This Holy Place: a poem for Acharei mot

What do you sacrifice
to stand in this holy place?
Do you wear your sins
like fine linen and gilded shame?
Does your skin glisten
with water and oil
and the scent of blood?

What do you offer
to stand here in this holy place,
whose walls are fitted with mirrors
of silvered glass, and
edged in guilt and hope?
They reflect and refract to infinity,
a bountiful gift of an infinite Glory.
Their smoothed surfaces
of infinite hardness
show every crack and broken sliver
when the light shines upon them,
that disappear in the shadows
and dark.

Every crack is holy, here
in this holy place where you stand:
a sacrifice, an offering,
found in the corners and littering
the earth with their bounty.
Do you stumble?
Do you love?

Place your doubt here on the altar,
and light the fire to burn
with incense and your fear,
and stand here in this holy place
of cracks and reflected Infinity,
a prayer of grace upon your lips.

I Know the Heart of a Stranger

I know the heart of the stranger.
It beats
And bleeds
And breaks.
I know this heart;
It is my own.

But this I do not know -
this hatred,
this tearing
and rending.
I do not know this
suffocation,
this strangled
heart of
darkness

The stench from
this sacrifice is not pleasing.
it is a desolation.
There is no delight in this,
only death and a heart of stone.

I do not know that heart.

Will you bring a rain
of scarlet hyssop petals
to flutter and fall
against the broken bodies
piled against altars
slick with blood?

I would know You, God!
I would know the heart of a stranger.
I would sing of Your glory
and teach Your ways with joy.

But this heart -
this heart of death
and desecration -
I cannot know this heart.
I will not know this heart.

If I knew that heart
I fear it would be mine.

Amidah

A step -
a single step,
and I leave behind
My life. Everything
that came before,
It is -

Away.

Distant as eternity,
as a single step,
as a breath,
released -
on a prayer,
in a breath.
Beyond self, or sacrifice.
A single step,
and I am,
at last, drawn,
at last
Near.

Perhaps

I stand poised -
I've used that line
before, and again
and again and
Again; there is much
comfort in my stasis.

I stand, bound to
the razor-sharpness of
this edge that holds me
delicately,
precariously;
my feet are bloodied.

And still I stand
longing to fall
to let go and
let be and speak my
fear, lay my shame
on altars that
are slick and slippery
with the eternity of sacrifices -
bowed and bent and broken
with desperation.
My eyes burn from
their smoke, ascending,
twisting heavenwards
to please You.

And still I stand,
and I stumble along
this narrow edge
of bloody hope
and I do not fall.
Perhaps I will get it
right this time.
Perhaps I will,
finally.
Perhaps.


For Psalm 51

Reflected Infinity, with cracks

(An alternative reading for Acharei Mot/Kedoshim)


What do you sacrifice
to stand in this
holy place?
Do you wear your sins
like fine linen
and gilded shame?
Does your skin
glisten with water and oil
and the scent of blood?

What do you offer
to stand here
in this holy place,
whose walls are
fitted with mirrors
of silvered glass, and
edged in guilt and
hope?
They reflect
and refract to
infinity,
a bountiful gift of
infinite Glory.
Their smoothed surfaces
of infinite hardness
show every crack
and broken sliver
when the light
shines upon them, that
disappear in the shadows
and dark.

Every crack is holy
here in this holy place
where you stand:
a sacrifice,
an offering,
found in the corners
and littering the
earth with their bounty.
Do you stumble?
Do you love?

Place your doubt
here on the altar,
and light the fire
to burn with incense
and your fear,
and stand
here in this holy place
of cracks and
reflected Infinity,
a prayer of grace
upon your lips.

#BlogElul 25 - Begin

Breathe.

Just breathe. Stand poised at some achingly high pinnacle, where the air hurts, and your arms are lifted over your head in an arc of fluid grace, and just

Breathe.

Until your arms shake from the strain of your posed poise

and the air - God! the air is so thin and cold,

and you want to gasp, but you can't,

because every time you do -

every damned time you gather in your body to catch your breath,

the ground under your feet isn't as solid as you thought,

and it shifts and crumbles, just a little -

just enough to let you know that one good breath will send you
tumbling into some impossibly deep, endless chasm

that will swallow you whole, and you will fall
forever.

So you just stand in some poised pose, ready and strained past breaking,

And you tremble and try not to stagger under the weight of your fear.

And then you look up

At a sky that takes what little breath you have away

That is a dome of azure and stars and heaven

And it falls up into forever.

And you do gasp then, at the beauty of it
At the wonder and the glory of that expanse of light and dark
That is soft and hard at once, that is silent and still and waiting
And you realize then, in that instant
That you are the altar; your fear,the offering
and you will bleed out your despair as you are drawn near,
and nearer still.
Leap! Leap out and let your arms fall in a graceful arc
That, too, is your offering, your sacrifice:
All that poise, all that pain, laid on the altar of your body
to be caught, to be ever caught by God, by hope.

Breathe. And again - breathe.
And again
Begin.

Sanctuary

I counted out the measures
In cubits
and inches
and baskets of grain
And made a sanctuary
From a field of grass
And cornflowers,
And it was pleasing to behold,
And silent.

Beyond those borders,
Beyond the altars and their
Sacred, silent beauty,
Lay the wild lands--
Choked with weeds
And shadows
That stretched in still echoes
Back
Over miles
And unmeasured days,
Leached of color
And light.

They came,
Crossing the wilderness
With steps of infinity,
Measured in endless cubits
And dusty inches,
And gathered here,
In my field of glory,
Carrying baskets laden with their gifts
And sins
And doubt:
Their sacrifice,
Offered in silvered longing.
And laid on that altar
Their gifts and broken burdens,
All together and all at once.

They gathered there
In the field of grass
Bounded by cubits; and inches
and meters and measures
They lifted their voices
In  an endless hosanna
In aching need,
And sang

Hallelujah.

It was benediction--
Prayer,
A bounty of sweet and
splintered offerings.
They sang
Into that holy stillness--
That glorious sanctuary
Of unbounded measure
And sweetly bending grasses,
And mist that hovered
Like the breath of God--

Filled.

Hallelujah.


For the ending of the counting of the Omer
Stacey Zisook Robinson
c 2014

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.

What I Brought

I stood on the border of my wilderness.
It beckons in silent commandment,
My feet feeling for the road
That is dusty and half hidden
Under brambles and
Desire.

I am draped in cloth of gold
That pales under a sun of glory
Rings of silver and lapis
Grace my graceless fingers
And offer only a hollow echo
To the spark of stars and moonlight
That litter the night sky.

Laden with my gathered gifts

I gather in the best of me
My harvest
Sown
To leave at the foot of Sinai
At the altars of God.
I traverse the desert
In forty nine steps
Spinning my measure of grain into
A promise

One day. And the next
And again
Ang yet again.
Days pass
I am gathered in
To leave at the altar
My best
For God.

I stand at the foot of that mountain
And I tremble
In wearied joy
And exultant fear.
I reach for my offering basket,
To lay it full upon that altar.
And see behind me
In that trackless
Silence
My fruit
My first and finest gifts
Tumbled and trampled
Stretching back forty nine steps and more--

And I weep.

I lay my tears on that altar
With  my sorrow
And my yearning
My hopeless desire
My brokenness
And pain
For I have nothing left to offer
(That is mine to give)

And I turn to collect bright feathers.
They drift down around me,
A shower of white and gold, and silver and lapis
A glinting
Glistening opal fire
Of glory
And I gather them up
Gather them in
Fashioning them into wings
Of scattered light

And I fly.

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

The Holiness of Broken Things: a poem for parashat Ki Tisa

I carry my brokenness with me
It is holy--
as holy as my breath,
my heart,
my wholeness.

It is a part of me, these
scattered pieces
of shattered longing
and battered dreams.
My sins.
All of them.
I carry them--
all of them;
All these broken things
that bend me and bow me,
together with my wholeness,
these holy things.
Idols to my shame,
wrapped in gold and
adorned in abandon.
I fed the fires of that sacred forge
with fear and guilt,
and the altars ran slick with salted tears.
I offered--
offer--
the broken pieces as
my sin offering,
for they are holy,
and I carry them with me,
together with my wholeness.

I carry my brokenness with me--
all my sins
and shame
and salted tears,
and I place them
together with my wholeness
on the sacred altars
holy, holy, holy.
They twine together in red and gold flames,
Broken
and Whole
offered together
and returned to me ,
Whole
and Broken--
Holy still,
carried together
until I reach the next altar.

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.