The pinprick stars and haggard, starving moon
Helped little as I trod the brackened ground
Of long-forgotten footpaths, till I found
That lighthouse by the lifeless old lagoon.
’Twas there that the old kabbalist had spent
The last, most secret part of his career.
Men spoke of it in voices choked with fear,
But I flung wide the door, and in I went.
I soon unearthed a notebook bound in hide
Whose Hebrew would have made the Rambam blush,
Yet when I mouthed its words I felt a rush
Of some vague dread that made me dash outside.
I thought the moon and stars looked strangely blurred
As, deep beneath the water, something stirred.
Simon Maass is a freelance writer living in Germany. Thus far, he has mainly published essays, but he dabbles in poetry as well. Lately, most of his work has appeared in Merion West and on Substack.
I so enjoyed your poem, Simon–the yearning and mystery of it. Especially effective, I think, are all the “sh” sounds in your third quatrain. You don’t use the word “hush,” but that’s the effect of all these “sh” sounds, the perfect preparation for the final couplet, where that hush is felt as much spiritually as physically. Thank you so much!