poem-a-thon 13: next year in jerusalem

After writing a sestina for the Poetic Asides challenge first, this one was a friggin’ breath of fresh air for NaPoWriMo: the idea was merely to include some kennings in a poem. I did fudge them a bit, but I tried to play with the theme of shame and acceptance of self, in keeping with my Poem-a-thon theme. (The usual plug: please donate!) And then I went all Kay Ryan, which is what happens when I want some kind of structure but can’t think of what to do. So sue me.

(Kay Ryan, please don’t actually sue me, I heart you.)

Next Year in Jerusalem

Next year I will walk
out with the expectation
of being delivered.
Fear and predation and
the relatives’ talk
will thin like tea-breath
dripped in air. Next year
shame will be buried,
bobbing its death into
this city and its masculine
pearl-rivers. That same
boy who was sobbing
into his pillow at night
will have hurried to
an always holier land.
Its joyful embrace will be
plotted on my night-maps,
and a reason to be
desperate to get there.
Next year, my light will be
caught and sipped
from an ever gentler hand.

renovation twenty-eight: thanksgivingukkah

I know, I know, so late! But there was so much family stuff, and so much food, and I just could not get it together at a reasonable time. I’m taking care of things now before going back down to have board games time with my brothers. Hopefully everyone is enjoying their Thursday/holiday, whichever it may be. But for those who need some late evening activities, here is the prompt:

1. “…with the cities growing over us…” (W.S. Merwin, “Thanks”)
2. “And under the old roof we gather once more…” (Edgar Albert Guest, “Thanksgiving”)
3. “This is the afterlife of lying and waiting.” (me, “Valley of the Kings”)
4. a map of something cosmological
5. Describe what is unique about this moment, right now.
BONUS. Have your poem’s first and last line start with the same word.
ALTERNATE (1). “Insects nudge me in my dreams.” (Hoa Nguyen, “Swell”)

…and here is the poem that grew out of it for me, having heard “gobble tov” all day and seen the posts on social media and all. The “we” here is the universal we.

(thanksgivingukkah)

When two such holidays click into place at once,
I find myself thankful to have heard the calculation
that this fortunate spin won’t happen again
for however many millennia, and then knowing
our choices are all half chance and half foretold
by ancestors lying awake at night, thinking of us
eating turkey and trading gelt at candlelit tables,
this moment of generations knotted together
which we’ll tell our children about someday,
when they too must hide from a high, icicle moon.

Courtyard with Statue of Maimonides

I’m sitting at the cafe listening to Joanna Newsom’s Ys (which I’ve heartily recommended on here before, and do so happily again), drinking an iced honey-nut latte as I wait for the place to close and the expected severe thunderstorms roll in, with a fresh new poem draft hot out of the oven for consumption by any who are interested in that sort of thing (as well as interested in the prompt by Miz Quickly to do a “postcard poem”) on an evening — like any other evening — that needs a reminder of how we’ve come from righteous, charitable places in our history, and there is hope for us yet.

Sorry, I just wanted to write a 100-word sentence. Anyway, this might be a bit long for a postcard poem, but I write small anyway. I took this photo in Córdoba:

maimonides

That’s Maimonides, celebrated medieval Jewish philosopher and physician. I remember exploring the city and being surprised, but happy, to come across it. Andalucía is one of my favorite places in the world; it’s on the shortlist of “Places To Which I’d Happily Retire, Or At Least Live Awhile”, along with Barcelona, Paris, the Berkshires, Montreal, and Buenos Aires. (Maybe not such a shortlist.) And I love elements of the history, with a level of religious and intellectual enlightenment that, although spotty, was still probably more agreeable than anywhere else in the medieval era. Maimonides himself had some pretty cool ideas about the balance between science and faith, respect between mutual faiths, and compassion in law. I wish more people had those ideas.

There might be more going on in this poem under the surface. I’m not really sure.

Courtyard with Statue of Maimonides

who considers forever before he speaks,
(bronze lips pursed, bronze brow furrowed)
here where he sprouted
like the almond shoot shouldering up
between mud bricks, in that far-off century
where everyone thanks god
for the blessing of each other in the street
no matter the name, strolling along
the nearby Guadalquivir who,
if you face upstream, back to the wind,
seems just as content to flow backwards
as it is to go down to that equitable sea
where all things, anyway, end.

A Reunion

I’m really dissatisfied with this one. It’s for Donna’s prompt of taking a Biblical/mythological figure and recounting their tale focusing on a specific detail, and/or to use the poem to show contrasts, after a poem by Rachel Bunting. Ended up doing an Isaac/Ishmael thing, thinking about how terrifying the incident Isaac is perhaps most famous for must have been, from his point of view. (And moreover, what must he have thought of his brother? And how would Abraham have seemed to a modern-day social worker?) But… meh. I’m just not feeling it. Maybe it wasn’t the best thing to pick, maybe I just don’t have it grasped well enough here, or maybe I’m just exhausted from a long week of work. Better than nothing, though, I suppose…

A Reunion

Our father taught you how to shoot out back
while I was still crawling on the ground: he held you
around the shoulders, crowed victory with you when
when the deer jerked and fell. I remember
its neck crooked backwards, split down one side:
maybe the first thing I can pin down in time is this,
the image of you standing over it as its eyes went
white, your mouth set in a thin, mysterious line.

And later, among the scattered rocks and dry grass
I used to sit, wondering, where has my brother fled?
We didn’t talk about you, we just sat stone-faced
eating bread flecked with seeds, telling tales of
single sons around the fire. But it’s useless to try
erasing something from the mind of a child. I could
see you forever poised on that barren field
behind the house, taking aim, grim as a young lion.

Our father tucked his reasons under his tongue
in a hard, bitter knot. He had ideas in his head;
he’d rave about his great plans for me; he muttered
fearfully at night. Once, we set out for firewood, and
when we were alone, I begged him to find you.
But he just gripped his hatchet, weeping, coming
towards me with murder in his eyes. Then I feared
you were gone forever, somewhere under my feet.

But now you’ve arrived, too late for apologies,
a haggard ghost with the beginnings of grey. They say
he loved me best: but he never did hold a blade up
to your throat. That memory stands almost as tall as
your arms braced against the recoil, towering above
my admiring child’s eyes. My firstborn brother, come
bury him with me. We’ll plant seeds on his grave
and pray for some understanding to bloom in the spring.

Daughter of Levi

The prompt at Poetic Asides today is ekphrastic in nature, which is an exercise I don’t take on enough. I love painting-inspired poems (and pieces of music, too, but I’m no composer), even though they feel a bit derivative to write. Out of the four that were offered, I chose the one I hadn’t seen before, Frida Kahlo’s “Moses”:

That is some damn painting, yeah? There is so much going on in this that it’s hard to look at anything but its central figure (which I guess was the point). Images that span the gamut of world historical and religious figures; all kinds of symbolism (third eyes, milk/rain, the Masonic eye-pyramid thing) and dichotomies (male/female, old/new, mono/polytheism); and of course, Kahlo’s usual complement of just interesting images (cell division casually tossed in there) and quirky interpretations (rays of sunlight as hands, the copulating shells). And presenting an anatomically-correct Moses fetus at the center of it all. So with all that confluence of history and culture and religion, what was the first thing I thought to do?

De-contextualize it and change character focus. Womp womp!

Daughter of Levi
(after Frida Kahlo’s “Moses”)

Like an arachnid of fire, the sun dangles from the sky
reaching open palms to press against her belly: the baby
kicks. Standing on the bank, knee-deep, fingers
moving through the tickling bulrushes,
she feels it. Might as well have been her own leg,
flexing and unflexing. What is a child, she thinks,

but an organ that is swollen out of ourselves,
broken off, a mitotic soap bubble whistled into the world?
One with a name and a voice, though
she hasn’t picked one out yet. She feels the current
curl around her shins. History is a river and a sea
that we float upon for a while until someone

sweeps us up: we are all bobbing in the same
turbulence of gathered rain, each descendant a cataract
squeezing the narrative close, and then apart.
Braided stream, dendritic, infinite in length:
that is what she sees, looking into the middle distance,
heat haze like a jewel on her brow. She wonders,

does a child know its inheritance, its future,
pairs of Old World and New World faces marching by?
How many hands reach out to touch any given person
nestled in its womb? It could be so many: like a wall
of water on the left, the right. The baby kicks.
It echoes in her like the sea in a swooping shell.

A Mitzvah

The prompt for One Single Impression was “blowing the curve”, by Mojo, but I have to admit, I never use that expression and wasn’t even really sure what it meant. (My understanding is that it refers to a grade curve, and that one ruins it by scoring really high or low in relation to everyone else?) Instead, I decided to take it in a more literal (but no less obfuscated!) direction, in honor of Tu Bishvat. One of the most touching religious experiences of my life was a Tu Bishvat seder in college; I had not before, and have not since, eaten a persimmon, meaning that the two are inextricably entwined in my memory.

In other news: my chapbook submission has been shortlisted for the contest at Poetic Asides! This is a big honor… there’s only 21 people on the list out of 150+. The final results are on Tuesday, but you know what, if I don’t receive it, I have a clear sense now that the collection was good. So if it’s not taken on by Poetic Asides, I’ll be putting it together myself. :)

A Mitzvah

Not that I was a faithful child,
but it was always important to try:

and when they carried out the shofar
golden-white with age, whorled and grooved,
a twist of fate involving its center,
we squeezed each other’s coatsleeved hands

(and the sound of it is not heard,
it is felt)

recheat of the memory, loosening of
bolts in the soul, one piercing blast that says
so much at once: this is
the sound of sacrifice and this is divinity, harmonized

the right to hear it granted only now and then
for so much meaning can be summed up
in that astonished note: such notes
brought down Jericho

(such notes will wake your dead coatsleeved hand
return it to me)

so I will continue
to pause with respect for your synonym,
even if I’m pressing my ear to the outside wall
even if I don’t feel the magnificent vibration