IV. Seeing In Sight, Vision, Insight Insight, seeing in—into the centre, to the heavenly houses built in the soul, or in the heavens, or both? The gates open as evening darkens, angels carry flowers, prayers inward, upward. The heavens open in the Temple’s heart. The prophet looks up, and the angels descend the ladder of the spheres. We descend the rungs into ourselves, into our heart’s chambers that pump life’s blood. —Michael E. Stone 24 June 2009 London THE HEIGHT OF THE EBB Even at the height of the ebb I live. The moon is what draws the waves of my soul back and forth from ebb to flow. Trash is revealed on the shore when the water draws back. Things I left on the bottom of the sea, thinking their power was gone, their time over and done, are suddenly revealed. This is the moment to gather them up, before the tide of pride returns. —Imri Perel translated by Esther Cameron and Sarita Perel Between Poems You write a poem when the poem lets you know it is ripe ready to break off the branch ready to separate from you Between poems you wait You write a poem in response to distant pressure that starts in your veins then translates itself into rhythm Between poems you wait You write a poem when a sudden light streaks meteor against a dark mass of sky and you wonder breathless if you saw it at all if it will return it returns a constellation a choreography of light Between poems you wait You write a poem when you feel an arc when you feel its upward tilt when you feel an arc from its half image you divine the whole Between poems you wait When you wait not knowing if you are barren or between births set deep in stone gradients of silence or merely between refrains you are a poet waiting for the poem —Judy Belsky You are Not Alone When writing, you are not alone, but face yourself. Like looking in a magic mirror with X-ray power, then a magic glass both telescopic—an explorer's wand that reaches distant times as well as places— and microscopic—like a scientist's which can reveal the smallest hidden spaces. Remote things are transformed to something nearer; thoughts that confused you last night now seem clearer, as objects freed by dissipated mists. The You in this case was a college class at SUNY-Delhi. I was not respond- ing to a question, but providing patter between the recitations from my book— which they had, mostly. Those without could look up at the screen or share their neighbor's. When I looked up, there, half-hidden by their hands, my name, on spines and jackets, blazoned through the drab fluorescence, as if it might matter. This morning, as I dote on dreamscape lands and feelings’ fardels as daft poets do, I’m dazzled by that deliquescent light, wrapped in the image of them rapt before me, and am not alone, for as I write I hold them as they held me, each made more, the oneness of us, mattering once again. —James B. Nicola WINGS If only the winged spirit would rest on me, if only The one with wings three times folded inward Whose wings are spotted with faded sparks For every fold a name is written On the fold line of the wings. And the heretic spirit will come to me, if only, Pulverised and pressed in the spirit-mill whose wings are clipped And say to me: I am Zoharia And look how I survive And how I spread my wings On which the marks of folding can be seen And drink a whole barrelful of wine To life, if only. And the names that mark the folds fly off One: Was Two: Unknown Three: If only —Tirtsa Posklinsky Shehory translated by Esther Cameron Ballad of the Burnt-Out Prof . . . something . . . eternally gained for the universe . . . —William James Old Duracell, old Mazda-man you’ve got to keep the light— it’s growing dim inside you but that’s no time to hide you— there’s just a chance you might say something shedding light. Old Candle-wick, old Burnt-out Prof, (who calls himself the Bop) old hairy ears and snout, Tochisafntish! you gouty worn-out lout— oh, call yourself a name, old cuss— because you weren’t the best, and yet you know it doesn’t matter, no, not in the least. Old geeze, don’t lose your grip, don’t fall and break your hip— you’ve got to keep the light, baldspot, you’ve got to keep the light, because there’s just a chance if you keep the light, old souse, if you keep the light, there’s still a chance, though mad, that there’s something left to add. You’ve got to keep the light, old piles, you’ve got to keep the light. You know you’ve been a dog, oh, you’ve acted like a trayf old hog, but somehow in your life you’ve had a loving wife, so there must be something good about you, you lousy lucky lout you— all I ask of you, old candle, is just to keep the Godblessed light, and show a flash of pluck, old duck, and with a bit of luck you might come up with something worthy of the world that you’ve surveyed. You’ve been around so long now you’ve got to hold some light, whether hell or heaven is waiting with its leaven to galvanize you new again for better or for worse, old man of steel, who once pumped iron, don’t listen to that deathly siren, you’ve got to keep the light a while, you’ve got to keep that gap-toothed smile, you’ve got to keep the light alive inside your horrible old hide, because you still might do a thing that’s worthy of its doing, you’ve got to keep the light, old pipe, you’ve got to keep the light. You’ve written many a poem, old bard, and published many too, but I’ve got news for you, old prof, I’ve got news for you— you haven’t any right, old cough, not to keep the light. You don’t get off like that, old shakes fall off the roof like that— there’s plenty time to die, old guy, plenty time to die, so keep on pumping light, old Bop, pumping students light! —E.M. Schorb KAFKA Are we on trial, Mister K.? It's late — Too late, you claim — to go out looking for A lawyer to defend us beggars, poor And trembling in the dusk as we all wait In pouring rain outside the castle gate And hope in vain to see it open or To hear the porter's steps. It seems no door Will soon unlatch to save us from our fate. What is the metamorphosis we'll find Upon our death? You've warned us, Mister K., We'll be a cockroach, for neither wraith Nor ghost survive the twilight of the mind. Yet in that night, the worm of Jacob may Become the monarch butterfly of faith. —YakovAzriel THE MONARCH BUTTERFLY OF FAITH The monarch butterfly of faith once reigned As queen when all our fields were fragrant-green; When purple orchids bloomed and streams flowed clean, Her sovereignty appeared to be ordained. And we, her subjects, gazed in awe, unfeigned In homage and devotion to our queen Whose wings of topaz-ruby-aquamarine Proclaimed her reign a paradise regained. Now exiled from that realm like fugitives, We and our dethroned queen reside in gutters, Where the stench of fetid sewage never dies. Yet look — the butterfly of faith still lives; Despite defeat, despite despair — she flutters; Despite all doubts, despite all fears — she flies. —YakovAzriel THE WINGS OF A FALCON With a glance I devoured a piece of sky, Liberated from between the clouds, Impaling feathers in my flesh Which I had been gathering with great pain, Towards the time when the wind will rise And I will take off And crash. And again the beating Of wings Dwells between my shoulder blades. Not the wings of a raven, Not the wings of a dove, The wings of a falcon Whose claws grasp the last serpent— The wings of an angel of God. And even those shall be shed On the day I will fly With the force of life alone. —Imri Perel translated by Esther Cameron and Sarita Perel REACHING TO THE HEAVENS I throw my ring up high attached to a golden chain, to heaven I want to fly to reach a higher plane. Bound to earth, grounded, I reach above, beyond the bar to where love is boundless to where the meanings are. I throw my golden chain above the clouds and dreams, to reach the realm of the soul to where things are what they seem. Bound to horizons limited, I yearn to stretch afar, to reach the world of the spirits, to catch my guiding star. —Yocheved Miriam Zemel Two Days Before ”O Lord, open my lips And my mouth shall declare Your praise.” Psalms 2:17 Two days before the new moon of the month of miracles I hear you breathe close to the music beyond the open window —Felice Miryam Kahn Zisken The Song of Shmoneh Esreh* dedicated to the Melech b’Sadeh** Sometime the song wells up through a chamber of my heart, sometimes through a vibrato in your soul, sometimes it tickles through the toes of my grandson while he is scaling a wall of Jerusalem stone. Last night I heard it without words, all eighteen daily blessings seeking a mouth to sound them, not like an ancient aire floating by on winds of night, rather akin to a clump of winged earth eager to take root in our so human flesh. Beneath that canopy of loam I glimpsed you, owner of all fields, less of a lord than a true friend in feckless times. —Vera Schwarcz *”Eighteen” (Hebrew), one of the terms for the standing prayer (Amidah) which some Jews say 3 times a day, others of us once or twice each day—it contains 18 (actually now 19) blessings ** ”The King in the field”: according, to Kabbalah, during the month of Elul before Rosh HaShanah, we find Hashem closer to us than at other times of the year, not the mighty Ruler ensconced in the Castle of Judgment, but wandering among us in the field, eager and ready to hear our needs, complaints & repentance. The World Will Be Filled with Light ”A society must ask, seek and demand that each individual give something of him/herself…If all of us light the candle of our souls, the world will be filled with light. ” R. Adin Even Israel Steinsaltz Lighting a candle in the passage to the house in the seam between day and night. Lighting candles on the windowsill for the miracles, for the Sabbath. A place in the heart always prays. When the soul shines even skies wrapped in fog shed a beautiful light. Olive trees, cypress, young and old reach for threads of gold and our eyes see in one phial of oil what cannot be seen. —Felice Miryam Kahn Zisken WORD SONNET* Human spark ignites divine flame in Jewish hearts to scatter light in His world. —Esther Halpern *first written as a prose sentence, turned into a word sonnet at the suggestion of Ruth Fogelman |