Editor's Note: The Women's Writers Workshop in Tzfas that
is reported on here was not rabbinically endorsed or
supervised in any way. It brought together diverse religious
women from all walks of life.
Now don't ask me what in the world that title means. It
struck as I was landing back on earth and then gently
richocheting back into the clouds, bouyant as a multicolored
translucent plum-sized soap bubble.
Hey, that sounds nice, but I'm not quite sure. I'm still
riding high, fizzing, fingers itching, kvetching an imaginary
pen, coaxing it to produce.
I'm barely back from a two day happening-sensation-multimedia
yet very heimish experience of bonding with the other
fifty-four women of the Third Annual Writers' Conference in
Tsefat. My first. First in a long line, I hope...
Why am I so exuberant, so keyed up and rarin' to write,
itching to get this article into tangible, readable form? The
sponsors up in Tsefat look at us dreamy out-of-towners and
smile knowingly.
"It's the air; don't you know?" Of the four basic elements of
the created world, Tsefas represents air, Jerusalem -- fire,
Tiberias -- water and Chevron -- earth. We Jerusalem
firebrands had to gasp for air up there, but indeed, Tzefas
provided combustible fuel, oxygen for our fire.
Enough of philosophizing. Got the mood? The ambience. No, you
couldn't possibly. Because I haven't even touched on the mega-
mega (something-or-other, words fail me) experience of
writing, reading, hearing, seeing, feeling, Oh! feeling,
together with 54 organs of a Tsefat-air breathing entity I
call the Writers' Nonymous Workshop -- name it -- it ran the
gamut of human emotions.
I think it was one Tsefat participant -- was it Shira
Yehudis, a very apt name for the young woman (like out of a
Gainsborough painting) who uncorked a bottle of effervescent
writers' champaigne for us, lifting us to the clouds as she
led us through Psalm after Psalm to the stirring strings of
her instrumental accompaniment and her angelic voice. She
looked the part, too, winging her way through the Tehillim
chapters with her divinely inspired (it must have been,
what else?) musical accompaniment and lilting voice. Prayer
on wings...
Not only a presentation, a pale cold word to describe it, it
was a finger beckoning from some fifth dimension of past-
future time, or in down-to-earth workshop language, an
`exercise.' Here's how she introduced it:
"Let your mind roam as you listen and follow [we all had a
Tehillim in front of us on the tables in the Beirav
shul in the Old City of Tzefas] the timeless words. Put
yourself, as a writer, into them, and see how you can relate
in a new, different context."
After the thumping hearts and roaring applause quieted down,
we were asked for our new insights into the words. I was
struck by one particular verse, "Hashem in Heaven shall
laugh..." The gift of humor comes from Him, and how vital it
is in writing, in living, to put things in healthy
perspective.
!!!! put these 2 paragraphs in a small frame in text
And humor there was lots of, throughout. Take the written
dialogues produced in one exercise gently coaxed from us from
Sarah Shapiro, perhaps one of the guiding sylphs of modern-
day Jewish chareidi women writers' workshops. "Write a
conversation you had this morning."
Okay. "Hi, kids. How's it going?" "Ma, Moishe Chaim cried all
night. I got up to go to the bathroom at three a.m. and he
was screaming his head off. When are you coming home?" This
from our Chava Dumas who recently wrote for Yated of
her vacillations on weaning her youngest since for her, at
forty, it might be her last baby... That dialogue really held
us in stitches. (And I think she decided in the end to stay
another night... In Moishe Chaim's best interests, too.)
!!!!!! TO HERE
And a few verses down, "Ask of Me and I will give it..." As
writers, we know that whatever we produce -- or fail to
produce -- comes from Hashem. And if the mind is blocked and
the pen pad locked, it's because we haven't petitioned for
inspiration from our Master.
So much for the Tehillim.
And then there was the exercise on metaphors. I think we all
got carried away...
At this point, I'd like to invite our reader-potential
writers [I think everyone has it in her, with a bit of
practice] to join us in a unique exercise led by another
Writers' Workshop facilitator and author, Ruth Fogelman.
THE PANTOUN
Workshop delivered by Ruth Fogelman
Usually grouped with French forms, the Pantoun is the Western
version of the Malaysian form, pantun. This indefinite form
first appeared in Malayan literature during the fifteenth
century, but gained popularity much earlier, recited by
memory. Commonly light in tone and treatment, the pantoun
repeats lines.
Lines 2 and 4 of the first stanza become Lines 1 and 3 of the
next stanza, following this pattern through the poem, ending
always with Line 1. There are, however, interesting
variations... The Pantoun can be of any length. The last Line
always repeats Line 1.
EXAMPLE:
Erev Rav Desert Song
by Ruth Fogelman
"Have you brought us out to die in the desert?"
We bitterly ask Moses,
Raised voices, complaints.
Moses and Aaron hear us out, and at door of Tent they
pray.
We bitterly ask Moses,
"Was it not better for us to stay in Egypt?"
Moses and Aaron hear us out, and at door of Tent they
pray.
In answer to their prayer, flocks of quail, water from
rock.
We gorge on quail. We drink from rock.
We plod through hot sand: now meat, now water.
We die in plague that dwindles our camp.
Why can't we live on manna alone?
(A very powerful piece, especially in this particular art
form pattern. The rhythm and flow, especially when read
aloud, is very stirring and beautiful.)
I personally gave up before even trying, and wrote a ditty
instead. But we were all amazed at the magnificent formal
pantouns produced on the spot, within the half hour allotted
us.
First mine, non-pantoun:
I'd like to see a real Pantoun
Emerge from this workshop,
Pantoun? Fly to the moon!
Give me rhyme, any time!
Pantoun -- you're from Rangoon
Or Timbuctoo,
Same to me but admittedly,
Ruth, not to you.
So permit me to rhyme my way through.
Oh, I'll throw you an occasional repeat line
To keep you happy, make it snappy
Make it zing -- but not Zen
Or Malay -- I'll say it my way.
Oh gosh, I'm going zappy,
Or is it Jappy?
Or Far East or Far Out
Or Hawaiian -- My lei?
Ruth -- let me waylay the Malay.
I've got a case for my `pantoun'
And for your workshop,
Or rather, sweatshop,
`Pan,' dear Ruth, is `all and every'
With liberal poetic license for my toun.
My `toun' spelled my way,
Is my lay, my lay effort,
My `pan' or `pot' pourrei
My pen and what it produces.
My one-person consensus
Of a writer come to her senses
Is to bury Ruth's pantoun.
Or send it to the moon.
Bury it in its Oriental tomb
With a silent `b,'
Pantoun is a choice of
To `B' or not to `B.'
Down with Oriental meter
I'm an avowed literary cheater
Not looking at foreign forms to shop
Don't mind work, love to rhyme,
But not in Malaysian or Chinese chop-chop.
Ruth -- your teeth you may gnash,
But give me anytime an Ogden Nash,
Original or rehash,
And I'll have a bash.
I'll admit I haven't tried
To Pantoun
But this drummer plays on words
To a different `toun.'
(Not very professional, but fun. If you thought the last two
lines were brilliant -- so did I -- credit is due to the
stimulating atmosphere of Tzefat and the workshop.)
Here are two of the marvelous pantouns produced impromptu, of
the many others read aloud and applauded with awe.
by Yehudit Goldfarb
Generations move through time in chains of caring,
If parents let their hearts speak truth
When large blue eyes smile at me beneath long lashes
All the world melts into love.
If parents let their hearts speak the truth
Children would know that the Divine flow never ceases
All the world melts into love
At the touch of a tiny finger newly emerged from the moist
womb.
Children would know that the Divine flow never ceases
If they are permitted to express their natural wonderment
At the touch of a tiny finger newly emerged from the moist
womb
The silky skin of an aged face can glow with the same Divine
Presence as a newborn.
If children are permitted to express their natural
wonderment
Hashem's embrace would be evident even to the scoffer
The silky skin of an aged face can glow with the same Divine
presence as a newborn.
Both reflect the angelic beings surrounding and supporting
them.
Hashem's embrace would be evident even to the scoffer
If he or she paused to notice the textures of Life's
containers
All reflect the angelic beings surrounding and supporting
them
Generations move through time in chains of caring.
And a very moving pantoun by Devora Israeli
Choosing
Yes, I'm a Jew by choice,
But whose choice was it?
I don't know if I want this. Something is forcing me.
I don't surrender. I have my will.
So whose choice was it?
I agree with what the Holy Books say
But must I surrender to His will?
The commandments are difficult, foreign.
I agree with what the Holy Books say.
Is it enough to take the easy way?
Because the commandments are difficult, foreign?
I want the seal of approval -- me and my descendants forever
to stay.
Isn't it enough to take the easy way?
Your people will be my people.
I'll get that seal of approval by surrendering to His
will.
I take on Torah and mitzvos.
Your people will be my people.
Me and my descendants forever to stay.
I take on Torah and mitzvos.
Thank You, Hashem, for showing me the way.
Me and my descendants forever to stay.
I didn't know I wanted this. Hashem pushed me all the way.
Thank You, Hashem, for choosing me.
Yes, I am a Jew by choice.
[In conclusion, I'd like to note that close to a dozen of the
writers participating in the Workshop first saw their name in
print on the pages of YATED's HOME AND FAMILY section!
Until they did, they didn't know they had it in them!
I strongly urge you women out there to join or create a
Writers' Workshop in your own neighborhood and then --
Just try me...]
