On the fifteenth of May, in the jungle of Nool,
In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool,
He was splashing…enjoying the jungle’s great joys…
When Horton the elephant heard a small noise.
Dr. Seuss wrote “Horton Hears a Who” in 1954, the year of my birth. As my parents read to us, I first encountered Horton very early in my life. While I may not have grasped literary criticism as an infant, I’m certain that the sounds of the words, the cadence, and the beautiful rhythmic flow of each phrase delighted me. Even now, seventy years later, rereading these lines is thrilling.
The rhyming, meter, and evocative images wrap around me like a warm blanket. Seuss’s memorable illustrations, so funny and strange, certainly added to the charm. But even without the artwork, the text endures.
Words have a unique way of capturing our imagination, and poetry can have a particularly strong pull on our heartstrings. Yes, it can sometimes be cheesy and overly sentimental, like a treacly greeting card. But when a poem works, it can open a door we didn’t even know was locked.
Personally, I’m not a fan of rhyming poetry. It too often devolves into a search for matching sounds at the expense of deeper meanings. Unless it’s for a children’s book or a parodied birthday song, it just doesn’t move me.
I know this might infuriate English majors, but I want to clarify that this is all just a matter of taste. I’m not suggesting that Keats, Whitman, or Dickens aren’t brilliant. They simply don’t resonate with me in the same way.
For me, the poetry of meaning lies in plainspoken text, artfully expressed. Some modern poetry – prime examples being The New Yorker’s weekly poems – is shrouded in such arcane images and twisted sentiments that I find myself reading it over and over, unable to grasp its meaning. In contrast, poems by Billy Collins, Robert Pinsky, Mary Oliver, or Ellen Bass speak the language of the heart. They’re filled with pathos and pain, joy, amazement, and hope. There are no rhymes, just true emotion woven with intellectual curiosity.
This appreciation for clear, emotive language is why I especially value the prayers we recite on the High Holy Days. There’s nothing flowery or obscure about them. The words don’t obfuscate our situation: we are mortal, imperfect creatures who need love, support, and kindness.
Avinu Malkeinu is the perfect example of this directness. While it’s not a poem per se, I read it as such. The melody is instantly evocative, even for the most wayward Jew. But even without the music, the words go straight to our broken, yearning hearts:
Avinu Malkeinu,
inscribe us in the Book of Pardon and Forgiveness.
remember us for a good life.
remember us for redemption and deliverance.
remember us for maintenance and sustenance.
remember us for merit.
cause deliverance to spring forth for us soon.
fill our hands with Your blessings.
fill our storehouses with abundance.
hear our voice, spare us and have compassion upon us.
accept our prayer with compassion and favor.
open the gates of heaven to our prayer.
please do not turn us away empty-handed from You.
let this hour be an hour of compassion and a time of favor before You.
have compassion upon us, and upon our children and infants.
The clarity is unambiguous. There’s only so much we can control. The rest, God, is up to you. We try to live a decent life, but the world is filled with flying shrapnel, ill will, and things we can never anticipate. I don’t believe we earn God’s blessings – it doesn’t work that way. There’s no Willy Wonka golden ticket hiding somewhere for us to find. All we can do is live what we define as a good life and hope for God’s grace.
And so we gather to recite these meaningful prayers – poems, really – in one voice, sharing an intimate plea with a sanctuary full of our people, our community. In doing so, we connect with something greater than ourselves, finding comfort and hope in the power of words, whether they come from a favorite children’s author or an ancient prayer.
rebhayim
Before Shabbat 