The wise, the godless, the simple-minded and the child

Well, here we are in April, which means National Poetry Month. Which means 30 days of poems right here.

We’re also in the second April of the second administration of the Kleptocrat, and I’m struggling—along with millions of others who have been hurt materially, psychologically and spiritually by this criminal and his toadies. I feel a little like ever yoga lesson, when my instructor asks me if I have a Plough pose in me for that day: we’ll see.

But today, Pesach begins at sundown. Pesach is the celebration of that time when the Angel of Death passed by Jewish households when it spread calamity across Egypt. It also marks the joyful but speedy exit of the Jews from their captivity; in too much of a hurry to let bread rise. Ergo matzoh.

Pesach is a time for huge family gatherings around the table, recounting the whole Exodus story, eating (but nothing leavened) and drinking, talking and singing. Essentially, giving thanks for release from slavery, for escape from plagues, for the grace of God. It’s kind of the Ur-Gratitude celebration, and it lasts for eight days (seven if you’re in some Reform congregations). The meal follows a script set down centuries ago for both the menu and the conversation.

The Angel of Death has frankly been working overtime in the Middle East this year, aided by the forces of the United States and Israel. (I don’t know how this works, but the Angel might better serve humanity by visiting a residence on Pennsylvania Avenue.) Klepto and his cronies are openly talking about war crimes, and inviting/threatening our former allies (80 years right down the tubes!) to join in, because he’s made a mess and needs other people to clean it up for him. As always.

But they’re basically backing away while the Gulf States "privately" urge him to be their catspaw. As long as they keep flinging him flattery and flashy trinkets, I guess we’ll do that.

Well, back to Pesach. I definitely get behind having a ritual meal with roots more than 2000 years old, where traditions flow seamlessly into the new generation along with matzoh ball soup, brisket and charoset. Elijah will find many empty chairs to choose from at Seder tables tonight. But that will not stop the remembrance and the gratitude.

So today my entry for National Poetry Month is a poem about this holiday by one of my all-time favorite writers, Primo Levi. The second line is highly appropriate.

“Passover”

Tell me: how is this night different, from all other nights?
How, tell me, is this Passover, different from other Passovers?
Light the lamp, open the door wide, so the pilgrim can come in,
Gentile or Jew; under the rags perhaps the prophet is concealed.
Let him enter and sit down with us; let him listen, drink, sing and celebrate Passover;
Let him consume the bread of affliction, the Paschal Lamb, sweet mortar and bitter herbs.
This is the night of differences, in which you lean your elbow on the table,
Since the forbidden becomes prescribed, evil is translated into good.
We will spend the night recounting, far-off events full of wonder,
And because of all the wine, the mountains will skip like rams.
Tonight they exchange questions: the wise, the godless, the simple-minded and the child.
And time reverses its course, today flowing back into yesterday,
Like a river enclosed at its mouth. Each of us has been a slave in Egypt,
Soaked straw and clay with sweat, and crossed the sea dry-footed.
You too, stranger. this year in fear and shame,
Next year in virtue and in justice.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu