The editors of the anthology apologize to poets whose poems were omitted or printed with errors. The corrections and omissions are now printed below.
The editors also apologize to Jane Medved whose name was listed incorrectly as Joan in the bio section, the poets listed by page number section, and on both her poems which are on pages 151and 152 of the anthology.
Castles and Waves by Amiel Schotz
Oh I have seen the days roll in
As waves upon the strand
And built my castles on the beach
That now are faceless sand.
Yet I have seen their turrets proudly
Stand against the sky,
With friends of kind to share my joy
Before the waves swept by.
And I have seen the years press on
Then ebb into the past,
Bearing my deeds and triumphs that
I thought would surely last.
And they have taken with them all
The deeds I failed to do,
Thinking I had time to spare
That ne’er will come anew.
And I can see the years drive on
As clouds before the rain,
And when I see the shadows loom,
I sing my heart’s refrain.
Deep into night I’ll sing my song
Of castles grand and tall,
And they may echo down the years,
Until the end of all.
So let us laugh, oh friends of mine
And welcome each new day,
For we have castles yet to build,
What though they wash away,
What though they wash away, my friends,
And vanish forever,
Yes, we shall build our castles,
Together.
The Dogwood Seedlings He Planted Have Spread Their Branches
by Amiel Schotz
(For Lester)
Election day has come and gone. We watch
the Daily Show, chuckling at irony—
on-the-nose harpoon barbs. We note
we need to shop for a Friday chicken—and oh,
we need water, napkins, bread.
And all the while, next door, the old man lies
in his state-of-the-art bed, fighting
his final fight, fighting for death.
We sing him Sabbath songs, melodies
he loved to chant in his cantorial robes,
his cloak of visibility.
Can he, perchance, still hear them, deep in the echoing
cave of coma? Deep in the comforting dark,
free to see and hear and be again,
to roam again the starlight skies of youth,
the sunshine days of falling leaves, when as
a dad, he’d revel, driving to Harper’s Ferry,
just for the simple fun of it, growing Big Boy
tomatoes with the kids.
Maybe he sings the wind’s wild song, or lands
again in Zion, to savor the scent of jasmine,
pine and citrus, eager to hear of promising
Promised Land ventures—eager to share the quest—
perhaps for solar towers, or Dead Sea cures,
ever hopeful of triumph.
The old man gasps and grasps the sheet. We gaze
in aching pity at this shell. but somewhere
rising is a spirit, joyously singing
in full-voiced tones,
Within His hand my soul I set Beyado afkid ruchi
Before I sleep as when I stir, Be-et ishan ve-a’irah
And with my soul, my body, yet, Ve-im ruchi gevi’ati
The Lord is mine, I shall not fear. Adonai li ve-lo irah.
The Green Leaf by Nathalie Freson
Among a sea of ochre and sorrel,
withered and torn foliage
lies a single green leaf.
With its slender petiole jutting out from the mass,
and its serrate blade unbroken,
the unfledged leaf flaunts itself
just for a little while, for it too
will wilt and get trampled.
The Great Migration Begins by Nathalie Freson
Rain peters out in Ngorongoro.
The white-bearded wildebeests
march north, through the Serengeti Plains
in search of taller grasses.
Flanked with zebras and Thomson's gazelles,
the herd ambles slowly,
bearing dark, grumpy faces,
their tail tufts waving off flies;
beards shuffling the short grass plains turned tan,
where lion bands and spotted hyenas
prowl behind clouds of dust for the meek
or a young one that romps in an unwise direction.
Thoughtlessly, driven by thirst,
and the changing of seasons,
the herd enters the Mara River,
welcomed by a flotilla of hungry crocodiles,
their tails lashing the murky waters
they drag the first ones under.
The wildebeests stampede into the water,
legs struggling to hold the muddy embankments
their shaggy manes floating above the water.
For the promise of greener pastures,
the grunting climbers race through the fearsome crossing
before they disappear into the yellow haze.
Gifts to a Special Friend by Judy Foner
I'll send you the perfume of roses, citrus
blossom, freesias, sweet peas,
delicately floating like dust motes
in the air.
I'll send you the tinkling laughter
of a toddler on a swing.
I'll send you the smile of a woman
in love, and the touch of her breast
like butterfly wings.
And to round it all off
the taste of fish and chips
on your tongue
to transport you back home.
A Walk Down Our Street by Judy Foner
Stone walls guarding tall houses;
intercoms and electronic gates,
each house squats like a Buddha
with a two-car garage but
no space for a garden.
These are the newcomers
on one side of the street.
On our side, the old side, climbing
roses, ivy, vines and bougainvillaea
mark the boundaries and cars are
parked in the street. The houses
are patchwork but surrounded
by flowers, and fruit trees abound.
We know all the neighbours on our side
and say 'hello' when we meet in the street,
the others we have never met, they keep
out of sight behind their stone walls.
A Walk in the Clouds by Paul Averill Liebow
after Paul Petrie
Out of my little window
I climb the moonbeam stairs,
Touching the little star's shadows
as they dance in pairs.
Night owls stare at the musky sky,
Craning their necks in silent rows-
Amazed to see me floating by
Without my clothes.
All around my tiny town
people snuggle in peaceful homes,
While fluffy snow drifts down,
In their miniature glass domes.
High above Earth's filmy shrouds
I wave to my friends below,
Stirring the moon be-dappled clouds
With my big toe.
Then glowing like a speck of light
In the Universe's sea of foam
I float on my back- a tethered kite-
Reeling myself back home.
"Bunny" by Paul Averill Liebow
Under the faraway eyes of Abe Lincoln,
I tiptoed at last, alone in October-
Into the Valley of the Shadow of Death-
By the Black Wall, where millions come,
And the loudest shout is a whisper.
On every stone, shining in the Moonlight,
Were little spiders,
Rappelling down silken cords
To protect the fallen soldiers
Who live in the nacreous gleam.
Little spider spirits were hanging,
like "Strange Fruit" on silken crosses,
To honor the heroes who jumped
From the Jolly Green Giants,
Each one yelling "I'm Spartacus!"
Into the face of the furious Sun.
As I flew home past the Washington Monument,
Over the black sword plowed in the Earth
Like a crashed Stealth Bomber,
I was glad I had touched his name-
Even though I didn't really know him,
but only knew of him-
That his family still loved him,
And that they still called him "Bunny".
In memory of US Army First Lieutenant Griffith Bronson Bedworth
Panel 31 E Row 009
from Woodbridge, Connecticut,
Whose helicopter went down,
in the service of his country,
on November 30, 1967
Coming Back Artist by Lisa Okon
Disheveled he shuffles forward in the queue
Eyes red from rest-less sleep, one hundred years
Gray skies remind him of his childhood home
The dampness cool and sweet on scoured skin
Burned red by the Arlesian sun
One step forward then another
Haltingly in the tingling rain
All is strange, he looks around and sees
A sea of foreign faces, foreign tones
Hears tongues his ear will never understand
One step forward then another
The crowd in slow ascent impelled
By some demanding force, his artist’s gaze
Takes in their eyes, alight in awed anticipation
Like those who come to worship, to adore
Is this a temple, have they come to pray?
A hall, white painted walls, and light
A reverent hush, a breath or two, a sigh
Confused, bewildered, has he sunk into a dream
Or woken from a long and dreamless sleep?
Invisible to those around he stands apart
In brightness, then he turns to view
Along the walls aligned
In heavy wooden frames, the paintings, each one signed
With his own name
The bursts of color, strength of line are there
Each pulsing scene, each brilliant flower and he
Inhales the scent of turpentine, of earth
And holds the brushes once more in his hand
Then nods his head. And breathes
Call to Me by Katherine Shabat
Chestnut and beech aspire towards the sky,
lower limbs clasping across the lane;
hollyhocks incline heavy heads
above ferns, fluttering fan-like..
In the gathering dusk, I sense The Presence.
'Call to me from the treetops,' I beseech Him.
'Speak to me from the hedgerow.'
In the adjacent pasture,
where a mare, heavy with foal,
grazes alongside curly-haired sheep,
He responds with a sunset
that shouts glory across the sky:
Pink ribbons streak emerald pools
like fishponds in the Yizrael Valley
and over purple cloud-hills
golden trails lead straight to heaven.
The Seventh day by Katherine Shabat
Lord, lead me into the Sabbath
with a glad heart and songs of praise
like those of ancient times.
Let me not phrase for an assembly
but for You alone.
Show me Your intention, my Maker:
am I to laud You in verse
on this the seventh day?
For to pen is my pleasure
but also my trade.
On this blessed dawn,
I leave my bed at first bird’s chirp
and, as the seventh day
lightens the celestial canopy,
I take up my pen in praise.
The gifts You provide for my leisure -
Beethoven and coffee
at the touch of a switch -
delight me as I glorify Your Name.
II
On the day of rest,
devout people stay home
in contemplation and prayer,
observing age-old rituals,
adhering strictly to tradition.
Others travel the land
to wonder at Your Bounty
in mountains and forests
and by the sea-shore,
partaking of feasts You prepare
in charming cafes everywhere.
Please, Lord, in this new era,
accept the diverse ways
we express our thankfulness
on the seventh day.
Masters of Fire by Drora Matlofsky
We are learning to make fire as they did in ancient days,
We search for stone and wood that will create and feed the spark,
Like pioneers we must relearn the old forgotten ways
To overcome our primal terror of the cold and dark.
A fire needs wood, but not too green, needs air, but no strong wind,
A fire needs courage and desire and strength to persevere,
A fire needs limits, structure, rules, it must be disciplined.
To master fire is to master one’s most hidden fear.
Writing is fire.
The First Time by Michael Stone
The first time I came by bus up the old winding road,
Through Bab el-Wad with its skeleton trucks
then still where they had been burnt out in ‘48,
or just dragged aside.
The first time, the bus drove down Jaffa Road,
Before the market, one-story store-front shops,
of tinkers, carpenters, and small goods.
Down to the old Egged station on Jaffa Road,
just up from Zion square, and the small, single storied
city with the Jerusalem restaurant, where you could buy
a ticket on Friday for Shabbat lunch.
No Old City then, with its water cisterns, its alleys,
its Naomi Shemer romance,
but just great concrete walls, too high to look over,
because of the snipers on the city wall corner
at Allenby Square.
Israel was a dozen years old,
I was not twice that, but
I was home then, home.