1/31/2009

New Jersey 29, or Random Late-Night Memorying

ritual

in the van on the way back from Terezin/Teresienstadt
ignoring the girl in the seat next to me
pretending to be exhausted
searching for density
too sparrow-fingered to hold a pen
too stone-footed to walk

we arrive at our apartment
i fall on the couch between the door and the bed
wake up with the words
"blessed are"
in ink on my right forearm
like black wire beads on a blue string

i consider getting a tattoo
but instead re-write the words
every few days
meticulously tracing each ghost
into the present

1/29/2009

New Jersey 28, or New Draft

Creator

Adam, do you remember our last
lesson in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground.
You pulled with fists so gentle,
lips pressed hard into stillness,
as though I’d set you to the task
of tearing babies from their mothers’ arms.

Don’t you think
I know the pain of separation?

When I ask myself which part was the hardest,
I remember the day I drew the line
between ocean and sky,
how I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted
South America out of Africa’s arms
and carried her across the water,
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide
as she rises towards the beckoning moon,
wishing only to hold her one more time.

When I was finished, my unconvinced eyes
took in the strange, unfamiliar world before me.
I told myself:

it was good, it was good, it was…good?
My first real creation was that lie.

This world is fault lines
and gouged bodies
of water,
the scars of things torn and ripped
like your weeds.

I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.

You were an accident.
An unintended result
of an unexpected pleasure.

After five miserable days,
I was ready to quit, but some angel
dropped clay in my hands, like
an invitation to play. So I did.

While my hands worked
and collected thick coats of cracking clay,
I began to think the way potters do,
asking, “What can you hold?”

I kneaded poetry into your veins.
It was as vital as the beat I pounded into your heart,
and the tongue I molded into your mouth.
The only separations were your fingers.

I tried to teach you: you too, are a creator.
I wedged responsibility between your shoulders. ,
taught you to make distinctions,
to give names,
to pull weeds from flowers,
but you learned to cry for the weeds on your own.

I didn’t teach you to make things grow.

How did you know not to interfere
with the primordial love of mountains?

It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our lessons in the garden,
and I have no right to your forgiveness, but

I offer you this: you were right about the weeds.

1/20/2009

New Jersey 27, or post-op

All's well and fine. Especially the drugs.

Here's the fantastic article I've been reading while waiting for more drugs. It's about class.

http://www.davkadeergirl.com/2009/01/class-and-inessential-weirdnesses.html

1/16/2009

New Jersey 26, or Shameless Self Promotion

Hi everyone,

Twice a year, I have the honor of competing in major poetry slams that draw poets from all over the world. This time, there's an exciting bonus - I have the slim, slim chance to compete for free! An online video "slam" will determine one lucky poet who will not have to pay a registration fee.

VOTE HERE


How can you help? By voting! Choose my piece, "Bilingual", and click on the "Vote For This Poem" button. You can vote as many times as you want (as long as you wait five minutes between each vote) to help me amass the most votes.

VOTE HERE:

A word about the piece: right now, "bilingual" is one of my favorite pieces, and is perhaps one of the most well-crafted, heartfelt poems I've ever written. This particular performance, from a competition in North Carolina, is the most powerful reading I've ever given. It truly represents my best work.

VOTE HERE

Please pass this on to anyone who might like to help, and of course, enjoy the poetry!

Cheers,
~Dane

PS It has come to my attention that some folks can't use the link. In that case, please go to www.poetryslam.com and just click through to the voting - big button on the front page. Thanks!

1/10/2009

Boston 3, or Rainbows, Rainbows Everywhere, and Pantsless Train Riders

Ever since my father got a job in Cambridge, MA, my family has become somewhat migratory. It's almost like a custody arrangement; every other weekend, the Jersey contingent travels up, and every other weekend, the Massachusetts contingent travels down to spend a couple of days together. Most of my time in MA has thus far been spent shadowing my parents, who are in the throes of apartment hunting, and offering appropriate advice and perspective on each place. Mostly, this sounds like me kvetching about the size of the apartment kitchens, and my parents kvetching about the living room views, or lack thereof.

But today we all split up. My sister ran off to visit friends, my parents extracted themselves from our company and went for a walk, and I took the train (here, I have to interject - I love, love, love trains and subways) to the center of town for the Join The Impact Gay Marriage Rally.

Astute readers will again notice that I don't actually like gay marriage, or choose to put a lot of energy into marriage rights. But I noticed that at least one poet was going to be there, and there's only so many hours I can spend on the internet in a day, so I decided to check it out.

It was as successful as any gathering of shouting people waving signs can hope to be a success. I would guess that close to 1,000 people showed up despite the well-below-freezing temperatures. (It is here that I need to interject again - for a New England metropolis, Boston is terrible about ice maintenance. The sidewalks are damn skating rinks.) After I located my friend and fellow poet James Caroline, we stood there, shivered, huddled, and made appropriately supportive or snarky comments through the zillion different speakers.

And then, we marched. We marched probably less than half a mile, but it was an impressive march - we were probably 2 and a half blocks worth of people. The only disappointing part was that there were hardly any people in the streets, hardly any cars in that part of town (it was the business district on a Saturday...). The march culminated in a church that once hosted famous anti-gay activist (and evil, evil woman) Anita Bryant, so it was a nice "Take Back The Church(?)" gesture, I suppose.

Anyway, James was called on to give the poetic benediction, so to speak, and did a few lovely poems. Then there was free coffee, bagels and socialist paraphernalia for everyone.

On the way back to Cambridge, I wandered into the middle of a piece of public art. The Red Line outbound platrform was covered in people without any pants. People in suits, in firefighter uniforms, sweatshirts and every other kind of outfit, just standing around in their underwear and boots. When I asked one young man (wearing the blazer of a prominent private prep school) what was going on, he looked down, as if surprised, shrugged and said, "I don't know, I guess I was in too much of a rush today."

Nevermind that it was Saturday.

More information about pantsless people on the T can be found here.

1/07/2009

New Jersey 25, or Israel/Hamas/Palestine/United States/United Nations/etc

These aren't really poems, but you can treat them like poems if you want. However, anything you have to say on the war, Israel, Golda Meir, whatever, don't hold back. That's what the comments are for.

Far From Holy Lands, 2008/2009/5769/1430

1.
"When peace comes we will perhaps in time be able to forgive the Arabs for killing our sons, but it will be harder for us to forgive them for having forced us to kill their sons." Golda Meir (Press conference after the Six-Day War, 1967)

Dear Golda,
I’ve been hiding from the news again.
It takes me a few days to recognize my subconscious hibernation,
not until the death count skyrockets between the days I check the paper.
In part, it’s because I don’t know what to do anymore.
Israel is at war again. Like this is news.
By now, public opinions are sunk deeper than ink into newspaper,
I barely visit mine, the way I can look at scars
without thinking about the injuries that caused them.

2.
When they ask,
"Well, have you been to Israel?"
I want to say
"Well, have you been to Tibet? Darfur? Afghanistan? Guantanamo? I am sure they have flowers too."
I am learning to say "Yes." without elaboration.
Does it count, I wonder,
if I was only young enough to notice the sidewalks?

3.
When peace comes, Golda, what will you look for?
Will it look like piles of dirt-patched bodies,
tank tracks in the muddy sand next to anthills of charred houses?
Some of us talk about peace like a god that refuses
to intervene on anyone’s behalf.

Peace, when you come, introduce yourself like this:
Ya Allah, Matha fa'alna?
מה עשינו יי?

My G-d, What have we done?

4.
Dear Israel,
When my friends can’t speak of your deeds,
they speak of your beauty.
Cobalt sea gracing
your neckline like melting jewels,
Jerusalem turning gold in the sunset like a wedding band,
blood-burst flowers blooming along the Carmel in the spring,
you wear sandstorms like a veil.
In every war, there must be a princess at stake.

5.
Dear Golda,
in this world of bombs and newspaper,
there are still olives
and clementines.
Trees do not stop feeding the hungry in times of war.
When peace comes, will you have enough left to offer it a meal?

6.
Dear Israel,
I am sick of your explosions, your targets, your anthem,
of defending you to lovers and friends,
of my family's justifications, and their silence.
I do not want to have an opinion about you anymore.

Here.
Take my right hand.

Take my mouth,
take my eyes,
take whatever you need, but leave me
in peace.

1/02/2009

New Jersey 24, or Breaking, Growing, Pains

The last thing C and I say to each other before I leave is not a word I use: Namasté. It's Sanskrit, a one-word that is many words: "The light in me honors the light in you." I usually associate it with white women who practice yoga as an advanced stretching class with some pseudo spirituality thrown in. It fits better in her mouth. It seems appropriate, having burned sage and candles, exchanged written and spoken goodbyes. I won't be coming back.

I walk away, heart swollen with growth. That's what breaking up can be, sometimes. You leave having loved, and some of the love that remains stitches itself to your heart, makes it bigger, capable of more than it ever held before. But my body knows how badly new grafts can hurt, and hearts are no exception. The pain sits between heart and gut - between love and instinct. And this time, my instinct wins. Go. Leave.

Given time, my body will accommodate this bigger heart, this unexpected, unasked-for growth. In the meantime, it hurts, an wound that can't be soothed or touched. I curl around it protectively at night, waiting for the morning I will wake to find it beating in sync with the rest of me, waiting for new love to pump.