Quantcast

Jewish Journal

  • Poem: Genesis 4:8

    by Rabbi Stanley Chyet

    2 weeks ago

    how still how pale he lies there
    Abel on the delicious young soil
    he’ll never know
    he’s but the first
    the crimson weave of wrath and longing
    his...

  • Poem: New Year of the Trees

    by Marge Piercy

    3 weeks ago

    In the Diaspora we celebrate —
    Jews in Argentina when the leaves
    are falling; in New England when
    snow chokes the ground; in
    the Sonora Desert when...

  • Poem: Ferns

    by Linda Pastan

    January 13, 2016 | 12:44 pm

    Wind thrums
    these green harps
    into sudden music
    low under the trees
    almost beneath
    our notice

    though cut
    at the stem
    they could fan
    the likes of Cleopatra
    into lazy
    concupiscence.

    First published in Plume.

  • ADVERTISEMENT
    PUT YOUR AD HERE
  • Poem: Towards Nineveh

    by George Ellenbogen

    January 7, 2016 | 11:22 am

    The road winds       
    like loose wool        
    turned by paws       
    on green carpet.       

    Things in the distance squat—        
    tents perhaps—...

  • Poem: Death March, 1945

    by Chana Bloch

    December 30, 2015 | 12:07 pm

    “There was a muddy ditch at the side of the road
    where the road took a sudden turn. If I could jump —.”
    Five Muselmänner abreast, the trekking dead,...

  • Poem: Why God Created Light

    by Hal Sirowitz

    December 16, 2015 | 11:27 am

    We’re Jewish, Father said, so we’re not
    like other people. We’re a little bit different.
    But it’s a good difference. It’ll be boring if
    everyone...

  • Poem: The Nineteenth-Century Novel II

    by Eve Grubin

    December 9, 2015 | 12:54 pm

    I am the heroine
    in a novel, and there are twenty pages left.
    Someone is reading the novel, holding
    the numbered pages in their hands, almost finished.
    Every night, in bed, they read my story
    with the novel propped on their chest.
    I want them to read quickly, but they read
    a page a night, without
    urgency, as if there is no rush
    before turning off the light.


    From “Morning Prayer” (Sheep Meadow Press, 2005)

    Eve Grubin teaches at New York University London and is poet-in-residence at the London School of Jewish Studies.

Page 1 of 15

1 2 3 > VIEW LAST PAGE

ADVERTISEMENT
PUT YOUR AD HERE