By Rabbi Naomi Levy
Rachel is crying for her children
She refuses to be comforted
From beyond the grave she cries
Through the centuries
Her tears flow
Hagar cries too
From beyond the grave and
Their tears intermingle
The tears of the mothers
Grieving over dead sons and daughters
Weeping over war
They try to shake us
Wake us
They see our promise
They prophesy our hope
From the place of eternity
Our mothers whisper
Peace
Peace Shalom Salaam
Can you hear it?
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
Die
By Mitch Grabois
1.
Nurse Amy
observant and intuitive
came to tell me that Tiffany had escaped
I wondered if
she had figured out that I was in love with Tiffany
one of our patients
a chronic schizophrenic
2.
When I was four
my uncle gave me a square wooden coin bank
about the size of a fist
its sides painted with dots to make a die
Even that early he was trying to warn me about chance
and how much happiness depends on luck
The die was the only possession I kept from childhood
Its wisdom was the only wisdom I needed
It eclipsed all other understanding
3.
I’d never wanted to fall in love with Tiffany
--it was a struggle to get her to brush her teeth--
it just happened
No ethics board would accept that
as an explanation
4.
Though I loved the die, I had never cleaned it
and after forty years its surfaces were darkened and marred
Amy had brought me this terrible news
but maybe it was lucky that Tiffany had escaped
before I got into real trouble
On an impulse I picked up the die and tossed it to Amy
It wasn’t a good toss, but she reached out and one-handed it
She was more athletic than I had imagined
5.
I felt in my bones that Tiffany would not be found
Then I shuddered
and felt nothing at all
6.
Each of Amy’s fingers
gripping the die
posed a question or offered a comment
The pointer asked: Where did she go?
The index finger: Will she come back?
The ring finger said: Her leaving, her escape, is totally unacceptable
The pinkie: Her return is a necessity
Amy’s thumb remained mute
pressed against the die
but there was a hiss from under the
cuticle-- Don’t wait, Hank, go find herMitch Grabois’ poetry and short fiction has appeared in over seventy literary magazines, most recently The Examined Life, Memoir Journal, and Haggard and Halloo. His novel, Two-Headed Dog was published in April by Dirt e-books, founded by NY agent Gary Heidt. He was born in the Bronx and now lives in Denver.
Friday, July 25, 2014
It's Also Fine
By Mourid Barghouti
It’s also fine to die in our beds
It’s also fine to die in our beds
on a clean pillow
and among our friends.
It’s fine to die, once,
our hands crossed on our chests,
empty and pale,
with no scratches, no chains, no banners,
and no petitions.
It’s fine to have a clean death,
with no holes in our shirts,
and no evidence in our ribs.
It’s fine to die
with a white pillow, not the pavement, under our cheek,
with our hands resting in those of our loved ones,
surrounded by desperate doctors and nurses,
with nothing left but a graceful farewell,
paying no attention to history,
leaving this world as it is,
hoping that, someday, someone else
will change it.
and among our friends.
It’s fine to die, once,
our hands crossed on our chests,
empty and pale,
with no scratches, no chains, no banners,
and no petitions.
It’s fine to have a clean death,
with no holes in our shirts,
and no evidence in our ribs.
It’s fine to die
with a white pillow, not the pavement, under our cheek,
with our hands resting in those of our loved ones,
surrounded by desperate doctors and nurses,
with nothing left but a graceful farewell,
paying no attention to history,
leaving this world as it is,
hoping that, someday, someone else
will change it.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Untitled
By Helen Govan
I hope your kilt will fit you well
and in it you will look a swell
If married never mind
if single drop a line
Wish you bags of luck
and a speedy return back to Blighty.
This poem was reportedly found stitched into the folds of a WWI kilt.
I hope your kilt will fit you well
and in it you will look a swell
If married never mind
if single drop a line
Wish you bags of luck
and a speedy return back to Blighty.
This poem was reportedly found stitched into the folds of a WWI kilt.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Saying Goodbye to Very Young Children
By John Updike
They will not be the same next time. The sayings
so cute, just slightly off, will be corrected.
Their eyes will be more skeptical, plugged in
the more securely to the worldly buzz
of television, alphabet, and street talk,
culture polluting their gazes' dawn blue.
It makes you see at last the value of
those boring aunts and neighbors (their smells
of summer sweat and cigarettes, their faces
like shapes of sky between shade-giving leaves)
who knew you from the start, when you were zero,
cooing their nothings before you could be bored
or knew a name, not even you own, or how
this world brave with hellos turns all goodbye.
They will not be the same next time. The sayings
so cute, just slightly off, will be corrected.
Their eyes will be more skeptical, plugged in
the more securely to the worldly buzz
of television, alphabet, and street talk,
culture polluting their gazes' dawn blue.
It makes you see at last the value of
those boring aunts and neighbors (their smells
of summer sweat and cigarettes, their faces
like shapes of sky between shade-giving leaves)
who knew you from the start, when you were zero,
cooing their nothings before you could be bored
or knew a name, not even you own, or how
this world brave with hellos turns all goodbye.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Ice Cream Stop
By Shel Silverstein
At the fifty-two flavor ice cream stand.
The animals all got off the train
And walked right up to the ice cream man.
“I’ll take Vanilla,” yelled the gorilla.
“I’ll take Chocolate,” shouted the ocelot.
“I’ll take Strawberry,” chirped the canary.
“Rocky Road,” croaked the toad
“Lemon and Lime,” growled the lion.
Said the ice cream man, “Til I see a dime,
You’ll get no ice cream of mine.”
Then the animals snarled and screeched and growled
And whinnied and whimpered and hooted and howled
And gobbled up the whole ice cream stand,
All fifty-two flavors
(fifty-three with the ice cream man).
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Suffering the Unattainable
By David Dodd Lee
Large sea turtles and some whales
will outlive us, water a manifestation of wind in
another dimension.
I had to use the shovel to hack at the wood, had to grab
a hatchet, down deep in the hole. The oak pitched around
like a ship’s mast, or I was no longer alive; perhaps I was yet
to be
all over again, though I kept recalling your name. The verdurous
roots.
Large sea turtles and some whales
will outlive us, water a manifestation of wind in
another dimension.
I had to use the shovel to hack at the wood, had to grab
a hatchet, down deep in the hole. The oak pitched around
like a ship’s mast, or I was no longer alive; perhaps I was yet
to be
all over again, though I kept recalling your name. The verdurous
roots.
Friday, July 11, 2014
Sabbath lie
On Friday, at twilight of a summer day
While the smells of food and prayer rose from every house
And the sound of the Sabbath angels’ wings was in the air,
While still a child I started to lie to my father:
“I went to another synagogue.”
I don’t know if he believed me or not
But the taste of the lie was good and sweet on my tongue
And in all the houses that night
Hymns rose up along with lies
To celebrate the Sabbath.
And in all the houses that night
Sabbath angels died like flies in a lamp,
And lovers put mouth to mouth,
Blew each other up until they floated upward,
Or burst.
And since then the lie has been good and sweet on my tongue
And since then I always go to another synagogue.
And my father returned the lie when he died:
“I’ve gone to another life.”
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
#AllyFail
By J. Mase III
You are the kind of ally that would rather ask me how to twerk than how to pronounce my name
You are the kind of ally that doesn't know what cisgender means but loves staring at my chest before you address me
You are the kind of ally that makes me wonder who my enemies are and trips over words like transphobia and white supremacy
You are the kind of ally that will practice your sassy black woman voice in the mirror
but cross the street when black folks pass by you on street corners
You are the kind of ally that just showed up to help gay people have fancy weddings
You are the kind of ally that wants to take pictures together just for advertising purposes
You are the ally that calls my family's neighborhood up and coming
but would never want to bring up the word gentrification
You are ally on white horse
seemingly scooping down to rescue me from my own depravities
You are the kind of ally that shops only at wholefoods
You are the ally that doesn't realize being gay won't save you from your white privilege
You are the ally that tells old black men how adorable they are
You are the ally that sends me links to articles you've only read the title to
You are the ally that will think "gosh, this couldn't possibly be a poem about me"
You are ally, waving righteous sword that loves to hear me tell a sad story over and over again because vicariously living my pain gives you some street cred
You are the kind of ally that thinks intersectionality uses too many syllables
You are the ally that thinks it's okay to describe someone as having the nerve to be both big AND black
You are the ally that loves the texture of my hair
You are the ally that thinks fucking me is the same as fighting for me
You are the kind of ally that thinks you are hilarious when you rap
You are the ally that writes depressing poems in my honor but never fully gets my complexities
You are the ally that has enough time to google celebrity sex tapes but not rules on allyship
You are the ally that celebrates don't ask don't tell because kids that look like you will never be forced to cross seas to bomb kids that look like them just so they can have some of your fictitious "freedom"
You are the ally that thinks being accepted is the same as being understood
You are the ally that laughs way too hard at my jokes
You are the kind of ally that will share a poem like this on YouTube but will never listen to the words
You are the kind of ally that doesn't understand the problem with words like minorities
You are the kind of ally that believes being on food stamps for your adult Americorps position is the same as a 10 year old brain eating itself for nourishment
You are the kind of ally that thinks I talk too loud when I am angry
You are the ally that thinks rape is funny because it hasn't happened to you
You are that ally that thinks saying you are colorblind is a compliment
You are the ally that thinks believing in systemic oppression is an option
You are the ally that will fuck up my pronouns but think it's okay, cause we're friends
You are the kind of ally that will need to appropriate some yoga after this poem
You are the kind of ally that will only remember that last line about yoga in this poem
You are the ally that never has to progress, because you have already proclaimed yourself to be
my ally
This poem previously appeared in the Huffington Post.
You are the kind of ally that would rather ask me how to twerk than how to pronounce my name
You are the kind of ally that doesn't know what cisgender means but loves staring at my chest before you address me
You are the kind of ally that makes me wonder who my enemies are and trips over words like transphobia and white supremacy
You are the kind of ally that will practice your sassy black woman voice in the mirror
but cross the street when black folks pass by you on street corners
You are the kind of ally that just showed up to help gay people have fancy weddings
You are the kind of ally that wants to take pictures together just for advertising purposes
You are the ally that calls my family's neighborhood up and coming
but would never want to bring up the word gentrification
You are ally on white horse
seemingly scooping down to rescue me from my own depravities
You are the kind of ally that shops only at wholefoods
You are the ally that doesn't realize being gay won't save you from your white privilege
You are the ally that tells old black men how adorable they are
You are the ally that sends me links to articles you've only read the title to
You are the ally that will think "gosh, this couldn't possibly be a poem about me"
You are ally, waving righteous sword that loves to hear me tell a sad story over and over again because vicariously living my pain gives you some street cred
You are the kind of ally that thinks intersectionality uses too many syllables
You are the ally that thinks it's okay to describe someone as having the nerve to be both big AND black
You are the ally that loves the texture of my hair
You are the ally that thinks fucking me is the same as fighting for me
You are the kind of ally that thinks you are hilarious when you rap
You are the ally that writes depressing poems in my honor but never fully gets my complexities
You are the ally that has enough time to google celebrity sex tapes but not rules on allyship
You are the ally that celebrates don't ask don't tell because kids that look like you will never be forced to cross seas to bomb kids that look like them just so they can have some of your fictitious "freedom"
You are the ally that thinks being accepted is the same as being understood
You are the ally that laughs way too hard at my jokes
You are the kind of ally that will share a poem like this on YouTube but will never listen to the words
You are the kind of ally that doesn't understand the problem with words like minorities
You are the kind of ally that believes being on food stamps for your adult Americorps position is the same as a 10 year old brain eating itself for nourishment
You are the kind of ally that thinks I talk too loud when I am angry
You are the ally that thinks rape is funny because it hasn't happened to you
You are that ally that thinks saying you are colorblind is a compliment
You are the ally that thinks believing in systemic oppression is an option
You are the ally that will fuck up my pronouns but think it's okay, cause we're friends
You are the kind of ally that will need to appropriate some yoga after this poem
You are the kind of ally that will only remember that last line about yoga in this poem
You are the ally that never has to progress, because you have already proclaimed yourself to be
my ally
This poem previously appeared in the Huffington Post.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Untitled
Jeff Koons has won.
The reigning artist-king
its proud court jester
the poster child for art-world excess
a bland Mitt Romney Teletubby
a mysterious force of nature
the perma-smiling master of high art and low
as freakish as Andy Warhol:
complicated, bizarre, thrilling, alien,
benevolent, terrifying, goofy
always-immaculate
Is his factory of art makers really that different from Buzzfeed?
Gleaming in the ghost-light of fluorescent tubes,
shiny new Hoovers in pristine, sealed acrylic cases
anthropomorphized and fetishized,
odes to domesticity, hygiene and American assembly lines,
rendering consumerism into something deeply libidinous.
Hyper-anal-retentive Pop collages
peppered with cartoon creatures and vulvas,
miraculous constructions in which basketballs float
in minutely calibrated salt water
Shellacked paintings of flying sandwiches and grinning monkeys,
paint, dessert and psychedelic poop
Something fantastic, something disastrous
They don't even revile; they merely recede.Silliness, shininess, filled with flops,
with waxed chest and having anal sex
Buoyant devices that will sink you,
a creepy fecundity suggestive of erupting skin, simmering mud or sewage,
a pietà-inspired homage to the King of Pop
and his favorite monkey,
a ridiculous marble sculpture
depicting a bejeweled and barechested Staller
The perfect Kardashian wedding centerpiece.
Jeff Koons poses next to a pig, grinning
Jeff Koons wears a luxurious bathrobe
Jeff Koons is served cake by half-naked women
Jeff Koons stands in front of a room full of children spelling out the word banality on a chalkboard
His mystifying persona is perhaps his most enduring artwork
He irritates most when he insists he has no desire to irritate.
Only a cynic could see cynicism
in this cosmically, freakishly sincere true believer
He loves childhood, and sex
He wants to be your Norman Rockwell, your life coach and your gym buddy.
The hype has been endless for this.
The oligarchical collectors of our age, we know, do not care
They like their art instantly recognisable
easily graspable
unchallenging
and shiny.
Little more than a Gagosian showroom
High-production art that sells like crystal meth —
the readymade crossed with greed, money, creepy beauty, and the ugliness of our culture,
reek[ing] of Gilded Age excess, art star hubris
the ever-widening inequality gap
thoughts, however unformed, about who culture is aimed at and how desire is constructed.
That ball is made for you; look in it, and you see yourself.
Join the idolaters and take another selfie
in the distorted reflection of Koons's mirrored objects
There is a funereal air about this exhibition
The God Hercules, a Belvedere torso, and a pimped-out mailbox,
each with a single blue gazing ball,
an amorous Pink Panther
a pig flanked by angels
a London bobby befriending a goofy bear
Bubbles, still affronts and generates an agreeable queasiness.
There's something truly cruel in his sculptures' indifference to any audience desire for profundity
Koons himself, smiling too broadly
to see the culture he propitiates collapse around him
Pity his army of studio assistants
“You’re a killer of art, you’re a killer of beauty ... you’re even a killer of laughter.”
His universal shtick is an illusion,
the most potent and inventive artist of this mad, frothy era
That era will come to an end.
This poem is a cut-up of criticism made by various art critics over the years, and was put together by the Whitney Art Museum for a retrospective about the artist.
The reigning artist-king
its proud court jester
the poster child for art-world excess
a bland Mitt Romney Teletubby
a mysterious force of nature
the perma-smiling master of high art and low
as freakish as Andy Warhol:
complicated, bizarre, thrilling, alien,
benevolent, terrifying, goofy
always-immaculate
Is his factory of art makers really that different from Buzzfeed?
Gleaming in the ghost-light of fluorescent tubes,
shiny new Hoovers in pristine, sealed acrylic cases
anthropomorphized and fetishized,
odes to domesticity, hygiene and American assembly lines,
rendering consumerism into something deeply libidinous.
Hyper-anal-retentive Pop collages
peppered with cartoon creatures and vulvas,
miraculous constructions in which basketballs float
in minutely calibrated salt water
Shellacked paintings of flying sandwiches and grinning monkeys,
paint, dessert and psychedelic poop
Something fantastic, something disastrous
They don't even revile; they merely recede.Silliness, shininess, filled with flops,
with waxed chest and having anal sex
Buoyant devices that will sink you,
a creepy fecundity suggestive of erupting skin, simmering mud or sewage,
a pietà-inspired homage to the King of Pop
and his favorite monkey,
a ridiculous marble sculpture
depicting a bejeweled and barechested Staller
The perfect Kardashian wedding centerpiece.
Jeff Koons poses next to a pig, grinning
Jeff Koons wears a luxurious bathrobe
Jeff Koons is served cake by half-naked women
Jeff Koons stands in front of a room full of children spelling out the word banality on a chalkboard
His mystifying persona is perhaps his most enduring artwork
He irritates most when he insists he has no desire to irritate.
Only a cynic could see cynicism
in this cosmically, freakishly sincere true believer
He loves childhood, and sex
He wants to be your Norman Rockwell, your life coach and your gym buddy.
The hype has been endless for this.
The oligarchical collectors of our age, we know, do not care
They like their art instantly recognisable
easily graspable
unchallenging
and shiny.
Little more than a Gagosian showroom
High-production art that sells like crystal meth —
the readymade crossed with greed, money, creepy beauty, and the ugliness of our culture,
reek[ing] of Gilded Age excess, art star hubris
the ever-widening inequality gap
thoughts, however unformed, about who culture is aimed at and how desire is constructed.
That ball is made for you; look in it, and you see yourself.
Join the idolaters and take another selfie
in the distorted reflection of Koons's mirrored objects
There is a funereal air about this exhibition
The God Hercules, a Belvedere torso, and a pimped-out mailbox,
each with a single blue gazing ball,
an amorous Pink Panther
a pig flanked by angels
a London bobby befriending a goofy bear
Bubbles, still affronts and generates an agreeable queasiness.
There's something truly cruel in his sculptures' indifference to any audience desire for profundity
Koons himself, smiling too broadly
to see the culture he propitiates collapse around him
Pity his army of studio assistants
“You’re a killer of art, you’re a killer of beauty ... you’re even a killer of laughter.”
His universal shtick is an illusion,
the most potent and inventive artist of this mad, frothy era
That era will come to an end.
This poem is a cut-up of criticism made by various art critics over the years, and was put together by the Whitney Art Museum for a retrospective about the artist.
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