Thursday, June 19, 2008

Golden

Love thy neighbor as thyself
becomes try to teach thy neighbor to be like you which
transitions to pity the neighbor who can’t be like you which
slips into despise the neighbor who refuses to become like you which
falls to spurn the neighbor who is different from you which
sinks to hate thy neighbor as thine enemy.

The chain of hate began with love,
and all the best of intentions.
We hate because the love was imperfect to start;
perfect love doesn’t try to proffer change:
it is the change, the adaptation, or perhaps the total lack thereof that comes naturally
without any prodding from self-righteousness in warm-fuzzy sheep’s clothing.

When you can say look how different we all can act
look how different we all can think
look how different we can all be
and yet still be so related

because, after all, the difference in the DNA between you with your yin
and your exact opposite with his yang
across the globe is less than one percent,
and only five percent to our next monkey-cousin down the line
and ten maybe to Mother Earth herself…
when you can say god made you you
and god made me me
and that’s beautiful

then you have found the love that the sages were offering to all humanity
on the golden platter.


Info:
Editing status: Unedited. Very unedited.
Composed: 20 June 2008
Submissions: None
Inspiration: Who knows. A random unasked-for visit from the poetry-muse. Might not have been the muse highest up the muse foodchain, but it was one poetry-muse more than had visited me for a long, long time, so I'll take what I can get.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

These Words Aren't Lost Yet... They're Back!

After a year's hiatus, I have decided to get back on the horse. I had a little bit of a burn-out with my writing (and, to be honest, life in general) shortly after the post before this one and have done very little writing, except what I needed to do for school, since then. Now, I'm living in Israel (temporarily, alas, but here nonetheless), and my perspectives on a lot of things have changed; I think for the better, but no one ever really knows what's better in the moment, do they?

However, since the change in scenery has helped me get back into a mindset that makes me want to write again, I can say with certainty that I am doing better in at least one way now.
I've got a few projects in mind: I want to get back to the novel I started two years ago (it's dystopian, my favorite genre, but very difficult to write well, so don't expect to see much of that anytime soon); I feel some poetry is begging to be laid onto paper from my experiences last semester in DC and this semester in Israel; and, most of all, I want to work on a collection of short stories I've been conceptualizing for a while now but never had a chance to bring to fruition. The working title of the collection is "Inventory," with a tagline that will go something like, "Lost Objects of the Shoah." For those unfamiliar with the term, "Shoah" is the Hebrew word for what we call in English the Holocaust. There's a significant debate in the scholarly community around the nomenclature of that event/series of events; "Holocaust" has linguistic roots that connote "sacrifice," religious sacrifice in particular, and many scholars, and non-scholars as well, have problems with calling the extermination of 6 million European Jews and 3 million other Europeans a human "sacrifice"--after all, they ask, to what end? The word "sacrifice" implicates giving something up to achieve something better, and saying that the Shoah created something better creates a lot of problems--emotionally, intellectually, historically. The word "Shoah" has a literal translation of "catastrophe," thereby calling the event The Catastrophe--no religious connotation, no implication that there was a higher purpose to it all, just the single most horrific, most widespread mass slaughter in human history.

I have had an intellectual and emotional investment in the Shoah for many years; I am the descendant of survivors (and some non-survivors), I have written several pieces--creative and non-fiction, both public and private--about my family's history, and I have researched that time period from a cultural (as in, not the war and the military tactics involved in it, but the lives of the people affected by it) standpoint for many years. I am taking a course now on the artistic representations of the Shoah, which has re-piqued my interest in the topic and inspired me to get back to the "Inventory" project. It started out with one story which I had published in a small publication in Atlanta when I was 15 put out by the Georgia Commission on the Holocaust; it tells the story of a child's shoe lost on the side of the road as she is marched to the trains in an Aktion in Germany. I also started, but never finished, a story about a pair of silver Sabbath candlesticks of thus-far undetermined fate. Shimon Attie's artistic piece, "Brick by Brick," offered significant inspiration for the rest of the project. I have a list of just under 2 dozen other items with unique stories (fictional, but based on historical occurrences or possibilities), with more ideas to come I'm sure. I might post some of these, or at least sections of them, for feedback as I get them written over, I hope, the next few months. It might be a hard experience; I have an idea of calling my grandmother up and asking her if she can help me by offering tidbits of stories of items that were important in her life in Germany which she lost, or recovered, as a result of the war. That will be difficult for both of us, I'm sure. But I'm also certain that it will, in the end, be a good experience for me, and I think the collection might even serve as an eye-opening piece for others as well if it ever does reach full fruition and publication.

To make a long story short, I'm back in the writing game. "Words Not Lost" wasn't lost forever. It was merely taking a meandering walk through the woods that some would call lost, but I call a temporary exploration of new territory. I've certainly explored new territory in my life since last year. I'm about to go on vacation to Cairo for the first week of my spring break, then to Haifa for Passover seder; I hope to gain inspiration and do some writing in that time, but I'll be on full force when I get back to Tel Aviv a week from Sunday and writing as much as I can in the week following. I hope to have something written, however rough and unedited, before classes start up again after Pesach. Wish me luck. :)

~ RaeAn

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Subtle Change

The violet perennials stare at me with black eyes,
I sit on the curb staring back.
I wonder—what do they know that I don’t?
How can they stare, unblinking,
at this world that the human race
has plasticized,
the Great Outdoors
reduced to spots of weeded gardens
and sister bonsais in their attractive little pots
not even made out of terra cotta clay anymore
but polymer painted in terra cotta dye,
an empty remembrance of what there
used to be?

The nerve! I cry out,
You don’t even have to try, just sit there and look pretty
and hope the unpredictable rain—
or the well-timed sprinkler—
comes before you’re too thirsty.

Or perhaps those are stares of horror—
maybe I’m reading you wrong.
Though it’s more likely wishful thinking on my part,
hoping the other kingdoms see the mess we’ve made of ours,
because maybe then we’d listen.

But really, you’re still beautiful,
in glowing violet and lively green—
you’re alive, in spite of it all.
You’re a fighter, too—
Sir, I exist!
you mouthlessly cry back;
oddly enough I hear you,
and I remember you were not bloomed yesterday
when I last visited this spot—
your blossoms ever so slightly
brightened this corner garden, and
the fact has created in me
a reminder that every world-alteration
begins with a single subtle change.


Info:
Editing status: unedited
Composed: 22 April 2007
Submissions: None, but it's the title poem for my 2007 Chapbook
Inspiration: Sitting on the curb during a break form teaching Sunday School. There were pretty purple and blue flowers. And then I needed a poem to tie in the themes for my chapbook... so I put it together?

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

February 13

He steps over the crack
in the sun-bleached sidewalk
and glances at the flower stand,
and the roses deep red
and the baby's breath blue
mix with the atmosphere pink;
he ponders the separate beauty
of each delicate bud,
and the Valentine's cards
cause him to wonder why love
has a gender at all.


Info:
Editing status: edited
Composed: Unsure; I think February 2004
Submissions: None
Inspiration: being bi and a gay rights activist while I lived in Georgia on Valentine's Day? Not entirely sure, I wrote it a while ago. It's still one of my favorites, though.

cold

the weather outside
is frightful
and lends itself far more
to teddy bears and cocoa
than igloos and snow angels—
ice and snow
are made of the same stuff
but one is beautiful
                              light
                                    airy
                                          unique
the other is merely cold.

Info:
Editing status: unedited
Composed: 13 February 2007
Submissions: None
Inspiration: My first experience with walking in (or rather, trudging through) freezing rain (I know, I'm such an inexperienced Southerner) and being pensive. It's a metaphor, too.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Power

Have you ever wondered why so many people have fantasies of domination? Men and women both... You know: the busty, commanding, leather-clad dominatrix. The dark, mysterious, out-of-control rapist. Little else gets so many people, so many kinds of people, going. It would seem to go against everything we were ever taught about humanity—our instinct is to seek freedom, our very nature is to fight for independence, and yet in our private minds we can only think of it all being taken away. Violence isn’t always a factor, but elements of it are: hickies mark one’s territory, nails and teeth force us to give in to pain, a truly passionate embrace leaves you so tangled up you couldn’t possibly move, even if you wanted to…

I have a friend heavily involved in the BDSM community. I once asked her how she could justify being a staunch loud-and-proud feminist and, at the same time, a submissive partner. She told me that the dynamic in the submissive-dominant relationship is, in reality, the complete opposite of popular belief. The dom may be acting like he or she has the power—leather whips, silver spikes, brute force—but it’s just that: acting. The sub, she said with a wink, now that’s where the real power lies. You see, she smiled, we whimper, we look up in fear, we say “yes, master” and we do as they say—but the instant that safety word of ours comes out of my mouth, all play stops. No ifs, ands, or buts. No nonsense. Everything stops. Nothing the dom can say or do can change that. It’s done. And, in the end, isn’t the ultimate power—not just in lovemaking, or sex, or fucking, or whatever you call it, but in everything—
                    isn’t the ultimate power the ability to make
                                                                                                    time
                                                                                                                   stop?

And I realized—the transfer of power, the surrender of free will, the desire to suspend all that bare instinct commands us to work for, it’s really just a ploy to gain more power. We humans strive for and thrive on power, and those who think enough to realize it can play with it like a child’s toy, twist it around so far until it comes full circle.

And here I thought that maybe, just maybe, on some minute hidden level, we weren’t all power-hungry monsters. But really, I’m just as silly as the rest of us.

This must be why religion works. We submit to a higher power, we bow in awe and tremble in fear, but as soon as we say “no,” that’s it. No more play. Life just… goes on. Like kinetic energy, the choice to submit is kinetic power: we have the potential power to say no.
                    We have the potential power to make it all
                                                                                                    go
                                                                                                                   away.


Info:
Editing status: unedited
Composed: 11 February 2007
Submissions: None
Inspiration: Unsure. It just... came to me.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

twenty

and on the first day
of your twentieth year
may you not miss what you've lost
and may you appreciate
to the fullest extent
what you've gained,
because what's lost is lost
but what's gained is yours
for as long as you can hold it.

at the start of your third decade
on this earth
may you care more about the things that matter
and may you let go of those that don't--
people too--
because those that mind don't matter
and those that matter don’t mind,
a great mind told me so.

upon the completion of your teenage years
may the lessons you’ve learned
and the people you’ve loved
never leave your side,
even as that beloved carefree span of time
passes away
like a daffodil’s petals
in the winter.

as you move on into this scary new stretch
this furlong around the corner
may you learn to love
to truly love
fully and deeply
others and yourself,
such that you may never be ashamed
to write your own blessings.

as you feel yourself growing older
little by little
may age bring wisdom
may wisdom bring life
and may your life inspire poetry.

Info:
Editing status: unedited
Composed: 11 February 2007
Submissions: None
Inspiration: Being pensive in the wee hours of my twentieth birthday.