May 2017
Robbi Nester
rknester@gmail.com
rknester@gmail.com
I am a transplant from Philadelphia, PA and retired college educator who has become part of the thriving poetry community of Southern California, which includes some of our fellow VVers. I keep myself busy writing, doing open mics and other readings as often as possible, practicing yoga, and enjoying the gorgeous climate in this area. In the age of Trump, I have joined with others to create a community of resistance.
Author's Note: Some words are in Hebrew/Yiddish: shul: synagogue; ner tamid: the small eternal light at the front of the synagogue which is never extinguished; bimah: the raised stage, where the Rabbi and cantor stand, in front of the ark (where the Torah is kept).
Old Religion
The little shul is dark and worn,
the brightest source of light the ner tamid,
dim with dust, bulb about to go.
Velvet seats pill up under my fingers.
From the drafty women’s section in the back,
I watch my cousins climb up on the bimah
unwrap the Torah like a bride,
their white shirts bright
against the paneled wall.
Meanwhile, I huddle in my seat, studying
the prayer book’s even rows of Hebrew letters,
black ink mantises, moving their jointed legs
from right to left across the page.
Banished to the anteroom of the tradition,
I know the tune, but not the words,
fit to stir the soup, but not to speak.
Someday, I think, I’ll wrest the dusty curtains
from the wall, let in the sun.
Old Religion
The little shul is dark and worn,
the brightest source of light the ner tamid,
dim with dust, bulb about to go.
Velvet seats pill up under my fingers.
From the drafty women’s section in the back,
I watch my cousins climb up on the bimah
unwrap the Torah like a bride,
their white shirts bright
against the paneled wall.
Meanwhile, I huddle in my seat, studying
the prayer book’s even rows of Hebrew letters,
black ink mantises, moving their jointed legs
from right to left across the page.
Banished to the anteroom of the tradition,
I know the tune, but not the words,
fit to stir the soup, but not to speak.
Someday, I think, I’ll wrest the dusty curtains
from the wall, let in the sun.
© 2017 Robbi Nester
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