Little Psalms
Little Psalms (Wings of the Morning Press, Monsey, NY 1987).
“I so much liked your perfect Little Psalms some of them so much in the spirit (and often the language-of-feeling) of Yiddish poetry. You've created a fine amalgam of the American tongue and its sensibilities, and your new/old yeshiva explorations”—Cynthia Ozick.
(glossary at bottom of page)
Dance Like Antelope
Hashem, please help my feet
Dance like antelope,
Shimmer like a meadow,
Climb like boulders strewn on mountains;
Please help my fingers
Gesture like smoke,
Open like harvested fields,
Endure like the hills,
Flicker like the surf,
Clap together like a flock of ravens;
Please help my mouth
Sing like forests,
Roar like caves,
Plead like stars,
Burst like a field of poppies;
Please help my body
Pour like the Gulf Stream,
Melt like a spring thaw,
Flee like the zebra,
Breathe like a continent—
Vast as Asia,
Swirling as a duststorm,
Surging as a dolphin,
Empty as a locust pod,
Broken as a meteor,
Strong as a crag which has endured all battering--
To serve You, Hashem.
I Held a Letter in My Hand
I held a letter in my hand:
“Hear, O Israel...”
A letter which swept through the nile blue sky
And splashed into my hand;
A parchment in my reverent hand,
A silver fish, alive in my wondering hand,
A comet showering the paths of my hand,
A cinder spinning fire in my hand,
A shadow wriggling in my open hand—
“Hear, O Israel...”
Place Me in a Rocketship
Place me in a rocketship
Streaking in a silent sweep
Across the swirl of star filled sky,
And I will seed the night with prayer.
Autumn Rain
Cold and gloomy,
The autumn rain drips
Beneath the collar
Of my long, white coat.
On soggy leaves
On the basketball court
I circle and I sing,
I lift my arms to You.
The branches shake out
Their apron of rain.
Help me lift my arms,
Help me sing,
Help my heart, Hashem, sing out to You.
You Took a Globe and Spun It in Your Hands
Hashem, You took a globe and spun it in Your hands.
In every molecule of air,
In every cloud floating above a waving field in Ganeshpur,
You are there--
In every wagon track in Bolivia,
In every marsh whose cat tails shiver in the August wind.
Hashem, You took the globe and spun it in Your hands.
The waters washed the wooded shores,
The seabass flickered in the bobbing swell,
And deep below, You dwelt with the lantern fish
Which, unaware, hung in the cold, eternal water.
Hashem, You spun the globe in Your hands;
You said You will be present
In the rivers, gorsebushes, magpies,
Raspberries, green grizzled boulders and sharp grasses;
And that when a human being,
Quick and frail as a flashing starling,
Turned from his work
To the work of Your fingers, and sang of You,
That You would be there
In the breeze beside him,
And hold him in Your great, warm hands.
Please Help Me Rise in a Balloon
Please help me rise in a balloon
And pass the people who would place
Their fingers on my soul;
Please help me dance
The dance administrators cannot comprehend;
Please help me wear
A yellow shirt and pale green suit
Before the colorblind committee;
Please help me spot
The eyes of those who counsel me
As they gaze into a mirror;
Please help me turn to You,
Though those who do not turn to You
Complain that I ignore them;
Please help me rejoice in an orange carrot
As others stand in line for pale, boiled chicken
And glare at me.
Please help me to survive my friend
Who holds a broomstick to my head
And asks me why I never sing;
Please help my fingers hold the secret
Of how they clapped
As great, important men pump my hand;
Please help my balloon
Float above the earth
As the men who know everything walk briskly below,
Confident that I am with them.
Within the Woods
Within the woods, there is a meadow.
In the meadow is a blade of grass,
And on the grass a slender insect,
Its wings as frail as spider webs.
It isn’t thinking of the sun
Or of the swallows in the trees,
Or of the fieldmice
Scurrying through the grasses,
Or of the chestnut trees
Rippling little, pale green leaves,
Or of a row of cirrus clouds
Like cords of candy in the sky;
But stands upon the swaying blade,
Its wings gold,
Its eyes immobile,
Silent as the pale, blue sky.
Hashem, please help me think of You
And serve You simply as an insect sits
Upon a blade of grass within a meadow,
Within the woods where no one comes,
But where the woodchuck slowly trundles,
The squirrels clatter in the branches,
And an insect sits upon a swaying blade of grass.
Io
If I went to Io, Hashem,
You would still be above,
And I below.
The longest traveling comet, intersecting stars,
Could not bring me any special gifts from You;
The oldest moonrock, excavated from a gray volcano,
Could not tell me any secrets of You;
No leap of matter of the galaxy’s heart
Could bring me to leap to You with my heart.
But help me sing to You
As any wind which spins on Jupiter.
Not Only Those Who Do Not Need My Help
Please help me help not only those who do not need my help.
Please help me help the difficult to help,
The ones whom no one has the patience for,
The ones who are not worth the “servicing”;
The ones it was agreed we will not stoop to aid.
Please help me help the ones who do not make me feel content;
Please help me help the ones who need my help,
Although my friends should glance at me
And wonder, What is wrong with him
That makes him hang around such people?
Please help me help the helpless ones,
The ones whom others will dismiss,
The ones who are not worth the caring
Because they may demand our time.
Please help me help the ones it is not fun to help,
For whom no dinners are arranged,
For whom committees do not contribute,
For whom the helpers have no patience,
Because they have priorities.
As Green as a Bottle
As green as a bottle
Is the sea this morning,
And the gulls are hovering
Like shredded paper,
Keening like hinges,
Landing and folding their wings
Like Japanese fans.
Of all the waves that will roll in to shore,
Of all the torn designs of lace that bob upon the rolling waves,
No two will ever be the same.
The sea this morning,
Green as a bottle
Which will never be this green again.
As Any Shock of Wheat
Hashem, I dream away my days
And lie in bed at night
As any shock of wheat.
Hashem, please help me stand.
Help me not to dream away my days,
Arms folded on the table, dreaming
Of my diligence.
There is No Country Full of Hidden Time
There is no country full of hidden time.
The needs of every day
Clamber over each other;
But I curl beneath the yellow sheets
And dream of bubble universes.
There is no hand which offers hidden time.
There is no moment waiting always
On a log amid the yellow leaves
Where I can sit and learn forever,
Awed by groundhogs.
I have a headache and I go to sleep.
At 4 a.m. I rise.
The now I waited for has not arrived.
I wash my hands,
And I resolve to rake the stars.
An Empty Study Hall
I chant the Torah in an empty study hall
Till late at night.
Why must I rest my head upon my hands
And wake at 3 a.m., exhausted,
Stumble to my room,
Depleted,
Angry at leaving another day incomplete?
What refuge is my disheveled bed?
Why do I run from Torah to fragments of imaginings,
To dreams like red and bright green shards
Which I shift in my hand, disconsolate?
The Cautious Cat
Please help me see the cautious cat,
Glancing at me in calm alarm,
The boy who stands in the middle of the road--
His scarf bunched clumsily beneath his chin--
The iridescent ducks
That scramble in the shallow rill
For scraps of challah.
Please Help Me Wash My Days
Hashem, please help me wash my days
And hang them on the line to dry.
Please help me scrub my months
And shake them out,
Soak my years,
And dry them in the summer sun.
Please help me wear a suit
Of honest fabric, clean and plain.
Please Help My Pen Awake Each Day
Please help my pen awake each day
And say, Which grove will I find,
Which ribbon of copse will I snip today?
Which photo can I snap today
From my train which speeds through farms and forests,
Villages and valleys, mountains, lakes,
Past feeding geese and brown earth roads,
Past cities, roaring, tall, and silver,
Past heaps of clouds like mountains
Sailing, wrapped in purple cloth,
Past women on a village bridge
And men bent over in the fields?
Please help me write like a thread of cobalt oilpaint
Edged with red and yellow,
Leading into the forest and winding between the brush,
And there to wander from the line,
Look up, and sing amidst the trees.
White Wings
Hashem, I want to lift my white wings,
I want to flee into forests;
I want to sit on a mountain and let the rain surround me.
I want to be beaten by the wind,
And glisten in the setting sun.
Please Comfort Me with Snow That Falls Like Quiet Hands
Please comfort me with snow that falls like quiet hands,
Where in the dusk
A white confetti drifts upon the acquiescent apple trees,
And buries in peacefulness the earth.
Please help me swallow sleep and drink the night,
Please help me breathe the cutting dawn,
And wrestle with the sinewy day.
Night
Please give me a night
Whose great, shining wings
Lift me above the twinkling houses;
Please help me greet the night
As a dark messenger at the door,
And ride with him on the empty road
To the field where the table is set with books
And the laurels gently quiver,
Until I return, as the road grows light,
And sneak into the waking house.
Please help me stride through sleeping towns,
Where houses seem abandoned in the streetlights’ glow,
Where only the trees are still awake,
And the stars are singing to me, “Join us”;
And may I take a needle from my sleeve
And weave the stars and trees with words,
And may I weave with threads of night
The caftan which I don at dawn.
Please help me pour the indigo sky
Upon my hands, and wipe the sparkling stars across my eyes.
Please help me walk the road which leads from night
To the hill where trees appear with purple branches
And the surprised people hurry from their homes,
While I know that I have worn the suit of night
And danced, as the world was muted.
Gleaming
Hashem, please help me be as plain
As any sunrise blazing over the Atlantic,
As any wildflower on a neglected hill in Beth Shean,
As any fly, tinted gold, floating amid the undergrowth,
As any cloud scudding above the highway,
As any blade of grass on the abandoned railway track.
There beyond the road
A glade is alive with dragonflies
And white fluff of seeds floating in the air,
And flowers which blossom for only a week,
And busy spiders humorously climbing amid the thick grasses,
And swallows circling the poplar trees,
And the sun beating warmly on serious rabbits,
And the opening petals of yellow orchids,
The drooping heads of solomonseals,
And bees thick as pinkies buzzing on the pink thistles,
And butterflies drunkenly careening over the field.
Hashem, please help me be unseen
As the beetle determinedly crawling up the chicory stem,
Its broad back gleaming.
And may the builders never catch up with me
As they lay their asphalt and cement,
But may I always be gleaming
Just beyond the busy highway.
The Streets of Manhattan
Gather the streets of Manhattan
And scrape them from her foundation,
And scrape the stones of Manhattan’s bookstores
From my foundation.
Hashem, please help me start, unfrazzled,
Unhypnotized by libraries,
By gallery exhibits,
By pantomimists juggling in the park,
By streets of hurrying men with attache cases
And women wearing bowties.
Hashem, please scrape Manhattan clean,
And let us start again—
One tree, one leaf, one cloud above my head.
Bulldoze the black, chrome skyscrapers,
The offices with spiral staircases,
The bars crowded by girls with braided, rolled hair
Listening to poets through p.a. systems,
The streets which never bear the fruits they whisper of,
The pale benches which remain forever alien,
And the wreckage of the hours:
Of the wandering through museums,
Of drifting through parks,
Of parties in the Village--
Of illusions that the Upper West Side
Can be squeezed so that its frozen saplings
Will dance with passersby.
Hashem, I am carrying about Manhattan.
I am dragging buildings and raising asphalt dust,
I am dragging musicians playing flute on 53rd Street,
And neon exhibits,
And stores where nothing needed was ever sold.
I am carrying restaurants
Which cannot give companionship,
And record stores with thousands of strangers,
And joggers who miraculously continue.
I am carrying white chambers
Of university music departments,
And lovers like squashed flowers
Twisted on the grass.
I am dragging with me
Frisbees in Washington Square Park,
Distinguished personages
Leaving a Public Library evening
Past paper bags scuttling on the winter sidewalk,
And lofts near Wooster Street,
Where truth must surely reside!
May I be as clean as a rounded stone
Plucked from a streambed.
May I be as new as a bird
Who doesn’t know last season.
May I serve You as the acorns,
Green on the prickly forest floor,
As freshly as the trees
Whose leaves are green today.
My Bones
Please help me speak to my bones
Until they are white and still;
Let me in my thin soled shoes
Walk the hard, cold soil.
Help me learn the details
Of contrition;
Help me learn the grammar of my days.
The Moon is Not Caught in the Branches
The moon is not caught in the branches,
Rolling in the tinted sky,
And the snow is fresh under my feet;
Only animals have been here.
Friends are in their warm apartments,
Each with his own philosophy,
Each with his own door,
Hashem, please help me also shine
Like the moon, not caught in the clouds,
To guests caught in brambles
Like a moon caught in branches
In a tinted sky.
May my wife and children
Branch above the fresh, wet snow
On which no one has trod
Except for animals,
And comfort the solitary walker
Who sees the moon,
Not caught in the tree’s branches,
Rolling on a tinted sky.
Thank You for the Metaphor
Thank You for the metaphor
Of Niels Bohr.
Thank You for the Rutherford atom.
Thank You, Hashem, for Hawkings and Wheeler--
I do not know that I could sing to You,
I do not know that I could learn Gemara,
I do not know that I could bow to You
Quite the same without their metaphors.
The Thermometer in the Window
The thermometer in the window
Reads 17,
And the sky is turning blue.
The percolator drips
And in the beis medrash, two people
Are discussing laws of Shabbos.
Red lights of cars speeding to work
Leave behind tar quiet as before,
And the row of trees behind the sportsfield
Begins to appear.
Someone sits next to a hissing radiator
And opens a book with forests of letters.
Outside, the traffic lights are changing.
Hashem, good morning.
Thank You for giving me the Torah.
Thank You for giving me books
With letters like charcoal footprints.
Gordon
Gordon had eyes like worlds;
Gordon lived on Delancey Street
And he danced on constellations;
Gordon dreamed of Venus,
And played his stripped guitar
As though angels would squeeze out from the strings
And dance in the high ceilinged loft.
Gordon cooked rice on an ancient stove,
And he smiled like a galaxy.
Gordon danced around the room to Fred Astaire,
Spinning like a gypsy quasar.
Gordon walked in the street
In white cotton pants
Like a comet in a dingy sky;
Gordon laughed and rolled down a hill in Central Park
Like a flock of meteors in a giant’s beard.
Gordon would return from work
And sit on his wood framed, foam rubber bed
And meditate on the aurora borealis
Winding through the tenement roofs.
Gordon invited everyone to his loft
To celebrate life
And his eighteenth birthday,
And he danced like a delirious sunflower
Till three in the morning.
Gordon looked down a long, long telescope
And he walked through the tube
And emerged on the other side
In an overwhelming black space,
Surrounded by inhuman stars.
Gordon was dancing with us here below,
Gordon was squeezing angels with his fingers
Out of his stripped guitar;
His eyes were shining,
but his mind was far away,
In a distant part of the galaxy,
Lost amidst the drift of stars.
Gordon, you dragged me to the Zen Center,
And we sat staring at cracks in a pink wall
Until our feet were numb.
Gordon, you sat at the seashore
And meditated before the waves,
Watching the foam in the dusk
Like spewed out strands of stars.
Gordon, you wandered to old fortune tellers
Who offered your money to the Spirit,
And lied to you of vicious incarnations.
Oh Gordon, no one held your hand;
Farmworkers burnt you out speechmaking,
The city offered you its clanging steel,
And I had nothing to offer you but my confusion
Like a swirl of clouds obscuring the night sky.
Gordon, you were looking for your fellow angels on the streets;
The clattering of the Williamsburg Bridge imprisoned your eyes.
Gordon, no one helped you when you protested,
“But I am not of this world!”
And your eyes were luminous like the sun.
Gordon, you didn’t say goodbye.
You stepped out, and you left us behind.
On Delancey Street
You met the truck that like your troubled soul
Was jailed in iron...
And then, they stole your galaxy,
And your eyes no longer gazed at nebulae;
You were tamed,
Living in Long Island,
Therapized--
But no one held your hand.
And now we assumed
That you are of this world,
No longer lost in the immensity
Of an overwhelming sky.
No one realized where you lifted your eyes to;
No one told you how to clothe yourself in galaxies
Among the avenues of earth;
Then silently, and peacefully, you departed,
And left your vehicle for your brief journey on earth
Lying in your bed,
And you went to stride among the stars.
Gordon, I never told you how I loved you,
I never told you how I wished
That I could hold your hand
And give you fields of stars to reap
Upon this solid earth.
Promenade
Hashem, please help me promenade
The avenues of Tosephot.
Please help me confidently walk
The twisting lanes of commentaries
And enter the store, dark without,
Which floods me inside with opulence.
It starts to rain, and small black letters tumble down.
In the pastry shop, behind the plate glass window,
A seven layer cake explains the mishnah.
I go inside; I buy a slice, and eat it there--
It is delicious.
And now the sun has swept away the clouds.
People crowd the avenue in the golden light--
Rabeinu Peretz sits on a bench,
Throwing breadcrumbs to the birds;
I gather up a handful,
And read them in my palm.
Then at night, the silver moon
Illuminates the city,
And in a drawing room a woman plays the harp;
The elegant guests delight in the shining chords
Which thrill them with their complex beauty
And elucidate Ezekiel.
The children are going to sleep,
But the carriages roll through the streets;
And in the city squares, the fountains
Elucidate the Torah.
A reveller, drunk, stumbles in and falls,
And his friends pull him out--
It’s time for him to go to bed.
Hashem, why am I like that reveller?
Why do I fall drunk and insensible
When the letters of the Torah
Cascade like the drops of a brilliant fountain
Shining in the square beneath the shining moon?
Only when the hour is late,
Only when the city sleeps
And midnight has already struck,
Will the real festivities begin.
Only then will the masters of festivity rejoice,
Drinking wine which reddens their faces,
Dancing gracefully, holding handkerchiefs
Given them by the princess.
Then the houses glow beneath the moonlight,
Messengers are silver in the deserted streets,
And the celebrating cavaliers
Invite You, Hashem, to their festivities...
Then—cock a doodle do! The rooster crows--
The world begins to stir;
The children turn in bed;
The sparkling celebrants lave their hands
And pass the water over their sparkling eyes
And say, “The time has come to show our children
The letters of the morning;
The time has come to tell the people,
‘Rejoice!
Do you not see how this loaf of bread you are selling
Is filled with words and names?’
Till we meet again tomorrow night”--
They bow politely to one another--
“And as for that drunken reveller
Who fell stupendously into the fountain,
We must awaken him now.”
I go into the street
And see the Beit Yosef walk by.
I try to catch his eye--
“Didn’t I see you...?”
But he simply murmurs and passes by.
I run to a park bench
And the entire morning their I contemplate his words;
But then there is a question then a doubt;
A cloud conceals the sun; the bench is cold and the street sullen;
I do not understand the faces of the people passing by.
Hashem, please help me learn Your Torah already!
Please help me not wink at the Beit Yosef,
But help me walk his avenue, Hashem,
And delight in the letters in the verdant sycamore trees,
And pick up the words lying on the sidewalk
And rearrange them in a new mosaic.
The Country of Torah
I closed my eyes
In the country of Torah.
I didn’t see the plains of mishnayos,
The forests of Hasidic trees,
The flocks of Psalms
Honking overhead.
I didn’t see the stately mansions
Of halachic works,
And the wild glens
Of midrashim,
With rainbow trout of verses
Leaping from the creeks;
And beyond the mountains,
Behind a lattice,
The ordered gardens
Of kabbalah,
With rows of cedars
Lining the still canals
And on the banks,
Clusters of lilies, roses, and marjoram.
I did not see them,
For I slept.
I slept the sleep
Of subways and of Wall Street,
Of basketball hoops in suburban garages
And of seven hour Kurasawa films.
I slept the sleep
Of physicists and farms,
Of libraries and rockets to the moon,
Of color tv and college dormitories.
I slept the sleep
Of kibbutzim,
Of Ram Dass and of oboe recitals,
Of bridges and the Elgin and Fourth Avenue
And of important English trilogies.
I did not see
The geese rising in a noisy flock
From the pond.
I did not see
The wild valley
Where chiddushim lay entangled.
I did not see
The green, shadowy forests
Where small animals scampered,
And bears sought their sustenance
Like psalmists seeking honecomb.
Hashem, please help me stay awake.
Please help me tour this broad, green globe.
The Park
The caretaker amazes you
With his knowledge of the grounds.
He stands at the gate of the public park
And holds his ring of keys magisterially.
“You can come in,” he calls to one man,
And to another, “This is not the place for you.”
And everyone bows
To his blue, resplendent uniform.
But the master gardener
Is running through the streets.
“Fools! why remain in these treeless avenues?
Come to the king’s park!
I have made it beautiful for you.”
The people push him impatiently aside
With their silver attache cases.
Some come with him to the gate
And see the caretaker, who peremptorily barks,
“You—come back tomorrow.”
The gardener urges,
“The garden is the king’s,
And not the caretaker’s.”
But the caretaker calls the gardener mad
And jingles his keys threateningly,
And the people slink away.
Few are the people the caretaker admits,
Fewer still those the gardener brings in,
And whom he shows the most beautiful flowers.
Happy are they;
How fortunate their portion!
The Rebbe’s Voice
The rebbe’s voice flutters
From the bare tree branches.
Hashem, I don’t care
If I’m not invited to the wedding
Where the fat notes of the saxaphone
Caress the carnedine velvet walls,
But please help me learn to dance for You.
I walk upon the asphalt path
And smile at the people in their black fedoras,
But they do not hear the rebbe’s voice
Fluttering in the tree branches.
Oh, it is good to turn to You,
Constant as a green flag
Snapping in the wind,
Present as the white steam
Dissolving into the freezing morning.
A flock of birds leaps from the ground,
Settles on the tree branches,
And sits silently.
There Is a Bird
There is a bird
With feathers of fire
Which flees to lands
Of agates and diamonds;
But what shall I do here?
There is a path
Which will take the traveler
To a town of pearls
And a hidden treasure;
But what will I do here?
What will I do
With these arms, with these eyes,
With these roads that take me no farther
Than my human legs can trudge?
Let the birds with wings of fire
Fly to enchanted forests;
Hashem, please help me serve You
With the rough hewn here.
Gusts of Wind
It may take as long
As the grains of sand,
Swept up by gusts of wind
And swung from a cliff into the sea,
Are entirely swept away;
It may wait until
The glaciers creep across the Canadian forests
And tower above the southern states;
You may want to wait
Until the sun begins to pale,
Until it balloons and swallows the planets--
But please help me serve You, Hashem.
The Tzaddik was Talking in the Carriage
The tzaddik was talking in the carriage
But I, hanging on, heard nothing.
Now I trudge wearily;
The long cars pass me,
Shining their white and red lights
In the darkness.
Hashem, these are my feet,
These are my hands,
This is my neck--
How shall I give them back to You?
Maybe I should lie
Like a pod in my bed,
Fold my arms across my chest
And say, “I am ready to return.”
The books of Torah on my shelf,
Like uneaten oranges,
Are waiting for me.
Teach me how to raise my arms to You;
And in my chest
Will palpate
A sudden, tender
Heart of flesh.
The Fine Snow
The fine snow clouds the parking lot
And the bare flagpole clangs
And the white eyes of passing cars
Never turn to me,
Beating my frozen toes on the complaining wooden porch,
Asking, Hashem, please help me speak with You.
The red crested woodpecker which today swayed comically
Is now asleep on a snow dusted tree,
And the rivulets which in the day
Trickled down the road
Are white and frozen.
Hashem, please help me stamp my feet,
Please help me jog on the wooden porch,
As the white street lamps glare,
And sing to You,
“Hashem, Hashem, please help me speak with You.”
From the Rushes
From the rushes
Bent over patches of snow,
From the fields of white slush,
From the melting paw prints of rabbits,
From the beaten, white green grass,
From the black, wrinkled berries along the road,
From the baby firs bent over, sheeted in ice,
From the road that leads up the hill
That grayly reaches up to the gray sky,
Help me bend over to pick out the letters,
Strike them together and make a fire
For those who are cold
To warm themselves.
Celebrating
Hashem, today the wind,
The puddles which froze back to ice,
The cold around my collar,
The squirrel nests in the swaying crooks of trees,
Were celebrating.
The white sky is celebrating,
The snow covered football field,
The twisted ice on the sidewalk
Sagging into water,
The tree branches
Answering the breeze.
Hashem, please help me celebrate too,
When the moon pulls a veil of black across her face
And peers from behind it,
When the beis medrash sits in the gray night
Like a squat, abandoned battleship,
And secretly the rabbits are emerging.
Hashem, please help me stamp circles in the snow covered lawn,
And celebrate
With the bird
That flutters on the telephone wire.
Glossary
Beis medrash. Study hall.
Beit Yosef. Authority on Jewish law and mystic; sixteenth century.
Challah. Sabbath bread.
Chiddushim. Novel Torah thoughts.
Halachic. Having to do with halachah, or Jewish law.
Hashem. God.
Midrashim. Plural of midrash, or exegetical commentary.
Mishnah. Basis of the Talmud.
Rabeinu Peretz. Commentator on the Talmud; c. thirteenth century.
Rebbe. Teacher.
Shabbos. The Sabbath.
Torah. The body of Jewish learning.
Tosephot. School of commentators on the Talmud; twelfth through fifteenth centuries.
Copyright 2007 by Yaacov Dovid Shulman
“I so much liked your perfect Little Psalms some of them so much in the spirit (and often the language-of-feeling) of Yiddish poetry. You've created a fine amalgam of the American tongue and its sensibilities, and your new/old yeshiva explorations”—Cynthia Ozick.
(glossary at bottom of page)
Dance Like Antelope
Hashem, please help my feet
Dance like antelope,
Shimmer like a meadow,
Climb like boulders strewn on mountains;
Please help my fingers
Gesture like smoke,
Open like harvested fields,
Endure like the hills,
Flicker like the surf,
Clap together like a flock of ravens;
Please help my mouth
Sing like forests,
Roar like caves,
Plead like stars,
Burst like a field of poppies;
Please help my body
Pour like the Gulf Stream,
Melt like a spring thaw,
Flee like the zebra,
Breathe like a continent—
Vast as Asia,
Swirling as a duststorm,
Surging as a dolphin,
Empty as a locust pod,
Broken as a meteor,
Strong as a crag which has endured all battering--
To serve You, Hashem.
I Held a Letter in My Hand
I held a letter in my hand:
“Hear, O Israel...”
A letter which swept through the nile blue sky
And splashed into my hand;
A parchment in my reverent hand,
A silver fish, alive in my wondering hand,
A comet showering the paths of my hand,
A cinder spinning fire in my hand,
A shadow wriggling in my open hand—
“Hear, O Israel...”
Place Me in a Rocketship
Place me in a rocketship
Streaking in a silent sweep
Across the swirl of star filled sky,
And I will seed the night with prayer.
Autumn Rain
Cold and gloomy,
The autumn rain drips
Beneath the collar
Of my long, white coat.
On soggy leaves
On the basketball court
I circle and I sing,
I lift my arms to You.
The branches shake out
Their apron of rain.
Help me lift my arms,
Help me sing,
Help my heart, Hashem, sing out to You.
You Took a Globe and Spun It in Your Hands
Hashem, You took a globe and spun it in Your hands.
In every molecule of air,
In every cloud floating above a waving field in Ganeshpur,
You are there--
In every wagon track in Bolivia,
In every marsh whose cat tails shiver in the August wind.
Hashem, You took the globe and spun it in Your hands.
The waters washed the wooded shores,
The seabass flickered in the bobbing swell,
And deep below, You dwelt with the lantern fish
Which, unaware, hung in the cold, eternal water.
Hashem, You spun the globe in Your hands;
You said You will be present
In the rivers, gorsebushes, magpies,
Raspberries, green grizzled boulders and sharp grasses;
And that when a human being,
Quick and frail as a flashing starling,
Turned from his work
To the work of Your fingers, and sang of You,
That You would be there
In the breeze beside him,
And hold him in Your great, warm hands.
Please Help Me Rise in a Balloon
Please help me rise in a balloon
And pass the people who would place
Their fingers on my soul;
Please help me dance
The dance administrators cannot comprehend;
Please help me wear
A yellow shirt and pale green suit
Before the colorblind committee;
Please help me spot
The eyes of those who counsel me
As they gaze into a mirror;
Please help me turn to You,
Though those who do not turn to You
Complain that I ignore them;
Please help me rejoice in an orange carrot
As others stand in line for pale, boiled chicken
And glare at me.
Please help me to survive my friend
Who holds a broomstick to my head
And asks me why I never sing;
Please help my fingers hold the secret
Of how they clapped
As great, important men pump my hand;
Please help my balloon
Float above the earth
As the men who know everything walk briskly below,
Confident that I am with them.
Within the Woods
Within the woods, there is a meadow.
In the meadow is a blade of grass,
And on the grass a slender insect,
Its wings as frail as spider webs.
It isn’t thinking of the sun
Or of the swallows in the trees,
Or of the fieldmice
Scurrying through the grasses,
Or of the chestnut trees
Rippling little, pale green leaves,
Or of a row of cirrus clouds
Like cords of candy in the sky;
But stands upon the swaying blade,
Its wings gold,
Its eyes immobile,
Silent as the pale, blue sky.
Hashem, please help me think of You
And serve You simply as an insect sits
Upon a blade of grass within a meadow,
Within the woods where no one comes,
But where the woodchuck slowly trundles,
The squirrels clatter in the branches,
And an insect sits upon a swaying blade of grass.
Io
If I went to Io, Hashem,
You would still be above,
And I below.
The longest traveling comet, intersecting stars,
Could not bring me any special gifts from You;
The oldest moonrock, excavated from a gray volcano,
Could not tell me any secrets of You;
No leap of matter of the galaxy’s heart
Could bring me to leap to You with my heart.
But help me sing to You
As any wind which spins on Jupiter.
Not Only Those Who Do Not Need My Help
Please help me help not only those who do not need my help.
Please help me help the difficult to help,
The ones whom no one has the patience for,
The ones who are not worth the “servicing”;
The ones it was agreed we will not stoop to aid.
Please help me help the ones who do not make me feel content;
Please help me help the ones who need my help,
Although my friends should glance at me
And wonder, What is wrong with him
That makes him hang around such people?
Please help me help the helpless ones,
The ones whom others will dismiss,
The ones who are not worth the caring
Because they may demand our time.
Please help me help the ones it is not fun to help,
For whom no dinners are arranged,
For whom committees do not contribute,
For whom the helpers have no patience,
Because they have priorities.
As Green as a Bottle
As green as a bottle
Is the sea this morning,
And the gulls are hovering
Like shredded paper,
Keening like hinges,
Landing and folding their wings
Like Japanese fans.
Of all the waves that will roll in to shore,
Of all the torn designs of lace that bob upon the rolling waves,
No two will ever be the same.
The sea this morning,
Green as a bottle
Which will never be this green again.
As Any Shock of Wheat
Hashem, I dream away my days
And lie in bed at night
As any shock of wheat.
Hashem, please help me stand.
Help me not to dream away my days,
Arms folded on the table, dreaming
Of my diligence.
There is No Country Full of Hidden Time
There is no country full of hidden time.
The needs of every day
Clamber over each other;
But I curl beneath the yellow sheets
And dream of bubble universes.
There is no hand which offers hidden time.
There is no moment waiting always
On a log amid the yellow leaves
Where I can sit and learn forever,
Awed by groundhogs.
I have a headache and I go to sleep.
At 4 a.m. I rise.
The now I waited for has not arrived.
I wash my hands,
And I resolve to rake the stars.
An Empty Study Hall
I chant the Torah in an empty study hall
Till late at night.
Why must I rest my head upon my hands
And wake at 3 a.m., exhausted,
Stumble to my room,
Depleted,
Angry at leaving another day incomplete?
What refuge is my disheveled bed?
Why do I run from Torah to fragments of imaginings,
To dreams like red and bright green shards
Which I shift in my hand, disconsolate?
The Cautious Cat
Please help me see the cautious cat,
Glancing at me in calm alarm,
The boy who stands in the middle of the road--
His scarf bunched clumsily beneath his chin--
The iridescent ducks
That scramble in the shallow rill
For scraps of challah.
Please Help Me Wash My Days
Hashem, please help me wash my days
And hang them on the line to dry.
Please help me scrub my months
And shake them out,
Soak my years,
And dry them in the summer sun.
Please help me wear a suit
Of honest fabric, clean and plain.
Please Help My Pen Awake Each Day
Please help my pen awake each day
And say, Which grove will I find,
Which ribbon of copse will I snip today?
Which photo can I snap today
From my train which speeds through farms and forests,
Villages and valleys, mountains, lakes,
Past feeding geese and brown earth roads,
Past cities, roaring, tall, and silver,
Past heaps of clouds like mountains
Sailing, wrapped in purple cloth,
Past women on a village bridge
And men bent over in the fields?
Please help me write like a thread of cobalt oilpaint
Edged with red and yellow,
Leading into the forest and winding between the brush,
And there to wander from the line,
Look up, and sing amidst the trees.
White Wings
Hashem, I want to lift my white wings,
I want to flee into forests;
I want to sit on a mountain and let the rain surround me.
I want to be beaten by the wind,
And glisten in the setting sun.
Please Comfort Me with Snow That Falls Like Quiet Hands
Please comfort me with snow that falls like quiet hands,
Where in the dusk
A white confetti drifts upon the acquiescent apple trees,
And buries in peacefulness the earth.
Please help me swallow sleep and drink the night,
Please help me breathe the cutting dawn,
And wrestle with the sinewy day.
Night
Please give me a night
Whose great, shining wings
Lift me above the twinkling houses;
Please help me greet the night
As a dark messenger at the door,
And ride with him on the empty road
To the field where the table is set with books
And the laurels gently quiver,
Until I return, as the road grows light,
And sneak into the waking house.
Please help me stride through sleeping towns,
Where houses seem abandoned in the streetlights’ glow,
Where only the trees are still awake,
And the stars are singing to me, “Join us”;
And may I take a needle from my sleeve
And weave the stars and trees with words,
And may I weave with threads of night
The caftan which I don at dawn.
Please help me pour the indigo sky
Upon my hands, and wipe the sparkling stars across my eyes.
Please help me walk the road which leads from night
To the hill where trees appear with purple branches
And the surprised people hurry from their homes,
While I know that I have worn the suit of night
And danced, as the world was muted.
Gleaming
Hashem, please help me be as plain
As any sunrise blazing over the Atlantic,
As any wildflower on a neglected hill in Beth Shean,
As any fly, tinted gold, floating amid the undergrowth,
As any cloud scudding above the highway,
As any blade of grass on the abandoned railway track.
There beyond the road
A glade is alive with dragonflies
And white fluff of seeds floating in the air,
And flowers which blossom for only a week,
And busy spiders humorously climbing amid the thick grasses,
And swallows circling the poplar trees,
And the sun beating warmly on serious rabbits,
And the opening petals of yellow orchids,
The drooping heads of solomonseals,
And bees thick as pinkies buzzing on the pink thistles,
And butterflies drunkenly careening over the field.
Hashem, please help me be unseen
As the beetle determinedly crawling up the chicory stem,
Its broad back gleaming.
And may the builders never catch up with me
As they lay their asphalt and cement,
But may I always be gleaming
Just beyond the busy highway.
The Streets of Manhattan
Gather the streets of Manhattan
And scrape them from her foundation,
And scrape the stones of Manhattan’s bookstores
From my foundation.
Hashem, please help me start, unfrazzled,
Unhypnotized by libraries,
By gallery exhibits,
By pantomimists juggling in the park,
By streets of hurrying men with attache cases
And women wearing bowties.
Hashem, please scrape Manhattan clean,
And let us start again—
One tree, one leaf, one cloud above my head.
Bulldoze the black, chrome skyscrapers,
The offices with spiral staircases,
The bars crowded by girls with braided, rolled hair
Listening to poets through p.a. systems,
The streets which never bear the fruits they whisper of,
The pale benches which remain forever alien,
And the wreckage of the hours:
Of the wandering through museums,
Of drifting through parks,
Of parties in the Village--
Of illusions that the Upper West Side
Can be squeezed so that its frozen saplings
Will dance with passersby.
Hashem, I am carrying about Manhattan.
I am dragging buildings and raising asphalt dust,
I am dragging musicians playing flute on 53rd Street,
And neon exhibits,
And stores where nothing needed was ever sold.
I am carrying restaurants
Which cannot give companionship,
And record stores with thousands of strangers,
And joggers who miraculously continue.
I am carrying white chambers
Of university music departments,
And lovers like squashed flowers
Twisted on the grass.
I am dragging with me
Frisbees in Washington Square Park,
Distinguished personages
Leaving a Public Library evening
Past paper bags scuttling on the winter sidewalk,
And lofts near Wooster Street,
Where truth must surely reside!
May I be as clean as a rounded stone
Plucked from a streambed.
May I be as new as a bird
Who doesn’t know last season.
May I serve You as the acorns,
Green on the prickly forest floor,
As freshly as the trees
Whose leaves are green today.
My Bones
Please help me speak to my bones
Until they are white and still;
Let me in my thin soled shoes
Walk the hard, cold soil.
Help me learn the details
Of contrition;
Help me learn the grammar of my days.
The Moon is Not Caught in the Branches
The moon is not caught in the branches,
Rolling in the tinted sky,
And the snow is fresh under my feet;
Only animals have been here.
Friends are in their warm apartments,
Each with his own philosophy,
Each with his own door,
Hashem, please help me also shine
Like the moon, not caught in the clouds,
To guests caught in brambles
Like a moon caught in branches
In a tinted sky.
May my wife and children
Branch above the fresh, wet snow
On which no one has trod
Except for animals,
And comfort the solitary walker
Who sees the moon,
Not caught in the tree’s branches,
Rolling on a tinted sky.
Thank You for the Metaphor
Thank You for the metaphor
Of Niels Bohr.
Thank You for the Rutherford atom.
Thank You, Hashem, for Hawkings and Wheeler--
I do not know that I could sing to You,
I do not know that I could learn Gemara,
I do not know that I could bow to You
Quite the same without their metaphors.
The Thermometer in the Window
The thermometer in the window
Reads 17,
And the sky is turning blue.
The percolator drips
And in the beis medrash, two people
Are discussing laws of Shabbos.
Red lights of cars speeding to work
Leave behind tar quiet as before,
And the row of trees behind the sportsfield
Begins to appear.
Someone sits next to a hissing radiator
And opens a book with forests of letters.
Outside, the traffic lights are changing.
Hashem, good morning.
Thank You for giving me the Torah.
Thank You for giving me books
With letters like charcoal footprints.
Gordon
Gordon had eyes like worlds;
Gordon lived on Delancey Street
And he danced on constellations;
Gordon dreamed of Venus,
And played his stripped guitar
As though angels would squeeze out from the strings
And dance in the high ceilinged loft.
Gordon cooked rice on an ancient stove,
And he smiled like a galaxy.
Gordon danced around the room to Fred Astaire,
Spinning like a gypsy quasar.
Gordon walked in the street
In white cotton pants
Like a comet in a dingy sky;
Gordon laughed and rolled down a hill in Central Park
Like a flock of meteors in a giant’s beard.
Gordon would return from work
And sit on his wood framed, foam rubber bed
And meditate on the aurora borealis
Winding through the tenement roofs.
Gordon invited everyone to his loft
To celebrate life
And his eighteenth birthday,
And he danced like a delirious sunflower
Till three in the morning.
Gordon looked down a long, long telescope
And he walked through the tube
And emerged on the other side
In an overwhelming black space,
Surrounded by inhuman stars.
Gordon was dancing with us here below,
Gordon was squeezing angels with his fingers
Out of his stripped guitar;
His eyes were shining,
but his mind was far away,
In a distant part of the galaxy,
Lost amidst the drift of stars.
Gordon, you dragged me to the Zen Center,
And we sat staring at cracks in a pink wall
Until our feet were numb.
Gordon, you sat at the seashore
And meditated before the waves,
Watching the foam in the dusk
Like spewed out strands of stars.
Gordon, you wandered to old fortune tellers
Who offered your money to the Spirit,
And lied to you of vicious incarnations.
Oh Gordon, no one held your hand;
Farmworkers burnt you out speechmaking,
The city offered you its clanging steel,
And I had nothing to offer you but my confusion
Like a swirl of clouds obscuring the night sky.
Gordon, you were looking for your fellow angels on the streets;
The clattering of the Williamsburg Bridge imprisoned your eyes.
Gordon, no one helped you when you protested,
“But I am not of this world!”
And your eyes were luminous like the sun.
Gordon, you didn’t say goodbye.
You stepped out, and you left us behind.
On Delancey Street
You met the truck that like your troubled soul
Was jailed in iron...
And then, they stole your galaxy,
And your eyes no longer gazed at nebulae;
You were tamed,
Living in Long Island,
Therapized--
But no one held your hand.
And now we assumed
That you are of this world,
No longer lost in the immensity
Of an overwhelming sky.
No one realized where you lifted your eyes to;
No one told you how to clothe yourself in galaxies
Among the avenues of earth;
Then silently, and peacefully, you departed,
And left your vehicle for your brief journey on earth
Lying in your bed,
And you went to stride among the stars.
Gordon, I never told you how I loved you,
I never told you how I wished
That I could hold your hand
And give you fields of stars to reap
Upon this solid earth.
Promenade
Hashem, please help me promenade
The avenues of Tosephot.
Please help me confidently walk
The twisting lanes of commentaries
And enter the store, dark without,
Which floods me inside with opulence.
It starts to rain, and small black letters tumble down.
In the pastry shop, behind the plate glass window,
A seven layer cake explains the mishnah.
I go inside; I buy a slice, and eat it there--
It is delicious.
And now the sun has swept away the clouds.
People crowd the avenue in the golden light--
Rabeinu Peretz sits on a bench,
Throwing breadcrumbs to the birds;
I gather up a handful,
And read them in my palm.
Then at night, the silver moon
Illuminates the city,
And in a drawing room a woman plays the harp;
The elegant guests delight in the shining chords
Which thrill them with their complex beauty
And elucidate Ezekiel.
The children are going to sleep,
But the carriages roll through the streets;
And in the city squares, the fountains
Elucidate the Torah.
A reveller, drunk, stumbles in and falls,
And his friends pull him out--
It’s time for him to go to bed.
Hashem, why am I like that reveller?
Why do I fall drunk and insensible
When the letters of the Torah
Cascade like the drops of a brilliant fountain
Shining in the square beneath the shining moon?
Only when the hour is late,
Only when the city sleeps
And midnight has already struck,
Will the real festivities begin.
Only then will the masters of festivity rejoice,
Drinking wine which reddens their faces,
Dancing gracefully, holding handkerchiefs
Given them by the princess.
Then the houses glow beneath the moonlight,
Messengers are silver in the deserted streets,
And the celebrating cavaliers
Invite You, Hashem, to their festivities...
Then—cock a doodle do! The rooster crows--
The world begins to stir;
The children turn in bed;
The sparkling celebrants lave their hands
And pass the water over their sparkling eyes
And say, “The time has come to show our children
The letters of the morning;
The time has come to tell the people,
‘Rejoice!
Do you not see how this loaf of bread you are selling
Is filled with words and names?’
Till we meet again tomorrow night”--
They bow politely to one another--
“And as for that drunken reveller
Who fell stupendously into the fountain,
We must awaken him now.”
I go into the street
And see the Beit Yosef walk by.
I try to catch his eye--
“Didn’t I see you...?”
But he simply murmurs and passes by.
I run to a park bench
And the entire morning their I contemplate his words;
But then there is a question then a doubt;
A cloud conceals the sun; the bench is cold and the street sullen;
I do not understand the faces of the people passing by.
Hashem, please help me learn Your Torah already!
Please help me not wink at the Beit Yosef,
But help me walk his avenue, Hashem,
And delight in the letters in the verdant sycamore trees,
And pick up the words lying on the sidewalk
And rearrange them in a new mosaic.
The Country of Torah
I closed my eyes
In the country of Torah.
I didn’t see the plains of mishnayos,
The forests of Hasidic trees,
The flocks of Psalms
Honking overhead.
I didn’t see the stately mansions
Of halachic works,
And the wild glens
Of midrashim,
With rainbow trout of verses
Leaping from the creeks;
And beyond the mountains,
Behind a lattice,
The ordered gardens
Of kabbalah,
With rows of cedars
Lining the still canals
And on the banks,
Clusters of lilies, roses, and marjoram.
I did not see them,
For I slept.
I slept the sleep
Of subways and of Wall Street,
Of basketball hoops in suburban garages
And of seven hour Kurasawa films.
I slept the sleep
Of physicists and farms,
Of libraries and rockets to the moon,
Of color tv and college dormitories.
I slept the sleep
Of kibbutzim,
Of Ram Dass and of oboe recitals,
Of bridges and the Elgin and Fourth Avenue
And of important English trilogies.
I did not see
The geese rising in a noisy flock
From the pond.
I did not see
The wild valley
Where chiddushim lay entangled.
I did not see
The green, shadowy forests
Where small animals scampered,
And bears sought their sustenance
Like psalmists seeking honecomb.
Hashem, please help me stay awake.
Please help me tour this broad, green globe.
The Park
The caretaker amazes you
With his knowledge of the grounds.
He stands at the gate of the public park
And holds his ring of keys magisterially.
“You can come in,” he calls to one man,
And to another, “This is not the place for you.”
And everyone bows
To his blue, resplendent uniform.
But the master gardener
Is running through the streets.
“Fools! why remain in these treeless avenues?
Come to the king’s park!
I have made it beautiful for you.”
The people push him impatiently aside
With their silver attache cases.
Some come with him to the gate
And see the caretaker, who peremptorily barks,
“You—come back tomorrow.”
The gardener urges,
“The garden is the king’s,
And not the caretaker’s.”
But the caretaker calls the gardener mad
And jingles his keys threateningly,
And the people slink away.
Few are the people the caretaker admits,
Fewer still those the gardener brings in,
And whom he shows the most beautiful flowers.
Happy are they;
How fortunate their portion!
The Rebbe’s Voice
The rebbe’s voice flutters
From the bare tree branches.
Hashem, I don’t care
If I’m not invited to the wedding
Where the fat notes of the saxaphone
Caress the carnedine velvet walls,
But please help me learn to dance for You.
I walk upon the asphalt path
And smile at the people in their black fedoras,
But they do not hear the rebbe’s voice
Fluttering in the tree branches.
Oh, it is good to turn to You,
Constant as a green flag
Snapping in the wind,
Present as the white steam
Dissolving into the freezing morning.
A flock of birds leaps from the ground,
Settles on the tree branches,
And sits silently.
There Is a Bird
There is a bird
With feathers of fire
Which flees to lands
Of agates and diamonds;
But what shall I do here?
There is a path
Which will take the traveler
To a town of pearls
And a hidden treasure;
But what will I do here?
What will I do
With these arms, with these eyes,
With these roads that take me no farther
Than my human legs can trudge?
Let the birds with wings of fire
Fly to enchanted forests;
Hashem, please help me serve You
With the rough hewn here.
Gusts of Wind
It may take as long
As the grains of sand,
Swept up by gusts of wind
And swung from a cliff into the sea,
Are entirely swept away;
It may wait until
The glaciers creep across the Canadian forests
And tower above the southern states;
You may want to wait
Until the sun begins to pale,
Until it balloons and swallows the planets--
But please help me serve You, Hashem.
The Tzaddik was Talking in the Carriage
The tzaddik was talking in the carriage
But I, hanging on, heard nothing.
Now I trudge wearily;
The long cars pass me,
Shining their white and red lights
In the darkness.
Hashem, these are my feet,
These are my hands,
This is my neck--
How shall I give them back to You?
Maybe I should lie
Like a pod in my bed,
Fold my arms across my chest
And say, “I am ready to return.”
The books of Torah on my shelf,
Like uneaten oranges,
Are waiting for me.
Teach me how to raise my arms to You;
And in my chest
Will palpate
A sudden, tender
Heart of flesh.
The Fine Snow
The fine snow clouds the parking lot
And the bare flagpole clangs
And the white eyes of passing cars
Never turn to me,
Beating my frozen toes on the complaining wooden porch,
Asking, Hashem, please help me speak with You.
The red crested woodpecker which today swayed comically
Is now asleep on a snow dusted tree,
And the rivulets which in the day
Trickled down the road
Are white and frozen.
Hashem, please help me stamp my feet,
Please help me jog on the wooden porch,
As the white street lamps glare,
And sing to You,
“Hashem, Hashem, please help me speak with You.”
From the Rushes
From the rushes
Bent over patches of snow,
From the fields of white slush,
From the melting paw prints of rabbits,
From the beaten, white green grass,
From the black, wrinkled berries along the road,
From the baby firs bent over, sheeted in ice,
From the road that leads up the hill
That grayly reaches up to the gray sky,
Help me bend over to pick out the letters,
Strike them together and make a fire
For those who are cold
To warm themselves.
Celebrating
Hashem, today the wind,
The puddles which froze back to ice,
The cold around my collar,
The squirrel nests in the swaying crooks of trees,
Were celebrating.
The white sky is celebrating,
The snow covered football field,
The twisted ice on the sidewalk
Sagging into water,
The tree branches
Answering the breeze.
Hashem, please help me celebrate too,
When the moon pulls a veil of black across her face
And peers from behind it,
When the beis medrash sits in the gray night
Like a squat, abandoned battleship,
And secretly the rabbits are emerging.
Hashem, please help me stamp circles in the snow covered lawn,
And celebrate
With the bird
That flutters on the telephone wire.
Glossary
Beis medrash. Study hall.
Beit Yosef. Authority on Jewish law and mystic; sixteenth century.
Challah. Sabbath bread.
Chiddushim. Novel Torah thoughts.
Halachic. Having to do with halachah, or Jewish law.
Hashem. God.
Midrashim. Plural of midrash, or exegetical commentary.
Mishnah. Basis of the Talmud.
Rabeinu Peretz. Commentator on the Talmud; c. thirteenth century.
Rebbe. Teacher.
Shabbos. The Sabbath.
Torah. The body of Jewish learning.
Tosephot. School of commentators on the Talmud; twelfth through fifteenth centuries.
Copyright 2007 by Yaacov Dovid Shulman