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.
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.
The Beginning
By Rachel Kann
If you can find stillness,
the jasmine will night-bloom in your direction
and the breeze
will carry its sacred exhalation of perfume
toward you.
Breathe,
the moon will cascade waves of radiance
downward,
drop her silver robes,
glow.
You will awaken,
overtaken by a love
that asks no permission,
golden particles rising
beneath your skin.
all of existence
longs to be an offering.
eternity is a constant whisper
wishing to be listened to.
This is the beginning.
This is only the beginning.
Let it in.
And G!d says: “You think these are my office hours? That only in these precious days I can hear you? No! I walk with you through the valleys and the fields, gridlocked streets and riot blocks. It is YOU who hears ME in these coming days. It will be you who stops to listen. These gates are open for YOU.”
And G!d says: “Can you feel the turning? The sun is lower and the trees are beginning to burn; it is time, again. The time is coming. You will not be ready. Even if you have planned each menu for your vegan, gluten-free, macrobiotic Rosh Hashanah lunches. Even if you are expected to lead your community in prayer. Even if you remembered to buy local, organic honey, there is no readiness for the work to come. Only a willingness to show up and dive in.”
And G!d says: “Awake! Awake! This is the time when nothing can hide, when the leaves are still outstretched on their branches, and even the cornhusks are opening to reveal their sweetness. So too, should be the ugliness of the world - if you have not known it before now, then rouse yourself. It is not too late. There is too much to do; you cannot sleep any more.”
And G!d says: “You, who are exhausted with the work already. You, with the asphalt-worn boots, with the house full of placards. You, who are always breathing in, preparing to shout, who sees the work everywhere and swallows the impossible sea of it: breathe out, weary ones. Prepare yourselves to go in, and to go in deep. Find the work inside: the work of self-kindness, the work of healing and repair. The work on the street will still be there when you re-enter. The world needs you whole.”
From Dane Kuttler's The G!d Wrestlers, The Social Justice Warrior's Guide to the High Holy Days, Sept. 2015
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.
Hello, couch. Hello, kitchen table. Hello, backyard.
I look around my house and I greet these ordinary objects.
We have spent more time together these past months than usual.
Thank you for being an oasis of comfort and safety.
You have worked so hard to hold me, day in and day out.
How can we allow you and me to rest and restore and return on this most sacred day?
I transform you with my desire for the change I wish to see in myself.
You, dear couch, table, backyard, you are now my sacred space—my mikdash m’at,
a sanctuary where I will allow myself to become present to my breath,
to turn down the noise of the world
and turn up the volume of my prayers.
Shanah tovah, dear couch, Good Yuntif, dear kitchen table, G’mar Tov, dear backyard!
In this holy space that is my home, I pursue my desire to become whole.
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.
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.
The Beginning
By Rachel Kann
If you can find stillness,
the jasmine will night-bloom in your direction
and the breeze
will carry its sacred exhalation of perfume
toward you.
Breathe,
the moon will cascade waves of radiance
downward,
drop her silver robes,
glow.
You will awaken,
overtaken by a love
that asks no permission,
golden particles rising
beneath your skin.
all of existence
longs to be an offering.
eternity is a constant whisper
wishing to be listened to.
This is the beginning.
This is only the beginning.
Let it in.
And G!d says: “You think these are my office hours? That only in these precious days I can hear you? No! I walk with you through the valleys and the fields, gridlocked streets and riot blocks. It is YOU who hears ME in these coming days. It will be you who stops to listen. These gates are open for YOU.”
And G!d says: “Can you feel the turning? The sun is lower and the trees are beginning to burn; it is time, again. The time is coming. You will not be ready. Even if you have planned each menu for your vegan, gluten-free, macrobiotic Rosh Hashanah lunches. Even if you are expected to lead your community in prayer. Even if you remembered to buy local, organic honey, there is no readiness for the work to come. Only a willingness to show up and dive in.”
And G!d says: “Awake! Awake! This is the time when nothing can hide, when the leaves are still outstretched on their branches, and even the cornhusks are opening to reveal their sweetness. So too, should be the ugliness of the world - if you have not known it before now, then rouse yourself. It is not too late. There is too much to do; you cannot sleep any more.”
And G!d says: “You, who are exhausted with the work already. You, with the asphalt-worn boots, with the house full of placards. You, who are always breathing in, preparing to shout, who sees the work everywhere and swallows the impossible sea of it: breathe out, weary ones. Prepare yourselves to go in, and to go in deep. Find the work inside: the work of self-kindness, the work of healing and repair. The work on the street will still be there when you re-enter. The world needs you whole.”
From Dane Kuttler's The G!d Wrestlers, The Social Justice Warrior's Guide to the High Holy Days, Sept. 2015
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.
Hello, couch. Hello, kitchen table. Hello, backyard.
I look around my house and I greet these ordinary objects.
We have spent more time together these past months than usual.
Thank you for being an oasis of comfort and safety.
You have worked so hard to hold me, day in and day out.
How can we allow you and me to rest and restore and return on this most sacred day?
I transform you with my desire for the change I wish to see in myself.
You, dear couch, table, backyard, you are now my sacred space—my mikdash m’at,
a sanctuary where I will allow myself to become present to my breath,
to turn down the noise of the world
and turn up the volume of my prayers.
Shanah tovah, dear couch, Good Yuntif, dear kitchen table, G’mar Tov, dear backyard!
In this holy space that is my home, I pursue my desire to become whole.
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