Acknowledgements: Union and The Last Supper/The First Seder appeared in Long Shot, Volume 17.
All poems copyright © 1985-2014 by
Betsy Robin Schwartz
79 Myrtle Avenue
Metuchen, NJ 08840
Mishpokhe
משפּחה
Contents
Natchez Traces
Table Settings
bubbe meisseh
Two Jews
Jack Schwarz
Hoboken
union
Beaujolais
The Last Supper/The First Seder
Oh You Corporate Dogs Grrrr(ow)l
Christ said "God is not the god of the dead, but of the living."
Natchez Traces
In Natchez it's another melting day
like butter on grits
slow, lazy, still and steadfast
you can see magnolia trees
hung with Spanish moss
you can feel the air
hung with humidity
you can see the drawling merchants of Pine Street
who don't want any King affixed to their street
you can see antebellum mansions
sentries watching the Mississippi
tended by Daughters of Dixie
(not Schwartz's or shvartzes)
you can see the ghosts of gray marble slabs with stars
from atop the levee
showing their faces to the river
you can see Celia Harris washing her hands
outside the iron cemetery gates
She's kissed the graves of the Levites
She tends her own gardens.
Table Settings
I'm just two generations, a short span
away from Morris Weber's shtetl (Vilna)
with his dirt floors (grandpa), wet nurse
mother, and father away hammering railroad ties
in St. Petersburg
Two generations away from Anna Flicker begging
Cossacks to rape her sister instead and Lily Longberg
(at sixteen, run away from Austria to Newark) rolling
cigars for two cents an hour and capping bulbs in
Edison's factory for not a fraction more
Two generations away from a dirt poor Max Schwartz
Natchez Mississip cowboy abandoned by a widower
father sent to peel potatoes in the army
I'm from the front stoop of two teachers who
clawed/climbed their way through too many
moonlightings to the middle class.
I sit here in this giant waffle of an office tower
remembering the sound of motorcycle gangs
the smell of too much sex
and the depths of not enough drugs
I know where I come from
I know there are some napkins
I did not learn to fold
I know who I am
I sing/hum/moan it like a mantra
I
know
who
I
am
I say it like a juju/talisman/mezuzah
I know who I am (feh/spit/feh be gone evil spirits)
It does not matter what place settings you see.
bubbe meisseh
This is no bubbe meisseh
(or maybe it is)
It's the truth grandmothers tell
that you can't hear until you know it.
Did I tell you how my parents met?
My dad had no date
and momma was a hot ticket
So Mrs. Rockwell (sounding to my child ear like Rockefeller; no,
like Rothschild)
got on the Hoboken Hadassah hotline
And he was welcomed by bubbe and zeydeh
with garlic handshakes.
My mother protested.
`But ma, he's fat as the pretzel man'
`Shah' says bubbe, `A nice boy. Have a good time darling.'
(Only I'm sure she said it in Yiddish so
I couldn't understand until well after I was born.)
And he didn't kiss like Bob Grossman
he had a temper
he ate with his mouth open
and he wasn't a poet.
But he was constant and no more or less a
nudnik than anyone else so,
she married him.
You know you should be married
I've such a nice boy for you
I only live to see you married...
I knew my grandparents would live forever
while I tasted rapture's gardens
poets, artists, musicians
we hung rosettes on the headboard
and in the doorway
and in the back seat
and in the front seat
and in the diner
and and and...
sometimes, no most times I was dizzy, faint and full
full of words and love and passion
and and and...
sometimes now I sigh and let tears fall
with nostalgia for a hot breathed
conquistador savored and kissed.
who never said I love you aloud
who vanquished before vanishing.
There's a skinny mahlink here, a real nudnik
he is arrogant
he doesn't shut up
he is stubborn
My mother says he has a good heart
but he eats with his mouth open
and he is constantly...
well, constantly here.
I folded up the sheets with all their fragrances
got rid of the futon
and put signs upon the gate.
He holds those words bound to him
as a sign on the frontlet between his eyes
and bound close to his heart.
Even in anger I hear the Song of Solomon
between invectives.
And bubbe may she rest in peace, saying
what is all this mishegas,
love
shmove
he's a good man
he loves you
you train him
you love him.
So kinder (this lesson while you're fressen)
nourish hearts with love more robust than passion
you could do worse than to give up the
poet for a pretzel man.
Two Jews
Rabbi Larry
(not Lev)
was on a lecture tour
(not a pilgrimage)
incognito
(no beard, no tallis, no payes)
in a coffee shop
(not a deli)
reading a book
like any other teacher.
Seeing the Talmud,
a stranger asked,
"Nu? So?
Are you ready to argue?"
They smiled.
They nodded,
like Solomon.
They argued,
like mishpokhefamily
happily, hardily,
heatedly.
Two strangers.
Two landzmen.
Two Jews.
Parting with
more questions
than answers.
Jack Schwarz
The brisket is fresh and perfect
a light pink edge, sliced fabric thin
moist, not stringy, gravy on the side
buttered egg-barley with mushrooms on the plate
and the first bite makes me think of Jack.
I was 17 and just beginning to follow animal calls
when he told me about his shiksa.
Her soft cream hands wiping her gingham apron
secretly, silently smiling with him in the cow field
on her father’s farm in Delaware County, Ohio.
Oh oh oh such a passion she had for Jack.
Oy oy oy such a passion that peddler had for her.
But, veys mir, he left he left he left in 1917 he left her
There is no happy ending that divides families.
But when he says it, I can see her aqua eyes in his
and I think he made a big big mistake. At 17
I would do anything, yes anything, for true romance.
I’m here in a fleishig deli noshing on pickles and sour tomatoes
and my mind’s ear hears his heavy “ignorant” immigrant accent
at the 42nd street library—the one guarded by stone lions.
He’s teaching himself to make Jack from Yitzak.
He’s reading Karl Marx to learn a new language.
This time the familiar German text is on his left and
he’s struggling with the English translation on his right.
This was when milchig waiters served hot cheese blintzes
cold borscht with sour cream, and lemon tea in a glass
while they pleaded for the Bolsheviks, prayed for the unions
and argued for a homeland—those days those days before Hitler.
I’m thinking about Jack reading furiously, feverishly
reading that new Richard Wright novel, Black Boy
aching with memories of his Mississippi in Poland
his wife dreaming, his hand on the rise of her hip
the kinder sleeping safely don’t hear his sorrow.
I take a sip of Dr. Brown’s cherry and I think about Jack
I taste the perfect egg cream he made me
matzahs spread with schmaltz, and
the case of mangos he and Grandma Lily
mailed to me my first year of college.
I’m thinking about Jack at this greasy table
and how he cried unashamed
in front of grown men when Grandma died.
His 94 years notched with sobs for lost loves.
I’m thinking about Jack
and how hard it is to find a good
crusty rye bread these days.
Hoboken
To everything there is a season.
It is the birthplace of baseball, Frank Sinatra, and
Maxwell House Coffee (the stink of stale brew
setting the town’s square-mile boundary).
Hoboken is where my daddy was born
and my uncles grew up
and my grandfather played poker after hours
after his waiter day was done
until the boys came and got him
in the back room over the bar
in the morning
and my grandmother cooked
in the luncheonette.
Seemed like she was always cooking
mashed potatoes, mushroom gravy
turkey, corned beef, ham...
She cooked everything.
Seemed like day and night.
Seemed like the best food ever.
Still seems that way.
Still seems like nothing will taste that good again
It was the town of many childhood Sundays
in Grandpa Max’s arms
a bright pink rash
tattooing the freckled baby skin
on my arm
evidence of the pickle barrel brine.
Susie the cat outside guarding the door
moving her two black whiskers
to sniff the day
watching me walk next door
for some Chicklets
and a comic book for me
and a pack of cigarettes for my father.
Andy saying, “Look, how big you got
Betsilla, look.
Oy, shayna maydel.
Here wanna kiss?
Take a kiss.
and take one of these to your
beautiful mother.”
And me running back down First Street
“Grandma look,
and one for Mommy too!”
When I worked Off-Broadway
at the Roundabout
on 23rd Street
in the city
just across the river
I lived in Tante Hannah’s apartment
at Sixth and Bloomfield
while she wintered in Miami.
Washington Street felt just like little-girl home.
Safe. Easy.
Short walk past Maxwell’s and the
Clam Broth House to PATH.
So, I decided this was where I would stay.
So, on Erev Pesach I went to see an apartment
right there on Washington and Second.
And Dad said that yeah he knew the landlord,
“He went to school with Uncle Morris.
He’d know Morris. Morris was
tops in his class. Very popular
and this guy would
know Benny, you know
Ben Musto. (Dad’s best friend
from Hoboken) They went to the same
church.”
I met the landlord’s son on the stoop:
“I’ve got two apartments. Let’s
look at the one on the second floor first
and the one on the third floor second.
The tenant’s still in the first one, but she’s
gonna move to a new one on the fourth
floor.” He said as we climbed the stairs.
When we got there, she was there.
The tenant. A woman about my age.
Hair and eyes the same as mine
But, having children too young
made her look much older,
at least, that’s what I was
thinking while we were talking
and I was thinking, wow, she’ll
be a great neighbor. I’ll keep sugar
on hand just so she can borrow a cup
and I’ll ask her what’s the best place to
shop, and maybe her kids will come over
and play with the cat, and...
“What are you?” she said.
What do you mean?
“Where do you come from?”
I’m from here. I’m from Jersey. I’m from
Woodbridge, near Edison.
“What are you?”
Eastern European.
“What are you?”
Russian, Lithuanian, Austrian, and
one of my grandparents was born in
Natchez, Mississippi...
I was babbling. I was blocking it out.
I was hoping it was a different question.
I was going to say writer, lighting technician.
“What are you?
Are you Jewish?”
Yes.
“Get her out of here!” she screamed.
“I don’t want her in the same room as
my children. Get her out of here.
No Jews around my children. My
children.”
And, without saying anything
like he didn’t hear it
like nothing happened
like it was invisible to him
without saying anything about it
not sorry she’s crazy
not anything, the landlord’s
son just said, “C’mon, let me show you
the one on the third floor.”
And she was screaming up the stairs.
“Get that Jew out of here.”
While he was showing me the kitchen.
“Get that Jew out of here.”
While he was showing me the bathroom.
“Get that Jew out of here.”
While he was showing me the triple bay windows.
“Get that Jew out of here.”
Without a response, I left when the tour
was over saying I would let him know.
I left shaking. I called my mother. Told
her the story. Wished them good
Yom Tov.
A few months later, late September
just after Rosh Hashanah on my way back
from the city about two in the morning
I was walking down Washington Street
and saw a big fire.
There were all these
fire engines and
police cars
And a woman about my age with the same
hair and eyes was standing there crying
with her three little kids.
And the next morning, there was
no more building there.
I passed a synagogue
on the way to work.
I’d walked this way many times
but never noticed it before
just like I never noticed how many
of the people at the Roundabout were
Jewish and how many of my friends
weren’t.
A sign reminded the congregation
of the time. Days of Awe.
Day of Atonement.
L’Shanah Tovah, I thought.
union
this is the room I call home
it has you in it
this is the inside of my body
it has you in it
this is the place I am unafraid
it has you in it
this is the music that makes me sing
it has you in it
this is the picture that makes me weep
it has you in it
this is the tabernacle that feeds my faith
it has you in it
this is the river that winds through my valleys
it has you in it
this is the refuge that shelters me from everyday rains
it has you in it
this is the tree that marks my family’s roots and branches
it has you in it
this is the theater where my shadow dances on lights
it has you in it
this is the bed where i sleep and sweat and cry
it has you in it
this is the garden that fills up my baskets
it has you in it
this is the juice that quenches my thirst
it has you in it
this is the hand that blesses all beings
it has you in it
this is the honey mixed with my tea
it has you in it
this is the image from my mirror
it has you in it
this is the room i call home
Beaujolais
In Paris alone—
I buy pastries for Pesach.
I buy rosary beads for you.
The language of hymns mixes in the air
its essence a sweet aria like the
harmony we hum when you and I make love.
I walk Rue de Rosiers with sacramental steps
wishing religion was not a branding iron,
but a kiss of peace
a caress of conscience.
At home—
We touch.
The Red Sea parts.
No one drowns.
The holy host is the body, not the blood.
Manna falls from heaven into my hands.
I see an angel on each post of your bed.
The Last Supper/The First Seder
My nails scraped
your shoulders
digging deep
to keep
from falling
over an edge
into an unknown depth
into an abyss
You held my wrists
I did not fall
it was grace
You drank me
kiddush
bless the wine
I was sated
hamotze
bless the bread
all rise
unleavened bread
this sacramental position
this genuflection
this joy
this scream in my throat
this hallelujah
this chorus
this chord
this time
this music
this poem
this place
this hand
this wrist
your hand
this nail
on the tip
of my finger
drew blood
from your body
this tongue
took your soul
and swallowed
rose again
and again
rose
in a garden
it was Pesach
it was Easter
it was matzot
it was mitzvot
it was holy water
it was spirit
it was flesh
it was wine
it was your eyes
it was my breasts
I was falling
I was free
You held my wrists
on my bed
we thirsted
and bled
and healed
and hungered
no more
more more
O Lord, O prophets
this I freely confess
there is no hell
that could erase
this moment
from my skin
there is no perfume
in heaven
more sweet
than the screams
of this communion
All the angels
have fallen
into my arms
You grabbed my wrists
showed me
I have wings
showed me
I was never
in danger
of falling
O what a prophet
I leave the door
open for you
on this night
we dip thrice
on this night
taste the bitter
the salt
the sweet
the egg
the fish
the honey
Why is this night different
on this night
we recline
on this night
we roll back the rock
and rise
again and again
on this night
we wait for Elijah
for a great coming
and that can be
a commandment
a mitzvah
Shehekianu
Revelations
not a sin
Joy at ends with
no beginnings
and love that
ever is so
and eternally does
Amen Amen Amen
a kiss of peace
a cathedral
a synagogue
a bed
Hail Mary
Our Father
hallowed
Dayenu
Alenu
Adonolam
Adonoi
O Prophet, O Goddess
all these symbols
all these words
rush rivers
beneath the skin
on my arms
fall in rings
from my nape
O Lord, I cannot believe
in eternity
more than
when you
held me
for a moment
after we ate
all the icons.
Oh You Corporate Dogs Grrrr(ow)l
Some suit in jeans suggested a power skirt kit.
Another suggested doing something
about that kinky hair (and
maybe the nose or some makeup
maybe too old
too young
too technical
not technical enough).
And, when they didn't say it to each other,
they looked for the right words.
They could not put their right finger on it.
They looked for the right answer.
They could not put that right foot in their mouths.
Maybe what they wanted to say was
Jew! Jew! Jew!
or
she's only a girl!
They were too pure-minding minded to say it
in consciousness—outside their skin
and away from a urinal.
They knew it was wrong, but there it was like the
subtle seams of an a-line dress
cut on the bias,
hemmed in,
plain and simple.
And it could not be (could not!) that she was the
right person in the right place at the right
time...
And when she quit (couldn't stand the hate, duh, heat),
they comfortably fingered their crosses
and hired three men to
fill her satin pumps.
Christ said "God is not the god of the dead, but of the living."
Hosanna! Hosanna!
You must see the dead.
Pin them center stage, framed by arches.
Blow them into red and blue glass to
light your churches through their filter.
Worship them.
Om! Om Mani Padme Hum!
You must see the dead.
Present them on pedestals,
in plush-ornate carrying cases.
Flush their fluids with formaldehyde.
Sit with them for weeks.
Remark how well the waxy ones are groomed.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
You must see the dead.
Trade relics of martyrs like baseball cards
(the worse the death,
the more cherished the bone).
Crown them with barbarous briar and hovering halos.
Ascribe miracles to these mortals,
as if burning bush tricks are meant
for less than a ruler of the universe;
as if grace and death are co-resident twins;
as if the dead hold the only wisdom.
(If they're so smart,
how come they're dead?)
Ecce Signum! Kyrie, Kyrie Eleison!
You must see the dead.
Glue them to dashboards.
Place them in gardens.
Hang them on walls.
Dangle them on chains.
Kill in their names.
Ask for rescue by a father which art
watching his son bleed to eternal death.
Tell me I will not be saved until
I have swallowed your dead.
I have no appetite for redeemable-coupon corpses.
I have no satanic muses,
no long-dead daemons,
to exorcise
or fear.
I do not understand necromancy.
I know the dead as scribes of the book of life.
Plant them fast in plain pine to fertilize the tree of life.
Mourn them not too little, not too long.
Know death as merely the consequence of living,
not the whole
heaven and hell
point of it.
I cannot embrace necromancy.
Here is the reward; here on earth,
in this open-eyed covenant,
this watchful wary living,
this weariness,
this woe,
this salt.
In this kiss
that came before
the crucifixion.
I do not live in a necropolis; I live in Torah.
Hashem, blessed be, as it is said,
stopped Avraham from making Yitzhak another hunting trophy;
this from the god with a mighty hand and
an outstretched arm;
the vengeful, irascible deity of
Yaakov, Sarah, Rivka, and Rachael,
Leah, Moshe, Daveed, and Yehuda;
the god of the lion
the one
who said:
Shema Yisrael... (Hear O Israel...)
With all your heart, all your soul, and all your might
Love life more than law;
Love living more than life's potential;
Love the woman undead more than the child unborn.
Adonoi Elohaynu... (Hashem, our god...)
With all your heart, all your soul, and all your might
When sitting in your house,
When walking by the way,
When rising up,
When lying down.
Adonoi Echod. (Hashem is one.)
With all your heart, all your soul, and all your might
Bind living words between your eyes, on your hand;
Nail them to your door posts;
Write them on your gates.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Kiddish. Kadosh. Kaddish.
That the days of life may be multiplied
I say a blessing for washing my hands,
for combing my hair,
for burying the dead.
I must see breathing beings.
I must see each moment breathed.
I must eat each day's liver.
Only soil will swallow me when I am dead.