Shabbat, music, death are subjects for season finale of Jewish Poets-Jewish Voices

By Eileen Wingard in La Jolla, California

David Chait, Betzy Lynch and Donna Rolfe were the three outstanding poets featured in the May 19, final Jewish Poets—Jewish Voices program of its 18th season, held in the Astor Judaica Library of the Lawrence Family Jewish Community Center.

Chait’s many talents were later exhibited that week in JFest’s play, Samuel, his Widow and the Whispering Flowers, which he wrote, directed, choreographed, narrated and danced in.

Betzy Lynch, CEO of our JCC and the Center for Jewish Culture was seen at Shabbat services that week, escorting Israeli visitors from Sha’ar Hanegev.

Below are samples of the poetry read during the evening.

Chait’s poem, Without You, was inspired by the terrible events of October 7, 2023. Lynch’s poem, To My Shabbat Soul, is full of original imagery, dealing with her relationship to Shabbat, and Rolfe’s poem, MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC describes how that element influences our lives. Her other works dealt with feminism and her last poem was a tribute to her father who was an officer in the US armed services.

Although in these review articles, I generally give examples only of the works of the featured poets, I am also including a poem written about the traumatic event the day before when three men were killed by two teenagers at the nearby Mosque. Janice Alper, a member of our Jewish Poets—Jewish Voices Committee read, Another Senseless Killing. It was such a timely poem and described what many of us were feeling.

Without You (Excerpt)
By David Chait

The dreaded knock has arrived.

The visit

we feared all our lives,

the one we prayed

would never come.

 

And now everything

will be different.

Everything.

 

Because the loss of one life

becomes the loss

of so much

for so many.

 

And today

that loss has been announced

and received

with horror

and tears.

⸻

From today on,

you will no longer arrive.

 

We will miss

the sound of your footsteps

climbing the stairs.

 

The door opening.

Your voice calling out:

“Shalom.”

 

We will miss

your jokes,

your stories,

your adventures,

your plans,

your optimism

for tomorrow.

⸻

A father now stands

before a cold window,

staring at nothing,

seeing only

the emptiness within himself.

 

And in silence

he thinks

he would gladly give

his own life

to bring back

the son

who is no longer here.

 

Here.

Now.

 

Unable to understand

that this is impossible.

 

His fists tighten with rage,

then slowly fall open,

surrendered

before a reality

that feels cruel

and explains nothing.

⸻

A mother prepares

his favorite meals

with all the love

she still carries in her hands.

 

But there is no one

to eat them.

 

Today she would make him

anything he asked for.

Everything.

 

But perhaps

if he were here,

she would not even let him eat.

 

She would kiss his forehead,

his cheeks,

his hands,

and hold him

with all the strength

of her soul,

never letting go.

 

Not for one minute.

 

But he is no longer here.

 

And now

the salty taste of tears

is the only flavor

she knows.

 

Food with salt

but without taste.

Spices

without aroma.

 

Night becomes

a desperate wish for daylight.

 

And daylight

becomes unbearable,

only to wait again

for the night.

 

A painful trap

where life no longer carries

meaning,

future,

or hope.

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing at all.

 

⸻

 

The songs you once shared

will strike your brothers and sisters

deep in the stomach.

 

And now

they will speak to you

only in silence,

through whispers,

through memories,

through prayers

that will never be answered.

 

And silence itself

will become

their new companion.

 

A companion

they will hate.

 

⸻

 

Your smiling photographs

will try

to pull a smile from us too.

 

But it will last

only seconds.

 

The curve of our lips

no longer rises upward.

 

To My Shabbat Soul (Excerpt)

By Betzy Lynch

I owe you an apology.

For years you stood at the corner of my week,

softly waving,

while I sprinted past

with grocery lists, deadlines,

and the mistaken confidence

of someone who thought

she was getting her steps in.

 

I thought we were playing tag.

I thought if I ran fast enough all week long,

you would chase me—

call it cardio,

call it productivity,

call it a life well managed.

 

It took me an embarrassingly long time

to realize

this was not exercise.

It was an exercise in futility.

 

You were never running in search of me.

You were waiting.

 

And I,

with the spiritual grammar of a third grader,

kept conjugating you incorrectly.

 

I assumed Shabbat was a noun—

a day,

a box on the calendar,

something you observe with candlelight

and delicious food

while still answering emails.

 

How did I not know

that Shabbat is a verb?

 

Something you enter.

Something you practice.

Something you become.

 

I kept looking for holiness in places—

in sanctuaries,

in programs, in productivity.

 

Meanwhile you were whispering:

holiness begins in time…

or perhaps in the absence of time.

 

I thought holiness required geography

and clear boundaries.

You were trying to show me

its only limits

are my awareness.

 

You were offering to be my partner

for twenty-six hours,

stretching my spiritual imagination.

 

And I kept telling you,

“Maybe next week.

I’m busy being a human doing.”

 

Please forgive me.

 

I’m sorry

For the years I treated you

Like an optional add-on

Instead of the upgrade.

For lighting candles

Without lighting awareness.

For blessing wine while my mind fermented elsewhere.

 

I understand now,

at least a little:

 

Shabbat is not a place I go.

It is a reality I create.

It is not something I attend.

It is something I become.

 

You were never asking me

To stop living.

You were asking me to start being.

 

To remember

That when I slow my pace

Enough for you to walk beside me,

I stop being a human doing

And finally experience

being a human being—

with myself

and with G-d.

 

So this is my promise:

 

This week

I will not make you chase me.

I will soften my calendar.

I will loosen my grip.

I will practice better grammar.

I will conjugate Shabbat correctly.

I will let time hold me

instead of trying to hold up the world.

 

And when you arrive—

my patient, expanded, luminous soul—

I will be standing still enough

for you to find me.

With belated wisdom

and a slightly humbled ego.

*

MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC
By Donna Rolfe

A SONG WITH THE SAME TITLE

AN INGREDIENT OF LIFE

THAT’S IMMENSELY VITAL.

 

MUSIC CAN LEAD TO ROMANCE

MUSIC CAN LEAD TO A DANCE

MUSIC CAN LIFT THE MOOD

MUSIC IS NON-CALORIC FOOD.

 

EACH CULTURE HAS IT’S OWN SOUND

RHYTHMS AND TUNES AND BEATS ABOUND

SALSA AND KLEZMIR AND ROCK N’ ROLL

PLAY IT AGAIN SAM, IT’S GOOD FOR THE SOUL.

 

A UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE – A CONNECTION

FAST OR SLOW WHY ANY OBJECTION

JAZZ HANDS – HAPPY FEET

SEPARATE OR TOGETHER – DIG THE BEAT.

 

MUSIC IS A BALM TO HEAL

OHHH, HOW DOES IT MAKE YOU FEEL

AN INLET AND OUTLET TO SOOTHE OR STIR

TO REV YOU UP OR MAKE YOU PURR.

 

A PARTY’S NO PARTY WITHOUT MUSICAL VIBES

MADE EVIDENT IN CULTURES, CLANS AND TRIBES

 

THE CELLO IS MELLOW

YOYO MA IS THE FELLOW

SATCHMO WAS BORN

TO MAKE LOVE WITH HIS HORN

 

ORCHESTRAS AND SYMPHONIES

CHARGED WITH PASSION AND FIRE

AND DUOS AND TRIOS AND THE CHOIR.

 

MUSIC, WHEN WE FEEL AND HEAR IT

AFFECTS OUR CHAKRAS

AND FILLS OUR SPIRIT.

*

Another Senseless Killing
By Janice Alper

Children in the play yard,

Worshippers wash their feet,

leave shoes at the door,
enter the Mosque, bow, pray to Allah.

 

A blast,

not of the ram’s horn,

but from guns,

a guard shot down, two men dead,
children scatter to safety.

 

Two teenage boys

dressed in camouflage run away.

What was on their minds?

What were they trying to prove when they shot themselves?

 

Our hearts are broken,

mothers have lost sons,

children have lost fathers.

Americans have lost faith in our system.

Is this what it means to have the freedom to bear arms?

*
Eileen Wingard is a freelance writer specializing in coverage of the arts.