The Silver Cup - a poem for parashat Miketz

It is a hard thing, to forgive -
Forgiveness lies in the narrow place,
in the space between breath,
in the quiet and still,
overflowing from
a tarnished silver cup.

Exile

I am an exile from myself,
walking a path of dust and fear
in my seven league boots
shredded by time.

I cannot see my heart.
I cannot feel my breath.

I have drifted through
an endless night.
Stars catch in my hair;
they swing me too close to the moon,
but its light is only reflection;
it cannot hold me.

It's quiet when I drift.
The music of this silence
is so full and big!
Too full, too big for my
unseen heart to bear.

I cannot hear my emptiness
I cannot taste my weariness

But my feet,
bloodied and torn,
feel the weight of sky
and the pull of earth.
My body understands
the loneliness of water
and the longing of wind.

This is the border of my exile,
dust and fear and the drifting of stars.

I have no offering
of emptiness and stars
Still, I draw near,
an exile no more.

Strange Fire

The world is on fire.
I feel the flames licking
along the walls
that have all but fallen.
They shelter only shadows now,
and hunger.

They call the bombs friendly,
and the damage collateral;
the deaths unfortunate
and their cause is
holy, holy, holy.

Does God hide in the shadows,
do you think, still
waiting for a pleasing odor
to feed an insatiable hunger?
Or perhaps God has fled,
the altars abandoned to
strange fire, whose only
scent is decay?

I would flee, too,
leave the altars behind,
and the crumbling walls
and this eternal fire
fed by hatred
and your war.

I would flee,
but there is nothing left
except fire.

I would beg,
but the shadows are empty,
and their silence
is a shroud.

I would leave, but
Pharaoh's heart has
turned to stone.

A Place of Agonizing Beauty

I spied Hannah once,
from the corner of my eye,
prostrated before Your altar;
in her deepest heart
a place of
agonizing beauty;
her call so silent
only a god
could hear.
My heart
thuds too loudly in
my ears; there is
no quiet place,
no stillness.
Is that where
You hide?
If I call "Ayekah?"
Would you answer?

God, but I'm tired!
I am done
looking.
Ayeka?
I no longer care.

I am here.

Collateral Damage

God, but I was thirsty -
thirstier than I'd ever been,
I heard my young one cry out
"Mama!"
And even my tears
turned to rust
just like the river,
just like the Sea.
But it's ok;
this isn't meant for me.
This is a plague
for the Powers that Be -
the King of Stones and Sun.
We merely wait,
Collateral damage.

The stink of rot is strong,
but I can be stronger still,
tho my skin is marked
by runnels of rusted red,
testament to the itch
and sting
of all those things
that fly
and crawl
and skeetch across
my body.
And my baby cries -
weakly, tired from all
the swatting
and swelling
and fear.
but this is a plague
for the King of
Stones and Sun.

I thought  the rains would
bring a cleansing,
curtain of water
and life, but no:
the storms came, with
searing hail that
burned my skin
and tore through the land,
leaving little for the
locusts to devour,
except perhaps those few
carcasses still left;
cows that had died
Mysteriously.
Plagues are like that;
they steal everything,
even gods that
masquerade as cows.
Even light.
Even life.

And the darkness
weighs like stones
on my back
and I can barely
lift my arms
to shield my young one
from the Ghosts
that haunt the darkness.
She does not cry
any longer.

The King of Sun and Stones
carries these plagues
that have bent him
and bowed him,
that have stolen
his land
and his love
and his son.
His first-born son
the one he loves,
lies lifeless
in his arms,
Collateral
Damage

And so I danced

There was no voice,

Or perhaps there was a

Voiceless voice -

So soft,

so small

it could only be heard

just beyond the borders

of my hearing.

It sang anyway,

that voiceless voice.

It ran through my body

and burned my hands

which lay idle at my side.

It drummed a beat

that moved my heart,

that moved my feet

in surprising syncopation.

Not a waltz

Nor a tango,

but my idle feet,

idle as my hands -

my idle feet

Moved.

They danced with the

voice that was no voice

that had no sound,

but it sang in my heart

And burned my hands

And beat in steady rhythm

And so I danced.

And sang the song
of the voiceless,

and stumbled on broken bits

of shattered tablets.

For Isaiah 1:17

These are the Things that are Measured

I am terrified that I will not measure up.
That my best will not be best enough,
Or even close at all.
I am terrified that I will fail
Life. Or my son.
I mean, its one thing to fail me.
I've had a lot of practice at that.
I think of all the almosts,
all the near misses,
All from the comfort
of such distance,
Measured in time
and passing moments.
Or maybe seen thru
several layers of gauze,
so that the edges blur,
and the pain of all that
misplaced potential
softens, so that it is
At last,
At best,
Bearable.
But only from a distance

Still.

Still, I am terrified
that the scales that
rise and fall in a graceful arc,
a pendulum sweep of
Enough to Not
will find me wanting.
Though the real secret,
Of all the hidden secrets,
Swaddled so carefully
by the gauzy batting
Of time and passing moments,
the real secret is
   I do not fear at all.

I know.

There is an infinite and
Measureless chasm
Of measuring up.

The darkness did not save me - for Parashat Bo

Darkness was not enough,
not even one I could
touch, a darkness
I could feel,
like a curtain
of silk, light
and smooth
and flowing
like liquid night.
It covered my eyes
and weighed upon me
so I could not move
or change.
Darkness was not enough
to soften my petrified
heart. It drifted, with infinite
slowness
and a glimmer
of God,
And settled there,
between stutterstep beats,
heavier than silence
or time,
Until my heart,
heavy as Darkness
cracked, a lattice work of
Thin lines, though it did
not Break.

Darkness was not enough
to soften my heart,
or free me from the
bondage of my
self. But light shone
through those cracks
Rivers of color
and heat, bathing me
in holiness
and grace.

A Long Line of Dreamers

I come from a long line of Dreamers

My Fathers
dreamed of the desert,
a great swath of golden dust
and sculpted sand
that stretched from here
to eternity.
They dreamed of mountains
that cast long shadows
over growing grain
and shattered hearts.
They dreamed of angels
and Men,
and sometimes,
they could even tell
the two apart.
Sometimes.
It was never a
perfect science.

My father was a master of visions
and dreamed of God,
as well as angels
and Men,
who romped on ladders
and waged fierce battle
in the dark,
and shrouded by fog.
They claimed the  Power of names
and Prophecy,
though they could not defeat
the sunrise when it came.
But of the stars,
skittering like sand
across the vault of heaven,
my father planted his feet
and his flags of possession,
and built a nation upon
that scattered field
of time and
Light.

I, too, have dreamed of stars,
and wheat that bowed
in graceful supplication.
Even the sun, in its radiance,
and the Moon -
a silvered disk against
a fold of night -
They bowed to me in
my Dreams.
What need do I have
of nations and time,
of angels
or Men,
when all the spheres of Heaven
and the bounty of God's earth
have given me
my proper due?

I am a dreamer of
Greatness.

Dancing at the Well

I danced with Miriam --
In the dark,
While the sea curled,
Hungry and wild,
around our bare feet.

We danced,
Jubilant
And filled with glory.

And I drank from her well.
The water was sweet,
Tasting of summer,
And it cooled my fevered skin
As I walked the Wilderness
And learned to hear
The stillness of God.

And we danced
With timbrels and lyre,
Voices raised in exultation,
Hands clapping out a rhythm --
Hungry and wild,
And the music curled
Around our swelling hearts.

Now I grieve at her well,
Dry,
And it echoes --
Not with the Sea,
But with her silence,
And my sorrow.
And my feet do not dance.
And the timbrels do not sing.
And oh!
I thirst for sweet water
And the stillness of God.



c Stacey Zisook Robinson
June 2014

The Texture of Shadows for parashat Toldot

We danced,
My brother and I,
a twisted tango of love and hate.
He cast such shadows--
long and textured,
big enough to hide in.

Thief,
Liar and thief--
You stole my parents
And I loved you--
Would have died for you,
Given it all to you--
If you had only said the words.
Instead
I hid in your shadow
That blazed and shimmered
And grew mighty--
Long,
And longer still,
It covered all the land--
My birthright
My heart.


Thief--
You stole from me
Everything,
Stole the light of heaven,
And my father's eyes,
That were so dim
And faulty,
Until he could see only your shadow:
Dark and luminous
And richly royal,
A cloak that swallowed light.

An absence of color,
Your shadow was,
A cloak of lies for him,
And a comfort for our mother
Who needed its comfort.
She loved you best.
And I,
I loved you all.

You played on ladders
And tangled with angels;
And demanded the curse of
Blessings
And names.
You took my mother's love,
Stole my father's touch
Until there was nothing left for me
but the raw desperation  of
silence.
My brother--
all liquid cunning
and silvered lies.

You took it all
You thief,
You liar and thief,
While I begged,
Hungering for the easy grace of their
Notice,
Living a poor and pale echo
Of your sheltering
Sweltering
Smothering
Life.
You turned hard rock into the kingdom of
Heaven
And betrayal into a nation of
Sand and stars.

And you knew God;
And so you were blessed
And cursed
And loved.

And now here,
at the river's edge
on the border of night
and shadows--
You knew God,
But I learned forgiveness,
And so I bless you
And curse you
And love you
More.


c Stacey Zisook Robinson
27 March 2014

Ladders

I am terrified of ladders.
It is not the going up--
the ascent,
the rickety step up
on tiny see-through slats,
slats you can see through from here
to next Tuesday,
to Heaven and back.
I am not interested in
the view from Heaven.

I am not interested in the view from Tuesday.
Today is struggle enough.

It is not the up-ended feeling
of ungainly-
ungraceful-
uncertain ascent,
nor the straight-edged precision
of the death-gripped
held-breath
tentative step
Down,
with its trickster promise of
return
and solid ground to come.

Down is done backwards
(done sometimes in heels),
and that last step is more question than answer.

I am terrified of ladders
and their rickety
rattling
restless
motion,
traveling Up,
with no rest before
Down,
A constant struggle
to balance
against the ceaseless flow
of feathers and
Perfection.

Easier--
infinitely easier--
to wrestle with the ground
and Myself.

Like Dust and Heat

Walk with me, he said.
Walk with me in the quiet of the mountain
and we will find God.

How will we know when we find God?

God smells like rope and iron --
Sharp --
Like blood,
said my father.
And God sounds like
the absence of rain,
Like dust and heat
that ripples across
this narrow road.
God tastes like thunder,
and the bleating of a brass horn
Tangled in a thicket.

That's how we'll know God,
he said.

And so we walked,
my father and I,
on a path bordered by sunlit green
flecked with gold.
The dust rose to bathe our feet
in the dry air
that shimmered and rippled
Without a sound.

I miss the rains,
And the taste of thunder.

Walk with me,
my father said,
and we will find God
And perhaps, each other.
And he took my hand
As we walked up the mountain.

His hand felt like home to me,
Like heat
and light.
Like love.

And he laid me on the altar
We found there,
a holy sanctuary
that lay in cool shadow.
His rope belt cut into my skin,
And he anointed me with dust,
And I tasted fear like thunder.

And there was God,
Who looked at me with my father's eyes
And an angel's tears,
who smelled like iron and
sounded like absence and
felt like love.

And Miriam Sang.

And Miriam sang
God's song.
It flowed
Rising like smoke
Like a pillar of fire.
   And Miriam sang
   her brothers' song.
   wild
   jubilant
   Free at last, free at last!
      And she sang
      her mothers song,
      crooned
      in velvet darkness and liquid as day
      A lullaby--
      A love song,
      her mother's song was.
         And Miriam sang
         the people's song:
         soft and loud at once
         and liquid still, and edged in smoke
         and wild
         Oh! so wild.
            A babble of song
            that lifted her feet
            and rang out--
            sang out
            with cymbal and lyre.
               Her voice rose
               Like smoke,
               Like air.
                  It soared.
                  And she sang the people's song
               Sang her mother's song
            Sang her brother's song
         Sang God's song.

      They poured forth from her
   as she danced.
The sea bed was rock-strewn
and dust
and blood now,
mixed with the dust.
Emet.
And Miriam danced 

on sharp edged stone
and she sang,

her arms lifted, with cymbals

and timbrels

and ribbons of fire that caught the light,

caught the eyes of the people

as she danced them across the dry desert sea.

And she sang, Miriam did.

And she danced on feet that bled

arms lifted

and weary

with fluttering ribbons of color and light

And she sang God

   Singing faith

And she sang Moshe

   Singing freedom

And she sang her Mother

   Singing love

And she sang the people

   Singing celebration, singing fear.

And she danced

on feet that bled,

with arms raised in 

jubilation

supplication

Surrender.

Weary and raw,

singing,

she danced on feet that bled

to a distant shore,

green and cool with a light that shimmered

   Like freedom

   Like love.

Miriam danced and raised her bloodied feet 

to stand upon the cool and green

No song, no cymbal

Just silence:

A final offering.

And into that stunning, that glorious silence,

she gave her weary body
   her bloodied body,

      her ribbons and cymbals,

         her vision,

            her voice.

            And God sang 

         Miriam's song

      and it lifted her, like fire

   and it filled her, like love

Selah

Chayei Sarah

I followed you

Through vast deserts and over mountains

Into lush valleys

and across years

I followed you

Though you did not follow me,

Offering me instead to strangers

and angels

I followed you

Into the desert, empty and sere--

Sterile as my womb,

While you built altars

to your God.

And I laughed

And lied

And sent my Handmaid to your bed

To please you

And appease you.

And still I followed you.

I followed you,

Sacrificed my royalty for you,

Watched a Handmaid's child 

Claim a nation

And felt my womb quicken.

Even after 

I followed you 

And laughed at God

And lied--

I felt my womb quicken!

And so I followed you

Drank at your wells

and prayed at your altars

Built to please and appease 

your God.

And you walked through oceans of sand,

Knelt in fertile crescents

Rich and lush as life itself,

Traversed mountains

At the whim of your God.

At the command of God

And on the last mountain

I did not follow.

I watched you walk away,

Walk up that mountain

With our son at your side.

Our son--

Whose life had quickened my womb;

Whose heart had beat in tandem with mine;

Whose hand I held and body I cradled,

Whose fears I eased

And tears I dried--

I did not follow you

While you sacrificed our son

Until the angel stayed your hand.

I will not follow 

Build a nation and altars to God.

I have drunk at your wells,

And laughed, 

And lied;

And watched you walk away,

Watched my son follow you

Up that mountain

Knife in his hand,

The sun silver against that sharpened blade.

He followed,

Your sacrifice 

My son.

And so I will not follow 

I will remain.

Keep your altars

and your God 

I am your sacrifice

And I --

I will not follow.