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.

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.

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.

a virtue greater

the sky let loose a horde of ice
which as she walked did once or twice
accost her head. so glancing up,
she calm replied, “use no such vice,

“for if you merely thought I were
in step perhaps a bit too sure,
why, fret not, for my pride is one
that G-d Herself will see as pure,

“for love is Her divine intent
for all mankind to smell the scent
of life no matter breed the bud
from which the sweetness is here sent.

“so think not that this Deadly Sin
is one to Hell will this girl spin;
this pride is not the Vanity
which Heaven holds in such chagrin—

“ ‘tis only love of love, you see,
which makes my stride so strong and free,
no heightened ego plagues the faith
which this girl doth hold so in Thee.

“so ‘ere you strike another’s crown,
take care that she on whom you frown
by not her sin in truth uphold
a virtue greater, less renown.”

Info:
Editing status: edited
Composed: 5 October 2005
Submissions: None
Inspiration: AP Lit assignment to create a rubhiyat, an Arabic form of "aaba" rhyme scheme in iambic tetrameter; the desire to express the concept of bisexuality as a gift rather than a shortcoming (edited to virtue rather than gift).

Hemingway’s Auction

Going once, going twice, sold to the man with the yellow smile—head on over to Block B with your wallet for the exchange and it’s all yours, congratulations, mazel tov, enjoy—what’s up next; oh yes, this one’s a beauty: take these home and your little one will be crawling around the block as always, only now her feet will be in one piece when she comes back; they work just as well for boys, I’m sure, but the pink may be a bit too cutesy for his father’s taste, even if the tot don’t much care himself, though they’re not all pink anyway—just the edges, the rest sparkling white, ready to be personalized by your little one with the unique hues of your very own backyard as soon as she learns there’s something there to explore—better give her all the protection she can carry on her, since you can’t be there all the time, y’know, no matter how vigilant a parent you may be, and now you’d have one less body part to worry about—better to be keeping an eye out for her head than her feet, I say—and besides, she’ll be wearing high heels soon enough, you may as well enjoy her time in these little things while you still can—she’ll be grown up before you know, perhaps it’s cliché, but it couldn’t be more true; get your cards together, the bidding will begin momentarily; just think of her freedom to run around the yard with no fear of what unpleasant surprises the ground may hold—oh, and that’s the signal, we will now begin the bidding for sale number two-thirty-six, baby shoes, never used: starting off at thirty cents—I see thirty, do I see thirty-five—I have thirty-five; perhaps I can take it up to fifty—and I see fifty; how about sixty, I have a sixty, seventy-five—yes, seventy-five, keep it going, folks, the contributing family wants to see these go for a good price, they deserve it, after all; what about eight-five: eighty-five; can I bring it up to a dollar—yes, a dollar, I see you back there, sir; dollar ten, perhaps—I see a dollar ten, do I see a dollar twenty-five; and I do indeed, how about a dollar thirty-five; come, now, you can do a dollar thirty-five—ah, yes, the gentleman in the back again for a dollar thirty-five; anyone care for a dollar forty—dollar forty—dollar forty for these beautiful shoes; I don’t see any signs, so dollar thirty-five it is: going once, going twice, sold to the little man in the back—trot on over to Block C and they’re all yours, sir; now I see our next item is a watercolor by the banker’s daughter…

Info:
Editing status: unedited
Composed: 25 April 2006
Submissions: None
Inspiration: Hemingway's famed six-word story: "For sale: Baby shoes, never used."

The Wall

It’s a pile of rocks,
an underground fortification
that somehow survived the Romans’ invasion;
historically unimportant,
it was void of any spiritual meaning
back in the day,
and while I recognized it had come to acquire one,
being the closest we had to the real thing,
I was sure I knew too much to feel it.
They told us,
“It’s okay not to feel anything.
The experience is different for everyone.”
I was intending to go,
write a prayer
for Leah
on a slip of paper,
stick it in a crack
and leave.
It’s just a pile of rocks.

I finally approached
the pile of rocks,
giving five shekels tzedakah to one of the beggars along the way—
she gave me a chamsa charm tied to a red string
and a thank you in broken English; I must have looked like a tourist.
I entered the women’s section of the kotel,
walking my normal pace and step,
but stopped halfway.
I looked up.
Still just a pile of rocks,
but I suddenly remembered to write down my prayer,
instantly forgetting what I was intending to say.
That must have been the Wall’s first sign.
I started over,
thought for a moment,
and within minutes,
I had composed a different prayer,
a prayer more beautiful than the first—
praises, hopes, dreams, and the one request
(for Leah—I didn’t forget!)
in purple pen on a small piece of blue-lined paper
and rolled it up.
I continued my approach
to the pile of rocks.

I had to wait for a spot
at the pile of rocks;
the women’s section is so much smaller
than the men’s.
I suddenly found myself wishing I had remembered my tallit.
I found an open space next to two strange Israeli women
mumbling quickly in Hebrew words I still did not understand
but then all went quiet—
that was the Wall’s second sign.
Women dovened all around me,
but I didn’t hear a word, not a mumble, not a breath
besides my own
as I touched the cold yellow stone with the palm of my right hand
for the first time;
I felt pressure behind my eyes
as they released emotion
I didn’t know I had,
tears floating down my cheeks
in a way that took my heart with them
as one drifted to the Wall’s surface,
Her third sign flowing from me to Her,
a part of me to be cradled by
this pile of rocks.

I read my newfound prayer aloud
to the pile of rocks,
and She listened intently, still silent,
until I was done with my prayer
and went into Hers:
Sh’ma Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu,
Adonai Echad
my voice shaking almost as much as my hand
as I touched Her surface again,
brushing my fingertips along the cool stone
as I placed my written prayer in a crack
already full of tiny scrolls
with the Jewish people’s words and hearts
inscribed in pen in every language,
and as my words joined the multitude of my people
in that tiny crevice,
I touched my lips to the millennia-old stone—
I expected it to be cold
but it warmed beneath my lips,
kissing me back,
reassuring me
that I am not alone,
giving Her fourth sign
back to Me,
an irrevocable connection
between my Jewish heart
and this Wall
that, in some way I will never understand,
must be more
than a pile of rocks.

Info:
Editing status: unedited
Composed: 30 January 2007
Performed: Sekou Sundiata Open Mic, Dorchester Hall, UMD, 31 January 2007
Submissions: None
Inspiration: Visiting the Kotel (a.k.a. Western Wall, Wailing Wall) for the first time on my Taglit-Birthright Israel trip during winter break.
Translations/Notes:
- Leah: the author's younger sister
- tzedakah: charity money
- chamsa: lit. "hand"; a charm, usually with an eye inside, supposed to symbolize the hand of G-d to protect from the Evil Eye
- tallit: prayer shawl
- doven: Yiddish, to pray; connotation generally implies accompanying side-to-side movement
- Sh'ma Yisrael... Echad: "Hear O Israel, Adonai is our G-d, Adonai is One," the "watchword" of the Jewish faith, the most important Jewish prayer.