Seattle 110, or Grand Slam!

Did I mention we had our Seattle Poetry Slam Finals? And that I blogged my head off about it, over on Karen Finneyfrock's blog?

Seattle 109, or Raizl/Rachel Poems

As I've been moving through my 365/365 poem-a-day project, little arcs have crept into my writing. One of them is a character study of a woman named Raizl, or Rachel (depending on when in her life I'm writing about.) It started spontaneously - she just appeared a poem one day, when I was working on a difficult prompt. I liked her so much, I wrote about her the next day, and the next. Now, I never dread my "poem time," because if I have nothing pressing to write about, I get to visit her, think about her, do a little digging - and eventually share a piece of her. I've written over a dozen of these poems. Here are a few I'd like to share.

Rachel, Westchester, NY, 1963

She walks to the elementary school

to pick up the girls. Only Rebecca

is old enough to understand

the reason for the unexpected holiday.

The teachers cry.

The children stare out the windows.

At home, Rachel makes sandwiches.

She and Rebecca listen to the radi

while the twins play.

When Fannie begs to go outside,

Rachel cradles the little girl's head

against her side.

"Not today, mamaleh.

The world is just a little

too upside down."

That night,

Rachel's husband

falls asleep

holding her hand.

After he has begun to snore,

she slips from their bed,

and tiptoes to the kitchen.

They are still there:

four suitcases

behind the potatoes

and flour.

They contain canteens and cigarettes,

and space for clothing.

She has sewn a roll of bills

into each lining.

Rachel sits on the kitchen floor,

hugging her knees.

The insomnia will last

until the world rights itself.

This much, she knows.

Raizl, Föhrenwald, Bavaria, Germany, 1945

In her second week,

someone finds a slate,

and nails it to one of the last trees.

There is no chalk. Several soft stones

rest in the crooks of the roots.

The residents of the DP camp

call it "the lost and found."

It only contains names.

Raizl visits the tree once a day.

August becomes September

in a breeze.

She sleeps outside, wrapped

in a Red Cross blanket.

The stars are a comfort -

the ground softer than the barracks.

On the day she meets her future husband,

she wakes from a dream of black birds

and broken violin songs

to find him squatting beside her,

a tin cup drowning in his curled fingers.

She studies him as she drinks:

careful patches in his boots,

sponged collar of his uniform,

dark gray eyes. a few silver threads

in his muddy hair.

They spend the afternoon

teaching each other

the names of their hometowns.

Westchester. Lodz. New York. Poland.

He beams. He tells her

she would make

a beautiful American.

How they would swoon

under the charm of her tongue.

Rachel and Stella, next to the crib, 1988

Like so many mothers,

Rebecca named her daughter

in two languages: English and Jewish.

Stella and Shoshanna. Her mother

thinks Shoshanna is a mouthful

of a name for such a morsel,

but likes the way the names pair:

stars and lilies. She painted

an ocean dotted with tiny white flowers.

Rebecca put it in the nursery,

above the crib. She thinks it's a night sky.

Rachel rocks Stella for hours,

and smiles at the ceiling -

when they grow into the same language,

Rachel will whisper her secret name

into those perfect jughandle ears. Raizl. Raizl.

A name hidden in translation,

a lily among the stars.

Raizl, on her wedding day, 1952

The name on the piece of paper looks

like new breasts, or the puckered belly

after the baby - something

to practice recognizing as her own.

She has signed herself to both

this man, and his country,

this tongue. Rachel.

It seems to halt in the middle,

uncertain of its own proclamation.

In the dark,

he will call her Raizl again,

faster, until her name

sounds like hoofbeats,

like rain, like the wild, endless grass

of Poland.

The Ravenna Kibbutz is a Jewish neighborhood and organization in Seattle. It looks like three houses and a couple of apartments on half of a beautiful city block full of houses (and apartments). We're talking cherry trees and tulip gardens, a cul-de-sac with a basketball hoop and plenty of parking. As a neighborhood, we hang out on the sidewalks, eat dinner at each others' houses, till communal gardens and keep our front doors open. As an organization, we run Jewish programming for Jews of all ages and stripes - from totally secular through modern Orthodox. A week's worth of events could include bowling, movie night, a bike ride and an open mic. We don't make assumptions about your politics. We argue like people who love one another. At our weekly Shabbat dinners, we say "Thank G-d and the unions for giving us the weekend."

Does this sound like a life you'd love? Check us out on the web: http://www.ravennakibbutz.org/. Our website is gorgeous, organized and chock-full of information. It can tell you what we're like, what the neighborhood is like, and some of the founding principles of the Kibbutz.

Here's what it won't tell you: we have an *entire house* open this summer. A four bedroom Craftsman with hardwood floors, a finished basement, lovely kitchen and solid backyard that looks right into the ravine for which Ravenna is named. It's a house that needs love and care, but will return your furniture-arranging and weed-whacking efforts with charm and delight.

We're looking for a group of committed individuals or a family to move into this house sometime this summer or early fall. If this sounds like an adventure, apply. Apply if you've got a group together; apply if you don't. Apply even if you're not sure. Get to know us. Share some jokes and stories. We'd love to hear from you.

The application is here: http://www.ravennakibbutz.org/application. Thanks so much for your time and attention!

In solidarity,
~Dane Kuttler

Seattle 108, or Poem-a-Day Project #105 (a revision of #102)

For Jordie, and Erzi, and April

I don't know
who you carry in your name,
cousin, but the blush below your
deer-dark eyes halts me
like an unexpected kiss.

We named you halfway across
the alphabet, lest the Angel of Death
confuse the bridge of your smile
with her cheekbones.

They called your grandmother
luminescent, sparkling
and dry as wine.

When you were a baby,
she held you like a photograph
rescued from a house fire.

The last thing she ever told me
was how much she loved yellow.
We had sent tulips.
My mother had to translate
from post-stroke to ten-year-old.

You look alive when you wear yellow.

As you grew, your mother
bloomed through the trellis of your bones.
Your face became a garden
of peaceful coexistence,
of wisteria and honeysuckle
holding hands.

But my heart pauses
when it sees your picture:
those eyes. those eyes.
I'd almost forgive Death for his confusion,
if we'd given you her name.

Seattle 106, or How I Keep Myself Happy

Tonight's menu:

- Roasted Beet Salad: radishes, shallots, lemon

- French String Bean Salad: white wine vinaigrette, shallots, capers

- Soup of Nettles & Peas: leeks, cream, lemon

- Sunchoke & White Bean Gratin

Seattle 105, or A Night at the Kibbutz

After two seders, we were done. Done with crowds of people, done with schlepping chairs, even a little bit done with cooking for the crowds. This week has been all about reconnecting with one another - a party to watch episodes of Northern Exposure (the collective favorite rerun), lots of inter-house wandering, Tamar's matzah pizza and matzagna propelling us through Pesach.

Last night, I was resigning myself to a night at home alone, when I heard not-my-house voices in the kitchen. Went to investigate. Jim had come over to share a hookah with Sergey. Neal and Shaul just wanted to be around people. Neal hadn't eaten dinner yet - brought asparagus, brussels sprouts, tofu. I added shallots and zucchini and chopped tomatoes, made us a nice little ratatouille with roasted asparagus and tofu on the side. Much more colorful and filling than what I'd originally planned for dinner (I'd planned to eat matzah and cream cheese).

After dinner, I folded laundry while Shaul and I talked girls. Then, the lights flickered - once, then twice. Then the power went out.

Shaul and I took a walk around the neighborhood - about four or five solid blocks of darkness. We grinned. We love power outages. At Aleph, Erica and Masha and Neal were already getting cozy on the couch, candles ablaze. I remembered Gimel's gas fireplace. We trooped over to find Ilana and Sergey with their feet up, fire going, drinks full. We joined them, considered eating all the ice cream in the freezer, story-talked about other dark nights and fires.

When they did come back on, remarkably quickly, no one was ready for the lights.