I
Who can bear
The wail of a young orphan?
Or the tears of a needy widow?
Who can endure
The loneliness—like a stone’s—
Of a woman who is barren?
Or the shame of an ugly wife
Whom a husband has deserted?
Worst of all is the dumb misery
Of a beaten horse.
The whip crackles
On the dear pelt.
The heavy head bends lower . . .
Without reproach; without opposition
Or resistance . . . .
Such anguish should come before
God’s Majesty
And there make its plaint.
“Master!
Master of this Universe—
Why?”
Yussel Luksh cannot stand it.
He would gladly get in the shafts.
Giddy-up, giddy-up,
He would run, year after year.
Taking those blows—
Like bracing lashes, stinging besoms—
Like
An atonement.
The wan fields seem greener now
After the wash of rain.
A rusty plough comes up singing . . . .
Their heads washed—
Peach, currant, gooseberry,
Greet him.
And here, a dressed-up cherry tree
Looks over the orchard’s fence . . . .
This is God’s Grace.
This—and more—have been made for Man’s
enjoyment.
None the less, Yussel—do not be misled!
No matter how beautiful this tree,
How beautiful the plough—
The quiet glitter of the steel,
The supple branch, the rocking bough—
Loveliness is only for the eye!
Let Him really show a wonder.
Let Him hand out Justice—
Evenly.
One deal
To poor and rich.
One measure
For the high and the humble.
If—for the sake of my forebears—
I stood in the good books
Of Heaven,
I would straighten my back,
And—in friendly fashion—
Have it out with the Almighty.
Only one
Could presume this—
Only one—Reb Leyvi Yitzhak.
He had a knack. He could talk to Him
Like a crony—
Button to button.
He could get down to brass tacks.
“How may one be a glutton,
While another
Lacks?”
He’d ask the score.
How come? What for?
“Why does one man have the fat?
Grabbing the best
In his fists—
While another man is gaunt
In want of a spoon of food?”
Strong, his words.
Wide—his stand.
“I—Reb Leyvi Yitzhak—command!!
To Your system
To Your set-up—I say, ‘No!
No!—with a capital N.
No!—in a Turkish overcoat!’ ”
I? Yussel Luksh?
What weight, what substance,
Have I—Mud, the son of Mire?
A snotling—
I—should I aspire—
One-two—and I am squelched!
Mannerless fellow—
Learn your place . . . .
So the way that I manage
Does not meet
Your full approval?
Smart alec—
Could you run it better?
So many who want,
So many who claim,
So many who praise, so many who blame,
So many demands,
So many mouths, so many hands . . . .
Some are spared, and some are speared . . . .
Yet it’s all—all the same.
Their voices rise. And their cries,
Their cries—they are not to be borne!
You are lucky. You have your solution.
Get in the harness. Draw the cart.
Giddy-up there, giddy-up here . . . .
You acquit your debts with a tear.
I am No—but you are Yes.
I—I am the harsh judge.
You—you are the heart . . . .
II
Do not put
The fur cap on me!
Do not call me Rabbi Yussel!
My piety . . . My virtue . . .
Their like grows on any dung-hill.
Why do you crown me?
I am not worthy.
How may I lead you?
I myself am astray.
How can I answer your questions?
I have no reply.
My head is buzzing
With little birds who ask me
Their silly puzzles:
“Who is right? The driver? The horse?
Or—is it
The whip?”
Men—no fooling—
Do you not see the hitch?
Pretend that I am the judge.
You come to me for my ruling—
Who won? Who lost?
What’s what? Which is which?
Who gets what wages?
Who pays how much cost?
Folks—I tell you—I am a fool,
A tomfool—
With a little goatee.
Imps—on broomsticks—in a ring—
Dance around me; and they sing,
“Yussel Luksh. He’s sublime.
He is the wise man of our time!”
“Eloquent,” the people call it.
“A head for you—
No harm befall it!”
“You hear, Reb Itze!”
“I heard it—Reb Pitze!”
“I saw the wisdom on his brow.
Heard the Law—as from Sinai.
Saw how he unlocks
The very Temple!”
“The depth of brain.” “The flash of mind.”
“Who is right? The driver? The horse?
Or is it the whip?”
“What a quip!”
A goblin leers.
Shows his tongue—and disappears . . . .
Crownéd goose!
Anointed booby!
We chant your praises to the realm—
A piece of glass becomes a ruby.
Yussel—
Yussel Luksh of Chelm!
III
Shnayim ohzin . . . .
Two hold
A praying-shawl . . . .
Once there’s two, there’s a brawl.
They are not able
To share God’s legacy.
Over a deal. Over a trade.
Over a coin. Over a maid.
Chelm’s preoccupations . . . .
Shnayim ohzin . . . . Two hold
One chattel.
If there’s two—you have a battle!
Therefore the sages—
(Silver and gold!)—
“Divide”—they say . . . .
A precious thought.
A world of wisdom in one word.
Wiser than Hillel—yet,
To the comprehension of a child.
You may leam it even as
You stand
On one foot.
Quick . . . as a gazelle. Or quicker—
As a gesture . . .
A lightning-flash . . . .
Divide. Why bicker?
Gather ye on a market-day,
With your crusts of trouble,
Your crumbs of joy . . . .
Your penny-bags of noble thought . . .
With your pretty wives, your slaves,
With your horses, with your mules,
Your capons, the fatted quail,
The fragrant spices, the rich drinks—
And—
Divide!
Consider it . . . . Here’s a glut.
Here—a shrunken gut . . . .
Why rancor? Why do people hanker
For this man’s wife, for that man’s kine?
Because Simon has a lot
And Reuben has an empty pot . . . .
So the wise
Did devise
One word—a precious word.
Divide! Let it all be shared!
IV
To the world, it is a little tent.
To itself, Chelm is a town.
With an icon. A God.
A church. A hill.
A market place. A Jewish quarter.
Crooked houses—brick and mortar.
Ancient gates.
Alleys, lanes. Broken panes.
Tatters, rags, money-bags.
Women pure. Women prudish.
Women—
Loose and lewdish.
It’s a town . . . .
Jewish men in wadded coats.
Wives
Over charcoal pots.
Onion-rolls. Honey-teygel.
Horse-beans.
Herring-barrels.
Kerosene. Healing-salves . . . .
Peasants in their homespun . . . . Calves.
Ducks. Ganders.
Butchers’ apprentices.
Thieves. Priests.
Tumblers. Buffoons.
Holy men. Loons. Dreamy kids . . .
Dead. Demons.
Ghosts and ghouls . . . .
Fools?
Not a one.
I will give you a prize at once
If you find me a single dunce.
Not here.
Absent.
He is shrewd. He is shrewder.
He’s the shrewdest of the shrewds.
Chelm is a scene of feuds.
Carnage.
Raps. Slaps . . . .
Palms are like boards!
They row over isms, over schisms.
Over things that are eternal.
Or an article in a journal.
Till they come to Yussel Luksh.
“Rabbi. You settle it.
Who is wise? Who is wiser?
You are the fellow with the upper story.
Why—of course—you are one of us.
Which party is correct?”
Yussel feels he is slaughtered.
His throat is cut—
Without a knife.
Each side threatens.
His bit of poverty is involved . . .
His world. His comforts—
(Such comforts!)—
His here-and-now. His nibble of bread.
His dribble of grits . . .
All lie in the scales
Of his masters . . . .
Each bunch comes
With its cross-purposes.
His chores
Weigh on his shoulders like a hunch.
V
God has a job in this world.
Yussel, a job in Chelm.
But he is ready to keel over.
A hump-backed hovel.
An asthmatic chimney.
And the spouse that they have gotten him.
Not a woman, but a sword.
The eyes no eyes.
They are peepers. The breasts no breasts.
They are dried-out figs.
A mouth having no silence.
The words—
They are hot coals . . . .
Yussel Luksh—
Provider mine!
Just listen to his line:
He is right. He is right.
No blame. All are right.
Zionists.
Socialists.
Anarchists. Anti-Semists.
Tatatatars. And the Christs . . . .
Ain’t no Yes. Ain’t no No.
No Stop. No Go.
No black. No white . . . . no day.
No night . . .
No blame.
All are right . . . .
He furtively puts on his torn cape.
Takes a clean shirt
And sneaks off to the bath.
Having washed away the dirt,
Yussel sits on the grass.
VI
The west is seamed with pieces of gold
And with pieces of fire.
A painter has begun
To lay his stencils on the sky.
All is still—
The stillness of wonder.
Ah, a pleasure . . . .
No one sees him. No one hears.
God alone harkens
How a man weeps.
Chelm’s rabbi sobs.
He moans.
Life is short.
A day. A night.
I—the silliest fool—
A leader of fools—
Am tired.
I do not, Lord—
I do not understand Your Chelm.
But it is a pity—
A pity on each blade of grass.
The ant. The horse.
The water-carrier.
On the boor and the learned man.
The poor man.
The rich.
They know All. All of it.
A little?
God forbid!
Each man owns the key to Your granary . . . .
And they want.
They shout.
Compete . . . and fight . . . .
They hate. They love.
They strive.
They live.
A day—a night . . . .
Oh, a pity
On Your Chelm!
He is right. He is right.
I am right. You are right.
There is no black. Is no white.
No guilt.
All
Are right.
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