A Poem for Passover by the Editor

Fast of the Firstborn

Shmuel ben Moshe HaLevi

Lightheadedness 

Irritability 

Difficulty concentrating 

Weakness 

(and of course) 

Hunger. 

These are the symptoms of the brief 

deliberate shunning of nourishment

I endure each year at this time.

Unpleasant?  

Yes, but a reminder 

I still live.

Much less unpleasant 

than what happened 

to the firstborn males of the Egyptians 

all those millennia past 

on that night 

my great-many-times-over-grandfather 

was spared the cold sword of 

The Angel of Death.

The blood of the lamb 

streaked across the lintel 

of my ancestor’s slave shack 

informed Death to pass over 

its frightened occupants 

cowering and clutching at their ears 

to drown out the screams of horror 

emanating from the abodes of the Egyptians. 

From that moment on 

every firstborn male 

in every generation 

would belong to God 

and must be redeemed 

with blood or sacrifice 

every anniversary 

of that awful event. 

Tonight I will spill out a little of my wine 

in memory of those who were slaughtered 

enemies though they may have been

and invite all who are hungry

to join me in celebration of the Passover.

After a day without food

the bitter herbs will taste sweet.

LAST CHANCE TO VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE POEM FOR THE 2018 SONGS OF ERETZ READERS CHOICE AWARD CONTEST

Tomorrow, March 31, at midnight CST, voting for the 2018 Readers Choice Award Contest will close.  Don’t miss your chance!  In case you are new to Songs of Eretz or tuning in late, information about the contest may be found here http://www.songsoferetz.com/2018/02/announcing-1st-annual-songs-of-eretz.html.

As of today, "Autismville" by Melinda Coppola has a commanding lead, and Coppola's "7 a. m." is solidly in second place.  Tied for a distant third are "Deceptive Cadence" by Carol Kner and "The Great Escape" by Yoni Hammer-Kossoy.  "When I Am Old" by Tim Amsden is in fifth place, while "Passing On" by Carol Kner and "The Poet Says This Is How You Should See" by Melinda Coppola are in sixth and seventh (last) place respectively.

Vote for your favorite poem by sending an email to Editor@SongsofEretz.com.

"Morgan le Fay Haunts Evergreen Park" by Sylvia Cavanaugh

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Morgan le Fay Haunts Evergreen Park” by Sylvia Cavanaugh. Cavanaugh has an M.S. in Urban Planning from the University of Wisconsin, teaches high school African and Asian cultural studies, and advises break-dancers and poets. She and her students are actively involved in the Sheboygan chapter of 100,000 Poets for Change.

Cavanaugh’s poems have appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies.  She is a contributing editor for Verse-Virtual: An Online Community Journal of Poetry.  Finishing Lines Press published her chapbook, “Staring Through My Eyes,” and Kelsay Books will publish her second chapbook, “Angular Embrace,” in April. You can find more of Sylvia’s poetry at https://sylviacavanaugh.com/.  Cavanaugh originally hails from Pennsylvania.

Morgan le Fay Haunts Evergreen Park

Sylvia Cavanaugh

"Oblivious" Ink and Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

Streaks of pale sand

salt the memory

nested in horizons 

of dark organic soil

12,000 years and counting

these sloping swells might be old dunes

or fossilized waves

swollen to the crest

they used to say she dwelt

to the west

across the ocean

could our glacier

have been her crystal

carved palace

German immigrants 

with 1848 ideals

may have sensed this

from their own

nearly forgotten folklore 

even before they stepped foot

in Sheboygan

today Georgia and I pretend

to read omens 

in the winding word

of an unnamed stream

fallen sticks create eddies

we seek to be edified as rushing

water spills secrets

into the hollow behind stones

we listen closely

but can’t yet decipher 

the sweetwater sea 

has long since retreated

from this upland park

I need to find a wild apple tree

it may be all that’s left 

of sorcery

Poet’s Notes:  It seems that sometimes there is not enough magic. Although our ancestors lived and breathed it, we are left somewhat adrift in the modern world of technology. I feel as though encounters with nature may be the closest we can come to magic these days if we remain open to its many spells.

Editor’s Note:  This poem has many good moments.  I particularly like the concept of the Wisconsin Glacier as the palace of an evil queen.  The charming side narrative of the speaker and her friend or child or niece Georgia is, well, charming.  The idea that our world once contained magic and that now the magic is gone (and perhaps replaced by technology as implied here) creates a sad longing in the reader.  The pun on "eddies" is nicely done, too. 

Artist's Note: I recently had the opportunity to try an Oculus Rift, and the experience was magical. However, we should all do our best not to forget the magic of nature.

"Condolences Post Mortem" by Howard Stein

Condolences Post Mortem 

Howard Stein  

"Extinguish" Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

Dad died at 94, after a fall, 

A broken pelvis, and a short illness.

Job's advisors streamed by

The grieving family--

"He looks so good in the open casket";

"He lived to a ripe old age";

"Be grateful you had him so long";

"He lived a full life right to the end";

"He's in a better place now";

"He's no longer suffering."

Such well-intentioned reassurances

Did not reassure us--

Though they might have reassured

The ones who were speaking.

I was a screen for their platitudes.

We were not greedy with Dad's life;

It's just that there is never enough time.

Dying is still living, alive,

Here in this place.

Death is the slamming of a heavy door

In the face. Then you hear

The lock close behind the door.

There is no undoing that cavernous crash.

I found myself comforting Job's comforters

That their words were adequate to the task.

I could not bring myself to tell them

They had only made the void more terrible.

Poet's Notes:  This poem is an amalgam of personal experiences and of several decades of experiences with physicians, patients, and families as I worked as a medical educator in university healthcare settings. The poem is about how friends, co-workers, fellow members of houses of worship and other settings often speak with family members of a recently deceased person.

For instance, at a funeral home visitation, at the funeral, or at the cemetery, people with the best of intentions will offer up-beat clichés in an effort to lessen the depth of grief for the family--if not also for themselves. Instead of "standing in the other person's shoes," they will inadvertently impose their awkwardness and denial on the family. The result for the survivors is often feeling worse rather than comforted. As I wrote the poem, I thought of the biblical book of Job and of parallels between my own experiences and Job's.

Editor’s Note:  How awful and difficult must it be for Howard and his loved ones to accept the death of Howard’s father no matter his age, after a fall that presumably might have been prevented.  Pointless, ignoble, ironic, and depressing are words that come to mind.  A bitter loss.  Such a bitter loss.

Howard’s poem captures a universal sentiment about how people sometimes cope with death, and I published it for that reason.  Howard appears silent on the offering of solutions to the problems of presenting the bereaved with platitudes.  However, I read his silence on that subject as the between-the-lines answer--silence, a handshake, a hug, just being there is what is wanted. 

"Âme en Peine à Paris" by Heidi Seaborn

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Âme en Peine à Paris” by Heidi Seaborn.  Seaborn started writing poetry in 2016 after three decades as a marketing executive. Since then, her work has appeared in over forty journals and anthologies, among them Nimrod, Penn Review, and American Journal of Poetry. She is a graduate of Stanford University and serves on the editorial staff of The Adroit Journal.  She lives in Seattle.  Find out more about her at www.heidiseabornpoet.com.

Âme en Peine à Paris

Heidi Seaborn                        

            ~November 2015

Paris written down my naked arms,

"Drapeau Français" Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

its shimmering seam of truth and lies.

Ghosts sip espresso in café bars.

In the Seine, peonies float, stars

of pink petals reflect the clotted sky,

shadows written down my naked arms.

Wooden boats, a sepia pond far

from the boy with lashed, dusk eyes.

Ghosts sip espresso in café bars,

suck les huîtres off the shell, carve

steak from bone with silver knives,

Paris is written down my naked arms.

In caverns beneath speeding cars,

red dress swirls away Paris’ demise

to a ghost sipping espresso in café bars.

Paris’ shimmering seam: river of stars,

succor, sucre for Ars

poetica written down my naked arms,

I sip espresso with her ghosts in café bars.

Poet’s Notes:  This villanelle was written as a love letter to Paris—a city that I know and love so well—post the terrorist attacks. The poem speaks to the vibrancy and constancy of a city that endures and that all who pass through carry the imprint of Paris with them. 

Editor’s Note:  This is a haunting villanelle and beautiful elegy for that tragic day in Paris.  My poem that was inspired by the same events may be found here http://www.songsoferetz.com/2015/11/a-poem-for-paris-by-editor.html. 

"What Is Owed To Guests Unwanted" by James Frederick William Rowe

What Is Owed To Guests Unwanted

James Frederick William Rowe

The unwelcome guest

Has come unbidden to my door

Disrupting the tranquility of my repose

The felicity of my days

But though a stranger

Though an intruder

It is mine to offer hospitality

To welcome to my table

To warm by my hearth

To make a place for the traveler

Who has journeyed so far

My complaints shall not avail me

Neither my tears, nor my sighs

Not the gnashing of teeth

Nor a moan of displeasure

Shall change what has been allotted to me

All of these are but noises

And as thunder makes no more fearful

The forks of lightning across the boiled skies

The fury of my protests

The intensity of my indignation

Are but loud, empty sounds

I shall rob from the trial its power

I shall steal from it its pain

What it brings I shall endure

Over what I cannot change I shall accept

Concede to all it can correctly cause

But to what it cannot claim

I shall not give as charity

So set you down, o! catastrophe

I've made a place, and here I've waited

You will not find me surprised

I have long been prepared

Poet’s Notes:  This poem is basically Stoic philosophy put to verse. Though I can't say I have managed to live as philosophically as the Stoics are known to have, the ideal of Apatheia, or freedom from the distress of the passions, is a noble goal to guide one's conduct. To deal with one's trouble without complaint magnifying the loss would make us all happier, for we certainly heap more hardship upon ourselves by our conduct. 

The unwelcome guest is some personal calamity that has upset the order of the narrator's life--something bad enough that others might lament, but which he will accept because he can do nothing about it other than accept it.  Whatever happened has been done; it is now part of his life. What matters now is how one reacts to the hardship. Do you cry and whine? Or do you accept what you cannot change and give nothing more to empower it to wreck your life further? The narrator chooses to embrace the pain but to offer it nothing more and so starve the trouble of the suffering that only our consent gives to our woes.

The structure of this poem is three stanzas of eleven verses apiece. There was nothing especially noteworthy in choosing this—it was simply what looked good when I was writing it. I had no problem writing this poem.  I wrote it almost entirely down on one trip on the subway. The theme came to me readily, and the words poured out without effort. 

Editor’s Note:  There is wisdom here--not really new wisdom--but wisdom that bears repeating and that is worth publishing.  I took the "unwanted guest" as a metaphor for just about any unpleasantness, from a woman getting her monthly period (often referred to as an "unwanted guest") to being assigned an unpleasant task at work or an unpleasant customer to serve.  Stephen Covey called choosing one's response to such circumstances "pro-activity," and being pro-active is his first and most important "habit" of highly successful people.  Animals react.  Enlightened humans choose their responses. 

"The Snow Globe" by Aparna Sanyal

The Snow Globe

Aparna Sanyal     

Beauty hides in Pain. 

A shy bride, she looks around 

"Glimmer" Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

corners, peeks at you.

Laughs, then skitters away wearing

A skirt that trails ribbon tears 

Dead-drumstick legs lope away--

clouds of carnations in her hands,

ruffled and tinged 

with the colours of seeping 

and weeping. 

Pain is her snow globe, soon she will stand

upright in it, tilt her head up to a sun

she can never see, 

and command snow. 

And it will snow-- 

expectations, hopes 

and memories and fears will drizzle down; 

so much glitter in one globe. 

Beauty will stand stock-still but hidden. 

Sectioned from view in this flurry unleashed by Pain.

Wait for the flakes to settle, she will be 

there, sieved from granular water. 

Still there, still shining, still smiling

the Beauty in this Pain.  

Poet's Notes: This poem was written at a time when I was so low, sunk in the depths of clinical depression. Some mornings I would wake up so sad and yet sated in a strange way--grateful to have the chance to view the world through the strange, stark kaleidoscope of pain. In that heightened state, I truly see things with fresh, bright eyes that sieve beauty through pain. 

Editor’s Note:  Beauty can be cruel, terrible, horrifying even, and certainly painful--Aparna has captured this truth with the painful beauty of her words.  The snow globe conceit is brilliant--beauty in a cage and the pain of seeing it or having put it there.  

Readers Choice Award Update

Today marks the beginning of the final week of the Readers Choice Award Contest.  You may vote for your favorite poem until midnight CST on March 31.  In case you are new to Songs of Eretz or tuning in late, information about the contest may be found here http://www.songsoferetz.com/2018/02/announcing-1st-annual-songs-of-eretz.html.

As of today, "Autismville" by Melinda Coppola has a commanding lead, and Coppola's "7 a. m." is solidly in second place.  Tied for a distant third are "Deceptive Cadence" by Carol Kner and "The Great Escape" by Yoni Hammer-Kossoy.  "When I Am Old" by Tim Amsden has moved into fifth place, while "Passing On" by Carol Kner and "The Poet Says This Is How You Should See" by Melinda Coppola are in sixth and seventh (last) place respectively.

Vote for your favorite poem by sending an email to Editor@SongsofEretz.com.

"I Grow Content" by Lauren McBride

I Grow Content

Lauren McBride

I hold aloft bare branches - 

"Seasons" Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

black lace against blue sky

beneath a warming sun.

Invigorated, I grow fuzzy

and break out in pale green.

People notice and smile,

and speak of spring.

Steadily I fill out,

balancing limbs laden 

with breeze-catching leaves

hiding my naked form.

People come to rest beneath.

I rustle and wave 

in bright sunshine

before my lush crown                                                

changes color and grows thin

with each gust of wind.

People come to see

and take pictures 

or gather my lost leaves.

In chilly air, my balding 

branches turn white

and grow heavy with snow.

I feel stiff and cold 

down to my roots.

Few come to visit.

I stand silent, waiting

until a warm wind blows,

bringing youth and vigor 

back to my veins. My boughs 

leaf out green again.

Both taller and wider this year,

many can rest in my shade. 

I grow content.

Poet's Notes:  This poem gives voice to a tree that enjoys sharing its gifts with people. I used "grow" in the title and last line for its double meaning, and employed an age-related extended metaphor for the changing seasons. 

"Harold's Samaritan" by Mary Soon Lee

Harold's Samaritan

Mary Soon Lee

"Stranger" Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

Maybe you saw him on the bus

reading the latest Harry Bosch novel

and said, "That's a great book!"

and he looked up at you

before his awkwardness

caught up with him

and burst out "I love it."

And though you didn't ask his name

or suggest a cup of coffee,

that gesture hoisted him

out of his muddied descent into gloom.

So that, later that day,

when he read the signs

on the laundromat notice board,

he scrabbled in his pockets for a pen

to jot down the phone number

of the monthly book club,

the book club he'll thank

for changing his life.

He won't remember you,

you won't remember him.

Poet's Notes:  This is a poem about an invented character of mine, Harold, who features in a number of poems about an imaginary book club. Prior to joining the book club, Harold is a lonely, gloomy man. The book club brings him friendship. The poem is also about how our interactions with strangers can have unseen ramifications, small acts of kindness rippling outward. One of the poems about the book club was previously published in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review http://www.songsoferetz.com/2016/01/poem-of-day-readers-auxiliary-meeting.html. 

“Your Repose” by Melinda Coppola

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Your Repose” by Melinda Coppola.  Coppola has been writing in some form for nearly five decades.  Her work has been published in several magazines, books, and periodicals including I Come from the World, Harpur Palate, Kaleidoscope, The Autism Perspective, Spirit First, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Welcome Home, and Celebrations. An artist, yoga teacher, and mother to an amazing daughter with special needs, she enjoys infusing the work of her heart with her voice as a poet.

Your Repose

Melinda Coppola

"Escape" Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

The dream stage, when the eyes dance 

beneath closed lids,

that which we know as REM,

is also named paradoxical sleep,

because the body rests while the mind

is quite awake.

I wonder if your soul 

checks herself in mirrors

as you slumber, if she

scrolls Facebook, idly clicking Likes 

with her ethereal fingers, 

as if these tiny dreamland acts,

things your days do not contain,

could change a lifetime’s course.

You, who walk the waking world

following all the rules you know,

making up some you don’t,

doing everything in order,

trying to make sense of the chaos,

You who count duplicates;

numbers on license plates, 

yellow cars in a lot,

who checks and rechecks

the solid fences of her world:

I will have a treat, 

You’re a girl,

You will have girl hair when we leave,

Two sides, cheek bink,

Mommy will you fix it

I want to think you are free in sleep,

different, unconstrained,

that anxiety and compulsion,

autism and obsessions

can’t follow you 

when you fly to that misty realm.

I want to think 

you can have this respite every night,

relief from all the voices, and fears,

the tensions,  demands,

that there is no standard 

of normal in dreamland,

or, if there is, you define it,

you abide

quite comfortably there.

Poets Notes:  I often wish I could be inside my developmentally disabled daughter’s brain. The mystery of her inner landscape intrigues me as much as the mystical realm of sleep and dreams. This poem was conceived from my loving curiosity about the nighttime journeys of her mind and soul.

Editor’s Note:  The gradual turn that begins in the third stanza is nicely done, perfectly setting up the reader for the narrative of the autistic girl in her dream world.  The heartfelt wish at the close of the poem takes my breath away.  

“MRI” by Sara Backer

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “MRI” by Sara Backer.  Backer is the author of two chapbooks, “Bicycle Lotus”, which won the Turtle Island Poetry Award, and “Scavenger Hunt” coming soon from Dancing Girl Press. She's currently pursuing an MFA at Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her online writing is posted on her website, www.sarabacker.com/publications.

MRI

Sara Backer

I am the log the river shakes downstream.

The helmsman turns on pulsing disco

and mechanical rowers chant pins and needles,

pins and needles. I’m 100% sure those are the words

until they become friends in need and friends in need and

into the chute I’m sent.

The periscope mirror above my face

to ease claustrophobia doesn’t fool my mind.

I sense the lethal weight of magnets

closing round my brain. I churn with the noise

that will transform secrets of my dark tissue

into silent psychedelic imagery.

I become lumber run through the mill,

hammered, sawed, planed, and drilled,

bolted and drilled again, vibration after vibration

in a chilled room with a useless sheet

tossed over my legs—

a preview of my own autopsy?

A wet prick of dye announces Act II.

An intercom voice asks are you all right?

I say yes despite numb fingers, dizziness

of holding still, breathing minutes away through—pins

and needles, friends in need and—this construction project

of me somewhere between alive and dead.

Poet’s Notes:  Perhaps because I lived in Japan for three years, I'm always interested in the dynamic of opposites in Eastern poetry. A brain MRI is a loud and tactile hour-long ordeal for the patient that results in a silent image that doctors can see and understand in seconds--and find beauty in it. I hoped to show the way our brains try to fill in for us when our senses are deprived or when we are deprived of information. 

Editor’s Note:  Backer has nicely poetically captured the experience many have during an MRI.  The poetic conceit works well, and the stanza about the sheet is especially powerful. 

“Le suicide” by Ashley Valente

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Le suicide” by Ashley Valente in her publishing debut.  Valente has honed her craft through years of study at the University of La Verne.  She specializes in short stories and poems and is a classic film buff.

Le suicide

Ashley Valente

Fine stone cold turkey

The cut of a searing hot blade

Surrendering identity

Le fin de vie

on the wrist

where there est non vermillion mouth 

Depression emotion

Fear madness

to call you mad

N’est pas? 

in your 

own villa 

Self hatred 

it smells strongly of money

metallic, like blood 

Marked violence

drips into your eyes

blind to everything but 

Le désir à 

Disappear

where her stomach is 

hard and willing 

for you to swim lower

Life stolen

Pour quoi? L’argent? 

Sex?

Pride? 

Le mensonge de soi

Is the worst

Rope of all 

Ça va? Non. 

No modern man 

Lives well inside

Poet's Notes:  The 1967 film Diaboliquement Votre inspired “Le suicide”. An amnesiac, played by international sex symbol Alain Delon (pictured), is being systematically brainwashed by his supposed wife and best friend, who are both urging him toward suicide. The left oriented stanzas touch on sex as an addiction, the right oriented stanza on monetary greed, before the two sides converge in the final stanza. In addition, the left oriented stanzas may be read together as a stand-alone poem. 

Editor’s Note:  I particularly appreciate the thirteenth stanza, where the erotic and death begin to combine and then come together beautifully in the final stanza.  The first line works on many levels--visceral, as metaphor for drug addiction, as metaphor for stimulated flesh--a strong beginning to a haunting piece.