earthslight

IV. Earth's Light

CONNECTION

And between flights

at Ataturk Airport, here the city

of Kushta is Constantinople is Istanbul

and here Rabbi Nachman stands at the gate with a large

turkey in his hand and it seems the turkey is the evil inclination in a person

He spreads his tail in front of the flight attendants like a boarding card and helps himself

to caviar and champagne in the business class and on his head is an ugly

crown and the name Shabtai Tzvi is sealed inside it

And Rabbi Nachman looses his arrows at me

— Amichai Chasson

tr. EC

OMG

Two teenagers saying it

over and over, sprinkled in

among their sentences,

in front of him in line

at the Dunkin Donuts gave him

this great idea for a poem

about God being on everybody’s tongue—

it would be numinous and reverent,

yet at the same time colloquial

and irreverent, which was exactly

what it was: vernacular and a little

oracular. It would show (not tell)

how everyone (even those who don’t believe

in God and never give God a thought)

call upon Him in their everyday gab, palaver, gossip,

chatter, cavil, quibble, grumble. It would be

an apology of sorts in defense of

taking the name of the Lord thy God in vain

(he would look up which Commandment that was).

It was all coming together in his head

until his turn came in line and he ordered

a medium regular, and a glazed donut—

on second thought, two—then checked

his phone. Then forgot all about

the poem. Meanwhile the two teenagers walked

out the door and across the parking lot,

still talking about the world with God

on their tongues, God in every other breath,

God in their exhalations, God evaporating

in the air above the Dunkin Donuts

like a great idea.

—Paul Hostovsky

Window

Tonight’s the night! Delicious mysteries silhouette these windows.

Like lovers playing hide and seek! Watch the curtains

open briefly for a gauzy shadow in her nightgown

wishing upon a star (may we always be as happy

as tonight we are). Down the road, truckers heading

to the Super 8. A shower. Then a good night's sleep.

An IHOP breakfast. Eggs and pancakes. Strong coffee.

Outside, the urgent sweep of sirens. Screaming. Blood.

The soothing voices: You're gonna be ok, you’re

gonna be ok you’re gonna be ok…. Today

I know you’re gonna be ok.

Just for a day or two, let's put in storage

all the words/the sounds that might have been/that were/that are/

and will turn all too many of those shuttered secret rooms

to quicksands of bitterness. You stupid cow.

You worthless piece of trash. Slamming doors.

Broken glass. Worst, the sudden silence after the thud,

on nights that never should have followed sundown.

Which is your window, friend? Let's pretend that we

can peer below the water's surface. That we can glimpse

the pinking coral, caress the tiniest of shells,

stroke the smoothest stones ribboned in seaweed, a gift

waiting to be unwrapped. A seagull stands sentry as

we swim with fish, and turtles, invisible and graceful

as the mermaids of our childhood fairy tales. That all

the evil ogres have been vanquished, that the prince and princess

are forever beautiful, and young, and kind, that

our wishes will be granted. That behind each set

of curtains is another happy ending.

Listen! You can hear one now.

—Marian K. Shapiro

ANCIENT FOOD

Pale gold comfort in a bowl

a thick velouté paysan

mottled with flakes

of darker skin—

on the tongue a surprise

of smokiness.

I choose the round yellow ones

bred smooth and perfectly curved

that fill my hand. Their weight

presses plenty in my palm, my

knife slips easily through the flesh.

In my valley rows of glossy

dark mounds, the flowers

beaked with turned back petals

inconsequential and unlovely

among garden blooms.

It’s underground matters:

their specialty the stores

of food packaged in firm flesh

in brown wrappers

waiting on earthy stems

for the garden fork to

lift them to sunlight.

In el Parque de la Papa

ancestral valley in the Andes

(they’re taller, a bit scraggly?)

the Arariwas guard the spirit

of this ancient food—

crimson, gold, purple,

crescent, knobby, fish-

shaped, mottled, striated—

homely jewels spilling

from earth to hands

hands that read soil, wind,

flowers, leaves—hands that never

cut the flesh with a knife as they

never would their own family.

—Katharine Gregg

Stealing Home

It was a mostly Jewish neighborhood. Down at the schoolyard Billy Schachtel was at bat. Richard Cohen was on first. Jon Winkelried was on second. Schachtel means box in German. Little box. A pack of cigarettes is a Zigarettenschachtel. But none of us knew that. Because we didn’t speak German. And we didn’t smoke cigarettes. We were little. We were only in fourth or fifth grade. Shtetl means little town in Yiddish, a little town of Ashkenazi Jews in Eastern Europe before the Holocaust. But this was after the Holocaust, about twenty years after, at the bottom of the 9th in the schoolyard of South Mountain Elementary School in a mostly Jewish neighborhood in Millburn, New Jersey, in the United States of America, where Jews played baseball. Jews on shtetls in Eastern Europe didn’t play baseball. And they never won. In fact, they usually got slaughtered. Schachtel swung and missed. We pronounced it Shack-TELL. Billy Shack-TELL. Not unlike William Tell, the folk hero of Swiss historiography. William Tell was a contemporary of Arnold von Winkelried, who threw himself on a Hapsburg spear in the Battle of Sempach, which created an opening for the Swiss Confederacy to rush in behind him and win the day. Winkelried was about to steal third. Cohen was on first, and maybe because the Cohanim were the Jewish priestly class, descendants of Aaron, brother of Moses, tribe of Levi, Cohen was able to judge that Winkelried was about to steal third. So he got ready to steal second. Which is called a double steal in baseball. With a judicious eye, Schachtel let the next pitch go by. Spoiler alert: Winkelried stole third, and he went on to steal home, and he went on to graduate from the University of Chicago, to get a job with Goldman Sachs, to work his way up until he eventually headed the Bonds Department and became richer than Croesus, the legendary king of Lydia, a kingdom in ancient Anatolia. Coney got thrown out at second, which was a kind of sacrifice that allowed Winkelried to steal home, not unlike the sacrifice that Winkelried’s namesake made at the Battle of Sempach in 1386. It was the winning run at the bottom of the 9th, so Shachtel never finished his turn at bat. Because we’d already won, unlike the other Jews, the Jews of history, who almost always lost, and never really had a home.

—Paul Hostovsky

alienation

when the place you wanted to move to

because, there, no one will knows you

becomes the world

—Allison Whittenberg

Tattoos and Torment

I cannot make sense of the evil in our world.

You. You who desecrate your flesh

with images of skulls and cross bones, who

bend silver into grinning skulls and wear them

like amulets, what’s that all about? The glee

in wielding the sword or watching

with the crowd? What about surreptitiously

slipping arsenic into someone’s whiskey?

Strapping explosives to your body and seeking

a populated boulevard? Killing shoppers? Infants?

Why do you pay to watch movie mayhem

using fake blood, actors faking courage? Why

do you watch cars crashing? Are you the one

manufacturing racks and spikes? Is it bad

if you’re only hurting yourself? Why do you

pierce your nose, your lip or other body parts?

Who are you, human beings afflicting

your flesh and your planet? Never explaining.

—Florence Weinberger

DIMITRI SHOSTAKOVICH SPEAKS FOR THE RAVAGED LAND

From darkness a ghost whistle—

the cello whispering harmonics

into silence. Then in graying dawn

other voices enter singly, each tracing

the same notes like shell-shocked soldiers

among rubble.

Out of the twisted ribs of the building

you bombed this night comes a figure,

skeleton in a danse macabre.

The tune winds around like a poor idiot

at first stealthy so as to not give itself away.

Then faster—fireballs jump from each eye hole,

it begins to whirl, the arms flail in crescendo

One, Two and Two-and Two and THREE.

Largo, largo—I am weary, so weary

of carrying this weight—I know not who.

My arms drag, torn from the shoulder sockets,

one foot before the other and still

I am here.

Again, again!—the clarion trumpet strikes up the dizzy gallop

among the broken, the broken ones, only to fall weeping

upon the thorns of the blasted rose.

III

Now it is winter again in land

leached and broken. Empty.

But over there is movement.

Bundles of rags are creeping

into the daylight like sparrows

picking at the earth.

Listen! The earth is singing!

The piano trills rivulets

at first alone and then the others

join and swell into dance.

The enemy still squats on his haunches just

over there, but he can’t stop the tender sky

from arching nor the small green of grass

here, there, even in the tracks of tanks.

The violin lifts light as a lark turning upward

and the little tune sings itself away.

The land is singing, Mr. Enemy.

You will never win.

—Katharine Gregg

I Have Been To Places Of Great Death

I have been to places of great death:

Walking the battlefield of Gettysburg,

As a lusty young man of no firm belief

Who stepped between the great rocks

Of Devil’s Den and felt his soul shudder

as though he had been a soldier there,

and died in fear a long, long time ago.

I taught my tongue to the gentle Khmers

As civil war raged and the killing fields

Were being sown—I left before the

Heartless murdering began, the killing

Of over a million: teachers and students,

Doctors and farmers, the old, the young,

Each with a photo taken before dying,

Their pictures taped to classroom walls.

And when I visited Hiroshima, now myself

Chastened by death’s touch, and knowing

My soul real, knowing of meaning absolute

And of unseen forces that work good or ill,

As I stood at the first ground zero, I once

Again shuddered to feel the pull of madness

(though I knew not if it was my own or some

Remains of that evil which brought the fire

And brimstone of a world wide war….)

But by then I knew I could pray, and so

Opened my desperate heart and sought

His mercy—and then I saw a sort of angel,

Who took me from that place of insanity,

Healing me while we wandered by the

Beauty of the Inland Sea as my storm

Calmed and left me, never to return….

I have been to places of great death, and

I have felt death’s cold, careless hands.

But I know now what death itself fears:

The Light, the light eternal which carries

Souls beyond time itself, like the winds

Of a Love exceeding all understanding.

—Nolo Segundo

Simchat Torah 2023

In the evening we untie the knot of the congregation

and spool out like thread along the walls of the sanctuary

unfolding as the scroll unfolds. We hold the holy book

with Kleenex so as not to contaminate its edges with our

human sweat. If a terrorist showed up now, we’d make

an easy target. Too easy a target. Too easy always.

The children run around in circles, not counting

the seven times, playing Hide and Seek

and Peekaboo among the legs of the adults.

ii.

I remember my father, how I cut

off the fringes on the kitchen carpet

so he would not trip and fall. In his 90’s

he’d taken to dancing anywhere

at any time. One must be vigilant!

I watched the red drops of yarn fall

into my trashcan. Sure enough, he went

ahead and died on us that winter.

iii.

Father, father, how do I not (dot dot dot)

let me count the ways.

Hiding my ugly body behind the perfect scroll

I seek the circle it makes. Words

play Hide and Seek within me.

No turning a page here

no turning over a new leaf.

iv.

Oh note that ends one musical phrase

and begins another, how you taught me

to linger. Oh cadential elision! How I

have learned from you, heard in you,

the ways to carry on after the news

(and if you don’t know what I am talking

about, go and count your blessings).

The news that cuts your life in two. Ir-

re-con-cil-able Before and After.

“Hello? Hello? Where are you?”

“In my kitchen. You called my landline.”

“You better sit down.” The news

that cuts your life in two. No wonder

all telephones used to be black. Your

face reflected in a cup of coffee until

your hand begins to shake uncontrollably

making the image disappear. The end

and the beginning crash a meeting as if

by chance, casually, looking at each

other with suspicion and recognition.

The children inside the circle taste

salt and run faster, sensing the coming

storm. Jonah! Jonah, mon semblable,

mon frère, we are drowning. We drew

the shortest straw. We always draw

the shortest straw. The children play

Hide and Seek and Peekaboo

among the legs of the adults.

vi.

Like the scroll, the year unravels. It

resembles the sweater I knitted

for the baby in many colors and types

of yarn. On this day the last touches. Reach

for the thick needle with its big eye, tip

snub-nosed like a whale. Weave together

what’s uneven, mend unintended holes,

broken seams, a lost stitch sliding from row

to row. Catch it! I have sinned! The doors

are closing. Shema Yisrael! Listen to the Ram’s

horn! Line seam to seam and sow them

together. Nothing’s perfect. Not even G-d!

Stretch, push, spread, pull. Allow your elastic

mind to enlarge, broaden, distend, widen.

vii.

Father, father, how do I (dot dot dot)

Let me count the ways

over an old collection of stamps

where words play Peekaboo with my memory, with

a father and his young daughter. “What does it mean?”

she asks pointing at the capital letters DDR

in the corner of one stamp. She can’t yet read a map

but knows enough German to abhor Nein! Schnell!

Verboten! To be eight years old in 1966.

Acronyms not yet in her vocabulary. She sees through

the old trick to make her finish her breakfast when more

milk and sugar on the oatmeal don’t work. “Eat your

porridge, girl, or the Russians will come and take you.”

Grandfather among the white soldiers on skis

along the Finnish border. The cold. The snow. She

remembers her usually kind and patient father

throwing a tantrum over DDR. “They call themselves

‘democratic’ when they are nothing of the sort!”

viii.

But watch, watch! The playful words,

like unruly children and stitches, are sliding

down the seam trying to escape, thinking it’s

a game. Catch them! Tuck them back in! Beware

of the longing between Deuteronomy and Genesis.

Such an old love-story. Bind them together. Roll

up the scroll for this year. Gather the children

who play Hide and Seek and Peekaboo

among the legs of the adults.

—Gunilla Theander Kester

Intelligence

“Don’t worry, Mother,” said Deborah, sitting uniformed and square jawed in a field-grey phone booth outside a quonset hut. “I’m fine.”

“Fine? Debbe, how can you be fine half way around the world? And since when did you start calling me ‘Mother’?” Ma’s inescapable voice boomed through the long distance static.

“No, really, Mother. I’m OK. Bit of a rough flight getting here, but that part’s over now.” Deborah took a sip of stale government-issue coffee from a paper cup.

“Rough flight? What happened? Did you get bounced around? With your sensitive inner ears? Were they damaged?”

“Mother, cut it out.” Deborah held her tongue for a moment before continuing. “Look, there’s never been anything wrong with my ears. The flight was a little rough, that’s all. We hit some turbulence in the middle of the Pacific. I weathered it. The rest of the trip was smooth.”

“I hope you’re not keeping anything from me, Debbe. You know how I worry, and then I worry again, and then I worry some more.”

“Yes, Mother. I know.” Deborah suppressed a sigh.

“That’s why I called your colonel, what’s his name, Steinfeld.”

“Mother, that’s Stanfield. I told you. Colonel Stanfield. From Kansas.”

“Right. Stanfeld. I called him to make sure you got to Japan safe and sound.”

“Actually, Mother, the colonel is in Korea. Where I’ll be assigned. I’m just laid over in Japan for an hour or so to change planes.” Deborah checked her watch. Outside the booth, big radial engines whined and the tarmac bustled with uniformed officers rushing to make their own connections.

“Did you have to say ’Korea’ out loud, Debbe? Do you want to tempt the evil eye? In Korea there’s a war going on. With shooting and killing and dying.”

Deborah made a mental note of two olive drab trucks, each painted with a red cross. They were parked on the asphalt near a C-47 Skytrain unloading canvas stretchers filled with wounded from Chuncheon. “It won’t be so bad, Mother. I’m slated for a desk job, away from the front.”

“That’s what Colonel Stanfeld told me, thank G-d. He promised. That you’ll be sitting, just reading and typing, in an office very far south. In Pusan, nobody’s target.”

Deborah winced. “Gee, Mother, how did you get him to tell you my location? It’s supposed to be classified.”

“The general was very nice when the switchboard at the Pentagon finally put me through to him. Once he gave me your colonel’s phone number, it was no trouble finding out everything else.”

“And what else did you find out, Mother?” In a reflex gesture, Deborah secured the door of her phone booth.

“That my Debbe from Flatbush, with the sensitive inner ears, is a first lieutenant, spying against Red China for President Truman. I’d brag to Sophie and Raisa down the hall, but Colonel Stanfeld — Steinfield? — said don’t talk about it, so I bit my lip. To protect you.”

Deborah started to shake her head but couldn’t quite hold back a grudging smile. “I must say, Mother. Despite your worrying, you are one determined, tough operator. Grabbing hold of top secret stuff from the Army just to track me down.”

“If only you’d kept in touch.”

“Enough, Mother.” Deborah put aside her coffee, drew a deep breath, and hoisted herself to her feet. “Now listen: By no means do I spy in the field or work directly for the president. I’m a low level, junior intelligence grunt, basically a clerk pushing a pencil. Still, my job over here is a secret that you should lock in the very back of your mind — and throw away the key.”

“Anything for you, Debbe. Anything.”

Deborah caught herself about to roll her eyes like an adolescent. Then she stiffened her spine and donned her garrison cap. “Mother, I gotta go. Another call is coming in. Probably Colonel Stanfield bent on chewing me out for not phoning you from Seattle. I’ll write to you soon.” Deborah adjusted her holster.

“Of course soon. And of course after that you’ll keep writing.”

“I won’t stop, Mother. I promise.” Deborah opened the door of her phone booth to let in some fresh air. The rumble of massive piston-driven propellers, interspersed with a repetitive banging sound, grew louder. Avgas fumes, mixed with the stench of gangrene, blew into Deborah’s nostrils. Her eyes began to burn, then tear.

“You’re a good girl, Debbe,” said Ma, now much less audible through the rising noise. “A good girl. But also be a safe girl. When letters stopped coming from Europe, that’s when I knew everybody there was dead.”

—Donald Mender

Oh You Abandoned Ones

(“God saw that the light was good” Genesis 1:4)

For Nelly Sachs

Oh you riven ones, earth’s abandoned ones,

light after Hell’s dark night came too late for you.

Wounds of memory, souls torn from flesh and bone—

your spilled blood stains the ground, haunts the earth

that refused to feel the lonely agony of smoke

curled in ashen plumes, a bereft mother and child’s

last gasped breaths. How can one close their eyes or wake

in the darkest night unmoved by your exodus of blood?

Towns and shtetls stripped naked, shorn of life, choked—

helpless in death’s chambers. How can one worship

fire-spewing gods, bow down at the altars of brute heart-flawed

commands: hurl babies into burning pits like wood?

How after that dark night, its chaos-fueled void,

Hell’s darkest extreme, can we believe earth’s light is good?

—Amos Neufeld

O MEN OF WILL AND LONGING

It is astonishing

How the distress of sin can weigh on the soul

Before the plea for forgiveness

When we are with ourselves for a fraction of a second

And how

Oppressive solitude can be

In the moment when we

Remain

Alone in the company of our sins

After all

The world always stands in the place where we saw it last

Stuck like a tree in the earth and unable to move

And wishing like us for the kindness of those who long.

—Dan Albo

(tr. EC)