Hold onto what is good
Even if it is a handful of earth.
Hold onto what you believe
Even if it is a tree that stands by itself.
Hold onto what you must do
Even if it is a long way from here.
Hold onto life
Even if it seems easier to let go.
Hold onto my hand
Even if I have gone away from you.
We Dance Around The Shul
By Trisha Arlin
Our Torah is old.
The blue velvet cover
And the silver plate that hangs over the velvet
Are both covered in names
Of donors long gone,
And their honored loved ones, gone even longer.
These names mean nothing to us:
We ignore them
On Shabbat
When we dance around the shul.
On Selichot we put aside the old velvet
And dressed our Torah in fresh white covers,
only a year old,
Donated by a beloved member,
Amina.
She died this year, four days before Rosh HaShanah.
Tonight it’s Simkhat Torah.
So we now take off Amina’s white cover
And put on the old one,
Blue, embroidered with strangers' names.
Then we will dance around the shul.
We will think of Amina every year at this time
From now on
Until none of us are around,
Until there is no one who remembers her,
Or us.
Then others will carry this scroll with the white cover
Donated by a Jew they never knew,
While they dance around the shul.
We give thanks for the ancient traditions,
Telling the story even when we can’t,
Keeping our loved ones’ memories
And giving us Torah from the beginning, every year.
There's something special about poetry. More than any other form of writing, it has the power to make us feel. Our Jewish tradition is full of evocative poems that express our gratitude, ask for help, communicate our love and mourn.
During this time of deep preparation and reflection for the High Holidays, poetry can provide a portal into introspection. This collection features contemporary poets and liturgists as well as classic texts. We hope it inspires you.
Holy On My Own by Caroline Rothstein
Self-love is sobbing fetal position on the
brown wooden paneled floor of my bedroom
in Bushwick the night before I move out;
my torso prostrating back in on myself;
my body, the only G-d in sight.
Self-love is waking up at 5:00 a.m.
at my mother's cousins' in New Jersey
on the coldest day of winter and carrying
three duffle bags, 10 boxes, my hula-hoop,
three garment bags, and half a dozen crates
up 8 feet of stairs at Manhattan Mini Storage
by myself, on a weekday, in leather boots.
Self-love is the ocean. Is folding my blue jeans
on a rock. Is leaving my cell phone in a pocket.
Is soaking my bare soles in the sun tucked
sand. Is placing my right foot on the inner flesh
of my left thigh and opening my arms to the sky.
In my underwear. And a tank top. And saying,
holy Hallelujah, look at what I've found.
Self-love is moving to New Jersey. And
back to Manhattan. And to Sarah's couch in
Brooklyn after three landlords in Queens say
no. Because I'm an artist. Because I'm a single
woman. Because I freelance. Because I am
too sturdy to be knocked to the ground.
Self-love is moving everything out of storage
in my black platform wedges and Forever 21
dress mere hours before the first night of Pesach
and here is me, my own Moses, parting the Red Sea.
Self-love is two years later. Is two more dances
around the sun. Is too many more months than
anticipated wandering in the desert. Still in
Canaan. Still waiting for the tablets from Sinai.
Still waiting for the spies to tell me what
I'm too afraid to find within myself.
Self-love is being 32 and single. Is being 32
and single. Is being 32 and single and four
weddings in a row. And signing five ketubahs
And standing up and standing up and standing
up. And getting my period. And getting my
period. And standing up. And dancing the
hora. And signing a ketubah. And dancing
the hora. And signing a ketubah. And dancing
the hora. And standing up. And watching my
News Feed. And watching my News Feed.
And still waking up alone.
Self-love is tucking myself to sleep in
the middle of my queen-sized bed and
still knowing I am strong. Is waking up
in Harlem. Is remembering Brooklyn. Is
prostrating to my torso. Is prostrating to
my womb. Is knowing that possibility may,
in fact, be one hell of a magnificent God, but
oh, how that golden calf creates idols. How
too that burning bush is but a metaphor. How
the only way out of this exodus desert dance
is feeling whole, holy on my own.
Caroline Rothstein (https://www.carolinerothstein.com/) is a New York City-based award-winning writer, poet, performer and educator. Her work has appeared in Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, BuzzFeed, NYLON, Narratively, The Forward, Kveller, and elsewhere. She was a member of the 2010 Nuyorican Poets Cafe slam team, which placed second at the 2010 National Poetry Slam, and is a Youth Mentor at Urban Word NYC.
Poem for the Disappointed by Deanna Neil
For those who worked for years
for a moment
a culmination
that passed and deflated before their eyes
an alveolus wheezing
a balloon sputtering
wailing grossly from its untied belly button
until an even more frightening
silence
For when the whole word reached out for a hug
and the only thing to grasp was thin air
For when the calendar postponed
but time marched on, sweating in our living rooms
For when we tried to run away from our bodies
but needed them to get where we were going
for the humility you felt when your plans shook away
like a simple etch-a-sketch
(how you thought the lines had looked so permanent)
for when you were too embarrassed to admit,
while standing over a virtual casket,
how much that job meant to you
for when you were afraid and hoarding chocolates in your nightstand
scanning the internet for the local gun store
pale, trembling, deep inside your lungs,
considering that your dreams never meant anything
that nothing ever meant anything
and understanding in brief, hot flashes
that you are infinitely, endemically interconnected
to everything
for when we saw ourselves
close a chapter we were in the middle of writing
but still, shaking, held the pen
There was a passionate answer
a deep knowing
that this time would come
a communal winter
when the greased machine would get arthritis
when the hot world would exact revenge
A bright stop sign on our road to purpose.
And this is when we reminded each other
that the conversation we have with loss
is perennial
and must be endured
together
while solitary
In a confined closet
accessible by outer space
Like a cosmic cure in your underpants
Like an epiphany that has no alphabet
yet
Hold onto what is good
Even if it is a handful of earth.
Hold onto what you believe
Even if it is a tree that stands by itself.
Hold onto what you must do
Even if it is a long way from here.
Hold onto life
Even if it seems easier to let go.
Hold onto my hand
Even if I have gone away from you.
We Dance Around The Shul
By Trisha Arlin
Our Torah is old.
The blue velvet cover
And the silver plate that hangs over the velvet
Are both covered in names
Of donors long gone,
And their honored loved ones, gone even longer.
These names mean nothing to us:
We ignore them
On Shabbat
When we dance around the shul.
On Selichot we put aside the old velvet
And dressed our Torah in fresh white covers,
only a year old,
Donated by a beloved member,
Amina.
She died this year, four days before Rosh HaShanah.
Tonight it’s Simkhat Torah.
So we now take off Amina’s white cover
And put on the old one,
Blue, embroidered with strangers' names.
Then we will dance around the shul.
We will think of Amina every year at this time
From now on
Until none of us are around,
Until there is no one who remembers her,
Or us.
Then others will carry this scroll with the white cover
Donated by a Jew they never knew,
While they dance around the shul.
We give thanks for the ancient traditions,
Telling the story even when we can’t,
Keeping our loved ones’ memories
And giving us Torah from the beginning, every year.
There's something special about poetry. More than any other form of writing, it has the power to make us feel. Our Jewish tradition is full of evocative poems that express our gratitude, ask for help, communicate our love and mourn.
During this time of deep preparation and reflection for the High Holidays, poetry can provide a portal into introspection. This collection features contemporary poets and liturgists as well as classic texts. We hope it inspires you.
Holy On My Own by Caroline Rothstein
Self-love is sobbing fetal position on the
brown wooden paneled floor of my bedroom
in Bushwick the night before I move out;
my torso prostrating back in on myself;
my body, the only G-d in sight.
Self-love is waking up at 5:00 a.m.
at my mother's cousins' in New Jersey
on the coldest day of winter and carrying
three duffle bags, 10 boxes, my hula-hoop,
three garment bags, and half a dozen crates
up 8 feet of stairs at Manhattan Mini Storage
by myself, on a weekday, in leather boots.
Self-love is the ocean. Is folding my blue jeans
on a rock. Is leaving my cell phone in a pocket.
Is soaking my bare soles in the sun tucked
sand. Is placing my right foot on the inner flesh
of my left thigh and opening my arms to the sky.
In my underwear. And a tank top. And saying,
holy Hallelujah, look at what I've found.
Self-love is moving to New Jersey. And
back to Manhattan. And to Sarah's couch in
Brooklyn after three landlords in Queens say
no. Because I'm an artist. Because I'm a single
woman. Because I freelance. Because I am
too sturdy to be knocked to the ground.
Self-love is moving everything out of storage
in my black platform wedges and Forever 21
dress mere hours before the first night of Pesach
and here is me, my own Moses, parting the Red Sea.
Self-love is two years later. Is two more dances
around the sun. Is too many more months than
anticipated wandering in the desert. Still in
Canaan. Still waiting for the tablets from Sinai.
Still waiting for the spies to tell me what
I'm too afraid to find within myself.
Self-love is being 32 and single. Is being 32
and single. Is being 32 and single and four
weddings in a row. And signing five ketubahs
And standing up and standing up and standing
up. And getting my period. And getting my
period. And standing up. And dancing the
hora. And signing a ketubah. And dancing
the hora. And signing a ketubah. And dancing
the hora. And standing up. And watching my
News Feed. And watching my News Feed.
And still waking up alone.
Self-love is tucking myself to sleep in
the middle of my queen-sized bed and
still knowing I am strong. Is waking up
in Harlem. Is remembering Brooklyn. Is
prostrating to my torso. Is prostrating to
my womb. Is knowing that possibility may,
in fact, be one hell of a magnificent God, but
oh, how that golden calf creates idols. How
too that burning bush is but a metaphor. How
the only way out of this exodus desert dance
is feeling whole, holy on my own.
Caroline Rothstein (https://www.carolinerothstein.com/) is a New York City-based award-winning writer, poet, performer and educator. Her work has appeared in Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, BuzzFeed, NYLON, Narratively, The Forward, Kveller, and elsewhere. She was a member of the 2010 Nuyorican Poets Cafe slam team, which placed second at the 2010 National Poetry Slam, and is a Youth Mentor at Urban Word NYC.
Poem for the Disappointed by Deanna Neil
For those who worked for years
for a moment
a culmination
that passed and deflated before their eyes
an alveolus wheezing
a balloon sputtering
wailing grossly from its untied belly button
until an even more frightening
silence
For when the whole word reached out for a hug
and the only thing to grasp was thin air
For when the calendar postponed
but time marched on, sweating in our living rooms
For when we tried to run away from our bodies
but needed them to get where we were going
for the humility you felt when your plans shook away
like a simple etch-a-sketch
(how you thought the lines had looked so permanent)
for when you were too embarrassed to admit,
while standing over a virtual casket,
how much that job meant to you
for when you were afraid and hoarding chocolates in your nightstand
scanning the internet for the local gun store
pale, trembling, deep inside your lungs,
considering that your dreams never meant anything
that nothing ever meant anything
and understanding in brief, hot flashes
that you are infinitely, endemically interconnected
to everything
for when we saw ourselves
close a chapter we were in the middle of writing
but still, shaking, held the pen
There was a passionate answer
a deep knowing
that this time would come
a communal winter
when the greased machine would get arthritis
when the hot world would exact revenge
A bright stop sign on our road to purpose.
And this is when we reminded each other
that the conversation we have with loss
is perennial
and must be endured
together
while solitary
In a confined closet
accessible by outer space
Like a cosmic cure in your underpants
Like an epiphany that has no alphabet
yet
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