Our Genesis Theme - Page 1
48 poets contributed to this project. Read their varied interpretations and expressions on the theme of Genesis below:
On this page: poems by Carol Dejarlais, Tom Berman. David Trame, Johnmichael Simon, Michal Mahgerefteh, Sonja Smolec, Niki Nymark, Thilde Fox, Lian Frost, Peggy Landsman, Leslie Richardson, Eva Eliav, Roni Kadish, Stanley H. Barkan, Leland James, Ruth Sabath Rosenthal.
Go to Genesis Page 2
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The following works are copyright © 2008. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the authors.
Carol Dejarlais
Carol Desjarlais is a retired teacher who retrieved troubled youth for twenty-three years. She is a counselor, a woman of Native American heritage, a soul seeker, the mother of seven and a sister of the earth. She writes to express how the world has affected, and affects, her. She has always been a writer. Her soul has had this need of expression. The road of life is fraught with incidents of awe, aw, and ah; that she might share her reactions and reflections to these moments with others is an honor she holds sacred. Carol is the author of Shhhhhh A Creation Story and has a website at www.shewolfnative2.com
Creationism
eyelash of furthest shore blinks darkly
at sound of loons singing Lunar song
language alone can not translate
but I am drawn to try
to speak of blue sound
weaving through gasping underbrush
trying to transmute such longing
in heat of hovering humidity
that presses wet lick on Mother Earth
smudging hands in medicine,
to free them from their earthy toil,
and loosen heart, and quicken mind
so might this moment fuse, like satin
shush of waves stirred by mirrored heaven,
speak to my soul in warm dark words,
pining phrases and simple ancient stanzas
so I might Image-make
my heart steps from this earthbound shore
to slip into summer-stung waters
and I become a new creation as it becomes me
God’s Gourd
Moldy voices, ancient as first planting on Mother Earth
are scraped off, so black spores escape on slight breeze
that whispers gratitude to me for making more of this
woody vessel I am working on like a Mother
touching cheek of sacred.
Flowers, butterflies, and fishes rise from cracked bowels
of hunkered-down hole, like hope for those who await a success~
or not as faith slipped to lip, a bead of belief for those below ~and me.
I polish and paint visions to remind me ~there is more~
as I shed my dark shadows to become spirit-sepia in hands
of that Great Hand. I am God’s Gourd on lap of Mother Earth.
Tom Berman
Tom Berman has been a member of Kibbutz Amiad in the Upper Galilee, Israel for over 50 years. Born in Czechoslovakia, he grew up in Glasgow, Scotland. He is a scientist whose poetry has been published here and there, now and again. He was Editor in Chief of the annual Voices Israel anthology from 2003 to 2006
and is the author of a book of his poems (Shards, a Handful of Verse). Among other achievements, he has one wife, three daughters, seven granddaughters, a grandson and one dog.
Dark matter, dark energy
How many ways
to count the stars
in their galaxies
flung across
eighteen billion light-years
since it all began?
Just when
were the Laws of Physics
first posted?
who read them then
to stir the brew primordial?
O grant us
a sable understanding
the missing nine tenths
of what we were given
when all was energy
before the comets spun off
their silken trails
and suns swept up their planets
and the green grass grew not
anywhere
in a billion galaxies
Scientists have posited recently that dark energy
makes up about 75% of the Universe,
dark matter about 21%, and visible matter only about 4%.
Godstruth
Weaver of myths primeval
Fooling the generations
“mist from the earth”
“woman from man’s rib created”
Godstruth,
Who are you kidding now?
Little Man,
alone in a velvet night universe
of Edens unnumbered
What now of other worlds
Of other myths
Of other
Gods?
David Trame
Davide Trame is an Italian teacher of English, born and living in Venice-Italy, writing poems exclusively in English since 1993. They have been published in around four hundred literary magazines since 1999, in U.K, U.S. and other countries. His poetry collection as a downloadable on-line book was published by www.gattopublishing.com in 2006.
Train Station
Early in the morning its soul is revealed;
with ads now on TV screens
stuck on the old pillars from which
you suddenly hear women speak
and see them in a glamorous lounge
fingering glasses with a well known nonchalance
while a music blares and pours onto the platform
into the whispering of the blue dawn—
and the worn concrete roof
with its heavy leak after the night rain
and the train personnel gathering heaps
of dirty sheets while pigeons hop
on the gravel in between the railway lines
shiny in their copper hue;
now the train leaves, slowly,
and sunrise invades your seat
and all sounds –from
the receding screens and increasing
roar underfoot –surrender
to silence,
to the breath of the beginning of light
and what has just passed on the platform:
a shuffling, staring prologue,
the stirring that has bound you
like the bounty of birth.
On the Seafront Walk, April
The sun is out at last,
the pavement’s brightness fills the eyes
and at once the light is a return,
the shore reached after the journey,
once more.
The embrace. Full circle.
And there’s always the feeling
of a lot left behind, having been able
to escape alive. Even if
it was no more than a bout of flu,
a lot of rain and the season’s bustle,
politics, talks, the usual siege.
Nothing exceptional, but all the same
each step in this warmth now
talks of survival.
And a fist of fullness, re-acquired.
With thoughts just quiet, dimmed
by the light’s new, vast rim.
By these square stones in pastel grey,
massive like a pregnant sky,
like Cezanne’s, another stare
in which you are born while drowning.
Saltiness
At the water’s edge, in the cold wind
a lash of overwhelming light-heartedness
with a sparkle of nostalgia,
the child’s eyes laughing and rushing away,
your own eyes once upon a time
that flash taking off now
and with a happy fury remind you
that the present is fast and pure
and breathing means to be allured.
Leaving
1
Summer dawn, a slow, neat light,
a blackbird in the garden, quietly hopping on.
Then, your neighbour opening the shutters,
the hinges’ whine, the clap of wood on stone;
the intermittent clanking on the sink, water running,
white foam on his face.
Things in the blue air, each falling into place.
You were leaving
and heaven caught you unawares,
the ocean of your ordinary moments
was breathing at your departure,
brand-new.
2
Crisp bloom of early morning
after the storm,
just outside the door
the air has the gaze of a quietened
blue marvel,
the line of the horizon is indented and frank,
the sun aslant on the sea wall,
orange like the cupped cloisters
of the oleander flowers,
leaves pointing up like gentle swords,
you have an errand, nothing unusual
but the acacias’ breath invades you,
a swarm in a swinging orange vault
and the wish of starting the journey is here:
although you wouldn’t really like leaving for good,
just leaving would be more than enough,
the way to be able to rest
with all these far shores stuck on your side,
their alluring without telling why,
their scent of unrestrained buds.
Johnmichael Simon
Johnmichael Simon has lived in Israel since 1963. He has published three solo books of poems and two collaborations with partner Helen Bar-Lev. His poetry has been awarded numerous prizes and honorable mentions and is published widely in print and website collections. He is the chief editor Cyclamens and Swords Publishing.
Marbles
Here we are
at the edge of the universe
playing marbles with the boss
We polish ours between thumb and forefinger
(it's a misty green and blue cat's eye
flecked with white, a real beauty)
and away it rolls across the sand
It gets scratched a bit on the way
loses some of its shine
Now it’s the boss's turn, he lets loose a comet,
it sneaks between the orbit of a meteorite cloud
and a large cold planet, smashing aside tons
of hurtling rocks on the way
pow, no rocks, all gone to dust
We spit on our planet, rub it to bring back its shine
but our saliva is acid and only further discolors it
so we roll it back to the line in the sand,
take careful aim
In the meantime the boss is making points,
he shoots at a couple of pulsars, pow, they explode,
zaps a planet past a huge black hole
it veers, wobbles, finally slips into the hole, disappears
Our planet's not looking so good, we find a bottle
of planet cleaner, add a few chemicals of our own,
swish it around in a glass dish, remove it,
dry it off with a couple of tons of carbon monoxide.
That should make it beautiful again, but it doesn't,
some of the white haze seems to be disintegrating,
it looks a bit pitted
The boss is having fun with a couple of nebulae,
he spins some supergravity at them and they
change direction, dance like fireflies
Our planet seems somehow to have lost its roundness
we light a couple of huge atomic fires, pass it through
them carefully, just to soften it enough so we can
roll it around, restore it's perfect shape, but it doesn't
work, some of the blue has invaded the outlines of the green
and a few large brown discolorations appear
that we hadn't noticed before
Too late we realize that we've got to make our play now,
but our planet's in real bad shape, it's lost its smoothness
altogether, we flick it as best as we can saying a little prayer
under our breath and off it goes, hopping and weaving across
the sand like a dog with only two legs. Soon it disappears
into a cloud of cosmic debris and gets lost in a storm
of misshapen moons, we can't find it in all that whirling stuff
We look at the boss sort of coy, like the novices we are,
hoping he'll give us another cat's eye to play with,
let us have another chance
But he's busy with his own end game. Pow, another nebula, pow,
a whole bunch of them, he's picking them up now, putting them in his
bag which is swelling by the minute. He's like a snooker master,
pocketing the balls expertly, one by one, the red ball, the brown
ball, the pink ball. All gone
Then he sets them all up again in a triangle, lines them up,
lets off a thunderous opening shot, smash, a big bang and they all
fly apart, some of them already going into pockets
What about us, we ask. Can we have another chance, try again?
Sorry kids, he says, go back to school, study a bit, get smarter,
learn how to take care of your marbles. Come back when you grow up
Then he lets loose with some really dazzling impossible shots,
bouncing them off wall after wall effortlessly, finally pocketing
the whole lot
See you kids, he says, have a good day in school, then he smiles
that special knowing smile of his, winks at us
You can't beat the boss, he's the best
Ayeka*
And the man said: ‘This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman because she was taken out of man.
Genesis Chapter 2, Verse 24
From the depths of his body he spoke
and from the deep waters of his soul
and words formed upon the waters
‘where are you?’
And he answered, ‘I am here’
and he looked down into the waters
and saw a face floating in the deep
and the voice grew stronger and said
‘where are you?’
And the face rose up towards him
through the water
and he beheld lips and cheeks and eyes
and he said to the face, ‘Is this my own
reflection that I behold?’
And the reflection answered, ‘Yes I was of you
but now I wish to be another, with you but apart
and then he felt a great pain in his loins
so great that he lay down on the sand in a stupor
And when he awoke the pain had gone
and in the water when he looked the face was gone
and he gazed and asked ‘Where are you?’
and she answered I am here
and beside him on the sand he beheld a woman
*Ayeka – “where are you?” – biblical Hebrew
Behind the Pen
Faceless behind the pen
he writes, history undisclosed
childhood hidden, blanketed
dreams, pain, loves, losses
the mirror shows naught save
a dark cloak of mind
A curtain chinks
a gleaming blade performs
a deft slit, an image
an idea emerges
oozes paint-like from a squeezed tube
on to the palette to be mixed
applied delicately
in careful calligraphy
A tree waving its arms in fragile detail
fruit, bell-shaped waiting to be plucked
a pair of lovers naked
entwined in each other
lie under the tree fresh, unspoiled
where an oily snake patterned
slides from the trunk between
their embraces
and hisses sibilant
as a gleaming knife
slitting into innocence
From somewhere, his eyes are visible
alien, reptilian behind the brush
for a fraction of a second
- and then the page turns
and that after contains
the history of the world
But the face of love
the eyes of the snake
remain expressionless
behind the pen
Michal Mahgerefteh
Michal Mahgerefteh was born in Israel and has lived in Virginia since 1986.
Her work has been published in many literary magazines including Mima'amakim,
Potpourri, Women in Judaism Contemporary Writing, The Poetry Society of Virginia
80th Anniversary Anthology, and The Jew Blue Yorker. Michal's debut collection,
In My Bustan, is scheduled for publication by The San Francisco Bay Press, late
2008. Michal is also an accomplished artist with works exhibited in New York,
Virginia and New Orleans. Micha's collage series, Dreams: The Collage Impulse,
is currently a solo show exhibited at The Phillips Arts Gallery in Virginia Beach,
Virginia, through october 2008. Michal can be reached at www.michalmahgerefteh.com
To Be Born
Free to creation itself,
I remember the day
I left the place where
love, beauty and virtue
dwell simultaneously.
And the pen’s incision
could never forget it!
The whole Garden
shakes as I am clothed
in flesh; a fabric made
of soreness and traces
of ancient scriptures.
And the pen’s incision
could never forget it!
Deep-felt memories
disrobe during the night,
seeking yeeud*, while
my fledgling efforts slip
into intense loneliness.
And the pen’s incision
could never forget it!
Dreams, the cry of
angels, impel and
inspire, rousing the
words and verses
since Sefer B’reshit**.
And the pen’s incision
could never forget it!
Wrapped in droplets
of candle-wax, my soul
roams Eden’s pomegranate
and fig orchards ‘til the
ripened fruit is found.
And the pen’s incision
could never forget it!
*yeeud – destiny (Hebrew)
**Sefer B’reshit - Book of Genesis
Sonja Smolec
Born in 1953, Sonja Smolec is a well known author of children books, giving numerous presentations and readings around her native country – Croatia. She is widely acclaimed and appreciated by local schools and libraries for her public appearances and contacts with children. Sonja is also a member of several local organizations supporting art in all its forms as well as a member of the Croatian Society of Writers for Children and Youth. Being a prolific author and trying to reach a wider audience, she tries her hand in a variety of styles - poetry, mystery novels, and English poetry.
Bereshit
and the land was without form and the land was barren and thirsty...
When the first seed found its nest
it was an apple...
and when the first ripe fruit
split from the tree
it broke into two equal parts.
Who are you?
The first qestion
from the first man
to the new creation in the land.
She smiled, blushing, taking a leaf
to cover her beauty.
I am woman.
You are?... What?
No, I am woman.
What are you doing in my apple?
I was just born. And what are you doing in my apple?
He started to lick his lips
fresh apple juice dripping into them
his thirst stronger and stronger.
I am dizzy, he said.
Are you going to die?
Yes...
And she dug a deep hole in the ground
and planted her tears one by one
and the hard stone broke under the salt
and spring's waters poured out
to quench their thirst
spraying the skies, flooding the earth, raging like a tide,
and new love was born.
Octopus
Long ago,
way away in the past
before grass and flowers and butterflies,
before dinosaurs,
when the creator started to unite all those leaking water puddles
into the ocean of life
and after all his hard days of work on the creation
something was still missing...
love.
He took part of his heart,
found the best, clearest water
and laid it there,
kissing it once
then, unable to resist, kissing it a second time,
each warm kiss encroaching the dark, red piece,
and new life growing inside
expanding,
a pulsating new heart
surrounded with popping bubbles of oxygen,
finally exploding in two parts
forever connected with the breath of love.
They weren't born the same day.
Twins?
Floating together, reaching to each other with new tentacles
(it wasn't enough... not enough of them.. just four, just four...)
touching slowly one by one,
nibbling them between sharp teeth,
kissing one by one,
crawling inside each other's skin,
searching and sipping their jelly entrails,
swimming, moving in circles,
coming closer and closer as if still just one,
always young.
Their shivers heated the water,
and the water started to boil away,
and first clouds washed over the barren land,
and first rainbows connected skies to earth
over cascading waterfalls,
and butterflies started stealing rainbows' colors
soaking them into pale wings
and sipping first poppy's sweet nectar,
And new he spread his tentacles reaching Nova for new her
creating a new Universe just for them.
Niki Nymark
Niki Nymark is a native St. Louisan who never left home. She has been awarded a number of local, regional and national prizes for poetry and has been published in several anthologies including Across the Long Bridge, New Harvest: Jewish Writing in St. Louis, 1998-2005 and OASIS 2008. She is the author of two chapbooks; Kavannot in 2006 and A Stranger Here Myself , Cherry Pie Press, 2008.
Chava
Do you see her?
She moves,
cautious as a doe,
a breath,
a wisp of life.
She is
color of Earth,
as is Adom.
He is a clay man,
but she is different,
porcelain
Cha (breathe in) va (breathe out.)
She is inspiration,
carries in her
lithe body
possibilities.
Adom stomps
on his clay feet,
Chava breathes into
his mouth, laughs
into his mouth,
teasing him until
he forgets himself,
the serious
business
of clayness.
There will be time
later for work, she says,
Now I will teach you
tenderness.
Let me breathe softly
my lips on yours.
Thilde Fox
Thilde Fox was born in Vienna in 1930, came to England in 1938 on the Kindertransport, then to Israel in 1953. Most of her years she lived in Haifa, but is now in Tel Aviv. She began writing poetry when she joined Voices Israel, Haifa group, about 15 years ago, has won some prizes in the Annual Reuben Rose
Competitions and has had poems published in various venues. Besides her six grandchildren, Poetry and Trollope are her main interests.
1 Genesis
Adam and Eve woke early
fed the animals
picked the fruit
bathed in the streams
played on the grass
and lay down to rest.
The angels slumbered.
So God sent the snake.
The snake begat Cain
Cain begat Amalek
Amalek begat Alexander
Alexander begat the Huns
who begat the Goths
who begat Napoleon
who begat the Huns.
The angels shivered and fluttered
And God is not bored.
2 Eve Spoke
My God what have I done
Sweet bite
I've made a world.
3 Out of Eden
The angels waved them on
in tears they stood outside
till Adam said,
we are still here
God changed his mind,
or lied
Lian Frost
Lian Frost is a graduate of Mills College in Oakland CA, and has published two collections of poetry; “Celestial Voices” in 2001, and “City Myths” in 2007. Her poetry won the US prize in the 2008 Writers International Poetry competition and has been featured in UK magazines and anthologies. She currently is a staff writer for Gods and Empires Monthly, is working on a screenplay based on ancient Greek mythology, and is a member of the distinguished group of Red Room Authors. www.redroom.com. The theme in her writing is to reveal the magic in the everyday.
Lead
A mammoth rolls over
crushing the lean curve
of the horizon,
flattened of any soaring shape
there’s no lilt
to the ridge.
As if Icarus had instead
turned his gaze
from the beaconing figure
of a blue svelte sky,
towards the ground’s
impacted bowels
of churning granite and rock.
Choosing to forgo
a light crisp of air,
he sags under the rocky repast
pounds and pounds
of earthen cake
and caramelized soil.
In the end perhaps
a necessary ballast to some
who might be inclined
to simply drift off
as light-particle moths
into the melting furnace
of the sun.
Fire
Burning in the overgrown
resin-rich woods,
dry and hollow branches
eaten by a small cinder
that jumped the canyon
between our separate flesh.
Air suddenly dancing
in fiery waves,
of orange, red, and blue sprites
who laugh as they consume
the brittle kindling
of my wilderness.
One careless spark
was all it took
to ignite the stick forests,
ages of dry pine
and sharp needles of hurt,
as blazing fingers peal
through thick layers of bark
to expose tiny cones
hidden underneath
ripe with evergreen seeds.
Air
On pure blue atmosphere
pollens buck and play,
riding on a warm gulf stream.
Even mist spun clouds
seem dense
compared to the ocean’s breath
on which they ride.
Invisible bubbles constantly rising
would lift us like paper sails
on wild gypsy currents
into a feral stratosphere.
Would that we had wings
and light hollow bones,
to catch an updraft
to moon-washed peaks.
Our walking ways
seem so pedestrian,
when an indigo sky
has no such measure,
and we could simply drift
into the expanding gold
of an oncoming sun.
Snow
In a crystalline world
of popsicle castles
and ice cream moats,
frozen amethyst gardens thrive
in frigid purple blooms,
and blue-skinned
wool wrapped elves
dance lightly over the white
spun water crusts.
A frost sequined queen
with her icebox touch
reigns over an ice-tiered
enchanted land.
One wave
of her icicle wand,
stills all streams of
splashing blue
cascading motion,
so even the timid brown hare
performs a breathless
winter magic,
a small furry miracle
on sacred mountains of white,
by walking on
water.
Peggy Landsman
Peggy Landsman's poetry and prose has been published in both online and print literary journals and anthologies, including Spindle, Poetica, The Muse Strikes Back (Story Line Press), The Largeness the Small Is Capable Of (Score Press), Jewish Affairs, and Bridges (Indiana University Press). Her first poetry chapbook, To-wit To-woo, is available from FootHills Publishing. Passion's Professor by Samantha Rhodes (Peggy Landsman), a contemporary romance novel, has just been published by Midnight Showcase. Peggy has a website at http://home.att.net/~palandsman.
Girl-Child in the Promised Land
At that moment when I was conceived
Although there was as yet no I
At that moment, I felt a sting.
At that moment when those two halves
Were irrevocably uniting
Although there was as yet no I
At that moment, I felt a sting.
The egg, the sperm—neither one
Felt itself the least in need
But the egg, so easily swelled,
Allowed that slim spelunker in.
I imagine the egg from which I came:
Content. Cocksure as ancient China
Famed for never conquering
But masterfully absorbing
Every useful foreign influence
Would-be invader, luckless intruder
That by plan or pure mischance
Somehow wandered in.
I imagine the sperm from which I came:
Misguided. Supremely arrogant.
One more intrepid explorer
Convinced he's fulfilling his destiny.
He will succeed where all others have failed.
He will find the mythical city
Place of long-lost, priceless treasure.
He will claim his rightful plunder.
It is nothing personal,
I'm just the X on his map.
Apple of My Eye
sometimes
it is hard to be moved—
I'm not talking physics
a body at rest blah blah blah
no—
laughing Newton wasn't the first
won't be the last
to make the most of
an apple
that round symbol
red reason for moving—
revealing new worlds
as
it
falls
Let There Be Light!
In the beginning
there was zilch
except for the closet
God was lost In.
Winter coats and summer kimonos
helter-skelter all together
hip-high waders and desert boots...
What a mess.
Flailing around, on the verge
of a terrifically self-destructive tantrum,
God was an inch from smothering
under the heaviest furs
or being crowned by a hatbox.
Suddenly God stopped
stood still, took stock.
"The world should begin with a bang—
a Big Bang!"
God clapped his pudgy hands together.
"But first, I'd better
hide my name."
Leslie Richardson
Leslie Richardson lives in Dallas, Texas where she tries to write poems on the sly at work. She has been published poetry in magazines such as The Paris Review, The Pacific Review, and The Cimarron Review.
Lullaby Against Day
Evening : Begin not worrying
about sirens and what
will be required of you.
Evening, turning.
The followed and to come.
Now, here you've come.
Night, blanked of deep overhead.
Furrow in. Wait.
The day, a crass apple
now dropped hard from the tree.
Your cheek, down.
A gift.
No squeaking tonight.
No. Eyes closed.
Breathe deep, apples and squirrels.
Lampposts gone out.
Roll over. Go.
Eva Eliav
Eva Eliav grew up in Toronto, Canada and received a degree in English Language and Literature from the University of Toronto. Since 1970 she has been living in Israel. Her work has been published in a number of literary magazines both in Israel and abroad, including Room of One’s Own (Canada), Parchment (Canada), The Voices Anthology (Israel), ARC (Israel), Natural Bridge (U.S.), Quality Women's Fiction (U.S.), and the online literary journal, The Apple Valley Review. Her poems are due to appear in Stand (U.K.). She is presently working on new collections of poetry and prose. Eva is married and has a daughter.
under a pile of earth
they lay
ignorant and fragile
as baby spiders
crushed by a rock
or a foot
eve wailed
but adam waited calmly
in the darkness
as if an avalanche of god
had not fallen upon them
is he waiting for magic
and mercy
smirked the snake
eve heard
her eyes cracked open
large and dark
she found her hands
her fingers
adam’s face
******
such a large price
for such a little slip
a conflict of
loyalties
who knew
that it was such a fateful flavour
the taste of personality
of freedom
that thereafter
whatever green path
she chose to follow
loneliness crouched
at its end
black and featureless
circled with a rim of blinding light
*******
the memory stung
whenever she touched it
she a failed oyster
pressing the spot daily
reminding herself
the sharpness was still there
clenched in her flesh
a green glass, broken eden
the hidden wound
bled like a tiny fountain
she envied adam
who wore his glittering scabs
like a chest full of medals
the snake drowsed on her lap
golden eyed and patient
a fanged buddha
*******
eve feared that her life
was drying up
faster than
the dead sea
flaking away
crimson copper chances
god’s eye didn’t watch her
anymore
an empty socket
bled into the hills
she almost pitied the old man
his long, artist’s fingers
strewn in the wadi
often the snake would sun there
draped on those broken columns
heat drugged, limp
and green
still, in the evenings
adam walks with her
his silence cool and wet
as an oasis
Roni Kadish
Roni Kadish was born in Boston, Mass. Graduated from Boston University, married an Israeli, and has been living in Israel with her 6 children, 25 grand children and 9 great grandchildren since 1960. She was class poet in high school, continued writing but only after her son Rami was killed did she seriously continue writing poetry. She has studied creative writing with Chayim Zeldis, Jerome Mandel and Evan Fallenberg. Her poetry has been published both in Israel and abroad.
Emerging
In glories of red and pink,
Hollyhocks raise their heads
In stiff salutes,
Petunias nestle among rocks
And lavender waves purple tentacles
In a sky so blue
It dazzles the eyes.
Have I been sleeping?
I still feel your shoulders,
Your face, beneath my palms.
Like a sword cutting through paper,
So my heart is cloven in two.
Birds sing on apple branches,
Leaves pile in heaps under orange trees,
Sand and dust whirl on hot winds,
And I regenerate,
Like the lizard,
Emerging,
Turning to the sun
After years of waiting.
In the last minutes before dawn
I roam with you.
Call your name
In the dominion of the moon.
Stanley H. Barkan
Stanley H. Barkan is the editor/publisher of the Cross-Cultural Review Series of World Literature and Art, that has, to date, produced some 350 titles in 50 different languages. He was NYC’s 1991 Poetry Teacher of the Year (awarded by Poets House and the Board of Ed.) and the 1996 winner of the Poor Richard’s Award, “The Best of the Small Presses.” His own work has been published in 14 collections, several of them bilingual (Bulgarian, Italian, Polish, Russian). His latest is Strange Seasons with photoart by Mark Polyakov. In May 2006, he was the first solo featured poet at the Dylan Thomas Centre in Swansea, Wales. The poems in this issue are from his forthcoming chapbook, The Sacrifice: A Midrash on the Akedah.
I. On the Road to Moriah
for Elie Wiesel
Let us go to the slaughter,
together,
your hand in mine,
mine in yours.
We will ascend
the sacred mountain:
Mountain of test,
Mountain of promise,
Mount Mercy.
What shall we slaughter?
you ask.
Here is the knife and the firestone
and the wood for the fire,
but where is the sheep?
Oh, we shall slaughter
the earth.
Perhaps the air.
Maybe the sea
girdling the sphere.
Perhaps the greater
and lesser lights.
Or the night’s
unnumbered points
radiating mysteries.
Come, my son,
we go together,
there to face
the inevitable.
Be not afraid.
I am with you--
Hineni!
II. Scapegoat
Why me?
Why is it my fate
to be in place
of his son?
Am I not flesh
as he is?
If I’m cut,
do I not bleed?
If hurt,
do I not cry out:
Baaaaaaa!
I am father
of my own kids--
who will provide?
Already I hear
the stacking
of the wood
placed near the altar.
Already, I smell
the strike
of blade
on firestone.
Here on this high place
above the valleys,
almost touching the stars,
I am caught in the brambles,
by the horns
that were meant to protect me.
Oh where oh where
is my angel, guardian of goats?
Oh when oh when
will I and my progeny
cease to be his sacrifice?
III. Isaac
He who laughs
defines your name.
But why such a name
for one who nearly died
on the altar
of his father’s dream?
Was it because
Sarah laughed
when told of his birth
to come in her dotage,
the mocking laugh
of no faith?
Was this not vengeance?
Oh, was not this vengeance
worse than a single death!
All the persecutions, pogroms,
expulsions, slaughters,
massacres, autos-da-fé,
catastrophes, crematoria
of all the future Isaacs--
a far, far greater sacrifice
than only one on an altar.
Laugh, Clown, laugh.
All humanity’s heart
is breaking!
IV. Isaac Speaks to Job
Isaac: How do you explain it?
Job: I don’t. I just accept it.
Isaac: But such actions on the part
of the all-powerful, all-knowing,
all-merciful...?
Job: He is what He is.
Isaac: What a dodge? You know
how scared I was? Father was crazy.
He took me along for the sacrifice,
and, when I asked, all he would say was:
God will provide.
Job: And didn’t he?
Isaac: Yes, but He didn’t come Himself.
He sent an angel in his place. Was He
too ashamed to come Himself?
Job: It doesn’t matter. The point is that
He stopped it.
Isaac: I don’t see it that way. For the
rest of my life, I feared my father. What
else was he capable of doing? Didn’t he,
for instance, break up Grandpa Terah’s business?
Oh, I know, they were idols. But that was
the way he made his living. Then, just
because God tells him to do so, he takes me,
his chosen son, to the mountaintop to
sacrifice, as if I were one of those poor
children cast into the flames for Baal or
Ashtoreth by those heathen tribes.
Job: What are you complaining about? I
had seven sons and three daughters and
all kinds of cattle and a great household.
I had good health and a nice home.
I was His best servant. I never faltered.
Even when he took everything I had: wife, children,
cattle, household, home--and even my health.
V. Sarah's Fate
He took my son!
My only son.
My little laugher.
Huh, he came out laughing,
a joy to come into the light.
He was my light.
I never dreamed I could
have such pleasure.
Especially after all those years
barren,
castigated by my own servants.
Laughed at by them.
Sneered at by everyone else.
And then, without a word,
he just goes off with him,
takes him to some mountaintop,
as if he were a lamb or kid
for the slaughter,
like those pagan tribes
he so abjured.
Oy! I can’t accept it.
If he could do this to me,
his helpmeet, his treasure,
after all he put me through,
with his One God,
setting everyone’s face
against us,
and even lying about me
being his sister,
and exposing me
to all manner of advances.
This is it!
I’m finished.
VI. Alone
In the end,
we are all alone.
My father took my hand,
and I trusted him.
Then, on the mountaintop,
I looked around and didn’t see
any sheep or goat,
there was only the wood
and the flintstone and the knife
... and me.
Without a word, Father
tied me up, bound me
and had me bend over the altar,
and all I could see was the stacked wood
and think of the burning to come.
“Father!” I wanted to cry out.
But something stilled my voice.
The word wouldn’t form.
My throat dried and shut itself.
Even afterwards, when Father
was talking to himself
(later, he said it was to an angel),
I just couldn’t believe it.
How could he even think of it?
Then, when we got back,
I learned that my mother died,
in shock of what
she thought was happening.
I was really all alone.
Is that the point of it all,
that we are really all alone?
Only God can help us.
But it was God who endangered me
to begin with.
So we are really all alone.
Leland James
Leland James is the author of two novels and a book of essays. He has been published in both academic and popular periodicals, ranging from Galaxy Science Fiction to the Journal of Rehabilitation Medicine and Production Engineering. Recently, he has focused his writing on poetry, placing runner up for the 2008 Fish International Poetry Prize and winning the 2008 Writers’ Forum short poem contest. He has also placed in several other contests and had several publications, including Inspirit, New Millennium Writings, Ruminate,Janet McCabe, and Harûah, Breath of Heaven.
Tiger With Lamb
An early work of the Artist:
On a mountain top, not an earthly mountain but a mountain-like place,
glowing purple and gold, as if at sunrise but without sun or sky,
He, a term of convenience, the Person being both beautiful and handsome,
a tilt of the head this way or that shifting masculine into feminine beauty and back;
He stretches out a hand which moves as if holding a brush
making delicate strokes, dipping into an unseen pallet,
and a world is born: a tiger and a lamb, sketched and then colored,
coming to life beside a swift-moving stream of remarkable clarity and depth,
the stream appearing as if from a single brush stroke,
the surrounding land filling in, a lush green plain surrounded by trees,
foreshadows of those at the foot of Mount Kenya,
a mountain rising up in the background, rising into a breathless sky,
sunlight streaming down into billowing mist up from valleys beyond,
the valleys unseen, shaping themselves, filling the canvas,
a world released from the Artist’s hand, spreading by miraculous contagion,
and primal words derive: beauty, freedom, and danger.
Ruth Sabath Rosenthal
Ruth Sabath Rosenthal is a poet residing in NYC and Long Island, NY with her husband of over 30 years. Having started writing poetry in 1999, she continuously enjoys the poetry workshops, readings and events NYC offers non-stop. Ruth has been published in various journals, including: Birmingham Poetry Review, Connecticut Review, Creations Magazine, Ibbetson Street, Jabberwock Review, Mobius-The Poetry Magazine, Pacific Review and Poetica. She's also published in a number of anthologies, including: "Home"- Eden Waters Press, "primal sanities! a Tribute to Walt Whitman" - Allbook Books, "Songs of Seasoned Women" - Quadrasoul Inc., "Voices Israel 2007, 2008" and "Writing Outside the Lines"- Long Island Sound Press. On October 15th (Ruth's birthday) 2006, her poem "on yet another birthday" was nominated for a Pushcart prize by Ibbetson Street. For more about Ruth, visit her website: www.ruthsabathrosenthal.moonfruit.com
Frank, Burger, Chop & Steak
Careful now, food foolery could keep
us from catching good Z’s, shock Bo Peep
into a new career, make countless sheep flock
to play beat the clock to win. Poppycock
you say? The man in the moon crushed
by felled cows, their lives snuffed
by raging disease, whole herds stricken
by foul feed made of their fallen kin,
newfangled fairytale? If you hold no stock
in the fact that, postmortem, livestock
retaliate posthaste with deadly frank, burger,
chop and steak, you’re off your rocker!
Transition
A longing for heart quiet,
end of further fall
into winter — short days of sun
forwarding to spring’s
longer days, circling back
in the sameness of time —
heart-and mind-numbing time
with no respite. A longing to quiet
thoughts playing back
battle after battle, the failing
to even half-fill life’s wellspring.
And in my darkest season
of discontent, convinced the sun
will no longer shine in this lifetime;
feeling that sting
as from a bee disquieting
green slumber, swelling to a fault
every damned day, slamming me back.
Season upon season, holding me back,
chilling me with doubt that the sun
warms body and soul without fail,
and without doubt, given time,
better times, rise with each dawn quietly
advancing into spring.
Fast forward, past spring
to summer, autumn, back
to winter, and round again, disquiet
ever more glaring under the sun.
Then, out of the blue, a glance, nod, time
stopped, my heart races falling
in love without doubt. No fooling!
Empty seasons done for. Spring
burgeons and flowers time —
a new lifetime. No looking back.
Past care and sounder reason,
my heart basks. Quiet
as snowfall, sun-bursting-through-
cloud-cover, springtime-sprouting
quiet, a kiss blown then blown back.
Game Theory
She came to me and I thought
it was about the baby, whether
or not she should bathe him.
Instead, she said she had to go.
“That’s okay. What time will you
be back?” “No. You don’t understand.
I need to go for good. Nothing
will change my mind.”
I was floored, without
a clue. Her assurance
it wasn’t anything
I’d done, made no sense
until decades after I, too, fled,
having finally fathomed
my husband had fancied
that nanny fair game.
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