In these retellings of traditional Jewish tales, Ralph Gordon has stayed close to the originals in substance, though the verse and language are, of course, very much his own. 

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A Judgment of Solomon’s

The Mouse Deer’s little tail stood pert:
“I can’t deny, your Majesty,
The Otter’s little ones were hurt,
Indeed, were damaged mortally.
I simply say it’s not my fault.
She left them with me at six o’clock:
‘All here, I guess,’ she said, taking stock,
I’m going fishing now.’ One fine vault,
And she was off. I said, ‘My dears,
Let’s just rest quietly in the shade. ’
They folded down their little ears,
And went to sleep. Now I’m afraid
You’ll never understand my feelings,
Nor how I came to lose my mind.
I lay there peacefully, watched the wheelings
Of the birds, and thought the world was kind.
When suddenly the rum-tum-tum
Of the Woodpecker beating the war-drum
Came loud through the woods. I forgot my charge—
Remember, I am the chief war-dancer—
And let my heels fly, fly at large,
And nicked their skulls—that is my answer.
It’s true I killed them, but you see,
The Woodpecker’s to blame, not me!”

The Mouse Deer bowed; the Woodpecker
Stood forth: “Your Honor, I defer
To the Mouse Deer; he’s our chief war-dancer,
As he has told you. He is, too,
A most uncircumstanced romancer,
But what he has said today is true.
I beat the war-drum; but for a reason:
I saw the Great Lizard wearing his sword.”

The Lizard piped up: “Treason, treason!
The Tortoise was in complete mail, my Lord.”

The Tortoise bowed: “True, if you like;
But King Crab was trailing his three-edged pike.”

“Who wouldn’t, under the circumstances?”
Said King Crab: “The Crayfish were shouldering lances.”

“Well,” said the Crayfish, “and indeed, why not,
When we saw the Otter slinking down
Upon our young ones, panting hot!
Who would not rise to protect his own?”

“Ah,” said the King. “God’s justice here
Is shown us, eminently clear.
The Otter, going forth to war,
Brought death on her own young ones; for
Fear links together, link by link;
And where flames rise, the ash must sink.”

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The River Sambatyon

Sambatyon, the river of stone and sand,
Round the lost tribes, in their new foreign land,
Rushed faithfully six days, but on its Maker’s

Day, stopped, obedient to Divine command,
And rested from its labors: brought to a stand,
Its Sabbath breakers mocked all Sabbath-breakers.

And if, by any chance, a God-forsaker’s
Foot strayed down to its sleeping flood, it shot
A punishing flame up, and very smartly got

The sinner’s ankle and shin; and as for takers
Of their God’s name in vain, they’d get it hot
Up to the thigh, even to the sitting spot.

But that was in the old days, grand and emphatic,
Before God’s law was laid up in the attic.

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The Two Talmudists

Two Talmudists, at twilight, rocking, rocking
To the cat’s purring, and the clock’s tick-tocking—
The one red-headed and his eyebrows raised
As though he were perpetually amazed;
The other with a weepy face run down
Into the sluices of a doleful frown—
Took up the question as to how men grew,
Up toward the head, or downward toward the shoe.

Red-head held up his palms, and with his weasand
Squeezed into the upper registers, he reasoned:
“My father gives me a long coat; I grow,
And after a while, my shins and ankles show.
That proves, I think, we don’t grow up, but down.”

“No,” said the other. “Soldiers come to town.
Their feet are on the ground, but their heads rise
To various heights, according to their size.
That proves that we grow upward, if you please.”
He tightened his nose as if to thwart a sneeze,
Hunched up his shoulders, spread his fingers wide,
And looked conclusiveness personified.

That being settled the Talmudists went on rocking,
And the cat purring, and the clock tick-tocking.

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Beril Charif

Abstracted Beril Charif, when he lost
His spectacles, looked meditative, tossed
His coat-tails, settled in his chair, and thought.

And first, his hand upon the chair arm, he brought
His thumb a semicircle outward, and said:
“Either some man who needs them—” he shook his head,
And brought his thumb back, “or some man who does not.”
He puffed his lower lip and made it jut.
“Now, a man who needs them usually has his own.”
He took his forefinger and turned it down.
“And as for the man who does not need them, why
Should he take mine?” He let his forefinger fly
From the logical catapult. “At last we come
To what must be the truth.” He began to drum
Upon his chair arm. “Ah!” He seized his nose.
“Picture a man who both needs and has them, close
His book, look absent, yawn, and push them up
To his forehead, and forget about them—Stop!
That man am I!” And with a gentle tap
He touched his forehead and made his glasses clap.

“Ah,” said Beril Charif, “what a thing is logic!
It saves such trouble, and it works like magic.”
And with a smile of self-depreciation,
He bowed to his book, and swayed in cogitation.

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The Rabbi and the Farmer

The rabbi waxed retributive, his eye fierce and accusing;
His beard chopped up, his beard chopped down; his words
     scarce stopped for choosing;
His finger like a cobra hung above his congregation,
And Tophet smoked upon his tongue, and threatened conflagration.

Now as he spoke, a farmer smote his breast and sighed and blubbered,
And like the preacher, wagged his beard to starboard and to larboard.
“Ah!” said the rabbi, “my poor man! I pink your gizzard, do I?
Your sins come home to you, do they? You see them with a new eye?”

“No,” said the farmer, “the fact is, I’ve lost my goat, your honor.
And what a goat, your reverence! He had just your voice and manner!
And when I look upon your face, my poor heart yearns for his.
Never was a beard so like the beard of my old he-goat as yours is!”

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