There Used To Be In Jerusalem

There used to be in Jerusalem an old man
with leathery face and white-stubble chin.
He led his mule down our narrow lane,
huge cans of kerosene strapped to its sides,
copper bells clanging about its neck.
The kerosene heated our rooms, cooked our stews.

There used to be in Jerusalem an old man
with deep-furrowed brow and white-stubble chin.
He came clanking down our cobbled lane,
slung over his shoulder – a large brass box.
He would knock on our doors –
“Any pots to repair or kettles to mend?”

There used to be in Jerusalem an old man
with sunken cheeks and white-stubble chin.
He hobbled down our tunneled lane,
hanging from his shoulder – a threadbare sack.
He would call out, “alte zacheen… alte zacheen…” *
We ran down to the courtyard, gave him a shirt or two.

There used to be in Jerusalem an old man
with pendulous lip and white-stubble chin.
He sat on a wicker stool at his copper shoe-stand
opposite the Citadel at Jaffa Gate.
We too, were his customers, one foot raised on the stand
while, with two brushes, he polished our shoes.

                    Before the century locked its doors,
                    the kerosene man and his mule were gone,
                    the tinker no longer came;
                    the rag man limped down our street no more
                    with his loud and nasal call.
                    Then the shoe-shiner disappeared.

                                        Do only I remember these old men
                                        with woolly caps and white-stubble chin
                                        who sat at Jaffa Gate, who walked down our lane?
                                        No-one ever mentions them, we never knew their names;
                                        yet these steps resounded within our walls
                                        before an era sealed its gates.

* old clothes

Esther’s Choice

…on the third day Esther put on her royal apparel…

Esther 5:1

Of course I’d heard of Vashti’s victory –
how she chose to rebel and die
rather than submit to his whims.

Why didn’t I, too, resist, prefer death
to lying each night like a wooden plank?
What made my uncle, with one slight nod,
encourage me to this degrading life?
But what good would martyrdom have been?

Yet now I choose to face death,
by taking action, lose eternal life:
I don my robes, perfume wrists,
and line my eyes and lips
before I dare approach him.

For how can I sit, protected,
and ignore my people’s plight?
How can I refuse to act
when their existence hangs
like an autumn leaf on an oak?

Will my three-day fast move heaven?
Will my people’s prayers be heard?
Will he extend his scepter of gold
Or will he, in anger, remove me
Before I say a word?

If he grants my request,
tomorrow, instead of sitting with the wise
at a sacred feast of savories and meat,
I shall sit with pompous pigs
at a pagan spread of pastries and wines.

And if not…