Thanks to the generosity of publisher/editor-in-chief Donna Baier Stein,
the spring/summer 2020 issue of Tiferet Journal
is now available in a format that's free of charge and accessible to everyone!
I'm happy to share Tiferet with you
—its poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and art—
while we stay home and shelter in place (alone together)!
Just click on the link below, sit back, and enjoy.
I send all of you my sincerest best wishes.
Please stay safe and be well!
Samples from Tiferet (spring/summer 2020):
By Jessica deKoninck
There is a common language
I cannot master; though it was
my first. English came second.
I do not know the nouns of this
language or its syntax. I cannot
conjugate its verbs. But rivers speak it,
as do bones and bottles left
for recycling, the geese in the lake,
screen doors, peach trees,
ambulances, trolley cars and kettles.
It is there in the static of stars.
But I remain dumb.
If I could speak this tongue,
if I had its vocabulary, if I knew
its tune, I could tell you,
and you would understand.
Hands: A Love Poem
By Deborah La Veglia
I fell in love with you, when I saw your hands—
Hands that do things.
The veins that move through them,
Remind me of my grandfather’s hands:
The kind of hands that rub Vicks on your
Back when you’re sick.
The kind of hands that change flat tires for friends,
That paint houses and fix plumbing.
The veins are so beautiful.
I imagine they lead to your soul.
I wish I could trace them with my fingers,
Touch you lightly,
But you’re a stranger to me.
I don’t even know your name.
By Elaine Koplow
She sits on the bank
where small stones punctuate
the surface in front of her,
and the river ripples
gently at her feet.
Here the forest waits
while the river crosses,
tall trunks reflected
in its flow.
This is a place
where grief and love come
together. She comes here to watch.
She comes here because.
She comes in the morning
when dreams of before
dissolve with the light
and she wakes
to the thinness of things
She comes in the evening
after the din of distraction
and the business of living
have concealed all thought.
She comes here to listen.
This is a place
where knowledge fails—
and she comes here
to the river
for the answer.
You Left Me Your Legacy, Love
By Peter Cooley
By Peter Cooley
This drawer of multicolored socks, all scored
with painters, Chagall’s couple mid-air,
Van Gogh’s cypresses churning, Cezanne’s
sheened apples, so I can walk in wonder
every step. You left me my kind of belief,
art’s pretense of immortality, an eternity
daily reflection of your faith in heaven.
But why does Seurat’s pointillism afternoon
resist a mate unless it’s “Echo of A Scream”?
This woman like a mermaid staring back
while I slip Matisse on my left foot,
now my right, crossing my legs, she’ll be here
all day, when I sit down, presence of you.
Eternity of instants, that immortality.
By Cheryl Vargas
On the way to Michigan, billboards, road signs, all the water bottles, the lonely shoe.
Radio set at 106.7—vocals, karaoke style. No microphone necessary. I cruise along Route 80 at 58 miles per hour, dusty sunbeams reflect on my sunglasses (rims that Elton John would approve).
White crosses, so many crosses. Angels and angels and angels. Weather-beaten memorials: deflated balloons, faded stuffed animals, plastic flowers. Names inscribed, rainbow colors pay homage. Markers positioned where loved ones died.
Life ends without permission; moves forward the same way.
Photo After Icarus by Bob Fiorellino
All Copyright © 2020 by Tiferet Press. All rights reserved.