Deep in the grove, in full moon time,
we dance with abandon, date palms waving
with earth’s and our vibrations;
we sing for the awakening of spring,
wearing the invisible royal garment
of Malchut Shechinah, divine queen;
sweet smells rise from fires
of exaltation—
we dance with abandon, date palms waving
with earth’s and our vibrations;
we sing for the awakening of spring,
wearing the invisible royal garment
of Malchut Shechinah, divine queen;
sweet smells rise from fires
of exaltation—
Our offering:
cakes baked in the shape of her womb.
Poppy seeds populate the holy center,
gifts of gratitude to the goddess of fertility;
this, our devotional expression—
cakes for the Queen of Heaven.
cakes baked in the shape of her womb.
Poppy seeds populate the holy center,
gifts of gratitude to the goddess of fertility;
this, our devotional expression—
cakes for the Queen of Heaven.
On Purim we sing of Vashti, feisty queen
who refused to profane the divine name;
banished at the king’s bidding
as a warning to all wives and women
and Esther, a Jew, whose identity is kept
hidden; this new queen’s chosen name
echoes those of the ancients
Ishtar and Asherah,
cut down, driven underground
by those who fear the unknown,
mysterious powers, and
we remember to blot out the name
of he who seeks to oppress and destroy—
fear and wickedness strapped to his thigh
to deny our autonomy—
who refused to profane the divine name;
banished at the king’s bidding
as a warning to all wives and women
and Esther, a Jew, whose identity is kept
hidden; this new queen’s chosen name
echoes those of the ancients
Ishtar and Asherah,
cut down, driven underground
by those who fear the unknown,
mysterious powers, and
we remember to blot out the name
of he who seeks to oppress and destroy—
fear and wickedness strapped to his thigh
to deny our autonomy—
Still our wisdom rises
like the ovens’ pleasing aroma—
like the ovens’ pleasing aroma—
In the middle ages we remember
the ancient ways, call these
the ancient ways, call these
poppy-pocket-pastries
mohntasche in Yiddish—
savoring the taste of the word,
and the origin of their name—
MOHN-tasch-eh,
mohn poppy, tasche pocket
triangular cakes that do not resemble a hat
but rather a woman’s anatomy,
poppy filling to recall not a villain but
the womb, where all humans are formed,
mohntasche in Yiddish—
savoring the taste of the word,
and the origin of their name—
MOHN-tasch-eh,
mohn poppy, tasche pocket
triangular cakes that do not resemble a hat
but rather a woman’s anatomy,
poppy filling to recall not a villain but
the womb, where all humans are formed,
now, as then,
from which we are born and reborn.
from which we are born and reborn.
[inspired by Schnur, Susan. “The Once and Future Womantasch,” and “The Womantasch Triangle.”
Lilith Magazine, vol. 23 no. 1, Spring, 1998.]
Lilith Magazine, vol. 23 no. 1, Spring, 1998.]
