Temple Memory
To the Matsumura family in Esashi
New Years. We strike wood
across iron bell. Snow dances over my boots.
We slurp soba for longevity.
At first, I fear visiting as if my feet would harm
your temple floors. Each week I bring flowers
and you serve a symphony!
Eggplant cooked tender in miso.
Nori-wrapped sea urchin, fried golden.
Saffron and wine-fusion soup
bobbing with squid, clam shells opening wings.
I always keep a betsubara (second stomach)
for your Grand Marnier strawberries.
Your bowls reflect seasons: painted sakura, crane.
Matsumura sensei, is firm, kind,
raises eyebrows at plastic dishes.
The other teachers are jealous of my bento she makes.
Shrimp tempura, tsukemono pickles.
You try to teach me tea ceremony, but
I have impatient knees!
Ichigo, ichie. One time, one meeting.
Ayano san and I enjoy hot spring silence.
We soak and talk, friendship rising
through steam, wind, snow.
After, there is the fireplace, and your silly dog,
Canoe chan! Holding a toy in his teeth,
skidding, skating,
across smooth temple floor.
Japanese:
Soba: Noodles, eaten unbroken for a long new year
Sakura: Cherry blossoms, sign of spring
Nablusi Market
I bite into fig’s sonnet, crunch warm roasted
peanuts, Jordan almonds. My mouth purpled with
musakhan sumac, fingers glistening
sauteed onions atop bread. Ala albak. Coffee-seller
calls, ashara! Ashara! Clicks two cups together,
announcing day. Mothers need no market list
to make a prayer, to choose which tomatoes smolder best,
pickles contrast falafel. I wander market lost and not,
stones slick-polished by feet and years.
Carts roll drumbeats over sun-soaked sidewalks.
Journey by sandal, shared taxi, bus. Ya’teekal’afia.
Grandmothers gather maramia, sage heaped on backs
like grey clouds. Painted tiles, shoes.
Hot soap, bucket-hoisted. Mint bouquets.
I jewel yoghurt in pomegranates, desert flower honey—bee’s
first oud song. Falafel. Tahini-drenched pink pickles.
Warm pita. Hummus sweetened with orange.
Cardamon coffee. In winter, we sip warm sahlab
flaked in coconut, cinnamon.
Kunafeh syrup gilds my teeth, that sweet cheese pastry,
dusted with pistachio crumbs.
Once, I left a store, nearly forgot to pay,
because you give me so many free gifts!
Cup of corn dashed with lemon & salt.
The wishing well of a fig. My hands drizzle-loose, star-bright,
shining with insha’Allah.
I was born from the luck of billions,
with a husk that can easily fly. And you,
who can’t easily travel, slept on the floor,
gave me your tea, bread, bed,
before asking
my name.
Palestinian Arabic:
Ala albak: Praised be to your health
Ya’teekal’afia: Announcing next taxi stop
Oud: Traditional lute
Shukran: Thank you
Insha’Allah: If Allah permits
Paula Kaufman lives in Elkins, West Virginia. She writes a Wednesday education-related column for the Charleston-Gazette Mail. She advocates for Appalachian teacher and student rights. Her poetry has appeared in fifteen publications. Her book “Asking the Stars Advice” was published in 2018. She looks forward to a successful garden harvest this year. Her poems here, regard two years teaching in Hokkaido, Japan. As well as teaching university English in Nablus, Occupied Palestinian Territories. As a Jew, she believes fighting for all human rights is integral.
