There are a myriad of ways one might express the beauty of this place. On coffee shops and in tiny parks scattered on lonely street corners, pilgrims pour words into journals, paint limestone landscapes and snap photos with bulky black cameras.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been welcomed into a group of fellow students who have definitively chosen their preferred form of expression, the way in which our hearts can sing the song of Jerusalem, the canticle of Israel: poetry. Once a week, usually after assigning a topic for a poem a few days prior, we gather at a local pub or a nearby home and share what our hearts have churned out.
As my friend Ryan and I wandered back from poetry night last week I was struck with an idea, “Ryan, we should invite Rabbi Moshe to poetry night!” I was only half serious. Ryan responded, “Yes!”
Rabbi Moshe is the professor for two of my classes here at Jerusalem University College, “Jewish Thought” and “The Parables of Jesus.” Moshe’s isn’t a Christian, though he does hold Jesus to be a compelling, first century Rabbi. I’ve never had a Rabbi before, and Ryan, Jordan (the other member of our poetry group) and I have come to love Moshe, his passion for God, his knowledge of the Scriptures (both testaments), and his genuine love for teaching.
The moment we returned to campus Ryan sent Moshe an email inviting him to poetry night this week. Rabbi responded indicating that he would love to join us. After class last Friday, Jordan came up with an idea for a topic: success. Ryan informed Moshe and with a sort of spark in his eyes he confessed, “Ryan, this is the perfect topic for me. I took a new job as an academic administrator a year ago. It was a huge career move for me, but to be honest, I hate my job. I miss teaching.”
The four of us met this evening at the college and walked to Jordan’s apartment on the east side of Jerusalem. Moshe hadn’t been to the Arab part of the city for over ten years, and as we strolled past the Damascus Gate he kept remarking at how the time had flown. Our path brought us through back alleys packed with Arabic signs, the smell of falafel and the allure of saffron. Jordan swung open a gate to our right and led us into a secluded garden: our evening stage.
The Poetry Crew (left to right): Rabbi Moshe, Ryan and Jordan
To protect the sanctity of the poetic muse, I can’t share what the others wrote; however, I’ll gladly share my own stumbling semblance of “success”.
—–
Formative years all galsses and braces
Hide and seek bottles and hideaway places
A tone deaf child couldn’t hum to the song
That sang of a home where children belong
So fluttering eyelids and frantic embraces
Tying up baseball cleats and hockey skate laces
Rhymed all his verses to forget all his wrongs
And to sing of a home where children belong.
While chasing applause from wonderstruck faces
He preached from the pulpit of saviors and graces
And fought for his voice and to prove himself strong
To sing of a home where children belong.
Then he came to his senses.
The quiet eyes of a dying man
Ran to him from a hospital bed,
handed him needle and thread,
And a pattern for a tapestry.
They spun.
A gray house with a faded red door
A sweeping front porch with a crooked, creaking floor
Morning light igniting the hair of a bride
Her hand tracing his back
Like the evening tide.
And God in the space between palms pressed together.
Tying atoms to atoms like summer to heather.
The three of us humming a melodious song
Is the space itself where children belong.
