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III. Coming to the Mystery
Tomorrow
“tomorrow the war starts” And I’ll give birth In the parking lot Meters below The battlefield
This country This place Trying Seeking To be born To thrive
Wars raging And I teach my children About The importance The magnificence Of life Life here Israel War Or not Birth Or not —Mindy Aber Barad
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THE BIRTH OF SAMUEL "And he had two wives: the name of one was Hannah … and Hannah had no children." -- (First Samuel 1:2)
I. The poorest servant-girl can have a child, A beggar's daughter can give birth — not I, Who listens as they sing a lullaby About a vineyard, lush and undefiled. A bear, a wolf, a leopard — every wild, Ferocious beast can nurse its young — not I, Who once had seen a dreaming baby cry, Then smile, recalling how his mother smiled.
A crab can reproduce, as can a vile And loathsome snake, as can the smallest fly — Not I. The fecund earth explodes with life, With progeny, with sons and daughters, while Bereft of leaf or root, I slowly die, A withered plant, an empty, barren wife.
II. A month goes by, another month goes by, And then a third, a fourth, without a sign Of blood; a fifth — can they stretch out to nine Full months of pregnancy? At night I try To sleep, but cannot sleep; instead, I tie My dreams with stems, imagining the vine My little girl will plant, or Sabbath wine My little boy will learn to sanctify.
What miracle is this, O Lord of life, That in my womb, I cultivate a child, The seed for whom I prayed. My husband's eyes Are filled with tears when he beholds his wife, When he embraces me; his voice is mild And very soft, while by my side he lies. —Yakov Azriel
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BIRTH
And we got to the hospital And she writhes in great suffering “Epidural” I yell to the nurses and there are no delivery rooms And all night she screams in great suffering in the pupils of a little girl Our father in heaven Rock of Israel Women pass through the delivery room like Rebecca like Rachel I hold the lands of a doe whose womb is narrow And cry like her from dire straits I summon for her the serpent the dragon who will bite and open her And there are no delivery rooms in the rooms of the heart that are so closed In the end the pulse failed In the end emergency surgery In the end The sea was split and an angel was sent In the end a beautiful baby girl wrapped like a bride Whispers to me the mystery of the doe —Chana Kremer (tr. EC)
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You peck the egg of the belly And hop forth from your mother’s foliage
And now – the circle of a head A body, oval, like a pebble from the brook Vibration of the yo-yo string of the navel-cord And your own tune To a weeping already wept. —Tom Hadani Nave (tr. EC)
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PROVISIONS FOR THE JOURNEY
Tonight is already Nissan, my mother is on the birthing-stool And I must be born. I shall have to complete the daily quota of bricks For the dough of my fathers who are wearing out Has not had time to rise to words
Tonight is already Nissan a night of legend I prepare the quota of song From the dough that has not yet risen To bake the image of myself
I take the quota of bricks From my ancestors men of time I prepare the plan of my birth I speak to them softly. I prepare my own provisions for the journey.
I walk among them they are calm in their being. I walk among them now. I take from them my provisions, my placenta, So as to be born. —Balfour Hakak (tr. EC)
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[untitled]
After I was born Light palpated Drouth scorched Emptiness grated: Wrap yourself in skin Be one
Alone An alien teat Where has the Presence gone? —Sara Friedland ben Arza (tr. EC)
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The Soul’s Journey
I am a soul Behind the hard shell In the past
I am the light That pierces the dark Of alienation.
Above me The dark smoke quickly Disperses.
Below me A piece of earth – Everything passes.
I am the beginning Of a new era, A different story. —Eva Rotenberg
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Eternal Covenant
A river of love flows Through me to my daughter, Through her to her daughter — my granddaughter.
This is a covenant of a heart that melts At every wail and hint of smile; A covenant of pacification Of bleary eyes After a sleepless night, A covenant of eternal servitude.
I dip my head In the tiny body of my granddaughter And a jasmine milk is absorbed in me Addictive As the fragrance of the Temple incense. She is calm, my daughter, An angel of compassion and tenderness Has touched her face So that her eyes shine Her heart widens To wonder. A single navel-cord Is strung from me to her From her to her daughter And all that will come after her. —Iona Tor (tr. EC)
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AFTER THE BIRTH OF JACOB AND ESAU “When her [Rebecca’s] time to give birth came, behold — twins in her womb.” (Genesis 25:24)
My grandsons sleep. And as they stir, the years When my wife and I could not conceive a child, When my son as well seemed cursed, bewitched, beguiled, When our lives were ruled by sterile, barren tears, Are pushed aside. My grandsons sleep. My hairs Are gray and few; my voice, now soft and mild, Has lost its former force, when words were piled Like stones on walls erecting forts of prayers.
My grandsons sleep; I look at them and cry, Then bow before my God who’s shown me grace, Who let me know today that all the pain, The sacrifices made, the scoffers’ “why,” The stubborn faith that God will show His face — It hasn’t been in vain, no, not in vain. —Yakov Azriel
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THE HIGH PRIEST BESIDE THE BLOODY PLACENTA
On Shavuot of 5701 (June 1941) there was a pogrom against the Jews of Baghdad (the “Farhud”). It went on for two days, with the encouragement of the German ambassador, Fritz Grobba. Among the murdered were the two older brothers of Saida Hakak, the mother of the twins Herzl and Balfour Hakak. Their birth seven years after the pogrom was received as a compensation and replacement. The wise men of Baghdad said to Yitzchak Habshah, our bereaved grandfather, after twins were born to his daughter, “You have received two in exchange for two.” The family myth was revealed to the poets only when they were 29 when they read the book Golim VeGeulah (Exiles and Redemption) which was published in that year. – Herzl Hakak
My grandfather dreamed that someday he would be seen sitting In the council of the Sanhedrin. To bear witness as one who had studied Torah With the descendants of Amoraim. And the testimony oozed blood. For his firstborn sons had perished in the Farhud. His holy heart saw the palace, and also the palaces That stood above it. The congregation of Baghdad waited for the rectification That would tell deliverance and arise. For coming generations. His father, Tzion Habshah, clutched a dripping document. Rabbi Meir, light of the Tannaim. Hath given and taken away. Such Torah. The whole congregation came to the wedding of his eldest daughter To bring back life from bereavement. To bring back the glory. The grandfather whispered a longing spell. The wind threatens to sweep us away. And who will tell the bleeding testimony. The holy wedding will slake Souls from the water-bottle. And to the congregation came the day of replacement. Two born in one placenta. To give light to sorrow. At the wedding they saw: the rabbi of Baghdad Came back from Sheol. From the blood.
Grandfather was uplifted, the sandak of twins. In a whisper he heard His two dead sons above with a sorrowful heavenly voice: Father, now we have seen you return to holiness. To the Ark. Beside the redeemed and the rolled parchments, a sandak whose voice cracked. And it is written in the words of the Sanhedrin: days are coming. And they so fear His face without its fearful garments. —Herzl Hakak
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THE DAY MOTHER GAVE BIRTH
The day Mother gave birth I came to the world The angel struck me on the mouth according To the Word The world was broken then And I saw the light.
The light of dawn came to me When I came to the mystery of the whole world And the waters washed me According to the navel. And I was mute. When my mother give birth The sun stood still I found myself On the edge of a dream On the edge of the abyss.
On the day of birth The world trembled On the day the mother gave birth The broken world was Whole. —Balfour Hakak
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BEN-ONI “And as her soul was departing — for she [Rachel] was dying — she called his name ‘Ben-Oni’ [‘the son of my sorrow’]. But his father [Jacob] named him ‘Benjamin’ [‘the son of my right hand’]. Thus Rachel died; and she was buried on the way to Efrat, which is Bethlehem.” (Genesis 35:18-19)
Ben-Oni, do you hear me? It is I, your mother, calling out to you; I want to kiss and cradle you, little one; — but I cannot.
Ben-Oni, I am singing a lullaby to you; can you hear it? A lullaby of a little goat fed raisins and almonds.
Ben-Oni, the raisins will help the little goat grow strong And agile enough to leap over all fences.
Ben-Oni, the almonds will nourish him and let him hear voices That sing lullabies in his dreams.
Ben-Oni, you are my little goat; jump this high fence and come to me If only for the fleetness of a dream.
Ben-Oni, do you hear me singing in your dreams? Do you dream of me as I dream of you?
Ben-Oni, I stretch out my hands; can you stretch out your fingers To grasp my raisins and almonds, my songs, my dreams?
If only I could hold you, little one — If only for a while — if only once. —Yakov Azriel
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LEAH’S EYES “And Leah’s eyes were soft …” (Genesis 29:17)
Soften my eyes, like Leah’s, who used to look At each child as if he were her only one, He alone her evening moon and morning sun, A page inscribed to her in a treasured book. Soften my eyes, like Leah’s, who never took A child’s hug for granted, but used to run To bake her children bread when there was none, To hold each frightened child when forests shook.
Grant me the skill to love — a mother’s love, To see my sons with Leah’s eyes and grace; To hear the silence in my daughter’s sighs; To put a father’s hand in a mother’s glove; To accept my children’s flaws; and in each face, To find, reflected, the light of Leah’s eyes. —Yakov Azriel
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Unlocking the Sky from Celestial Navigation (2013)
Each year you reminded me of the black and blue cry of my own birth, the breech delivery that pulled your pulse toward it. You told me my wailing was a bitter awakening to a human form separated from everything, and you knew from the sound I wouldn’t stay easily.
This year on your birthday, when I call and sing to you, bless you for your presence that’s held me here since birth, and recall to you, mother, how I cried, how I wept at my own coming, you had forgotten the story⎯ the stroke having blocked it from your own body.
But you had told me I cried, mother! How I cried at my entrance into this world of sharp-eared dogs that chase and bite small children mailing letters at the corner postbox. You heard my wound, mother, not from you, but for the heaviness of walking on pavements to schools, to playgrounds never having enough green⎯never enough green.
Don’t you remember, mother, telling me this sorrow, your tears for the child who didn’t want to arrive to hairbrushes and dull brown coats and mittens, who wanted to jump instead into an empty sky, the seat of the swing twisting from its sudden loss of weight, swinging, alone, earthward, as I let go. —Ellen Jane Powers
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Child of the Storm
She remembered the night He was born, in the midst Of the fiercest thunder storm Of the season
Surely, the storm did not Portend his eventual outcome For both parents loved him, Cared for him, nurtured him
Perhaps he would be famous With his wonderful singing Voice and beautiful songs Songs all written by him
Perhaps, he would be president But, no. He chose instead to Join that group, where he became Fully radicalized
And, in time, he learned to kill By many different means, always Eager to inflict harm on his Perceived enemies So now he sits in prison, Proud of the acts that he Committed; proud of the Harm that he’s done And, while his father still Visits him at times, his mother Cannot bring herself to look upon Him. No, she can only weep —Dawn McCormack
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BIRTH IN THE STORM, AND THE TIMES CHANGED
Birth of a world in the immigrant camp. A new age. Mother senses it. Remembers birthing in exile, sensation of redemption. Feels the pang breaking. The foundations of the world on the birthing stool. In the eye of the storm. She saw. To the right of them and to the left. Like a serving-maid beholding the nation in its hour.
A world of redemption dawned, the birth hastened its bursting-forth. With the returned from wandering. To restore to the homeland its lost Voices. Here in the tents of the immigrant camp Mother arose From her breaking: you children will sing of the wonder, A heavenly voice asked, her voice restored: who has borne me these. Her lips gave voice to the sleepers. Dreams, the rectification of worlds. There is nowhere to go back to. This is handed on from generation to generation. The shining secret: there is life that is potent, that will be revealed Only in art, only when the song is composed. The Redemption knew generations that rose and died In constriction and effacement. A nation is born. The remnant and the lost like a bird that escaped. Mother knew: the world is broken, the immigrant camp Is a broken revelation, a land beyond.
Light and darkness touched each other by turns. You were born as the times were changing. My children, this is the rectification of a dream and a name, write in your poems. In a time of shuddering and trembling a foundation is created a mystery bears witness. The record of days will settle what was crooked. And also the future. —Herzl Hakak
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Modeh Ani
At night? Exhausted. Grateful to be gone. My mortal thoughts come morning: shuddering breaths, the vision spilling in. Old novelties: the cracking, aching limbs, the creaking yoke of sentience returning. Reeling on this mandatory carousel of days, I wake to the raw strangeness Being is. And you shall know the true God by the fact that faith is not required. No, you veil His brutal presence just to stay intact. —Elijah Blumov
[Note: “Modeh ani” (I give thanks) are the first words of the prayer said upon waking]
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The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli (c. 1484–1486)
She arrives
The sea
releases her slowly,
Water still
clings
She stands
upon the shell
The wind
moves toward her
Hair lifts
across her skin,
Nothing here hungers yet.
Desire has
not entered
Beauty
remains
The figure
waiting on shore
Fabric
prepared
But not yet.
For now,
not innocent,
standing at
the edge
where beauty first appears
and does not
yet know —Tushar Sen
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Plato’s Cave
start so – there’s a thought, or perhaps an idea, a tale that demands to be told – now, here! a picture that forms in your imagination or the notes of a song, begging to be heard, an image – a tree, a view, a bird. . .
Or your love-child, a poem, takes shape in your mind entrancing as shadows in Plato’s cave, but pinning her down into form, into line, into free verse or metre, is hard to achieve – like a fractious toddler, she will not behave, the web that you’re weaving she wants to unweave.
Still births and miscarriages, then, are rife, parenting years after birth not unknown, launching her into the world causes strife and heartbreak – this child that you thought was your own they reject, or read into her views you disown and never intended: she’s theirs now for life.
But despite all the setbacks, you persevere in tempting her out of her shadowy cave to the world of reality: yes, you fear she may be forgotten – but what if she’s saved? through her you may know some small measure of fame: perhaps she will live, and preserve your name. —Judy Koren
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Lot’s Wife
WE, THE UNBORN SONS OF ABEL “And the Lord said to Cain, ‘Where is Abel, your brother?’ And he answered, ‘I do not know; am I my brother’s keeper?’ Then He said to Cain, ‘What have you done? The voices of your brother’s bloods are crying out to me from the ground.''' (Genesis 4:9-10)
We, the unborn sons of Abel, Mourn The sun, whose warmth we will never feel, The sea, into whose waves we will never wade, The shore, with whose sand and shells we will never play.
And rain — what is rain, That might have fallen on cheeks We will never have, And which makes puddles We will never step into?
Milk — what would milk taste like? Is it sweet or sour? And its color, Is it brighter than the dull white fog In which we float?
We strain to listen — Is that a bird flying by? Or is it only the echo of bird-song Coming to us from far away, from beyond forests, Beyond mountains and oceans? Or is that a small dog barking “Come out to play, To play;” Or perhaps it is a cricket at dusk Reminding us, “Go home to sleep, To sleep.” Or is that just the croaking of a frog That echoes the pounding of hearts Which will never beat Inside our chests?
We want to stretch out our hands (But fingers, we have no fingers!) To reach the clouds Which hide the sun from us, Which hide the blue of sky. (What is blue? What is sky?) And stars, where are the stars That cannot kindle their flames In this dull white fog in which we drift?
We, the unborn sons of Abel, Try to remember; But memory never comes to us; Our memories, unborn like us, Lie buried far away, Beyond forests of snow, Beyond mountains with glaciers and oceans of ice.
Is that the warmth of sun? Or is that a wind Which has come to blow within our dreams, A warm wind which pats our head And our cheeks which will never feel the rain?
Or perhaps this is a whisper, A mother whispering our names. But what is a name? And what is a mother? We strain our hands to touch her eyes (But fingers, we have no fingers!). We want to laugh for her, But we have no voice, No voice; we have no joy, No joy. Where is our mother Who will never kiss us, Never embrace us, Whose smile We will never see?
The dull white fog in which we sink grows gray. Is this the coming of night? And in our night, will stars blossom Like roses we will never smell,
Or like yellow dandelions we will never pick As a present for our mother, for our father? We, the unborn sons of Abel, Mourn Kittens whose soft fur we will never stroke; Cool water we will never drink; Words we will never say; Songs we will never sing; Our father’s love we will never know. But love, what is love?
The gray fog we shiver in grows black And colder than the icicles we will never suck. Darkness is swallowing us; Is this our father’s death? What is death?
We, the unborn sons of Abel, Mourn And would cry for our father; If only we had eyes; If only we had tears. —Yakov Azriel
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