"I composed ... a song — which I had never sung till then, with an idea, and words, and rhymes — because my heart was with me and in my mouth.” ( S Y Agnon, 'With My Heart')
Sunday, 12 April 2020
Passover Super Moon 2020
Tuesday, 24 March 2020
Passover in a Year of Modern Plague
"What's true of all the evils in the world is true of the plague as well. It helps men to rise above themselves”. (Albert Camus, ‘The Plague’, June 1947).
Blood
In
a time of plague,
I watch the carnivals of hate
roll
by, but won’t participate.
I
shop. But fixed on red alert,
I
hide behind my Purim mask, now
sanitised;
advise the salesman
that
my purchases are few.
Frogs
Perhaps
something cooling
for
a head that’s spawned
heaped
coals on fire and
other
stuff that’s extra soothing
for
a throat shot through with
knives.
Lice
Once,
my distracted mind insists,
on
days like this, an ancient
king’s
wise fool dared throw
the
apple of his eye,
not
on him, but at a mystic
man
of science’s brow.
A-tishoo!
A-tishoo! I can’t
buy
a tissue. I must lie down.
Flies
Here’s
time for holy
men
to find martyrs many,
but
forbidden to heal by touch,
their
rooms are deserts –
lie
arid, empty.
Pestilence
A
Catholic Father clings to Jesus;
What’s sickness, mine? What’s gone
amiss?
Rav Mazuz bursts gay
folks’
pride. ‘Your way is community suicide’.
Boils
Blind
granddad is a tailor,
he
sews at Alum Rock.
Sleek
rats squat on his windowsill
tho’
he’s cut from finest cloth.
Hail
‘Hail’
– which may also
speak
‘farewell’ - come near –
but
not too close – we’re all in this
together
- but apart.
All
borders shut. So let us,
rather,
gather at safe
distance
on our balconies.
There,
we whistle, stomp and
cheer
‘hurrah’ in humble thanks
to
those who work to save us now.
Locusts
No
swarm of guests to lean
left
about my heirloomed table.
No
rosemary for remembered rue,
Instead,
twice dipped, our new enslavement
will
be forever etched in lineal pain.
Darkness
Sand burdened winds scythe
unwary
heads. Forsaken
streets
expose unblinking eyes atop
shuttered
public places, sacred spaces
that
shed unwonted tears as mustard-muddy
clouds
scud by.
Killing of the First Born
No
blood-streaked lintel, no
fragrant
hyssop helps. God’s
messenger
arrives to take his tithe.
Once
only a kid, an enfeebled lion
learns
he is to roar no more,
his
work on earth is done.
So
too, here, is mine.
© Natalie
Wood (24 March 2020)
Friday, 12 April 2019
PerfectlyWritePoetry: Seaside Pastiche
Seaside Pastiche
The trip started at the town’s striking octagonal water tower that has served as an art gallery since 2003 and has been hosting a show by prize-winning crochet portrait artist, Orly Ben Basat.
There were also stops at the Lieberman House Museum that was restored in the 1990s and the home-based studio of Judaica fabric artist, Adina Gatt.
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A white tower’d gallery
by a river near the sea
frames women, three.
Sweet waters run softly till they end their song.
Slipped tight behind
mud-fogged glass,
time honours all
who’ve In these ancient
waters passed.
Why do they yet mourn
by God’s slim river, now
we’ve regained Zion?
Full fathoms five,
neither blind to the magic,
nor deaf to the melody,
see the needle-pointed
pearls that are their eyes,
those knitted brows.
Hark that silenced chargrilled
voice; a patterned arm.
Look how that behatted,
urchin charm plays on.
This falling house never
fell; no girl bathed
upon its bridal roof;
no royal watcher
gloated on the
embroidered truth.
Sweet waters run softly till they end their song.
© Natalie Wood (12 April 2019)Cry me a river!
Don’t laugh at
my belief in man;
at my belief in you,
little river.
Cry on, tho’ your
waters meet the
sea and herein ends
this song.
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Tuesday, 19 February 2019
Alwayswriteagain: Why Israelis Love ‘Green Bóok’
Monday, 18 February 2019
’Boy’ or ‘Boss’: Water Keeps a Hit Movie ‘Green’!
I could not have been more wrong!
According to contributors to Lyrics Mode it is a prison work song and the prisoner, doing hard labour, laments how his bad luck gambling in card games has cost him ‘silver and gold’ – along with his liberty. The singer is either calling for the water boy to bring him water or is telling the guard, whom he calls ‘boss’ how hard he's working and that he's the best worker on site. It is suggested further that the word ’boy’ is mistranscribed from the original and should be ‘boss’.
There are innumerable versions of Water Boy, with fans claiming a wide range of musical references encompassing classical composers, a Jewish marriage song and a Native American tune.
The song and the many artistes who have covered it have enjoyed renewed interest with the release of the movie, Green Book as The Don Shirley Trio recorded a most compelling instrumental version.
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Water boy, where are you hidin’
If you don't come right here
Gonna tell you pa on you
There ain't no hammer
That's on a this mountain
That ring like mine boy
That ring like mine
I'm gonna bust this rock boy
From here to the Macon
All the way to the jail boy
All the way to the jail
You Jack o diamond
Jack o diamond
Know you of old boy
I know you're of old
You rob-a my pocket
Rob my pocket
Silver and gold boy
Of silver and gold
There ain't no sweat boy
That's on a this mountain
That run like mine boy
That run like mine
Tuesday, 5 June 2018
Of the Burning of Jewish Books There is No End …
Four modern Hebrew poets whose work has had such a profound impact on Israeli life and culture that their verses are sung in kindergartens while one has given a name to a recent war.
What’s more, observed Dr Eli Ben Joseph addressing the English speakers group at the Emet Veshalom Progressive Synagogue in Nahariya, northern Israel, it is thrilling to note that Rachel Bluwstein – known universally as ‘the poet Rachel’ – was the first woman to write in Hebrew since the biblical judge, Deborah.
Dr Ben Joseph, a US-born Israeli of 44 years standing, who taught English as a foreign language at the Western Galilee College near Acco, also examined the work of Leah Goldberg, Yehuda Amichai and Chaim Nachman Bialik, who is regarded as Israel’s national poet.
As present-day Israel is still the home of the ‘People of the Book’, it is difficult to exaggerate what has been described as the ‘mythological ‘status’ of personalities like these four:
There are signposts to the cemetery near Lake Kinneret in Tiberias where Rachel lies. Bialik’s Tel Aviv house, converted into a museum, is a major tourist attraction while streets, a moshav and a suburb of Haifa are named after him. Goldberg, like Rachel, is among four poets featured on Israeli banknotes while it is said that Amichai is the most translated Hebrew language poet since King David!
But here I would like to examine an aspect of Bialik’s life not touched upon either by Dr Ben Joseph or former UK MP and broadcaster Michael Portillo, who featured the poet in his BBC documentary, Rail Journey in the Land of Israel, and that was screened last night for an ESRA Karmiel crowd.
It is something I thought about in relation both to the ‘Kaddish’ prayer protest in London last month and historic rows in world Jewry from biblical times onward.
The poet was born into a traditional Orthodox Jewish Russian family and studied at Talmudic academies in Russia and Lithuania. But as a young adult he drifted away from the life for which he had been prepared and it appears that there were those in ultra-strict circles who viewed his later activities as behaviour somewhere between gross disrespect and brazen treachery.
So they burned his books!
Bialik wrote in Yiddish as well as Hebrew, so it is not clear from what I have read what caused so much animus among the ultra-religious. I would welcome input from anyone who reads this feature.
Meanwhile, in view of the innumerable anti-Jewish book burnings that have occurred in history, it is hard to over-dramatise the malice that may inspire one set of Jews to thus destroy another Jew’s work on a matter of so-called religious principle.
But it is clear that Bialik’s stature and legacy prove he had already won the argument almost without breaking into a sweat. He continues to be regarded as Israel’s best known, most loved literary giant while his enemies lie as dust and ashes, their work forgotten – except in relation to him.









