And now that Yom Kippur is past, here's a lovely poem for Sukkot, by Nan Cohen, from Rope Bridge.
Festival of Booths
Every house on earth a broken house.
Every city a ruined city
Poughed under by that slow disaster, time.
If ever redeemed to us, then by the same.
Your walls will fall, are falling, have fallen.
Your roof is open to the countless stars.
I count at least three successive echoes in those six lines: to Eliot, to H.D., and to a Japanese poem that Jane Hirschfield translated, whose title and author now escape me. It's as though those poets were the Ushpizin, the guests, she had invited to the poem; I suspect there may be more. Nice work, Nan!
(OK--enough fun. Back to work.)