Sunday, August 4, 2013
Lot's Wife
Lot's Wife, a poem I wrote several years ago, has finally been published, and I have a "double-header" in the August 2 issue of j. the Jewish news weekly.
Here is the poem:
I.
Petrified in an unforgiving land, pilloried by an unforgiving God
I stand in silence, robbed of name and voice
for the sin of looking back, toward a home I must leave.
Tears turn to bitter crystal, hardening on chiseled cheeks.
Sunk in desert sand, I can no longer follow.
My nameless daughters, my compromising husband, make their beds,
ensuring notoriety in a timeless tale.
Left behind, an anonymous link,
I’m remembered as the one who failed to hear God’s warning,
paralyzed under a piercing desert sun
that shows no pity.
II.
They heed the warnings and leave for New York,
first husband, then daughters,
while I stay back to close the family home.
I fill a steamer trunk with memories —
Shabbas candlesticks, lace tablecloths, photos and letters, even my wedding dress.
My mementos make the crossing, landing later in a museum
where witnesses weep.
Lingering too long, I scour the bath, cover furniture, close curtains,
set valises at the door,
and wait for a taxi that comes too late.
Janet Silver Ghent,
former senior editor at j., is a freelance editor, columnist and
feature writer. She lives in Palo Alto and is a member of Congregation
Beth Am, where she was struck by the story of Lot’s Wife in a weekly
Torah study class. At a local JCC, she had seen the contents of a
woman’s steamer trunk that had made the crossing to the United States in
preparation for its owner’s arrival. Sadly, before her departure, the
woman was taken to the camps. The juxtaposition of the two narratives
inspired the poem.
Here is the poem:
Lot’s Wife
Thursday, August 1, 2013 | by janet silver ghentI.
Petrified in an unforgiving land, pilloried by an unforgiving God
I stand in silence, robbed of name and voice
for the sin of looking back, toward a home I must leave.
Tears turn to bitter crystal, hardening on chiseled cheeks.
Sunk in desert sand, I can no longer follow.
My nameless daughters, my compromising husband, make their beds,
ensuring notoriety in a timeless tale.
Left behind, an anonymous link,
I’m remembered as the one who failed to hear God’s warning,
paralyzed under a piercing desert sun
that shows no pity.
II.
They heed the warnings and leave for New York,
first husband, then daughters,
while I stay back to close the family home.
I fill a steamer trunk with memories —
Shabbas candlesticks, lace tablecloths, photos and letters, even my wedding dress.
My mementos make the crossing, landing later in a museum
where witnesses weep.
Lingering too long, I scour the bath, cover furniture, close curtains,
set valises at the door,
and wait for a taxi that comes too late.
Janet Silver Ghent,
former senior editor at j., is a freelance editor, columnist and
feature writer. She lives in Palo Alto and is a member of Congregation
Beth Am, where she was struck by the story of Lot’s Wife in a weekly
Torah study class. At a local JCC, she had seen the contents of a
woman’s steamer trunk that had made the crossing to the United States in
preparation for its owner’s arrival. Sadly, before her departure, the
woman was taken to the camps. The juxtaposition of the two narratives
inspired the poem.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)