Every Life is Beloved; Every Death, a Tragedy: Introducing the poetry of Lesléa Newman
You might recognize Lesléa Newman’s name and face. She is all over the interwebs these days because of her new children’s book Joyful Song: A Naming Story, published by Levine Querido was recently named as one of the best books of the year by Publishers Weekly and given a two-star review. And here we have her poems, delicate elegies to her parents. In this most natural transition, parents passing in old age there is tragedy. No matter how old we are when it happens we are left as orphans, bereft of those who supoorted us throughout our lives. As I read these poems I think about this time of war: so many lost, over 800 soldiers and so many civilians on our side, and so, so many on the sides of our enemies. Every life is beloved; every death, a tragedy.
I hope these poems touch you as we close another week. Shabbat Shalom.
IT WAS
not a stroke
of genius
it was not
a stroke
of luck
it was
a stroke
of misfortune
that befell
my father
leaving him
crumpled
at the foot
of the driveway
next to the garbage
waiting
all morning
to be picked up
MY MOTHER IS AT THE BRIDGE
table with Loretta, Gert
and Pearl, when my father
finds his way to Heaven.
“Sit down, dear,” she says
patting the seat beside her
and barely looking up from the hand
she’s been dealt. “The game is
almost through.” But my father is
too overcome to sit. He stands
and stares at his beloved, free
of wheelchair and oxygen tank
happily puffing away
on a Chesterfield King
held between two perfectly
manicured fingers, sipping
a cup of Instant Maxwell
House, leaving a bright red
lip print on the white china cup
her hair the lovely chestnut brown
it was the day they met,
her face free of worry
lines, the diamond pendant
he bought her on their first trip
to Europe glittering
against her ivory throat.
She looks like the star
of an old black-and-white movie
who would never give him
the time of day but somehow
spent 63 years by his side.
“I missed you,” my father
tells my mother, leaning down
to kiss her offered cheek.
“Of course you did,”
says my mother, who always
knows everything.
She plays her cards
right, and after Loretta and Pearl
and Gert fold, she stands to let
my father take her in his arms
and in their heavenly bodies
they dance.
WITHOUT WARNING MY FATHER is sprung from the hospital early Friday evening, seeming no better yet no worse according to the doctor who dismisses him with an indifferent wave of his hand a little too eager to get on with his weekend plans. My father refuses my offer of help and gets dressed in slow motion, then insists that I pack up a week’s worth of newspapers, a half-empty box of tissues, a flimsy comb, a toothbrush, and a kidney-shaped pink plastic spittoon. Satisfied that he is leaving nothing behind, he smiles and waves like royalty as an aide pushes him past the nurse’s station down the long hallway, into the groaning elevator and out to the parking lot. It’s not until we drive halfway home and stop at a red light where a family of five crosses the street—father in gray suit with white sneakers gleaming on his feet, mother in long dark skirt, daughters all dolled up, subdued and somber— that I realize it’s Yom Kippur the Holiest Day of the year. “Gut Yontiff,” I say to my father, pointing. He stares but does not wish me a good holiday in return. When we arrive home, he heads straight the den and instantly falls asleep, asleep, a lazy boy in his La-Z-Boy hands clasped on his chest, thumbs twitching through his dreams. Darkness falls an hour later and he startles awake, looks around as if he has no idea where he is, sees me, sighs, says “God will forgive us,” then dozes off again. I tuck a green and black afghan my mother knit 100 years ago under his chin, as I remember sitting in synagogue with my father when I was a little girl. How I loved braiding the tzit-tzit of his tallils, the white fringe so smooth and cool beneath my fingers, while the men all around me swayed and prayed, their deep voices wringing as much sweetness and sadness out of those ancient words, as they could, that heartrending Hebrew comforting me like a soft shawl wrapped around my small slender shoulders. I stood when my father stood, bowed my head when my father bowed his head, sat when my father sat, his “Amen” the sweetest and saddest of all. Last year for the first time, we drove to services, my father unable to manage the two mile walk between home and shul. We sat up front hoping that would help him hear, but after the third time he asked, “What page? What page?” licking his third finger and frantically flipping through the prayer book like he was looking for an important number in an outdated phone book, I was relieved when his head dropped to his chin, then mortified once more when he began to snore so loudly the rabbi threw me a look and I took my father home. I know God will forgive my poor aged and aging father for not attending temple on this Day of Atonement but I don’t know if the same God will forgive me for not knowing what’s best: to pray or not to pray that the Book of Life be inscribed at the start of the new year with my father’s holy name underneath my own
Lesléa Newman has created 87 books for readers of all ages including the Jewish children’s books, “Joyful Song: A Naming Story,” “Welcoming Elijah: A Passover Tale With A Tail,” “Gittel’s Journey: An Ellis Island Story,” “Here Is The World: A Year of Jewish Holidays,” “Ketzel, the Cat Who Composed,” and “The Babka Sisters,” and the double memoir-in-verse, “I Carry My Mother” and “I Wish My Father.” Her literary awards include a National Endowment for the Arts poetry fellowship, two National Jewish Book Awards, two American Library Association Stonewall Honors, the Association of Jewish Libraries Sydney Taylor Body-of-Work Award, and the Massachusetts Book Award. From 2008 – 2010, she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, MA. Currently she is working on a new poetry collection for adults. Learn more about her work at www.lesleanewman.com
Newman’s book of poems about her father can be found at https://www.amazon.com/Wish-My-Father-Lesl%C3%A9a-Newman/dp/1733534563
Five tiny delights that lift my spirits and make me happy:
1. watching Jeopardy every night and shouting out the answers (I even keep score);
2. bringing out my winter clothes in the fall and finding fuzzy sweaters I forgot I owned (like going shopping without spending any money);
3. giving my calico cat Mitzi a belly rub (I am the only one in the world whom she allows this great privilege);
4. riding my exercise bike while belting out Broadway show tunes (totally off-key);
5. splitting a gooey dessert with my beloved at our favorite restaurant (though truth be told, she usually eats a bite or two and I devour most of it).
✡️
Five tiny Jewish delights that lift my spirit and make me happy:
1. seeing the look of utter pride on my father’s face as he listened to his grandson chanting Torah at his Bar Mitzvah;
2. eating a dozen different versions of Charoset at Passover made from recipes that come from all over the world;
3. wearing my mother’s beautiful gold Chai necklace—may her memory always be for a blessing;
4. making matzo ball soup the way my grandmother taught me and bringing it to a friend who has a toothache and can only eat soft foods;
5. reading Judith Magazine!
I was slain by these poems the moment I read them, and they are no less potent now. Brava, Leslea! So proud to have you here.
So nice to read this -- congratulations, Leslea!