Four Poems
Rykestrasse Synagogue, Berlin
- For Nashirah
Eyes smile at arched splendor,
symmetry and scale bathed in blue light
like regal threads at corners of a tallit,
shawl of resilient faith. In this city
eyes fill with tears, horrors
of history display as memorials,
evil never forgotten.
Consecrated at it’s opening in 1904
by a thousand men, a thousand women
and a thousand lights—this sanctuary
built of confident belonging
darkened later that same century,
whole families extinguished, freedom
on the far side of a twelve foot wall.
In a new December, city markets sparkle
mulled wine, roasted almonds
and gingerbread waft in chill air,
hand-crafted tchotchkes mingle
among crowds. A united generation
of Berliners welcomes us—
remnant of a people returning
to the continent grandparents fled,
and those from the near East
who defend our ancient homeland.
In this capital once divided
we assemble,
for folk songs and nigunim,
anthems and waltzes, psalms
of longing and of hope,
to be enchanted by melody and poetry
from scattered lands
where Jews lived and created—
Belarus and Yemen, Tunisia and Ukraine,
Germany and Israel, Greece and Spain.
On this steel grey Sunday
twilight descends early,
people bundle through secure gates
near the scheduled hour, buzz
with anticipation in wooden pews.
Speakers hail sponsors and solidarity
as singers breathe, ascend, swell
in the finesse of practiced hands,
joy soaring—the restored sanctuary
a light unto the Nations.
Here, in this sacred place
at the hush of evening, music
the communal language
of humanity,
harmony glows
whispering like a song of love,
zemer shel ahava.
—Final italicized lines, borrowed from Israeli folk song, often sung at Jewish weddings and also popular throughout the Middle East and North Africa:
Erev Shel Shoshanim (Evening of Roses) – 1956
Lyrics by Moshe Dor
Music by Josef Hadar
Duck and Cover
Sister and I propped side-by-side
on elbows, wall-to-wall more plush
than plastic on Mom’s blue velvet
crush. The Zenith, housed in Danish
modern, abducted our focus
as parents chirped cautious alerts:
“You’re too close to the TV”,
radiation from a 21” cathode tube
enough to burn innocent eyes
Invulnerable to invisible threats
or time’s long exposure, we heard
with only one ear, wondered:
“What‘s up, Doc?” We believed
like a brash cartoon bunny
the far-sighted benefit of carrots
Rumble of B-29’s, seared witnesses
from scarred Hiroshima, Cold War strategy
all broadcast into our living room, then
Oppenheimer recited from Sanskrit scripture:
“Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.”
In school, we drilled duck and cover
like Bert the Turtle, iron and oak
our parallel shells against shattered glass,
or huddled cross-legged in halls
cinder block barrier to blast wave shock
A-bomb fireball. We trusted
seven seconds after a blinding flash
that Solis-Cohen Elementary
would not be ground zero
“As the sun now stands, I will fight no more, forever.”
– Hinmatóowyalahtq̓it
Chief Joseph, Nez Perce (1877)
Dying in Deep Snow
That precious valley
where our children were born,
bones of my father & mother
I will never sell
Across sagebrush desert,
winding rivers
like thunder rolling down mountains,
in tortured retreat we ride
Our Great Spirit teaches
native lands unspoiled, equal justice
only solemn bonds may save
peace between different kinds of men
Voices of white men
my ears do not hear their promises,
many words not needed
to speak the truth
No skill, no bravery
no sacrifice
will empower destiny to win
our sacred rights
I would select
the longest trek
a warrior’s death, to rest
with Mother Earth
Once nimble as deer
my people hunted by grizzlies
greedy for more land, our remnant
dying in deep snow
My heart tired of fighting. I lie
beneath a lone gnarled tree
my shadow falls like time
beyond the horizon
Funeral Mass
His ashes rest in a wooden box, adorned
with cut flowers. A robed priest at high altar
laments my friend’s passing, a soprano voice
lifts soothing words from the 23rd psalm
of a shepherd, green pastures, still waters.
I know these words of David, a shepherd
who became poet, warrior and king:
Adonai ro-i lo echsar
binot desheh yarbitzeini
al mei menuchot yenahaleini
Two daughters stand at a podium
deliver a quiet, loving eulogy
of happy days on the sailboat,
at baseball games with grandsons,
tell of his Air Force service, years
as detective on streets of Philadelphia.
His widow, now in a wheelchair,
distressed by current uncertainties,
his erratic decline.
There is formal order to the memorial:
Biblical readings, deep organ tones
candles, incense, ritual, response
some make the sign of the cross
from their knees, when invited
walk in line to accept body and blood,
but this is for faithful followers only.
The Priest tells of a true believer, Lazarus,
Latin for Eleazar of Bethany, restored to life
after four days dead and then, affirms:
Holy, Holy, Holy
the Trinity, that God is three personas
and our friend’s immortal soul ascends
beside the Father, the Son, and the Spirit.
I know these words of the prophet, Isaiah,
who heard angels call to one another
proclaiming G-d’s glory:
Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh
Adonai tzvaot
Melo kol ha’aretz k’vodo
My eyes cannot avoid the suffering effigy
that stares down, a gaunt twelve-foot figure,
four letters INHS at the top of the Roman cross
like a cruel joke in Latin: Jesus of Nazareth,
King of the Jews. History has the last laugh.
Sovereign Vatican sits at the heart of Rome,
Nazareth is central to Arab citizens of Israel,
Bethany, a West Bank village called Al-Eizariya.
A billion Catholics worldwide, half
of all Christians, dwarf my tiny tribe,
Muslims double that number,
but their God is not larger
or more powerful, neither do I claim
that mine is. There are many paths
to heaven. Still, I dwell on this living Earth,
my purpose is here, in the present
not on everlasting rewards.
My wife and I are present at St. Isadore’s
to comfort his daughters, his widow,
who gather the hour before mass, greet
us like family. We honor friendship,
friends we first knew as children,
though remains of his once breathing
body lay in a box. Within my being, ashes
bear witness to evil fires. I would choose
a linen shroud, to be with Mother Earth,
to nourish flowers not cut them down.
As I write, in the week following my friend’s funeral
wars rage, humanity trembles. It is not my practice
to speculate, nor my place to know what will happen
in this World or the World to Come.
I have no illusions, but will not let go of hope.
I celebrate the miracle of life, embrace
that common calling. We are all flesh and blood,
our strength fades like flowers
at the end of their season.
The congregation chants in unison:
God, hear our prayer!
And the voice of Jacob whispers to my heart:
Shema koleinu
Steve Pollack advised local governments, directed an affordable housing co-op, built hospitals, science labs and public schools. Poetry found him later. His work has been included in various publications including Poetica Magazine, Schuylkill Valley Journal and Moonstone Art Center anthologies. His debut chapbook, “L’dor Vador–From Generation to Generation”, was printed in 2020 by Finishing Line Press. He volunteers on the One Book One Jewish Community advisory team sponsored by Gratz College and sings bass with Nashirah: the Jewish Chorale of Philadelphia.
