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Painting by Alice Neel by Nadia Arioli

Painting by Alice Neel

Once in childhood, I saw love in an art book.
Painting of Geoffrey Hendricks and Brian.
But, of course, I couldn’t read then
and thought them Bert and Ernie
in their more human form.

They looked older, more worn,
the flesh all wrong somehow,
pink and blotchy, the chest hair frighteningly real,
like this was too intimate a look
at characters on television. Indeed,
the resemblance is there: an apple-shaped
man with his banana-shaped man.
Even in the bowl are the repeating shapes,
one long with his round, cradled
and sheltering all the way down.

Brian Buczak—Ernie—was an artist too.
He transformed his and Geoffrey’s apartment
in New York City, painted over tiles,
installed functional plumbing,
made beauty out of scraps. He and Geoffrey
slept in a tent in their living room, for warmth,
cradled together, recursive housing structure,
until Brian went into a smaller box, velvet-lined, when
he died of AIDS.

Bert and Ernie, meanwhile, are doing well,
year after year on Sesame Street.
Their apartment is just as artful,
bulky furniture, bowls of fruit.
Ernie Bert’s source of all consternation,
chaos, and joy. Quite by accident,
I was right; what is tender and feral will make
itself known. Love is love is love
and looks like it—
whether in oils or velvet.

Nadia Arioli is the cofounder and editor in chief of Thimble Literary Magazine. Arioli’s poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net three times and for the Pushcart Prize and can be found in Cider Press Review, Rust + Moth, McNeese Review, Penn Review, Mom Egg, and elsewhere. Essays have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize and can be found in Hunger Mountain, Heavy Feather Review, SOFTBLOW, and elsewhere. Artwork has also been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in Permafrost, Kissing Dynamite, Meat for Tea, Pithead Chapel, Rogue Agent, and Poetry Northwest. Arioli’s forthcoming collections are with Dancing Girl Press and Fernwood Press.

Image: Alice Neel, Geoffrey Hendricks and Brian © Estate of Alice Neel

Two Poems by Michelle Ott

On Learning to Be Alone

You are not supposed to want it
out loud (or so I am told):

the breaking open of the sternum,
the flooding of cherry-red desire,

the tying of stems and tongues
and knots and lives.

So unbecoming of a woman to want
something more than herself.

(I never said I was
not already whole.)

This is preparation, I am told:
cooking dinners for one in silent

houses, packing noteless lunches
for unkissed tomorrows, sleeping

in unwarmed beds with nothing
but the imitation of intimacy.

This, I am told, is how I will learn
to be worthy of love.

When will I ripen, sweeten enough
to be consumed by someone

other than Grief? Or am I to rot
on the branch in my solitude,

grow older and whiter and uglier
until not even the laziest low-

fruit picker will have me?
I know what it is to be alone.

I want to drink the sweet juice
of unbecoming, unraveling in another’s palm,

let it drip down my chin to be lapped up
by a woman just as whole as me.

Instead, I am told to be patient.
I fear that I am not that virtuous.

Lot Looks upon Her Wife, Now Salt

When I asked you to hold me,
I did not mean like this:
my heart a dead weight
in your palms, fingers curled
around the handle, grinding
my love against the whetstone
until it is sharp enough to kiss
the cruelly fragile skin of your wrist.
Is this how the good Lord said
to cherish the kind and patient love
He has promised you?

I must walk backwards to see you, now,
growing smaller as you stay
right where you left me: kneeling
in penitence, plum-painted patellae
haloed in sickly, tender yellow,
praying the rosary at the altar
of your righteous self-punishment.
Your God weeps and you take His tears
like the sacrament. To you it is sweet.

I do not know God from Adam,
this much I know. But is it such heresy
to say that suffering is not holiness?
Is it not a sin to look upon the face
of an unending heavenly love,
to hold a forgiveness paid in blood
upon the cross, and spit at the feet
of the Father who formed you, blessed
you with a worth you never needed to earn?

Sweetheart, I could have never loved you
through this. You only ever take
what you think you deserve.

Michelle Ott is a queer poet and writer from the Mid-Atlantic. She earned her MFA in creative writing from American University in 2023, where she served as a contributing writer for the university’s MFA student-run blog, CafeMFA. Her poetry has been featured in BOOTH Magazine, Stone Poetry Quarterly, and Impostor: A Poetry Journal, among others. She currently lives in Washington, D.C.

Image: see filename or category, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Two Poems Translated By Linda Zisquit

The poems in this post are part of a special section, curated by Ori Z Soltes and Robert Bettmann, The Jewish Experience.

AND THE SOUND OF TEARING
By Rivka Miriam
Translated by Linda Stern Zisquit

And the sound of tearing
when the soul is torn from the wind and the wind is torn from the spirit
and into the absence of heaven, grain after grain, the earth is torn.

And how, in order to see what is ahead, all the stories that we told were standing on our doorstep, all the stories that were ever told since the one book split into branches.

And how you then said, the great God, whose eternity prevents him from dying, experiences his death through ours.

And how, when there was no longer sacred and profane
when we forgot even God’s name
we would utter without sound
like children, the names of our forefathers – Abraham, Isaac, Israel.

וְקוֹל הַקְּרִיעָה
כְּשֶׁהַנֶּפֶשׁ נִקְרַעַת מֵהָרוּחַ וְהָרוּחַ נִתְלֶשֶׁת מִן הַנְּשָׁמָה
וּלְתוֹךְ אֵינוּת הַשָּׁמַיִם, גַּרְגֵּר אַחַר גַּרְגֵּר, נִקְרַעַת הָאֲדָמָה.

וְאֵיךְ, כְּדֵי לִרְאוֹת מָה יִהְיֶה הָלְאָה, עָמְדוּ עַל סִפֵּנוּ כָּל הַסִּפּוּרִים שֶׁסִּפַּרְנוּ, כָּל הַסִּפּוּרִים שֶׁסֻּפְּרוּ אֵי-פַּעַם מֵאָז שֶׁהַסֵּפֶר הָאֶחָד הִתְפַּצֵּל לַעֲנָפָיו.

וְאֵיךְ אָמַרְתָּ, הָאֵל הַגָּדוֹל, שֶׁנִּצְחִיּוּתוֹ מוֹנַעַת מִמֶּנּוּ לָמוּת, חוֹוֶה אֶת מוֹתוֹ בְּמוֹתֵנוּ.

וְאֵיךְ, כִכְּלוֹת גַּם קֹדֶשׁ גַּם חֹל
כְּשֶׁנִּשְׁכַּח מֵעִמָּנוּ גַּם שְׁמוֹ שֶׁל הָאֵל
הָיִינוּ הוֹגִים בְּלֹא קוֹל
כִּילָדִים, אֶת שְׁמוֹת אֲבוֹתֵינוּ – אַבְרָהָם, יִצְחָק, יִשְׂרָאֵל

SUMMER
By Nadia Adina Rose
Translated by Linda Stern Zisquit

We are cooked in the pot of war
the ladle of days stirs in our gut,
seasons change, adding spices,
no taste. Mortal danger burns in the lips.
Heaven – fragile as an egg –
boils with us, becoming hard.
Clinging to the sides of the country – a scorched container
we are ingredients in a recipe
that unifies more powerful than a melting pot.

קיץ

אֲנַחְנוּ מִתְבַּשְּׁלִים בְּסִיר הַמִּלְחָמָה
מַצֶּקֶת הַיָּמִים בּוֹחֶשֶׁת בִּקְרָבַיִם,
עוֹנוֹת מִתְחַלְּפוֹת, מוֹסִיפוֹת תַּבְלִינִים,
אֵין טָעַם. סַכָּנַת חַיִּים צוֹרֶבֶת בִּשְׂפָתַיִם.
שָׁמַיִם – שַׁבְרִירִיִּים כְּמוֹ בֵּיצָה –
רוֹתְחִים אִתָּנוּ, נַעֲשִׂים קָשִׁים.
דְּבוּקִים לִדְפָנוֹת הַמְּדִינָה – מְכָל חָרוּךְ
אֲנַחְנוּ רְכִיבִים שֶׁל מַתְכּוֹן
הַמַּאֲחִיד חָזָק יוֹתֵר מִכּוּר הִתּוּךְ.

Originally published in Yediot Aharonot, Friday, September 6, 2024

Linda Stern Zisquit has published six poetry collections, including Korah’s Daughter (2022), Return from Elsewhere (2014) and Havoc: New & Selected Poems (2013). Her translations from Hebrew include works by Yona Wallach, Rivka Miriam and Hedva Harechavi. She is Associate Professor (emerita) and for many years was poetry coordinator for the Creative Writing Program at Bar Ilan University. Born in Buffalo, NY, she lives in Israel where she teaches and runs Artspace, a gallery in Jerusalem representing local artists.

Rivka Miriam, poet and painter, was born in Jerusalem, where she continues to live and work. Daughter of the renowned Yiddish writer Leib Rochman and named for his mother and sister who perished in the Holocaust, Rivka Miriam’s poetry collections in Hebrew have received numerous literary awards.

Nadia Adina Rose is an Israeli poet and artist who was born in Moscow and has lived in Israel since the age of 22. Active as a sculptor and art teacher, her two poetry collections in Hebrew have won literary awards. Her first collection Snow Ink is dedicated to her sister who was killed in a terror attack in 2004.

Chardin – Still Life, circa 1728-1730, 35.54, Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin, creative commons via wikimedia commons.

Two Poems By W Luther Jett

The poems in this post are part of a special section, curated by Ori Z Soltes and Robert Bettmann, The Jewish Experience.

THE GIFT

You showed me the map —
over a metre in length,
laminated, a small tear
in the lower left corner.
Beautiful image, taken
by satellite. It can’t be
recycled, you pointed out.
I shrugged. I knew I had
no place in my house to
hang it, but what
could I say? A gift
is a gift. Don’t
you said when I started
to roll it up. I think you
worried it might damage
the map, that once rolled
it might never again
be made straight. You told
me: I had it hanging in
my office but it became
too distracting. I could see
why — those vivid colours,
the places that image
represented. I mean, there
it stood, the entire Land,
north to south — desert
and garden, snow-cap, rift
valley, slowly dying sea. No
border drawn across the surface,
only a few cities marked in
red. As if it were all one
country, as if nothing
might tear it part.

PESACH 5784

In Hebrew, the word seder means “order”. In modern Hebrew, the colloquial idiom B’seder (literally, in order); translates as “okay”.

This is the seder of the new age.
This seder is out of order.

Next year we do not know
where we will be —
if we will be.

The door is not simply open,
it is off its hinges. All
who have eaten will go
hungry.

Miriam’s Cup is filled
with bitter herbs. Elijah’s Cup
gathers dust.

This night is different from all others
but we will not recline,
we will not dip twice, we will not
dip at all.

The matzoh is scorched.
Every plate bears drops of blood.

Instead of one empty chair
all the chairs are empty.

Nothing is okay.
Lo b’seder לא בסדר
Lo b’seder לא בסדר
Lo b’seder לא בסדר

 

I am a native of Montgomery County, Maryland. My poetry has been published in numerous journals, including Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Evening Street, Steam Ticket, Potomac Review, Little Patuxent Review, and Main Street Rag. My work has also appeared in several anthologies, including “Secrets & Dreams”, Kind of a Hurricane Press; “My Cruel Invention”, Meerkat Press; “Greening the Earth”, Penguin Books; and “Written in Arlington”, Paycock Press.

I am the author of five poetry chapbooks: “Not Quite: Poems Written in Search of My Father”, (Finishing Line Press, 2015), and “Our Situation”, (Prolific Press, 2018), “Everyone Disappears” (Finishing Line Press, 2020), “Little Wars” (Kelsay Books, 2021), and “Watchman, What of the Night?” (CW Books, 2022). A full-length collection, “Flying to America” was released in the spring of 2024 by Broadstone Press.

Featured image in this post: Sattelite image of snow in the Middle East, 15.12.2013, NASA, creative commons via wikimedia commons.

Three Poems By Carly Sachs

The poems in this post are part of a special section, curated by Ori Z Soltes and Robert Bettmann, The Jewish Experience.

The Thread of Elul

What does thunder say and what storm
or visitor has come to quench the secret

thirst of the soul and how different the soft knocking
of the heart and can you bathe in the waters

of the breath? The dharma of a warrior is not to fight,
but to love, and how do you trust that your vulnerability

is your strength. Discernment is knowing that to hold
and to release are not two beads, but one thread.



A Woman of Valor

Walking by the fire pit at Shaker Village,
a group of older couples are gathered—
autumn, Kentucky.

My daughter points and says
Shabbat! Shabbat!
so loud—

In my daughter’s brain, fire
equals Shabbat.

Every week we light two candles and
say blessings. It doesn’t matter
that it’s never 18 minutes before sundown,
we just light them and get on with dinner.

But here, I’m self-conscious,
all their gazes turning towards us.
Someone else’s child would say fire.

For a moment, I’m 16 again,
in Krakow, sun gleaming across the Vistula.
We had just come from McDonald’s,

so full of teenagerness, we are loud,
the only ones on the bridge
until we see it, a shop cart full
of Jew dolls, little rabbis

with tails and horns
holding coins.

And a few years later,
on a trip to the Holocaust Museum—
I had already seen Auschwitz,

Majdanek, Treblinka.
I wept looking at dolls and games,
Nazi propaganda.
Proof that hatred can be taught—
marketed and sold.

And then, here I am again.
All woman, mother
lighting the match
of my voice.


Since October 7th, 2024

We are all doing what we can,
chopping vegetables,
picking berries.

We find shade from trees
who have seen the world before we were born.
We spread picnic blankets,

And dance in the fountain
while The Young At Heart band
plays songs from the 1930s.

We buy baked goods from the pretend bakeries
our children make for us
While everywhere there are hostages.

Someone else’s children malnourished
and all the rapes.
A few minutes ago they shot at 10 month old baby

in her mother’s arms.
The world, too terrible to make up.
We play at peace.

My daughter collects coins for tzedakah
and I count smiles and giggles,
my own thin shield.

I watch as she saves the spare change from the grocery store, the coffee shop.
The solidary clank as it lands in the dark box,
Copper and silver light shining, even when not visible.

Carly Sachs is the author of the steam sequence and Descendants of Eve. She is the editor of the why and later, a collection of poems about rape and assault. Her poems and stories have been included in The Best American Poetry series and read on NPR’s Selected Shorts. She currently works for The Jewish Federation of the Bluegrass and teaches yoga at Wildfire Yoga.

Featured image in this post: Shabbat Candles, Olaf.herfurth, creative commons via wikimedia commons.