To return to the title page of the issue, click here.

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

 

 *

 

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

 

*

 

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

 

*

 

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
 
 *
 
THE UNDERSTUDY      
                               
A courtyard without doors is where you never go
unless you lose your way or long to hide
alongside brick-stacked buildings that cast
their dusky shadows before the light recedes.
A Moabite Princess emerged there in the Bronx—
a stage for me alone, a teen declaring vows,
pronouncing Naomi’s will her will, Naomi’s home her own,
until Ruth lured me to the lights.
 
I’ve moved since then; I’ve entered center stage
in fields where youthful David grazed his herds,
in fields of a shepherd’s flute, the glare, the outreached vines,
the sound of my name in Hebrew verse through wine-soaked heat.
 
But given the script of a redirected heart,
No Ruth can star without the “Goel’s” part.
                                                                               —Leah LJ Gottesman
 

*

 

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

               

 

 *

 

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

 

*

 

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

 

*

 

FOR THE SAKE OF THE LIVING AND THE DEAD

 

A cry is heard in the heights

Wailing, bitter, bitter weeping

Rachel weeping for her children...

She refuses to be comforted

For her children who are gone.

Jeremiah 31.15

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

 

 *

 

Naftali Fraenkel (16, from Nof Ayalon), Gilad Shaer (16, fromTalmon), and Eyal Yifrah (19, from Elad)

 

A CRY

 

Words are gifts from G-d but sometimes

there are no words.

They are consumed in the cauldron of fire

which burns in the heart.

Rage, revenge, the desire to destroy –

these too have their place.

Amalek must be erased.

 

But surrounding the burning fire in my heart,

lies a suffocating blanket

of sadness and sorrow

so heavy

I cannot breathe.

 

Help us Hashem.

Give us the wisdom to be wise,

to do what should be done.

 

Not forever shall we be sheep.

Judah is a roaring lion, destined

to sanctify Your name.

 

Empower us

to sanctify, protect and avenge

Your People and Your Name.

Embrace and comfort us

In our time of sorrow.

 –Yaffa Ganz

 

 

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.

 

Let 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

 

 

 * 

 

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

 

 *

 

SHIRA B’SHAMAYIM
 July 24, 2014

I sing to Hashem because He is in command
I sing as He hurls rockets into the sand
Protecting His people in their holy land.
I sing, He is exalted, Master of War.
 
I sing to Hashem as He deflects prime-evil.
I sing as He battles for wrong’s upheaval
Pressuring terrorists to tremble and cease
I sing; He is author and architect of peace.
 
We’re united in song, Shira B’Shemayim
No longer despair, Yes, emunah, we share.
Accepting His edicts, the good He depicts.
We sing to Hashem, our Father in Heaven. He writes the song.
Shira B’Shemayim , Shira B’Shemayim, Shira B’Shemayim
 
His right hand is raised to make Amalek fall
His right hand is raised against violence and brawl
Disabling the fighters against mankind.
His right hand is keeping the predators behind.
 
His right hand is an iron dome
Knocking down evil, protecting each home
Mother Rachel cries for her children
The nation as one prays for shalom
 
We’re united in song, Shira B’Shemayim
No longer despair, Yes, emunah, we share.
Accepting His edicts, the good He depicts.
We sing to Hashem, our Father in Heaven. He writes the song.
Shira B’Shemayim , Shira B’Shemayim, Shira B’Shemayim
 
Sing because vengeance is His
Sing because blessings are His
Sing with gratitude for His miracles
His salvation is elevation; our manifest destination.
 
We’re united with Hashem and His highest order
Up from slavery, sacrifice, abuse, misuse,
Love, not hate; Trust not fear; Law not disorder
Good not evil, Life not death. Peace not war. Heavenward.
 
We’re united in song, Shira B’Shemayim
No longer despair, Yes, emunah, we share.
Accepting His edicts, the good He depicts.
We sing to Hashem, our Father in Heaven. He writes the song.
Shira B’Shemayim , Shira B’Shemayim, Shira B’Shemayim

—Evelyn Hayes

 

*

 

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

 

 *

 

[5353] EREV YOM KIPPUR
 
Before sleep I forgave;
and the heart is cleansed
today, this very morning
a new beginning
 
This errant Jew did decide to settle in
Oh yes! the house in Israel is stronger
My home like and unlike your own
with love to mountain, valley; and city.
 
The day to day calls its humming song
as I hear Israel's ancient music to settle in.
I am instruments, a humble trumpet
side by side to the big Shofar of the geulah.
 
Yes! the heart brims with happiness
for God's bounty
His signs everywhere in sweet fruit
and the dark galut far across the ocean.
 
Surely I say that problems are challenges
Ahoy! I keep the ship's course to its north.
I have taken provisions for the way
and a siddur, to expect the unexpected.
                                                                       Hayim Abramson
—————————————————————————————-
* Inspired by Esther Cameron's poem
"TO AMERICA, ON THE EVE OF THE DAY OF ATONEMENT."key words: Beginning, valley, signs, instruments, home, unexpected.
 

*


HOW GOOD IT WOULD BE
 
How good it would be…as you had envisioned, 
for just we three Viv, Iris and Les
to get together almost 50 years later…
and wiser.
 
How good to host you within my garden
where fruit can be plucked from trees
whose branches reach closer to the ground
than those in the Bronx that had cracked
the cement beneath apartment windows…
and glimpse a path once taken by our forefathers
 
or sit beneath the pergola on the Hill of Evil Counsel
where the counterpointed landscape of golden Jerusalem
would tease us to consider our piece in the puzzle
while we sang to our hearts’ delight.
 
How good it would be to share the twilight
descending on the Western Wall and inhale
the scent of prayers and tears with an aftertaste
so sweet, so pure that toddlers scamper from their mothers
to locate the source to which doves duck
in overhead stone shrines while we would withdraw
in reverse, facing what’s past.
 
I wouldn’t let you go until we all spend an overnight
on nearby HaMalach Street, emerging into the softness
of its pre-dawn breeze like winds of tranquility
in the Garden of Eden that would sprinkle our reunion
with moonshine and gently quell
the dissidence of our heartbeats. 
                                                           —Leah LJ Gottesman
 
 
from The Hannah Senesh Set
FOUNDATION IN KINDNESS
 
Every stone we carried built a city
and every stone we smashed planted a field.
 
Every word we spoke built a name,
and every word we refused to speak established it
 
in kindness. There is nowhere else to build
and no other words to say or to leave out
 
in this arrangement, built as a week of weeks,
and lost as words to count our days...How long?
 
You thought I said. We are all prophets now
though blind and dumb, nearing the end of the jetty
 
where the waves are crashing. Listen to their word
and the work of our hands, establish for us;
 
and the work of our hands, establish it.
                                                                          –Courtney Druz
 

Next section