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Mark Rudman - poet, essayist, translator, and teacher - has consistently pursued questions of human relationship and identity, and in Rider he takes the poetry of autobiography and confessional to a new plane. In a polyphonic narrative that combines verse with lyrical prose and often humorous dialogue, Rudman examines his own coming-of-age through the lens of his relationships with his grandfather, father, step-father, and son. These memories emerge against the background of a family history anchored in the traditions of Judaism and the culture of the diaspora.
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Wesleyan University Press Published by University Press of New England, Hanover, NH 03755 1994 by Mark Rudman All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 5 4 3 2 1 CIP data appear at the end of the book
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors of the magazines in which sections of this book first appeared: The American Poetry Review, 2,3; Crazy Horse, 10, 14, and "The Woman Who Rode"; The Denver Quarterly, Section 11; The Kenyon Review, "Robe"; Ploughshares, "Uniforms"; Poetry East, Section 6, ''My question has always been"; TriQuarterly, Section 1.
I would like to thank Julie Agoos, Christianne Balk, Susan Bergman, and Donald Revell for their criticism and encouragement.
Page v
For Rabbi Sidney Strome and Irving Howe
Page vii
Oh! Rabbi, rabbi, fend my soul for me And true savant of this dark nature be. Wallace Stevens
Page 1
1
Got a letter yesterday from a synagogue on the East Side asking for money to keep my father's name alive. I balked. And would explain (not justify). Wanted to walk into the synagogue across
the street for a few minutes just to get a taste. Needed tickets. Father always had tickets for high holy days too (never set foot in a temple on any other day). What
am I getting at? I lived with a Rabbi between the ages of six and fifteen, he was my mother's husband. We were very tight.
So you never had to buy a ticket because you were the Rabbi's stepson?
No. First, we never used that word "step." Secondand this is what I was getting atthere were no tickets.
Yes, it was assumed that temple members paid dues but anyone who could not afford these dues was still welcome, heartily, not half-heartedly welcome.
Hey, you lived in a lot of places, are you sure?
I'm sure. It's the kind of thing one remembers.
There are a lot of advantages to living in the boonies.
I look at it another way. The right to pray.
I don't think you're talking about tickets. You didn't really want to go. A friend offered you tickets and you hesitated...
And finally said no.
I had to think about "the little Rabbi" and I didn't want to do it in the presence of another Rabbi.
Page 2
I didn't call him the "little Rabbi" when I was a little boy. It wasn't that he was so short (59" on stilts) but that he was frail. My mother and I used to elbow each other when he went to lift the Torah out of the Ark: he must have had help from God.
A Mormon friend in Salt Lake City called him The Brain. First, (he broke down his arguments point by point, often, in later years, by pressing his right thumb against the fingertips on his left handa habit that drove me mad) because he was the smartest man he'd come across. (By "smartest" I think my friend meant he used words that hadn't migrated to those latitudesthat valley Brigham Youngstanding up in his stirrupscalled "the place.")
Second, because he had this enormous head, and forehead, and nose, which dwarfed his body, his stick-thin arms and legs. He was the most bodiless creature I've ever known.
That may have helped keep him alive for over five years after he had his stomach removed.
I think his body discovered heretofore unknown nutrients in bourbon.
I can't separate his charmwhat was enchanting about himfrom his size. And the hugeness of his forehead, the jut of his nose, his jug ears.
He never imposed God on me. I was expected to go to temple most of the time butI who could not stomach schoolliked it. He was on such intimate terms with God, had thought so deeply about scripture, made the stories so compelling.... And he looked so holy in his robes.
This immense head suspended over the pulpit.
(The anonymous Caxinua poem of the moon's creation: "You going to the sky, head?")
There's more. The small communities we lived in in those first years together were welcoming. It meant something more to be a Jew in small towns in Illinois (in Chicago Heights and Kankakee) where there were, at best, a few hundred out of... 20,000....
Page 3
Mourning for him has been difficult. Mourning for my real father took so much out of me.... (That phrase always makes me bristle.) And then the type of cancer he had, combined with his frailty, made me think of him, in those last few years, in an almost post-mortem way. Every meeting had that feel of "the last" meeting and it began to get to me.
Can you be more specific?
It began to get to me.
I wanted him to live or die, not hover between two worldsas if this hovering weren't our condition.
And he asked so many questions. He trafficked in confidences.
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