Shana Tova: A Folio of Poems for 5786 with Artwork from Palestine.
Calul Journal is excited to bring you our first folio of poetry and artwork. We received over fifty individual submissions, close to 200 poems! We are happy to bring together so many voices, Jewish and otherwise and to put these poems into conversation with some of the most exciting artwork from Palestine. Certainly this is a New Year’s blessing if ever there was one.
Calul, begun just a few months ago is thriving with your support. We are dedicated to bringing together various voices, to begin conversations where before there was silence. Only though conversation, communication, can our dream of real peace come true.
Wishing all of our poets and readers a very sweet New Year. May we welcome home the hostages. May the civilians in Gaza be allowed to live safely and start to rebuild. May we rid ourselves of evil rulers who persist in war. And may this be the year we finally “beat (our) swords into ploughshares and (our) spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not lift up sword against nation, nor will there be war any more". Isaiah 2:4
Enter the Mist
Come enter the mist with me—
stand beside me in the wilderness,
in the fog, in the fear and the awe.
Let us look up to the green-blue mountains
here since the heaving and cleaving of the earth’s crust
hundreds of millions of years ago,
and which will be here after we die.
Then let us rest a while on this wooden bench facing the mountains.
Hold my hand; put your arm around my shoulders –
the fog dissipates when we’re together.
Let us inhale, then exhale from deep within,
our breath invisible in this heat,
our molecules mixing with the sweet breaths
of the tree swallows we hear singing from the tall trees,
then slowly rising up into the vapors
of the clouds that hover and cluster
above the mountain tops,
so still and calm like grazing sheep.
Please, won’t you join me, now
while the world is open and whispering.
—Laura Hodes
By the Light of the World
What if we approached each day
as a hunt for the broken vessels
cracked at creation by the light of the world?
Would you wake eagerly? Ready to fill
your mouth with song?
Pull an ancient text from your shelf,
lead finger along the cadence
of each letter’s curve and bend?
Would you turn to the briefcase your father left behind
filled with words never meant for your eyes?
Would you seek the light
by charting the in and out
of breath your own belly filling and emptying,
mark the movement of the man’s belly who lies barefoot,
eyes closed, on the floor of the T station,
or calm the ragged gulps of your friend,
lover, neighbor whose losses arrest
each in and out of air?
What if each day were a quest?
A foraging for indigo thread to tie together
the four corners of the earth? Where would you look?
The bed of rock where river once stood? Under
drought browned Astilbe leaves? Would you
seek a trail leading to a cairn hidden above clouds?
Or venture into the city on the hottest August day,
food, trash, sweat mingled scents
filling your nostrils as you move through choked streets?
You have options. Take the part of the beetle
slowly make your way across the path you choose.
Step back. Let chaos enter. Open the cabinet
full of forgotten family stories. Turn up the volume
of voices slinging glass and tangled barbed-wire. Look up
at the skeleton of the highrise imagine
thirty-six rungs on a ladder.
Cracked at creation by the light of the world,
today, right now seek the scattered shards,
the pieces of us, of you, of yours and our wholly broken selves.
—Liza Halley
(Untitled)
according to the Talmud
when you destroy a person, you destroy an entire world
does it hold true with sharp words as well as sharp swords
piercing bullets
exploding bombs
when we dismiss, ignore or belittle
withhold basic life needs
our words, our disdain, our refusal to accept
become weapons
and so, we destroy an entire world
with love, care and embrace
think how many worlds we can save
—Julie Brandon
Reflection on the Hashkivenu
A shelter of peace
drapes over
my vulnerable soul
lingering above;
barely touching me.
Advising me,
even as I sleep
in a dream turning fitfully
on right and wrong paths.
Calmly moving
between safety and insecurity
knowing assuredly
that my Rock is with me.
Shimmering droplets
condensed
on the heavenly shield
deposit on my skin;
each a blessing of life.
—Sheri Knauth
Dove
A disturbance in the kitchen’s oil-heavy air.
Something flapping at the periphery.
A dove’s found her way in, and everyone’s frantic,
including the dove.
We issue agendas, meet
around the old Formica table.
Any moment, she might zoom into our faces,
tangle in our hair.
No one, not even the dove, remembers
she’s a harbinger of peace—
and anyway, in the original,
all she brought was word
of dry land.
—Laura Rosenthal
To The Shekinah
I remember the furrows of your olive grove
the way the cistern filled with rainwater
and how you drew buckets for our bath
under the palm trees. Your long nails traced maps on my back.
With a soft cloth you rubbed perfumed oil
into my scalp then combed my hair.
It’s been so long since we’ve been together.
I’ve missed the way you held me
and danced, the nights you pulled me
to your bed, making sure the quilt wrapped and tucked
under my feet to keep me warm. Coffee and olives and smoke
rose from your skin. And when I was with you my dreams
nodded to each other under the early moon.
I sometimes hear you when I speak.
When I see a shadow flash by the corner of my eye
I know you are near.
Please come back to me, whole and without remorse
trailing your gentle voice like the train of an evening gown
and show me again how to stand in the torn spark
of the world, even this late in my life, and knock.
—Elisabeth Weiss
The Missing Questionnaire
Winter light filters through the redwood canopy
Bay laurel above the stream rushing through the culvert
We’ve returned to mark the new year
Firsts jostle against endings — parties and picnics
I could tell you about the puzzle I solved —
I sat at my mother-in-law’s table watching the hours pass
It’s taken me so long to learn what questions to ask her
I’ll be gone before you will be ready
The list, the oral history
—Carol Dorf
On Easter I Quote Ecclesiastes to My Husband —after Tymoteusz Karpowicz A time of breakfast where I remove one waffle from the iron, crisp to retain syrup. A time to admit, no love story, how we crawl into our bones. A time to tell Ecclesiastes he neglected relationships, over-doing it on seasons. A time for orange squeezing, swirl motion, cup placed on a blue tablecloth. A time to cut chicken apple sausages into pieces, A little of this, a little of that, said my father, who argued with his conservative friend, didn't engrave too deeply, didn't gift-wrap a sentence, mishpatim a skill not blood-based. A time to tell my husband, I'm worried about Passover after Jews in Israel couldn't fold dough over filling on Purim, missiles raining in the north. A time where my people, enslaved, left Egypt, depended on Moses' correspondence with God. A time to learn how apples came on the Silk Road to the Holy Land. A time to repair my covenant with God, once broken playing hangman with Betsy Zeff in Hebrew class, then running to the convenience store for gum. A time to un-poison the future. A time when my husband in a little robe clasped hands, altar boy preparing to forget the rules. A time to say out loud, the holy book is continually re-written and we can interpret. A time when waffles cannot support berries, fried egg running wild. —Laurel Benjamin
Rosh Hashana, Uxbridge Road
The Syrian grocer peels cabbages sits them on the shelf I catch discarded leaves the grocer does not mind because he doesn’t see me I am invisible or maybe I’m doing him a favour I will roll the leaves around minced meat and simmer them sweet and sour across the street men line up in front of the mosque I pray here between cabbages and apples earth and heaven I hum avino malkainu our father our king September sun burns unfiltered summer is over fall hasn’t landed I wear a wool dress and grandma’s emerald brooch I’m dressed for schul to shop and schlep my sweat is garlic and dill I walk home through clouds of mint and languages I don’t understand
—Beverly Frydman
Self-Talk at Crossroads, at Tailor, as River
We're at a juncture, self—the me
who's you I'm speaking to, the you
who may be listening—at a junction
that's a joining if we're coming
or if we're going, a splitting. We're here
for a fitting, selecting some suiting
to best suit ourselves. I am you
in the reflection. You follow suit
when I bend. Let's follow each other
from this point of inflection, this bend
in our course, where the water's new
direction is the river's surer self.
—Rebekah Wolman
Honeycrisp
Apples ripen, the year turns
and though I know I will grow tired
of this fruit, today I love it. Mottled skin
sweet flesh. The year turns again
we arrive at this date.
Tragedy marked that calendar
I shake myself cat-like
as if from rain. Rain
that would not fall
all through
that first fortnight of grieving.
My teeth almost meet at the edge
of the apple’s core. Cool air
flushes my cheek. I am in my body
I am not the only one. Bite to the center
there is always another layer, morsel.
I swallow and the baby turns
receives. I am no longer just me
though only two hands touch this paper
and a drop of juice, clear, sweet.
Undeniably now. Fleeting, but marking.
If I could hold my breath for 24 hours
I would. If I could have held
that baby in
I would have.
Now, this next life jostles my ribs
and marks my breathing. I turn
the calendar page, finally, to the next
month. The one unmarked by that other
that first life. But is anything unblemished
unremembered?
I grow round as an apple
in this apple time. I stand still
I move slowly.
Mottled skin, marked by sun and by wind:
I am a great protector.
—Lara Payne
Janus
Hydra-headed as well, sings the same siren song of hate from its various mouths. Doppelgangers echo accusations. Two sides: double-facing. The first side kills, chases the second side’s shooters, who chase them back. Like reindeer running in "cyclones," Thinking they’ll be harder to attack. Soldiers fire blind into babies, terrorists throw bombs at buses. Soldiers get called child killers. While toddlers too learn to slay.
burning desert dunes
hide fear - turn into quicksand
cactus spines buried
A third head speaks a softer language. An eatery in Akko, famous far and near. Serves only hummus, fresh each day, gallons of silken, pale gold mounds. Just that, with soft, steaming clouds of pita, floating from the oven. Always crowded. Israeli businessmen, veiled women, wigged women, Druze shoppers, Arab taxi drivers. Locals. All gathering at tables heavy with hummus, pickle-salted stories washed down with soda, or strong Turkish coffee that leaves a a bitter aftertaste despite the spoons of the sugar.
rounded table,
women’s whispered prayers
ritual for a fragile peace
—Lenore Rosenberg
How Can I Pray This Rosh Hashanah?
How can I pray this Rosh Hashanah
when the prayers of so many have gone
unanswered over the past two years?
Will my prayers make a difference? Will asking
forgiveness for the sins that we’ve committed in Gaza
absolve us of our crimes?
Despite my doubts, I’ll pray for the remaining
hostages to be returned, those alive and those
murdered while in captivity.
I’ll pray in the name of all those slaughtered
on October 7th whose prayers were cut short.
I’ll pray that the events of the last two years
don’t make me numb to the suffering of others,
that the ugliness of war doesn’t blind me
to the beauty of life.
And of course I’ll pray for an end to the war,
even if God no longer listens to prayers,
not to convince God to act but to convince myself
not to lose hope so I don’t sink into depression,
I don’t want to fall into the trap of indifference.
I don’t want to remain silent in the face of injustice.
As the New Year approaches, I ask myself how
can I offer prayers this Rosh Hashanah. And the answer
is always the same: how can I not?
—Bruce Black
SHEMA
Hear, O Israel,
the Lord our God
cries out for the soul
of the child who falls
under the the bomb,
the blast of the rocket.
Hear, O Israel
the Lord our God
does not claim the first born
of Palestine for He
would nurture his children
as he did you.
Hear, O Israel
the Lord our God
stands at the wall,
listening
stands atop the minaret
listening.
Hear, O Israel
the Lord our God
will bring
a bitter harvest
upon all of his houses
doors marked and unmarked
for those who do not
honor His name.
—Louis Faber
Bodies on the Line
The Rabbis did it
right here in front of the Israeli Consulate
on this day when five journalists
were killed in Gaza and even more
children starved to death
and the national guard were sent out
onto the streets of DC
to create a fear-stoked emergency
the rabbis placed their songs
and prayers and bodies before passing cars
blocking the traffic on Montgomery
No arrests were made but
the black pastors who witnessed
said beware of the Christian
evangelicals promising
to save you
while they steal
your house
feel your skin cry
at all who showed up
brave enough
to lie down
for what they know
their hearts are saying
we must end the war
feed the hungry
free the captive
—Karen Marker
Through Our Eyes —on Yom Kippur and Eid Al-Adha Once a year, our children’s children celebrate our father’s willingness to sacrifice us. Holy gates open for them, death and sin are overcome. They wear white, fast and feast, dip apples into honey, roast a lamb. At their holiday parties, no one speaks of how it was for us. Lying on stacked wood, at different times, on separate mountains, waiting to be burned, our terror was the same. We saw our father jackal-headed, looking like a god of Egypt as he bound us, raised his knife, trained on us inhuman eyes. Like us, he obeyed, did not argue, try to run. Sons love their fathers and he was the Almighty’s son. Each year, we share our story with each other— the joy we felt as our father heard the angel, turned his blade from us and toward the ram. And also our amazement at his readiness to send us to the world to come, in that moment when he looked as if his heart could not be weighed, balanced on the scale of truth against a feather. —Catherine Gonick
Branch Pantoum
O dangling branch, heavy with rain,
see how the seasons turn their tricks of light.
You hold everything this difficult winter—
listening for the vicissitudes of spring.
See how the seasons turn their tricks of light?
You, endangered Elm, turn inwards to survive,
listening for the vicissitudes of spring—
with its own threats of fire and flood.
You, endangered Elm, turn inwards to survive.
Let's remove your dead leaves, follow the shadows of night
with its own threats of fire and flood.
Can we hold the golden light, gather the hidden fruit?
Let’s remove your dead leaves, follow the shadows of night
to what’s sacred, these seasons in between.
Can we hold the golden light, gather the hidden fruit?
O dangling branch— never let go.
—Dina Elenbogen
Beautiful work! I would love to share it on my Facebook page.
What a gorgeous collection of art and poetry! Thank you, Calul Journal.
The poems are by turns reflective, imploring, inciting, deeply engaged, sustained, and full of understanding, sympathy, and compassion.
Many years ago I purchased a work by Lebanese artist Leila Kubba; it was part of an exhibition at the Palestinian Museum of the People in Washington, D.C. Ever after I have gone out of my way to see exhibitions of Palestinian art in particular and Middle Eastern art generally. As is clear here, the art accompanying and enriching these wonderful poems reflects all the beauty, the emotions, the land, the hard work, the tears, the passions, and most of all the stories of a people who persist, despite the odds against them. To look at Rawan Anani's "Almond Trees in Spring" is to see hope visualized. Sliman Mansour's and Malak Mattar's work often hold out women as central to every narrative: the bearers of life, the protectors of family, the sharers in community with their neighbors. The brilliant colors in the artworks, the presence of sea and harsh land, the closeness of the dwellings, the depth of sorrow in the eyes, the peace to be found in the symbols that are the dove and olives, the intricate patterns on the dresses of Ramallah women who labor without recognition, the faces upturned toward heaven: all are telling us stories we need to hear, repeat, and hear again until we all can hold out our own hands to theirs.