Two years after Gaza

and wheels are spinning fast in Tel Aviv

a young man,

a stubborn pain in the ass,

a tam v' yashar, vegan straight edge,

always free,

always where he is not supposed to be,

a mench among mamzerim,

looks a judge square in the eye

to say-- guilty, your honor.

I join him to say

I am guilty too.

I am guilty of turning my gaze

toward the mother

whose baby is pulverized

by an indifferent bomb

lobbed along with

freshly polished talking points

and a colorable argument

for its legality;

I am guilty of wanting to hug

the boy left traumatized

when his mother,

waiving a white flag,

was shot in front of him;

I am guilty of feeling disgust

when an American Jewish professor of law

demands an unbiased response

to his breathless, willfully ignorant question;

I am guilty of traipsing over the boundaries

you have placed around the argument;

of wandering through the Damascus gate

after you told me Jewish girls get stabbed there;

because the politics of race 

are also the politics of space;

and when you say, don't go there,

it is forbidden to enter,

I have learned that the truth is only a few steps beyond;

In the Palestinian village which you

have declared a closed military zone,

a dwellingplace for beautiful, large families

has bloomed

with guests from around the world...

it is a haven,

not just for their own,

but for all who come with respect

to sit and sip the tea

only a Palestinian mother could pour,

sweetened with more than enough sugar.

This is the place where

in the nighttime, Yaacov Avinu rests his head 

on a stone thrown by a boy

who was shoved into a pit

by his long-lost cousins;

and a wonderful, miraculous dream 

comes to life;

angels climb high over concrete walls

back and forth

through the open gates of a peaceful land.

And this place is consecrated

for future generations.

I am guilty, your honor.

I was there, your honor.

and there is spirit in this place, your honor.

infused with what the Palestinians

call sumud*

It calls to you 

to soften your heart, open your ears,

march with us!

Soon you will wake

from the fear dreams

that bind you

and you will say to yourself:

There is God in this place, 

and I did not know!

*sumud is an Arabic word which translates roughly to 'steadfastness.'

This poem is inspired by the words of Israeli activist Jonathan Pollak, who was sentenced yesterday to three months in prison for his participation in a non-violent demonstration against Operation Cast Lead. Please read more here: http://972mag.com/israeli-activist-jonathan-pollak-addresses-sentencing-judge/

Also, see Genesis 28.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The role of "you" in my life is a fable

all moral and no story

a familiar song

and my love for you was pure,

a sand grain

on a powder white beach

blown by a harmless wind

and suddenly indistinguishable

from all the others;

but your calm sea eyes pulled feeling

from my clamped heart

like string from a tight spool;

the many girls who giggled with the hots for you,

who didn't know you the way I knew you,

thought of you as the north--

your hair, a blonde glacier

and your eyes, bright ice crystals

reflecting the solstice sky at noon;

but to me, you were the warm water

of the Pacific-

and the faint salt inhale

of a day by the ocean.

Our arms always touched in lecture

and your laughter at the teacher's snooty pronunciation

of Emile Zolahhh or neeeehilism would send me into fits;

you relished my jokes

and told me I was one of the coolest people you'd ever met

and I loved you, pure,

like I had not yet loved another;

perhaps my love was choppy

but it ran deep.

And sorrow and disappointment

plunged past the point at which

the diver stops perceiving any color but blue,

any color but you;

all moral and no story

all sting with no glorious juicy bite,

just the dull ache of a journey abandoned and a friendship driven off course;

and while I'm grateful for what I have charted

with my grit and my strength and my beauty; 

my heart still mourns so many years on

drenched in the thought of you 

at the center of a room filled

with people I once loved

laughing at me, smack talking me,

your anger rising at the thought of me,

to swat memory like a fly;

but I will always cherish

heart hugs under the zippers of your jacket

on cold wintery days,

and realizing that for the first time in so so long

I felt happy.

these are never forgets, keepsakes,

treasures buried in my depths

cool copper coins shining light

in a fountain

where I drop my wish

and hear your distant voice clink,

affirming that we spoke one another

before we parted for good, 

as the sun melts into the horizon

to let my heart rest.

Who can retell the feats of Israel?

Wax drips down liquid

to harden and fasten the candle

to the upright, silver menorah

my great-grandmother used all her life

to secure our family to our place

and far away, a fire spills

through sacred mountains that flow with milk and honey

incinerating that which does not serve;

tall pine trees are a bushy beard over crime scenes

but there is no such thing as a little Switzerland,

no neutral, safe ground for Jews or anyone else;

and where Palestinian families, good families, were pulled apart

and communities, loving communities, disintegrated,

a sin offering,

a bald, naked place exposed; 

the priest enveloped in linen

chooses the unblemished from the flock

for sweet savour unto the LORD;

and the sacrifice fills my throat with burnt bitterness.

This is our Hanukkah miracle, I guess?

Our lamp of desperate light to sustain embattled fighters 

has caught everything and scorches 

that which we must preserve.

How I long for the quenching.

For more on the topic of this poem, please see Max Blumenthal's excellent article on Electronic Intifada: http://electronicintifada.net/v2/article11661.shtml

My rhinoceros whom the world has thrown away,

your beauty is in the hard flesh of your nostrils

you are not what they say you are

what they hurl garbage at through the bars

of your animal's cage

how shall I free you, my cheated woman,

from the bruises left,

from the stripe marks branded,

after your many attempts at escape?

hum your truth like a melody

hum your pain like an old harpoon

mournful and glossy

sensuous and strong

you are more than luck,

than those who pluck

the sad strings of the world;

you are a step beyond the beat

you are you and me

and centuries-old survival 

through death and rape and scare tactics.

I am your heiress--

beast woman who can smash slick white men in suits

to oatmeal mush; 

You are filled with light and fire, juicy jambalaya and savory collards,

street jazz and sweet pastry;

I pray to be worthy of the thick, tough flesh that covers you

like a silky shawl.

The prompt is from "Rhinoceros Woman" by Assata Shakur from her memoir, Assata, pages 62-64; the inspiration is New Orleans.

we exist. we are all the prisoners-

the Gypsies, the Queers, the Commies, the Poles and the Jews

we are all who have been rendered inferior because of cruelty

but we are also those for whom redress has meaning

we are white, but not quite

off-white, eggshell privilege

we are loyal viziers and dirty rebels

strikers and diligent house slaves;

We remember that during drunken Purim revelry, Hebron settlers

march and riot up and down Shuhade Street

that the empty bottles they break against the shuttered doorways

of Palestinian shops

will one day grind under our feet

to fine shards and then into sand;

We refuse to countenance the horrors of occupation

and the amputation of Palestine

which is the amputation of Jewishness,

to be the mother who did not scream 

when wise King Solomon threatened to cut her baby in two;

we commit to never let go of who we are

or to allow you to speak for us and claim us without our input;

we are the unyielding but flexible reed

stretching as we stake out the positions

we must take to survive 

as free people.

I wrote these lines originally for Young, Jewish and Proud to include in the beautiful Young Jewish Declaration. The declaration is powerful and deeply moving to each of us as it stands, and these wound up on our cutting room floor. But we all liked them enough that I've chosen to publish them here.--Rachel Roberts 11/6/10 New Orleans, LA

Bread, soft and sweet nourishment

melts on the tongue while a crust bites my teeth

soft and steamy inside escapes

tough and chewy outside breaks down

takes focus to eat, to parse the multiple layers

to take in your various parts

plumped from the pressure of the oven

sweet heat

the stuff of growth

dough stretches, rises, cooks, crumbles

concrete blocks at checkpoints dig in, stand firm, erode, crack

and young conscripts turn into old men, altekakers--

old ideas disintegrate 

and grains of truth remain

to take on a better form

Damned if we are calm

Damned if we are angry

damned if we are civilized, supplicant and sweet

damned if we are rude, barbaric and violent

damned right, we are trapped 

in nets stitched by those who mean

for their long hooks to stick us through;

Their fishing expedition

has emptied the waters

and our soft flesh

can provide no nourishment to them;

they weave together Frankenstein's monster

carving pieces apart and forcing them together

in sloppy Soap Opera narratives;

The real suspect, the primitive, serpentine monster they search for, roils in the waters

of their bellies,

beneath their hardened hearts.

What keeps me in?

What turns me back to the task I cannot refuse is the knowledge that this will bring justice.

Speaking the truth about these people over and over--

Listening to the condemnations over and over--

will lead to freedom and justice

because as each additional condemnation rings out, the doors to more and more minds open

as each link passes through a social network

more and more people begin to see.

It is a slow chain reaction

but sometimes, slower is faster

and it is inevitable.

Each door we walk through leads to another

and each opens to reveal new people,

new skin

regenerated.

-Rachel Roberts

11/5/10

New Orleans, LA