December 2015
Steve Klepetar
sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu
sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu
I'm an old dog, a recently retired college professor who was born in Shanghai, China in 1949. My parents were Holocaust survivors and
refugees. I grew up in New York City and spent my teaching career in the Midwest - Wisconsin, and for the past 33 years, Minnesota. I've been fortunate to have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, including three in 2014. My recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).
refugees. I grew up in New York City and spent my teaching career in the Midwest - Wisconsin, and for the past 33 years, Minnesota. I've been fortunate to have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, including three in 2014. My recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).
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Author's Note: The three poems below share a thematic connection — being Jewish: "Challah" is a rabbinical parable about how miracles are made manifest through human action; "To be continued" tells of my experience with anti-Semitism in an ethnically-mixed neighborhood in Queens during the 50's and 60's; and "Bulldog" comes from a story my father told me... He was one of many Jews, now referred to as "Shanghailanders," who fled to China during World War II to escape the Nazis.
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Challah
At Synagogue, the village rich man half-dozed
as the rabbi spoke of twelve loaves
in the desert, Lord's bread, sweet challah
as offering, prayer baked by free hands.
And the rich man thought he heard the voice of God.
"I am so honored," he thought, "to be called
on for this gift." At home he had the bread
prepared, twelve large loaves of challah, which
he brought to temple and arranged in the ark
where lay the holy scrolls of Torah. Soon
a poor man entered the silent room, prayed
before the ark. "O Lord," he prayed, "I am so poor
I cannot feed my children. "But when he opened
the ark to peer at the scrolls he loved, twelve
fat challah loaves tumbled about his hands.
When the rich man returned and found his challah gone,
he knew that God had eaten the bread and been glad.
"I will bring another twelve next week," he cried,
"and Lord, you may be sure this time there will
be raisins!" For many weeks the rich man brought
challah as a gift for God. The poor man reached
his hands to heaven and accepted God's gift. Six
he kept, and four he sold and two left for those few
poorer than himself. One day the rabbi, staying late
to pray, witnessed the odd exchange and brought
the men together. "I see," the poor man said, head
bowed, "God has not sent me bread."
"Nor has he eaten challah from my hands," the rich man
sighed. The rabbi smiled. He took the rich man's hands in his
and kissed them softly. "These are the hands of God that offer
to the poor. And these," he said, taking the poor man's, "are God's
hands too, accepting challah baked by free hands, as a prayer."
To be continued….
Four a.m. and I'm awake in faint light,
aware of a little chill, a knuckle
of pain radiating from under my left
shoulder. I nearly bend a window frame
scrambling out along the thin pole
of moon frozen to oak leaves
and grass in my front yard.
The way appears down through
the tunnel of myself. I smell the bricks
of my old Queens neighborhood —
acrid red bricks crisscrossed with white
cement, taste subtle salt-blood pulsing
in my throat as shadows fling stones.
Some hit but I can't see
who is doing this. “Dirty Jew!”
they call, laughing, bitter voices.
Fists clenched and useless, muddy
with sweat, tears roaring in the hail
of many rocks, I am so small, hiding
in a bush, wrapped tight in stinging leaves…
Bulldog
My father lived in Shanghai
nine years, told stories all
my life. His friend Otto
had a bulldog, Butcher, who
growled and snarled and barked,
a fiend like a black rooster
in the red rain. My father
spent his friendship backing
away from Butcher while Otto
held the chain. "He won't
bite" Otto cooed, like all fierce
dog owners, serene and perverse
as gods. My father backed away
and at sharp Butcher barks, he had
to leap lightfoot clumsy, stumbling,
one-eye dogward. One day my father
saw Otto with his dog hobbled,
hideously bandaged at the groin.
One look at my old man and Butcher
howled thin, piteously weak. "He
won't bite," Otto called, I've had
him castrated. No need to worry
now" and Butcher howled as if the
blood of recovery surged in his
doggy veins. He lunged and strained
at the leash, growling as my father
backed away, a step, a step, a quick
leap across the teeming street-life
road. "Come back!" cried Otto, "its
all right — he's castrated now!"
My father backed up one last step, stood
his ground and yelled "GOD DAMN YOU
OTTO, I'M NOT AFRAID HE'S GONNA FUCK
ME, I'M AFRAID HE'S GONNA BITE!"
At Synagogue, the village rich man half-dozed
as the rabbi spoke of twelve loaves
in the desert, Lord's bread, sweet challah
as offering, prayer baked by free hands.
And the rich man thought he heard the voice of God.
"I am so honored," he thought, "to be called
on for this gift." At home he had the bread
prepared, twelve large loaves of challah, which
he brought to temple and arranged in the ark
where lay the holy scrolls of Torah. Soon
a poor man entered the silent room, prayed
before the ark. "O Lord," he prayed, "I am so poor
I cannot feed my children. "But when he opened
the ark to peer at the scrolls he loved, twelve
fat challah loaves tumbled about his hands.
When the rich man returned and found his challah gone,
he knew that God had eaten the bread and been glad.
"I will bring another twelve next week," he cried,
"and Lord, you may be sure this time there will
be raisins!" For many weeks the rich man brought
challah as a gift for God. The poor man reached
his hands to heaven and accepted God's gift. Six
he kept, and four he sold and two left for those few
poorer than himself. One day the rabbi, staying late
to pray, witnessed the odd exchange and brought
the men together. "I see," the poor man said, head
bowed, "God has not sent me bread."
"Nor has he eaten challah from my hands," the rich man
sighed. The rabbi smiled. He took the rich man's hands in his
and kissed them softly. "These are the hands of God that offer
to the poor. And these," he said, taking the poor man's, "are God's
hands too, accepting challah baked by free hands, as a prayer."
To be continued….
Four a.m. and I'm awake in faint light,
aware of a little chill, a knuckle
of pain radiating from under my left
shoulder. I nearly bend a window frame
scrambling out along the thin pole
of moon frozen to oak leaves
and grass in my front yard.
The way appears down through
the tunnel of myself. I smell the bricks
of my old Queens neighborhood —
acrid red bricks crisscrossed with white
cement, taste subtle salt-blood pulsing
in my throat as shadows fling stones.
Some hit but I can't see
who is doing this. “Dirty Jew!”
they call, laughing, bitter voices.
Fists clenched and useless, muddy
with sweat, tears roaring in the hail
of many rocks, I am so small, hiding
in a bush, wrapped tight in stinging leaves…
Bulldog
My father lived in Shanghai
nine years, told stories all
my life. His friend Otto
had a bulldog, Butcher, who
growled and snarled and barked,
a fiend like a black rooster
in the red rain. My father
spent his friendship backing
away from Butcher while Otto
held the chain. "He won't
bite" Otto cooed, like all fierce
dog owners, serene and perverse
as gods. My father backed away
and at sharp Butcher barks, he had
to leap lightfoot clumsy, stumbling,
one-eye dogward. One day my father
saw Otto with his dog hobbled,
hideously bandaged at the groin.
One look at my old man and Butcher
howled thin, piteously weak. "He
won't bite," Otto called, I've had
him castrated. No need to worry
now" and Butcher howled as if the
blood of recovery surged in his
doggy veins. He lunged and strained
at the leash, growling as my father
backed away, a step, a step, a quick
leap across the teeming street-life
road. "Come back!" cried Otto, "its
all right — he's castrated now!"
My father backed up one last step, stood
his ground and yelled "GOD DAMN YOU
OTTO, I'M NOT AFRAID HE'S GONNA FUCK
ME, I'M AFRAID HE'S GONNA BITE!"
©2015 Steve Klepetar