanks you and begs y’all come again.
that evening, I watch you sew a button on your shirt you look bemused do you after all see the charm in the scenario? when you replay it are you struck by grace in each act?
your heart is a magnet for kindness you collect it as some do rare coins your collection grows
when I see you sewing on that button with wide masculine movements I recall the midrash on Avraham who repaired the rip in the world and his character is kindness he roots out their distortions and detours and false starts and sews a true seam and with circular motion pulls people into his sacred arc
you do not trip on the rough terrain of your own heart the wild plains of pain, shame and rejection you use these as signposts to read the text in stymied hearts you row hard against the current pulling love and regard into your wake against the current you soothe and prepare hearts for the truth
*
I scratch at the layers
search through sheaves dig for my last stanza in the hopes it will prompt a new one
but the backlog of two years stacks against me leaves of frail volumes stick together blue black veins stain parchment text escapes transparent vellum
the pandemic misfires the code of his kidneys quarantine arrests my pancreas we dance in jagged rhythm
the ragged edges of pages one for each friend who died demand a line: when will his when will mine be ripped from the tablet will someone gather them
bury them like geniza fragments of sacred text impossible to read too holy to burn
* in the film the woman is tone deaf but longs to sing opera she murders the score she reduces the exquisite landscape to rubble I cannot bear the sound attack nor her pitiful denial I never watch the end
at a funeral as her husband is buried a woman screams his name over and over we cannot hear our thoughts we hear nothing but his name his name captures us in blindfolds and pushes us toward a foreign country I refused to be taken hostage
I have not written since my husband died have I chosen silence? grief cancels words a push on the chest produces harsh emission from injured vocal chords it breaks any expectation
if grief is a language it is buried below the level of speech a groan is language known only to God no midrash breaks up the dark mass of despair no crescendo rises to that hint of redemption that takes away our breath then forces us to breathe again
*
the door
is deeply paneled I want to fold into its geometry rest in its grooves like a bird concealed in a tree
the force of history threatens to blow the door off its hinges but it holds tight I inch the door from its frame
air blasts out the current repels me and beckons me like wind that rushes off the sea drenches me with salt and alters my features
I suck breath into parts of my lungs that have lain in shallows like hungry orphans
the grind of my grief the pull of low tones of bone chant pursue me I push past them
lies drop around me like samplers embroidered with worn out phrases You are a widow Defined by your loss Your hour has passed You are at an equinox You count away from time You walk into your shadow
lies shed like old skin
dust motes dance in beams of sunlight I know this place I know its contours as well as I know the four- chambered mansion of my heart
the room is empty unscripted unpainted it waits for me furious poet without words ferocious painter without canvas it bids me enter
my heart beats I will I will
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DUST AND WATER
I poured dust and set the stone and since then A riddle reposes in all the silent fields When I help you to press the head out The rescue rope tightens In the form of a question mark You tear your mouth open in a roar of mourning You listen to the gushing of water And the silence that comes afterward My body is stretched out covered with seaweed Ear pressed to the earth Babies are like the dead they do not Seek solutions Your baby girl has beautiful eyes She cuts corners for me —Chana Kremer
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A Prisoner of War
Our parents die but they often don’t leave us alone. My father died, yet he’s with me— as absent as when he was here. And I’m adrift trying to reach him. Trying hard
to figure him out — the distance he kept— a far shore I haven’t reached. I’ve always missed him and still hope to see a faint smile of pride in me (if just a trace). I ask him: why?
I’ve wondered if he buried a hurt too deep to reveal, a void of loss he couldn’t escape: a prisoner of war held back by a great wound— losses that haunted him and wouldn’t let him heal.
He left me here alone, still waiting, wondering why we failed to bridge love’s chasm before he left for good. —Amos Neufeld
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DRAGONFLY
The dragonfly overhead could be Mom's reincarnation, or maybe just sent to remind me that she's here, inside, always, with her loves of nature, art, music and children. The kingfisher calls, and that too is Mom, shot through the whole out-of-doors. In the shade by the quiet lake, she filters through every leaf, every pine needle, pine cone, through every bug, every bird, every ray of light shining in the water, every fish crow's call, even that yellow butterfly winging overhead, and the zebra butterfly drinking nectar from the orange blossoms beside me. The kingfisher—is it Mom?—calls again, in answer to my notice. Gone almost three years, she is, but still here, within the anhinga, within the bee, and deep deep within me. --Alyssa A. Lappen May 7, 2026
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