A Recipe for Rotwelsch
On the road eternally
escaping to nowhere,
relying on zinken* for sustenance,
a sign to welcome the stranger,
the peddler, tinker, grinder,
those with no abode,
itinerant speakers who applied
the lesson of Babel to birth
a recipe for an almost language–
a sociolect.
Equal parts Yiddish, Hebrew,
repurposed German,
a concoction cooked up to speak
openly in code and safety,
a linguistic mixing enraging elites,
keeping outsiders in the dark,
binding community members
together in unique speech.
This is Rotwelsch, the incomprehensible
language of beggars,
language with no grammar,
no literature, nothing in writing,
designed to evade capture by scholars,
a language predicated on estrangement,
on moving meaning,
a punch in the face to German,
Martin Luther, and centuries of persecution.
Like an obsession, it draws me in
for reasons I cannot express.
*from the Latin signum for sign, pictograms carved into fence posts or chalked on houses (a cross inside a circle), signifying the occupants would feed you.
_____
Journey of Souls
Our boat mutely moves toward
ritual funereal pyres
along the shores of the Ganges
where cremations flame with brightness.
They celebrate in Varanasi
like nowhere else: chanting, drumbeats,
wails, prayers at the water’s edge.
White-robed priests under lit arches
sway in unison to mystical rhythms.
Shoreline alive with color and form.
Ambience hyper normal, slightly magical.
Low billows of gray smoke
puff out from newly extinguished burns
next to raging hot bonfires.
Corpses lined up for their final sendoff,
first by fire, then by water
as they slide into the Ganges.
Profiles of bereaved families
in shadows glow softly in their candlelight
as ceremonies fade into memories.
We hold a candlelit flower petal,
each of us setting one to sail.
Soon they are specks of light,
stars in a dark aspic of salinity.
_____
Pride without the Fall
My parents loved me with accents
as thick as slow-moving syrup;
their tongues were not designed
for English vowels, nor had they
the accompanying gestures.
I always worried they wouldn’t
be well understood and shielded
them with my protective apron
of translation covering up
their stained speech.
But the day came when I left
and pushed the fledglings out the nest,
to fly and land on their own.
They flew, although not in a straight line.
They zigged and zagged and landed
with a plop. Up they got up again and again
and again and kept lifting off.
What every child wants for her parents.
_____
Infusion
It came alive in hot water.
Tea would sit still, outwait him.
He didn’t like it strong,
never used a pot.
He placed the bag in a clear
glass, stirred with a metal
spoon ‘til the liquid tanned to the
desired color. The spoon stayed.
A single cube of sugar tucked in his cheek
sweetened the beverage
sipped through that side of his mouth.
Just like in the old country.
Over and over I watched him,
a man with a custom he learned
from his papa and older brother.
I shared his beverage when I was ill,
or weak, or needed healing.
I broke with custom when
I left home, went to college,
guzzled coffee with abandon, caffeine
my steady friend on eve of finals.
He comes to mind each time
I’m offered a choice of one or the other
and pick the one he would not drink.
A disloyal daughter? Or one who
was lured to robust aromas
by her husband, who now
has taken up tea.
Tasters waver, go back and forth,
but I remain devout just like
my father who was nothing
if not steeped in tradition.
_____
BIO
Evie Groch has been in education all her life. Now retired, her love of travel and writing lured her over to the creative side where she’s published in many genres.
Hm, yes, like these. Excellent words.