A "Finch’s Sequined Song": The Poetry of Valerie Bacharach

We are human. We are Jewish. Our history stretching back, and not always easy; our future as a minority that “fits in” and wants to fit in. How do we reconcile the cycle of our lives as grandchildren, children, then parents and grandparents ourselves? Like Jacob wrestling with the angel, we grapple with our Jewish identity every day. How beautifully and how gently Valerie Bacharach expresses this struggle in her poems.

Ash and Love					 

my grandmother’s hand waves
smoke		she smells of ash 

and love

she is ghost		incandescent 
flicker 		dream shadow

here and gone
			her laugh harsh

my laugh rusting

her forgotten song spirals

notes turn sapphire	   wind-driven
call and return		an echolocation

color shatters into small birds	    feathers ruffled
by remembrance

here and gone 

Camino de Santiago

My friends speak of transformation and miracles as we walk the Way of Saint James. Fields of wild poppies among swaying grass, pilgrims burdened with backpacks and rosaries. Each day a different city; Burgos, Leon, Lorca. Roman walls, old churches, fragrant flowers. I wear my Star of David inside my blouse, unsteady in this Catholic country. I go with my friends to mass in cathedrals ablaze with gold and silver. They wear their crosses, bow their heads as incense drifts upward, as I sit on a wooden pew, as they take communion, wait to be blessed. There are no synagogues in the cities we visit, no sign of Jewish life. Our guide speaks of the joys of spreading the word of Christ. Forests of birch and oak, paths of dirt and stone. Barn swallows and skylarks swoop among trees, trill bird songs of prayer and epiphanies. Our final uphill mile into Santiago de Compostela, its massive cathedral dominates the square. I stand on the periphery as others, overcome with fatigue and faith, sing.

Olam Ha-Bah/The World to Come						

Syllables lift from a page of Talmud.
	(a bit of honey on the tongue to sweeten a child’s lessons)
Ashes of a mourning dove’s cry,
a mother’s sigh, a father’s cough.
Diaphanous, this transitory place 
of souls.

Three drops of rain, then four.
Cloud-scuttled sky, a drenched sun.
Remembrance:
a child’s tender ankle,
leftover smile,
a curve of chin.

This heaviness, draped
like love—
my mother’s pearls
(she hated them, too small for her)
my father’s fears
(never spoken, yet tangible as rocks).

This heaviness, which I carry 
from moonrise to moonrise as lightly
as the finch’s sequined song.

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Valerie Bacharach is a graduate of Carlow University’s MFA program and a proud member of Carlow University’s Madwomen in the Attic writing workshops. Her book, Last Glimpse was published by Broadstone Books in August 2024. Her poem Birthday Portrait, Son, published by the Ilanot Review, was selected for inclusion in 2023 Best Small Fictions. She has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Net.

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Five tiny delights:

1. A hawk, riding currents above my house.

2. Crisp apples in autumn.

3. The gingko tree's leaves, fan-shaped and turning gold.

4. The sound of my husband's voice.

5. First coffee of the day.

Five Jewish delights:

1. Challah dipped in honey on Rosh Hashanah.

2. Using my mother's seder plate on Passover.

3. The taste of charoset and bitter herbs on my tongue.

4. Carrying a Torah on Rosh Hashanah.

5. The shouts of "mazel tov" at my son's wedding.