Poetry
How We Get By
Poem written by Em Meuller, used with permission from the author
See how the sun
wants to get through
pushing light past
sodden clouds.
See how trees hold up the
sky like Atlas' rounded
shoulders weighted by earth.
Can you see those white
specks of net -- a soccer
goal, forlorn, praying for
children to play.
See how relentless we go
on and on, the sky, the
sun, trees, earth, me, you
reading this poem.
Reclaiming Sin
Poem written by Em Meuller, used with permission from the author
If you name it you can change it.
Rabbi Elaine Zecher
How to condense missing the
mark into one word that
conveys all the meaning of
putting your bow to your
shoulder, your left hand on the
grip, the wood seductively
smooth, your right two fingers
pulling the string with the arrow
notched and resting on its shelf,
pulling back until your fingers
themselves notch yet still
pulling wider the space
between bow and string,
winding up energy into the
fletchings so the arrow can
spin, keep its course, its speed
and line and thump near
enough to bulls eye that the
blinding light of explosion
wakes you up to what you need
to do?
Bathing: The Mikvah
Poem written by Em Meuller, used with permission from the author
For my sixtieth birthday I submerged
myself in rain water gathered in
barrels, pumped through tubes to a
pool in a room built with Jerusalem
stone and lights quiet as candles.
Life exists in the preparation:
clean under your nails — toes and
fingers, a Q-tip for your ears, belly
button; tooth brush taken from an
unwrapped box; wash your hair,
body.
Cleansed, wrap yourself in a towel
large as a bed sheet and step into
the holy space where water
transforms you into blessing.
Jacob’s Ladder
Poem written by Em Meuller, used with permission from the author
This week we read about the
time Jacob lay his head upon a
rock
for a pillow and dreams
a ladder going up up up
through the sky to god’s home
and angels — messengers of god
going up and down, up and down.
In the morning when he wakes up he says
“God is in this place and I
I did not know” and the angels are our mothers
and fathers and their mothers and fathers all the
way back to the first climber out of the muck and all
our children — the future — up and down, up and
down, present to us, the not, and we — you and me
alive right now — hold the ladder here, in this
place.
In Week’s Field
Poem written by Em Meuller, used with permission from the author
With gulls and crows and my dog
running circles around me, the goal
posts, the trunk of the tree, I shout at
the top of my lungs “Get the birds,
Teddy! Get the birds!” He barks and
races all four feet off the ground at one
time flying, trying to catch the seagulls,
the crows, anything with wings, fiercely
joyous, loving the chase, the stretch,
the soft grass under his paws, the
whistling air.
Gathering of Geese
Poem written by Em Meuller, used with permission from the author
This year the Canada geese have come
to the field behind my house.
Through morning frost and wind
that drifts like a desert
they pull at the grass -- old men in shul,
davening. They make no noise
huddled in a clump facing north
their backs to the muted sun.
Perhaps drawn by a new patch of
green one wanders a little away
and so slowly I hardly notice
the others follow
nibbling the earth as if unafraid.
When the dog comes barking from the left
they stretch their necks
unfolding like a prayer, their wings
insistent drums.
What We Call Weeds
Poem written by Em Meuller, used with permission from the author
I hack the kudzo clogging
the dead Kharmann Ghia,
blossom of my honeymoon.
Now its paint and rusted belly
mingle with saplings and if I
mow I mow around the old
beauty
otherwise I paint a
sign with permanent
pens on an old
shingle
stake it into the ground:
Butterfly Garden.
Prayer
Poem written by Em Meuller, used with permission from the author
Forgive me for dyeing my gray, being afraid, wanting to kill my dog (he follows me like winter).
Forgive me coveting my neighbor's family but you must understand they laugh a lot.
Forgive me wanting to live alone in the stone
room at the top of Mount Sinai desperate to touch my lips to desert.
Forgive me. I can't remember everything.
What the skin hungers for
Poem written by Ellen Steinbaum, used with permission from the author
The heartfelt handshake, yes, or
hug of course, but maybe even more
what would have passed unnoticed then:
the slight encountering of edges as we
leaned into one another on subway seats
enlarged in winter by layers of sweaters,
coats and, through our clothes, the stranger’s
arm was simple presence only, hardly felt,
the way in narrow theater seats, a sleeve to
sleeve or even briefest brush of flesh to flesh
occurred below the level of intrusion,
leaving now only a vague insistent drone:
the aching touch of what is absent.
Ever Since
Poem written by Ellen Steinbaum, used with permission from the author
now
in the fragile time
between the thunder claps
in the time after
the sky split open
and solidness
dissolved
the fire
continues
to leave no one
unscorched
shelter collapses
again and again
around us
the acrid dust
preserves us
perfect as Pompeii
gentle with each other
liable to break
we must sort through
what is left to us
sift the rubble
for what
we have lost
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