Jewish Today: The Poetry of Philip Terman

Welcome to the beautiful world of Philip Terman's poems. Beauty yes, but also bucketfuls of compassion, of love: for family, for tradition and for the poet himself.

Saint Esau
		Hast thee but one blessing, my father?  Bless me, even me also,
                 O my father.  And Esau lifted up his voice, and wept aloud.
	                                                                                   Genesis 27: 38

I came out red, as if embarrassed
to be alive.

*

Though, like anyone, I wish I could identify with Jacob,
who, after all, had his name changed to Israel, 
and whose twelve sons began the great tradition, 
and who was buried among the Patriarchs—
if I was honest with myself, I would have preferred 
tramping outside among the deep breathing animals,
the dew-laden grass, perhaps a full moon,
the distinct stars, chanting songs in the open air—
me with my hairy body, my rough skin, me with 
my restlessness, my impatience to settle in one place,
me with my father-love, with my hunger: like anyone, 
I wish I could identify with Jacob, but more likely I would 
have exchanged that intangible promise, that fantasy 
of future fame, for that cooked meal, that sumptuous stew.

*

Esau, I too, wear a hairy garment,
inherited from my father, that gorilla,
who—not the way the old men
in the synagogue beat their fists
against their tallit on the day
of atonement—bore and pounded
his chest and roared and roared until
I would crackup at this mountain
of an animal. And when he returned
from wherever the day wore away 
his eyes, he would belch and ravish
the sweet meat and rise full-length, 
curly hairs brushing the ceiling.

*

I donned the same fitted suit
I wore in court for my hearing

as I wore in the synagogue
on the Day of Atonement.

I was convicted:
in court of a crime.
in the synagogue of a sin.

In court I apologized to the victim.
In the synagogue I apologized to God.

I acknowledged my misbehavior
and received my sentence
before witnesses:

In court: the deserved penalty and a hope
that I have placated the victim.

In the synagogue: a fast,
a beating of my fist against my heart,
a prayer to be inscribed in the Book of Life.

*

Dawn. A man of the field, 
like this field—sun rising 
and illuminating the half-moon, 
the apple blossoms
I’m sitting under and taking in,
the nest-builders hard at work 
and singing—I did not don the cap 
and scarf and say the Modeh Ani 
that thanks God for the return 
of my soul to my body
and allows me to live another day.  
Or, if I did, it was this silence 
and birdsong, these words 
that appear as prayer.
 
*

Dear Rashi, why do you hate me?

Is it because I have no time to don the cap and scarf,
to figure out which direction is east and bow and sway?

A bit of a brute, I admit, unrefined, uncouth
and, yes, it’s true, I still spill coffee on my shirt,
refuse to trim my hair, my bushy eyebrows,

play music too loud, act on a whim.
I still fill a room with my bulky body,
get overexcited, speak out of turn.

With all I could carry 
I approached the one who tempted me
because I was famished, and thoughtless,
and neglected my loved ones
and so I was denied my rightful place at the table.

Though I swore I would kill myself,
each morning I chanted David’s psalm:

You will not despise a contrite heart—

*

I was not ready to chant the Kol Nidre,

yet nevertheless I was called up
to stand before the open Ark
and find within myself the voice
that was required of me, the voice

hidden in the deep down, below
my errors, my words spoken
in haste, my actions taken
without thought, the hurts I caused.

The fast had begun. 
The Ark opened, 
the scriptures revealed,
the worshippers risen 
in their white garments,

the rabbi nodding: it’s time/

And, though I was not noble,
or virtuous, and though
my wrongs were a weight
I could barely hold, the way,

at the dawn of my adulthood—
almost another lifetime ago,
my muscles tightened to lift the Torah
and carry it around the shul,

pausing at each row of pews
for the congregants to touch
the scrolls with the fringes
of their tallises then
their tallises to their lips—

something about the circumstances
of my life brought me to face
the sanctuary and the souls
who stood waiting
for me to confess release from our flaws,

and rejoice, with trembling.

My Grandfather Reading The Forvitz 

How far I am from the old language.

Each night, after my grandfather
came home from selling scrap,

he’d wash the dust out of his hands,
sit at the table, complain the soup

was too hot then retire to the couch,
the daily news spreading its wings

over his head not like the shawl
he and my grandmother stood beneath

that moment that sealed all our fates.
Sucking hard candy, he’d read slowly,

right to left, consulting the personals
in the hopes that a few familiar names

from that obscure village that no longer exists
made it across and placed an ad

so my grandfather could sponsor them
and usher them into their new lives.

Why not? Don’t miracles happen?
Why not on 158th and Kinsman?

Why shouldn’t out of that nightmare
something wonderful appear?  

Bat Mitzvah Sonnets for My Chinese Daughters

1:  For Miriam Xinxiu*

A promise, a choice, a carrying forth,
an inheritance, what’s yours to receive 
and pass on— your portion of this book, 
these words, this story, these questions, 
these rituals, this bread, this wine, the candles, 
the blessings, the days of remembrance, this new star,
the mournings, the joys, too, especially the joys,
the celebration of your very own self—
to know that when you are most alone, you are not alone,
there is this presence, nameless, secretive, sacred,
this sensation of something other than yourself,
deeper than your sorrows—oh child, oh young woman,
clothing your years in adulthood, chanting
this ancient tongue, entering this song.

2:  For Bella Xiaolu**

Brief and beautiful as morning dew,
streak of sunlight, bluebird flash,
candle flame, quick dream, here-
and-gone-again-hummingbird, now-
you-see-it-now-you-don’t deer.
Childhood, how long?
These faces, particular
and distinct, historical and spontaneous,
in mystery and discipline, the way 
we are gathered here, written down,
beyond reason.  How did this moment
find this girl and transform her into 
a woman? Quick as a small deer, 
mysterious as morning dew.

*Xinxiu: “new star”

**Xiaolu:  “small deer” and “morning dew”

My Taharah

Philip Shalom Terman 
Will still be my name,
for does losing a life mean  
also losing the one name

we’ll always be known by?
The sacred society inspects
for bodily fluids, blood,
wounds, abrasions,

clip my nails of fingers, toes,
the ones my wife kvetched
about when they accidently
scratched her in the night.

Lying on the steel cot,
my head elevated
on the headrest—
they will inspect

my receding hairline, 
the pencil stab on my forearm
from elementary school,
my outie belly button,

the cyst protruding
from my neck—my kids
called me Shrek
and insisted I get it removed—

my chest so hairy 
they compared it to a bear’s
when they would hop
on my back and

and I would stomp
across the living room
and neigh like a horse
and roar and roar.

Bodies, the director says:
are always heavy.
All that weight. 
I broke some commandments

and sunk down deep
and worried would 
my name be scribed 
in the Great Book

and was I worthy 
of those years,
did my soul work
its way into atonement—

but as they begin washing me
back into the purity
in which I first appeared,
I will again become holy.

In silence, in gowns 
and rubber gloves,
they fill the blue buckets
and pour over me the water,

starting at the head, precisely,
as in a garden, 
down to my feet, then
from my feet all the way up 

to the tip-top of my head,
washing every inch of me,
the public and private parts,
the chorus of washers intoning:

He is pure.  He is pure.   He is pure—
then the careful drying,
the rabbi chanting the blessing: 
Grant us the courage and strength 

to properly perform this work,
dressing me in the tunic,
inserting the arms 
into each sleeve, 

straightening, no slack,
the pants, pulled over the feet, 
one leg, turning me to the side,
the other leg, the undershirt, 

the shirt, the hood, the cloth 
to cover my face. Finally,
the garter belt, passed under me,
wound around my frame 

and woven into a knot in the shape
of the Hebrew letter: shin: 
for Shaddai, Almighty God.
Will they remember to retrieve

the small package of sand
ordered from the Holy Land,
commanded to place beneath my pillow,
my portion of the eternal?

They strap me
in the hydraulic body-lift 
and the director cranks me up
towards heaven like a swallow 

and slowly sets me down snugly 
into my pine house
where I will seep into the earth 
from which I came.

The rabbi taps the roof
and insists: He must face East.
And so they secure
the Jewish star atop the head-end

to alert the gravedigger 
in which direction plant me.
Silence surrounds us.
Now they softly chant 

a plea to the angels:
in the name of the Name, 
and all around surrounding him.
Opening their eyes 

toward each other.

---

Philip Terman’s most recent books of poetry are My Blossoming Everything (Saddle Road Press, 2024), The Whole Mishpocha (Ben Yehuda Press, 2024) This Crazy Devotion (Broadstone, 2020), Our Portion: New and Selected Poems (Autumn House, 2015) and, as co-translator with the Syrian writer Saleh Razzouk, Tango Beneath a Narrow Ceiling: The Selected poems of Riad Saleh Hussein (Bitter Oleander, 2021). His poems and essays have appeared in journals, including Poetry Magazine, The Kenyon Review, Tikkun, The Sun, The Georgia Review, Poetry International, and anthologies, including The Bloomsbury Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, 101 Poets for the Next Millennium, Blood to Remember: American Poets on the Holocaust, and Joyful Noise: An Anthology of Spiritual Literature, Extraordinary Rendition: American Writers on Palestine. Retired from Clarion University, he served as co-director of the Chautauqua Writers Festival for 14 years. In 2023, he co-directed the James Wright Poetry Festival. Currently, he directs The Bridge Literary Arts Center in Venango County, PA and is co-curator of the Jewish Poetry Reading Series, sponsored by the Jewish Community Center of Buffalo. Recipient of the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Award for Poems on the Jewish Experience, Terman conducts and coaches poetry workshops hither and yon.

https://philipterman.my.canva.site

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5 Delights

1). Planting corn seeds in early June

2). Unleashing dog Zabar and watching her run into the open field

3). Pressing my nose against the first Madonna blossoms of spring

4). Sharing the ecstatic pleasure of the Cleveland Cavaliers beating the Boston Celtics with my daughter, Bella

5). Fresh everything bagel with lox, cream cheese, slice of red onion, dill pickle on the side

5 Jewish Delights

1). Being called with my wife to the Bimah for an Aliyah

2). Braiding challah

3). Performing acts of Tikkun Olam: my correspondence with my poet friend who lives in Gaza

4). Memories of my mother lighting the Sabbath candles

5). The pleasure of watching Seinfeld with my daughter