CALLING THE MOON

"I remember," the old muse said,
"The first time the moon was called
As witness to a poet's love;
The excitement! The daring!
Others had picked leaves
Or thrown stones (What says passion
Better than a well-aimed rock?)
But to insolently summon the moon--
I half thought the poet would die
Right then. She thought so too
And braced herself against a tree.

But the moon was pleased
And raised her voice when the sea
Was minded to drown you all."

TANGO

Listen; there is no violin

But the same clarinet is there

As in a klezmer song

Ecstatic, miserable, screaming;

But for history's accidents

The tango might have been ours

When other folk heard it

They would think of passion

As they do now, to be sure,

But also of rabbis. "The Lvoviner Rav,"

We'd read, "was a pious man and wise

And when he tangoed furious angels

Put aside for a moment their wrath."