of a son
My blogger-poet-friend Ingrid inspired me to create a Twitter account and start writing #APoemADay, which I began on January 1, 2021.
I’ve been finding that I am particularly comfortable writing poems that reflect my more morbid thoughts in this micropoetry format, as I have expounded upon.
Below is my 3rd week of Twitter poems:
Shabbat Shalom from Jerusalem,
David
Every day he ponders writing; demons, seraphs jostling, fighting O'er memories alighting, dreams and images of Papa. Late at night he sees him living, gentle-hearted and forgiving; Daily, nightly, he is grieving- for Papa, forever gone. As the earth turns, he considers that he'll be forever gone Naught is left of mind nor brawn. As the earth's been spinning, turning, one dream has been oft recurring- Deep in darkness there lies stirring a vile, shifty chimera. It's but wishful thinking really, very foolish, rather silly, Still, through dreamscapes rugged, hilly, slinks that taunting chimera. She's unbidden, uninvited, is his taunting chimera- Forward, forward she is gliding, fed on memories of Papa. Asleep? Awake? He's kaddish speaking, praying, swaying, then- a creaking- 'Tis the floorboards creaking, squeaking; and behind him stands Papa. How, he stammers, have you come here, I've been mourning you all year, Dear Papa, tell me, can you hear me- can you hear me, Dear Papa? Reading, thinking, writing, praying, I've been mourning, Dear Papa... Aren't you... aren't you... actually... aren't you actually gone? No, no... you must have forgotten (though you are my first-begotten), That hospital was naught but rotten; the doctors said I didn't have long... But we dismissed their dire prognosis; HaShem reversed the diagnosis- He gave me life that I'd find gnosis- bid me wear my black kippah. So here I am, and you're done praying. May I have back my black kippah? Please give it here; I'm your Papa. Dawn break; awake; dripping; sweating. And- then- he knows what's most upsetting- All this time he's been forgetting... to lift his phone and call Papa. Rising from his restless slumber, lifts his phone and dials the number- Has he been somewhat unencumbered? ... but Papa's cellphone isn't on. The earth's still spinnin' n'a-turnin', but Papa's cellphone isn't on- Naught's ever left of love forgone.
Today, for d’Verse’s “Open Link Night”, I’d like to share a poem that I wrote about ½-a-year ago, about one month after creating this blog.
Disconcertingly out of sync, perceptions jumbled, receptors misfiring, I remain immediately near but never fully within the self I’d always known, receiving on an unfamiliar, piercing wavelength.
Slowly, slowly, I have come to understand
-Me, ‘The Skeptic’s Kaddish’ #47, June 23, 2019
this: My pulse has been attuned to loss.
I thought of my above words (which I wrote towards the end of my year of mourning for Papa) just recently because I’d noticed an unexpected degree of darkness and morbidity increasingly manifesting itself through my Twitter poetry.
Inspired by Ingrid, a fellow poet-blogger, I created this Twitter account and began writing daily Twitter poems at the turn of the year. At first, it seemed a light, creative exercise for me – a way to get my juices flowing. Now, having written more than two weeks of Twitter poems, I am glad I took the challenge – for reasons unforeseen.
Obviously, Twitter poetry is short. From a technical perspective, this requires that poets consider every word; every syllable; every letter. I knew this, and I do, expectedly, savor the difficulty of producing snippets of lines and verses that resonate. It’s not so easy, and it’s often frustrating to have my poetry limited by length, but it’s been very, very rewarding.
However, as I mentioned, there is something much deeper that I’ve been noticing. The terseness of these poems is actually – liberating. You see, this medium encourages me to spit out ideas without expounding upon them, very much unlike this blog post, in which I want to explore a new idea of mine with you in some depth. Twitter’s restrictions, I am finding, have been freeing me – from myself.
Unlike some other mourners that I’ve known, I would not say that something died in me when Papa passed away. Rather, I would say that something new took root – something was born within me that day – an unrelenting and unsparing dreadful little homunculus. Ever since, this somber fellow has colored all of my thoughts in shades of death, but whenever I have attempted to express these morbid thoughts in verse or prose my mind has quickly taken over from the gloomy creature in an attempt to beautify, contextualize, or rationalize them…
Twitter simply doesn’t permit my mind the space it needs to blunt the heartache caused me by the homunculus. The creature eagerly spits out its ceaseless death and fatalism, and, finding purchase in the Twitterverse, its words sit there, raw and unanswerable.
Now, I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, an unhappy person; I am blessed in many, many ways, and I love being alive. Still, my perception of the world ever since Papa died bears a deep, flapping, shadowy gash, which the homunculus of death is constantly drawn towards. It simply won’t let me ignore the wound. The gash cannot be unseen, and the homunculus will not be subdued.
And… so… it seems a healthy thing to me to allow my homunculus free rein over my Twitter account, whenever it so desires. I cannot deny the horrid little beast’s existence, nor should I, for it is a part of me.
Perhaps, by reading its Twitter poetry, I will be better able to understand its mind – and my own.
My soulful kaddish glowing bright My damaged heart behind a screen Herein, words set my nights alight My soulful kaddish glowing bright Reliving love, compelled to write Heart torn at death so unforeseen My soulful kaddish glowing bright My damaged heart behind a screen
The above poem is my take on d’Verse’s ‘Object Poems’ prompt.
d’Verse prompted us to write an ‘Object Poem’, which describes an inanimate object in detail. These poems can center around an every day object, such as a door, a jar, a spoon or something of sentimental value.
Ultimately, object poems will also create a different perspective of the subject, exposing a deeper representation to the reader. The d’Verse prompt encouraged us to focus more on the abstract, as well as to title or begin our poems with “THIS IS NOT A _________”
We were instructed to choose an object, look past the obvious characteristics and uses of this object, and spare our readers the details. Instead, we were prompted to take our audiences to the connections that our selected objects have made with us or what they represent.
As I’ve recently been exploring various forms of poetry, I decided to try my hand at a writing a triolet for this assignment.
Once upon-
he cared- what they thought of him,
Wrenching- at him- soul and limb;
Oh- how things changed;
And the days, of course, as they ran their course,
Only saw things go- from bad to worse;
All became more estranged;
Then came a day- he was faced with death
(Though he wasn't there for love's last breath);
Darkness- swallowed- his light;
'Safe' and 'simple' broke, something black awoke,
Fingers- aching to write
All the prose he wrote- and the poetry,
Available to friends and family,
provided- release;
He wrote long and short- and slow and fast,
Uncovered
some of- his own truth at last;
Mind and heart wouldn't cease;
Language took him- far away from grief,
Daily blown- and battered like a leaf,
He kept at this, day and night;
How, he couldn't say; kept the tears away,
Couldn't fake what he'd write
Rejecting tweets, soundbites and Instagram,
He welcomed
meaning in- like Abraham
Would invite his guests;
Arguing with God- about beliefs
Brought him
no small amount of relief,
He was granted some rest;
And there arose long buried memories;
Breaking past thin mental boundaries,
Strange fancies took flight;
Down upon his knees, whispering- God please,
Please- make it alright
Today, for d’Verse’s “Open Link Night”, I’d like to share a poem that I wrote about ½-a-year ago, only a couple months after creating this blog.
In the summer of 2018 I was unexpectedly reborn as an orphan. Shabbat ended with the setting of the Jerusalem sun on July 7th, and after a brief closing ceremony at home I turned on my computer to learn that my Papa was lying intubated at a hospital in America. Shortly afterwards, his heart stopped.
Jewish tradition holds that we are to recite a special doxology called the mourner’s kaddish upon a parent’s death every single day for the duration of one year on the Hebrew calendar. For other loved ones, we are to recite the mourner’s kaddish for only 30 days. Much ink has been spilled over why our parents receive the greatest honor.
Part of an answer can be found in the original Hebrew, as the term “mourner’s kaddish” is actually a mistranslation. The correct translation of “kaddish yatom” (קדיש יתום) is “orphan’s kaddish”. You see, this version of the doxology was originally intended to be recited in honor of either of one’s parents after they died. It was only a later development that mourners were also permitted to recite it for their spouses, siblings, and children, and even then only for a duration of 30 days. According to Jewish tradition, therefore, one takes the status of an orphan upon the death of either parent, even if the other is still alive.
Rainbow veiled by night
Arching across creation;
Painting soul anew
The above haibun is my take on d’Verse’s ‘Happy New Year!’ prompt. We were to write about some new beginning that we’ve experienced. Obviously, I took this in an unexpected direction, but, well… it’s real, and I was thinking about Papa because yesterday was his birthday.
We were directed to write a classic haibun, including a traditional haiku, which entails the following:
Today is Papa’s birthday.
In Jewish tradition, we tend to commemorate the dates (on the Hebrew calendar) of our loved ones’ deaths, rather than their birthdays. Same goes for historic figures like our Jewish sages of the many centuries.
Generally, as somebody who deeply appreciates and respects his people’s traditions, I tend to think of them as frameworks for expression of human experiences. I don’t believe that they were designed by or mandated by God, but I do believe that they reflect and are the culmination of many, many centuries of Jewish wisdom.
That’s how I approached my year of mourning, following Papa’s death.
But the truth is that I often find our traditions to be… lacking? No, not quite lacking… insufficient? At least – insufficient for me. The practice of reciting the mourner’s kaddish on a daily basis during the first year of mourning for a parent was – not enough for me. It was not enough to get me through that year.
To be sure, there are other traditions associated with that year of mourning. There’s the common tradition of giving charity in memory of the deceased, and of studying Torah in their honor; but as much as I think of my traditions as my framework, it remains for me to fill in the frame. I found myself regularly confronted by the same niggling challenge that year, over, and over, and over again: where am I in this process? Where is Papa?
That, in large part, is why I started reflecting upon it and writing about it. I wanted to own it – to make that year a truly personal one.
Similarly, albeit in much less intensive way, I took to lighting a 24-hour memorial candle every Friday evening, just before Shabbat comes over us. The Jewish tradition is to light such a candle once a year on the anniversary of a loved one’s death and perhaps to light one on special festivals… but I find some small comfort in those flickering flames… in the physical reminder of Papa’s presence. Spontaneously, instinctively, I took this particular Jewish tradition and changed it up a bit.
And -so- I feel I must mark Papa’s birthday somehow, even though that’s not the Jewish tradition. Mama does so by sharing tender memories and Papa’s beautiful photography, as well as by eating some of his favorite foods; but I am found here, in written words. In fact, this morning, as I was contemplating what to write, I realized that it would be unnatural for me not to write something about Papa. After all, I write almost every single day – how could I let January 4th go by as just another day for prose and poetry?
It seems not a day goes by that I don’t think about Papa.
When my Dedushka (mother’s father) died, I remember my mother and her sisters weeping and eulogizing him. I remember one of my aunts crying, “I wish I could be like you.”
At the time, I remember being taken aback by this sentiment. Mama and her sisters are all unique individuals, each with her unique strengths and flaws; and all are quite different than Dedushka was. Why should any of them want to be more like him? He was no more special than any of his daughters, and he was no less flawed than any of them either.
As much as I think about Papa every day, I recall his flaws no less than his strengths; and he was no less flawed than any of us. I have countless warm and loving memories, and I also have memories that leave me with frustrated pulses of energy shooting throughout my torso from somewhere between my lungs. I was never like him, and I could never be like him; and, just like him, I have my own human strengths and weaknesses.
But the funny thing is that I have been catching myself on that very same thought often enough recently: “I wish I could be like you, Papa.”
There were so many wonderful things about Papa. I loved his humility, his integrity, his brilliance, his wonderment, his unselfishness, his honor, his self-confidence, his capability, his worldliness, his innate moral compass… and… so… so… so… many… things…
He was a truly beautiful soul, was my Papa, and I know that I say so objectively because I could also, if I wanted to, list all of the things about him that disappointed or even angered me. He was far from perfect; and I know so as well as anyone else possibly could… but… still… I find myself wishing that I could be like him.
And obviously, I don’t wish to be like him because of his flaws, but rather despite them, for Papa was an absolutely extraordinary human being of the highest quality, and I continue to love him so incredibly dearly.
I was never like Papa, and I could never be like Papa; but, unlike him, I can paint this lovely birthday portrait… because I feel that I love him more than he loved himself.
