“Our very life depends on continuous acts of beginning. But these beginnings are out of our hands; they decide themselves.
Beginning precedes us, creates us. There is nothing to fear in the act of beginning.
More often than not it knows the journey ahead better than we ever could."
John O’Donohue


8 March 2022

Pruning in Midwinter 

The way you care for a crepe myrtle
is to sever its arms at the elbows 
in February just as the hellebores rouse
and leave it standing
naked and mute and helpless
in the vast, frigid absence
of any sign of life. 

Like you, I am weary of the savagery 
of spiritual metaphors, 
much as I am weary
of the savagery of men. 
To call it 'pruning' is a cruel joke, 
but there is a subculture in nature
that flourishes through dismemberment. 

As a child, I hardly noticed 
the barkless, armless sentinels
lining the parkway medians, 
until they transfigured in late spring
into trees so heavy-laden 
with leaf and bloom
that they wept flowers
in even a faint breeze. 

The white ones were my favorite. 
When I should have been helping 
my grandmother load groceries in the car, 
I would stand on the curb, 
stretching to the nearest compliant branch
and shake the panicles loose, 
until I was englobed 
in a balmy June snowstorm
in the Kroger parking lot, 
transported for a moment
from a world that scans the landscape of winter
and sees only death. 

25 September 2021

 Muscadine Season 

I go to the vineyard at sunset
because I haven't decided yet
if this is a lament
or a love song. 
On the drive through the Alabama back roads, 
stray cotton littering the air,
the signs read, 
"Yes, we have ammo!" 
and "The blood of Jesus still works!"
And I can't stop the sharp flashes of shame, 
remembering how earlier this week
I joked to my class of Black preteens
that I must seem like a slavedriver,
hovering over them during algebra drills. 
A brief hiatus from poetry,
and it seems I've forgotten that words mean things. 
Seeing I am mortified, 
they laugh easily, generously, 
maybe because they trust me, 
definitely because we all know that
white people are ridiculous. 

But it is late September, 
the leaves are yellowing and letting go,
and the roadside stand
with a hand-scribbled sign announcing
the arrival of muscadine wine
has gone quiet for the evening. 
I am growing older by the moment. 
It's been years since making mistakes
has driven me to drink. 

In the solitude, car wheels on gravel
sound like a promise. 
When I was young, 
I was captivated by pain, 
imagining that it made me exceptional. 
Until I began to arrive here, again and again, 
with the fallen leaves spotted black with blight, 
after years of angry, drenching storms, 
learning that death is the logic of all things. 

They say it is more common than you think, 
how the grieving hear voices. 
At first, it's just the echoes of the no longer living, 
throat clearing, shuffling papers, 
an indistinct call from the other room. 
But soon the inanimate world--
if there is such a thing--
begins to speak
and all the rules must be rewritten. 

I kick away the sweetgum balls
and sit down to write here each year
as muscadine season wanes, 
because it shows me something about grief
that I didn't already know. 
This is not Napa. 
These vines don't just tell me what I want to hear. 
Their fruit dares to ripen, englobe
as the rest of the world goes dark. 

I approach them with my library voice. 
They have not been waiting. 
They already know what I came to say, 
that the chafe and hardening of their hulls
from the fierce sun and slow growth
only makes the jam richer. 

Next season, they say, we will both be older. 
Yes, there will be a next season. 
And yes, now we wild crones 
will watch each day as our vines
grow more entangled, more unruly
until the losing delivers us again
to this late harvest. 

24 November 2020

Nocturne

By day, I set out a feast of intentions.
At night, they come back to feast on me.

Once I had a dream that turned out to be true
that a demon was devouring a cat outside my window.
In the moonlight, the cat beat useless wings 
and shrieked like a subway train. 

The next morning, circling the bloodstain, 
my bookish child swore it had been the chupacabra. 
Later, I heard thirdhand about the likelihood of coyotes 
and the distant chance of a mountain lion. 

Then, my dreams were radial and spacious, 
night-long affairs seeded with the day's mundanities, 
swirling into surreal impossibilities 
until the clock ran out. 

Middle age dreams crowd closer to truth-- 
the just-missed flight, 
a tree collapsing the roof of the car, 
the children going missing. 
I subsist on the relief of waking to different catastrophes. 

There will be days to celebrate 
the languorous meal I have become, 
with the accumulated fat of menopause and worry. 
In the new dreams, 
I will beat my ragged wings on the ground, 
not much body left to speak of, 
and wonder at how delicious the burden of years has made me-- 
at how the beast, metabolizing a wholly new magic, 
licks its lips and sighs, contented, 
before drifting off to sleep.

8 August 2020

 Side Effects

The night I held the Pleiades in my hand, 
someone told me that eating the mushrooms
would make the meadow sparkle, 
but I might feel afraid. 
What he later said was soft and wild, I don't recall at all, 
but I remember the stars between my lifted fingers,
dancing. 

My child worries aloud that the meds
will change him into someone he won't recognize.
So we lie in the grass on a clear night. 
In these days when both intimacy
and the longing for it
are killing us off, 
I find that I am no better equipped
to judge six feet at a glance 
than I am six parsecs. 
As usual, the stars seem to know better, 
the distance between them
enough that they can rage for centuries 
and choke on their own nuclear smoke
and explode into bottomless hunger
without noticeable carnage. 
But still they have formed quarantine pods
to tell their stories of love and vanity and war
by the campfires. 

Once in a theology class, 
I learned that trying to describe God 
is like poking pinholes in a velvet curtain
to study the light behind it. 
You do get a little bit of the truth, 
and if you want to make it in academia, 
you are well-advised not to admit just how little it is. 

I begin to wonder if, when the good-hearted poets die, 
they are welcomed to Elysium
with a scroll of all the words
they didn't have time to learn to use
and all of the syntax of all of the lost languages, 
and a notebook thick enough for eternity. 
I hope it turns out to be true. 
I hope I turn out to be good-hearted. 

Abstraction soothes him, 
so he tells me in my left ear
that the composition of the night sky 
requires the presence of all light
and the absence of all light. 
I invite his anxiety to leaf out.
God knows I was afraid of everything when I was 15, 
and I hadn't even heard of prosopagnosia. 
Three whole people I know have died, one by one, 
each of the last three days, 
and he thinks surely that means something is coming. 

So, by way of reassurance, 
I tell him the Something is already here,
and always has been. 
And I tell him that when she died, the poet, 
I felt her brush past me, 
the way your shoulder brushes a pine tree
in the open-armed woods,
and that she knew the trail well enough, 
even in the dark,
and that she, for one, was content 
to be no more and no less 
than the scattered, touchable stars, 
one pinhole of infinitesimal infinity. 

12 March 2020

Poem for that time you said you don't understand half of the poems I read to you

What you should know, on the eve of quarantine,
is that poets really should live on their own planet
and send missives back to earth.
We need landscapes noisy with genetic novelty,
merciless juries to sentence the trite,
time to mourn the slaughtered lambs 
and the stillbirths.

I told you I'm not sure understanding is the point,
and I meant that under anything is not the point.
It's all surfacing.
In a poem, you can say only the minute at great length,
the profound in one broken clause,
the confessional in riddles,
and the obvious not at all.
You may not understand,
but you will try to picture it
if you trust me even a half measure,
and that is really the whole of the thing--
carving a new channel in the neocortex
and trust, which is the next best thing to love.

I will tell you the trade secret
that obliterates the whole enterprise,
but you have to swear not to repeat it.
Our best poems are never written exactly
but dictated onto the breathing surfaces of leaves
when the sunlight passes through them
and they have promised not to fall this season.

I don't write and rewrite, read and reread,
explain and avoid explaining these words for you
so that you can understand.
It is so I can hold you hostage for a little while,
here on this other earth,
where we can walk the long trails of doorways,
drink jasmine tea with cayenne,
and kiss like thinking grown-ups, 
like Sunday mornings spent reading in the park, 
the oak-lined pathways dappled with sun, 
the not yet halcyon days we were sure
would succumb to the asteroid
before we could see them.
It is a hope that you will think to yourself--
back home when there is nothing but steel sky
and the dull hum of compromise--

That was interesting.
I should try on some new words
and send her a note.

26 February 2020

Fog, Four Ways

i.
This morning, the fog hung
so heavy and so close
that I didn't see the 100 feet of mangled guardrail
until it was running alongside me
like a hurricane crest that jumped the dune
and regretted it.

No rogue engined beast
could have twisted it that way,
like macabre ribbon.
Only the living
can do that kind of damage.

ii.
Fog is matter's purgatory--
liquid that wants to be air,
air that wants to be liquid--
the wandering progeny
of the distant mountains,
too busy with earth-breaking
to notice it's gone missing.

iii.
There was that day we found the Golden Gate
through the upright ocean of fog
so thick that when we pulled off to the overlook
that was not,
I couldn't see all of those things I wanted
that you were not.
We had to stand chest to chest
to see each other at all,
and that only ever goes one way.
You noticed my earrings
picking up impossible light from somewhere,
and for then that was close enough
to noticing me.

iv.
I had a dream last night that we were flying,
and I didn't know you,
and we got married.
Which all sounds very meaningful,
but it was Brooklyn,
and I was just there in real life,
so that likely doesn't mean much.
And while we were flying,
we were talking about how you
have to imagine that you're actually
just right above the ground,
because otherwise you'll be too afraid
to keep going.
And we were getting married
in a kind of storefront,
in a ceremony that cost $36,
which will probably just be
what I happen to have in my wallet
when I find it,
and there was a wait,
which isn't a metaphor for anything
I care to think about.
We weren't anxious,
and we wandered separate directions,
taking turns holding our place in line.
My dress was pretty,
but I didn't want to wear it forever,
and I didn't feel beautiful
the way I did that summer day in Chicago
wearing my first wedding dress,
cut off at the knees,
with turquoise studded cowgirl boots,
blissfully alone in pure sun.
But I knew soon we would be flying
to that spot in the woods
where the dress would come off,
where the pinestraw beds and ladyslippers
were waiting, ribboned in fog.
And surely we were happy,
and I was not troubled to not know you,
because I would come to. 

19 January 2020: Chattahoochee River

Growth Rings 

This morning, I sat on the edge of the Chattahoochee,
where I waded and prayed for turtles as a child. 

The damp sand on my feet reminded me
I can still count the 1,464 days,
a season of my life I have marked off
sometimes in sharp seconds,
now more often in epochs:
the dark age of torpor and tears,
the ice age of vodka and headrush chaos,
the gradual warming, an approximation of patience.

I saw myself on the east bank of the Jordan,
alone in company,
turning over prisms of metaphors
about silty baptisms, plastic bottles with portable blessings,
the tortoise-like armor of Israeli guards
across the tranquil flow of river. 

The next moment could so easily not have happened at all.
I was already home,
no more threatened than any other new soul
unschooled in the body's share of salt.
But I glanced back--
which is maybe to say
my eyes wandered from my work. 
And I saw myself being seen
by eyes dark as the soil
that will eventually welcome me as a feast.

I still cannot fault myself.
I still cannot imagine what sacrilege it would be to resist
being seen from crown to lips to heart to hunger to toes
in the space of a breath.

Sometimes love grows like bamboo--
fast and reckless,
taking burnished height as its due,
rigid and hollow.
The ancient sound it makes
when the wind passes through,
the startling crack when it is broken
echoing off unsympathetic stone.

Some say these reeds--
macheted,
ground to pulp,
pressed into the invitation of paper--
could save us from slowly suffocating ourselves.
They may let us give these now tender oaks
the nobility of old age,
built in proud circles from inside out,
long after we have surrendered
by force or grace. 

2 January 2020

Yes, No, Maybe 

It is true that it is always day one,
if you are feeling philosophical
and a little buoyant.

It is also true that it is always day two,
and, for that matter, day 7,729
from some marker,
and there is no doubt that
you take up this new mantle
with some wear and tear.

Which is what I was thinking this morning
because I have this spot on my thigh
that could be the stubborn memory
of a cigarette burn from those days
or could be cancer. 
And it's fine either way really
because I'm not afraid of much,
there are people who know just the thing to do,
and next to no one has viewing rights
to my thighs these days. 

There are some mornings I wake up
saying yes to anything that will listen,
like when I've been dreaming
of mountain laurel flowers shaped like starbursts
or of meeting a llama in the early morning mist
at Machu Picchu.

There are other days I wake up
saying no,
usually because I am gearing up again
to make that one catastrophic decision--
you know the one
that always wears different clothes
but leaves the same stink. 
The no's rarely stick,
heady resolve notwithstanding. 

It is better to wait on the rest
until we have some time to talk, you and I,
to catalogue that absolutes
that own us in part,
and rehearse the etymology of maybe.
We should decide if it is about 
possibility or permission. 

It's January, and I am now aware
that once you reach a certain age,
the winter is so long in coming
that you lose the autumn expecting it,
and by the time it is in hand,
the daffodils are already announcing its end.
Only the spring goes on and on in real time.

And really all I mean to say
is that you were young once--
no, not a tragedy--
and yes, you will be young again,
but differently, maybe. 

4 October 2019

You had to be there

Occasionally someone will ask
how it feels to be in a season of separation
from my children.

What I want to do is tell the story of my first,
who clung to me even without a heartbeat.
And how after the procedure,
I didn't demand to hold him
as I should have
because I was weak and shy
and somehow flushed with shame.

But that is dark,
and we like to think we aren't made
to walk in the dark.

So instead I try to render a metaphor
about how you pass by your herb garden
in the morning on the way to work
and, unless they are freshly watered
and the temperature is just so,
you don't smell the lavender and the sage.
You double check again
what you already know:
that the sun will hover over them
in the afternoon while you are away,
and that you have sprinkled in the worm castings
when they were due.

But if you really want to mother an herb,
you have to rub it between your rough fingers,
just enough that it releases fragrant oil
and not so much that it falls apart.
And you cook something nostalgically new,
or you hold it under her preschooler's nose
so she understands about soil and sun
and how you treasure the leaves
and her little nose and the moment
without words.

It's rare anyone knows what I mean.
You had to be there.

26 September 2019

Fragile

For a passing moment each morning,
I am riveted by how brazenly we walk through a life
as like to kill us as not:
breathing untreated air,
washing with particles of plastic,
falling in love with strangers,
going to school--
as if the fact that this fragile thread has yet to set us loose
is permission to write a God
who loves us just a little bit extra.

They say that now the children
are more intimate with doom than we imagine.
Their love languages are irony and empathy,
in equal measure,
which I have come to believe
is the most earnestly human
we can hope to be these days.

But maybe that's not doom after all.
Maybe it's the template.
You'll recall the 12-year-old Jesus
escaped his frantic parents for three days
to school the rabbis
with his riff on apocalypse.

This morning, I hurtled north at 80
behind a gently swaying semi,
daring to write this poem on the contrails above the sunrise,
when the words could at any point
have lifted me from my body,
the very one that steers itself through the landmine.

All the while, the strawberries at home send out runners,
and my children, miles away,
walk into homeroom,
just about half trusting.
Because they only have the one choice.
They only have the one world to love.

20 June 2016

Summer Solstice

It bears some explaining now,
how to survive the longest day of the year.
But first, the acceptance:
You will have to be diurnal.
You didn't ask for it, I know,
this merciless day-dwelling,
the milked and measured time of men.
And then the moon
your mother
demanding all night
that you listen to her stories,
write them down even
with insomniac hands.
She pulls at the strings she wove
at the base of your heart
until tissue meets bone,
threatening to break out altogether.
There is no rest.
This tilt of the earth is not for you.

But since you are here,
more woman than wolf for now,
you should know something
about how to meet the hours.

The morning is easy.
You can rise as early as you wish.
The earlier it is, the more dream-secrets
she whispers in your ear
to sustain you.
And if you hurry, without rushing,
you can feel the urgent, tender arms
of perfect love reaching for you
before they travel west
to hover as mist
over the slow-waking mountains.

You give yourself to the tending,
to the plans of yesterday
not quite finished.
There is movement in the late morning hours,
flow and fulfillment.

The noon hour is meant to blaze
with a single fierce intention.
You claim the peak,
craggy apex though it may be.

You must sleep away the afternoon.
Your ancestors are so brutally far now,
and you are truly, utterly alone.
We are together in that.
Let restless dreams
carry you to the twilight.
The ache of estrangement
will loose itself.

At five o'clock, the river begins
to rage again,
and it is your rebirth
into adulthood.
You are reacquainted with yourself
as caretaker of your own boundlessness.
Now is the time to write.
It is the time to sit with a beloved
and imagine, in delicious detail,
how it will all be made new.
It is the time to co-conspire.
It is the time to linger
with lips and fingers and breath on his skin,
not for the heat
but for the cool assurance.
If he is gone,
you remember,
and it is almost the same.

The next three hours
are the truth of your life.
They will show what work
you are willing to do,
how earnestly you will
seek the horizon,
whether you will fall in love again
with desire itself
for another year.
Use the weight of your body
to lean in,
drag the fear along behind you
if you cannot set it down.
Your mother is rising now to call you
into the heavy haven of night.

"Mixing Up the Bible: New Theologies and Theodicies in Post-Shoah Israeli Poetry" (Study Prospectus)

Abel killed Cain and Moses entered
the Promised Land and the children of Israel stayed in the Wilderness.
I ride in Ezekiel’s chariot,
and Ezekiel himself dances like Miriam the prophetess
in the Valley of Dry Bones.
Sodom and Gomorrah are booming
and Lot’s wife has turned into a pillar of sugar and honey
and David king of Israel is alive and well.
I so want
to mix up the Bible.
~Yehuda Amichai, “I Want to Mix Up the Bible” (trans. Robert Alter)

(Sample poem excerpts in translation at: http://prezi.com/wdo8n1dx92_r/?utm_campaign=share&utm_medium=copy&rc=ex0share)

Background and Intentions
Amidst the degrees and the language preparation and the travel and the writing and reading of poetry, the experience that grounds me most in this research is my general practice (since childhood) of operating in the world as a contrarian. It is mythic lore in my childhood home, the extent of my stubbornness, and an ongoing constructive friction in my professional life. At its heart, this doctoral study is a contrarian project. It seeks to run counter to staid Christian perspectives on the Hebrew Bible and Jewish devotion, as well as counter to the theopolitical determinism of the State of Israel. It is intended to resist didactic methods of constructing and disseminating biblical theology in favor of the more sidelong efforts of poets and artists. Finally, it is aimed at resisting the common scholarly view that non-statist Israeli poetry of the post-WWII period is at the least antitheological and more commonly atheistic.
            The constructive goal of this project is to understand the theological implications of the work of Biblical citation, allusion, and appropriation in some representative poets of this era. It is my instinct that doing so will provide new theological tools to counter the inherited supersessionism of even the most progressive Christian churches. This outcome, I expect, will in part have to do with demonstrating to Christian readers how the Bible is read, internalized, and interpreted in Jewish community through the lens of sociopolitical history, and in part with dislodging rigid Christian views of the theologies and theodicies of the Hebrew Bible. As a cultural vehicle, poetry (and the literary criticism that accompanies its study in the academy) offers expansive opportunities for both transformations. It is my intention to engage in close study of these materials as detailed below for their own sake, and use the period following the completion of my dissertation to do the work of autotranslation—bringing versions of this work into explicit practice in my denomination (Disciples of Christ) and other faith communities, faith-rooted community organizing efforts, and seminary education.
            I begin this study with six years of masters’ level work in theology, Christian history, biblical languages, and ministry preparation. I have completed a Master of Theological Studies degree at Harvard Divinity School, with a focus on ancient Christianity, and will complete my Master of Divinity degree at Pacific School of Religion this December. My language study has included Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Coptic, Aramaic, and Spanish. I am a recently commissioned minister in the Disciples of Christ and a member of the ministry team at Tapestry Ministries in Berkeley. This congregation is unique in its focus on the incorporation of the severely disabled into active and visible ministry, its embrace of gender variance and racial diversity, and its commitment to horizontal, team-based leadership. As I complete this degree, I will be continuing in my weekly ministerial duties—preaching, teaching bible study, providing pastoral care, organizing church events, and structuring and scripting liturgy. I anticipate completing full ordination following doctoral coursework in 2018.
            I am also a working poet, a social justice activist, a professional fundraiser and executive director in the field of urban economics, and a single mother of two. Each of these roles has informed my commitment to this area of study. My love of poetry and translation will no doubt be the stoke that keeps the fire of this work alight. My simultaneous work, for nearly 20 years, with grassroots community organizing and with senior international real estate executives has attuned me in a unique way to the dynamics of financial and social power. My children, who have been raised observing in both Christian and Jewish religious communities, provide a continual truing of the theological leaps we take in interreligious dialogue. The fact that they are at once entirely comfortable as loving agents in a multireligious world and uncertain of how to reconcile theological realities in an interreligious context reminds me daily of the importance of providing creative conceptual tools for cross-tradition theological dialogue.  
                                                            
Research Statement—Booth/Colomb Formulation
I am studying the appearance of citations, allusions, and appropriations of Hebrew Bible scriptures in post-Shoah poets in the statehood period of Israel because I want to find out how these uses re-work the theological concepts of the Bible in light of multinational trauma in order to help my reader understand new and more liberating approaches to biblical hermeneutics, particularly for progressive Christians in need of an alternative to inherited supersessionism.
The working title for my project is “Mixing Up the Bible: New Theologies and Theodicies in Post-Shoah Israeli Poetry.” A few choices made in constructing this title are worth noting at the outset. First, the concept of “mixing up the Bible” comes from the work of Yehuda Amichai, the poet whose work inspired this study. The passage quoted at the start of this paper demonstrates one sense in which Amichai intends to “mix up the Bible” with poetic voice, as he explores alternative narratives that arise from engaging with the Bible as a living text. 
            The term “Shoah” has been chosen over the more common “Holocaust” to designate the Jewish genocide. In the case of both terms, capitalization implies the specificity of the event, separating it in common parlance from other genocidal activities. The use of “Shoah” is a response to problematic theological implications of “Holocaust.” As Zev Garber and Bruce Zuckerman have demonstrated,[1] the concept of holocaust originates from the narrative of the binding of Isaac (akedah) and suggests a necessary near-total sacrifice and compliance with the will of God. “Shoah” on the other hand indicates a “darkness” or a “catastrophe,” which does not import sacrificial redemption into a description of a yet-to-be-fully-understood historical event. It is also meaningful to note that this term places Jewish historical memory in a more mutually sympathetic relationship with the Palestinian “Nakba” (catastrophe) of 1948, which signals the largest single expulsion of Palestinians from the land of what is now the state of Israel.  
            The choice to confine my primary study to the works of poets within the state of Israel has not come without internal conflict. I am deeply concerned about engaging in an Israel-centric academic study given the current state of Israeli-Palestinian relations and the likelihood of a dramatically more hawkish American foreign policy in the Middle East near term. My spiritual and ethical commitments remain with the dispossessed and vulnerable in the present tense, even while I struggle to understand the formation and sustenance of the militarized Israeli state in the wake of the near-extermination of the European Jewish population. It has been, at various times, my intention to expand this study into contemporaneous Arabic literature in Palestinian territories and refugee communities. Increasingly, however, I am seeing the need to confine my language and cultural studies to the Hebrew and Yiddish that are more proximate language acquisition goals for me. It is my intention, however, to center on the voices on a spectrum of dissent against the Israeli state as a colonial power, incorporating Arabic works in translation as they emerge in the field of study.
            Finally, it is important to note that I am separating out the work of “theology” (which the modifier “new” implies is largely constructive theology in this setting) from the work of “theodicy” (which wrestles with God’s relationship to evil in the created world). I intend to maintain these as separate fields of inquiry, rather than seeing theodicy as a subset of theology. Using this approach leaves room for poets who wish to engage one without the other—who, in the period following genocide, must tread carefully in the acceptance or deconstruction of religious belief. At any given moment, one can have a relatively well-formed theology without a solid theodicy, and vice-versa. I want to honor these steps of resistance and embrace of faith in the wake of the Shoah for what they have to teach us about biblical stories.

Audience/Evidence/Theory
The primary audience for this doctoral project will be academics and students in the fields of biblical studies, Jewish studies, biblical theology, comparative literature, and—to a much lesser extent and more aspirationally—homiletics. With the exception of Jewish Studies, these fields are largely dominated by Christian scholars, ministers, and students, and it is precisely into this echo chamber that I hope the project will speak. While I intend my study to be deeply rooted in the linguistic and cultural norms of Jewish studies, it will be my goal to make the study relevant to Christian thinkers in a position to put its outcomes to work.
            The primary “data” for the project will be the appearance of citations, allusions, and appropriations of scripture in the subject body of literature. A substantial part of the initial effort will be seeking out these “data” in the original language texts, attending to the many subtleties of reference often lost in translation and differences in biblical literacy. Having defined a relatively limited but representative body of literature, I will gather these extracted sources and investigate them with various interdisciplinary tools.
            The central evaluative tool will be comparative literature, which brings with it literary criticism, translation theory, critical and postcolonial theory, queer and feminist theory, and a variety of other approaches. It will be essential, however, to maintain a focus on the biblical theology at play in literary interpretation in this body of work—not a broadly accepted move. Using these two strategies, I will attempt to activate and highlight the theological work being done in these text, not necessarily to demand recognition from the largely secular field of comparative literature, but to promote the value I believe these texts have for contemporary progressive biblical theology.

Artists of Interest
My primary interest in the statehood age of Israeli literature is to engage those poets operating outside of the nationalist narrative, but whose work still enjoys significant prominence in the literary historiography of the period. Statehood in Israel presumes both nationalist narratives and a kind of appropriated theological orthodoxy. Anti- or non-statist literature of the period then can be seen to resist either or both, in varying degrees. At the same time, I hope to become conversant in works that represent the significant influence of statist lyric poetry. The following poets will form the initial body of literature for study:
·      Yehuda Amichai (1924-2000): Widely understood as Israel’s greatest and most prolific modern poet. Immigrated to Mandate Palestine from Germany in the early 1930’s. First published in 1955.
·      Esther Raab (1894-1981): Born in Palestine, and lived in the emerging state with some brief exceptions. First published in 1930. Generally viewed as a pastoral poet whose engagement with the Jewish homeland implicitly supports the Israeli state.
·      Yona Wallach (1944-1985): Born and died (at a young age, due to breast cancer) in and around Tel Aviv. First published in the 1960s. Her poetry offers a strong feminist, sex-positive voice and an ethic of resistance to Israeli state determinism.
·      Dahlia Ravitkovitch (1936-2005): Born in Mandate Palestine to Russian immigrant parents. First published in the 1950’s. Her work invokes ritual and scriptural elements of Jewish life in the context of her commitment to peace activism and reconciliation.
·      Natan Zach (1930-   ): Immigrated from Berlin to Mandate Palestine as a young child. Has exercised substantial impact on Hebrew Modernist poetry as an editor, translator, writer, and critic. Controversial figure who has theorized an arguably racist cultural rift between Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jewry.
·      Natan Yonatan (1923-2004): Born in Ukraine, but immigrated to Mandate Palestine as a young child. Represents the lyric, state-promoting voice in this period. His poems have often been set to music and used for national occasions.
Additional poets will be incorporated as the study proceeds. I will not attempt to offer a balance between voices of state-support and voices of resistance, but instead to engage those poets whose approaches to scripture depart from the Bible and religious experience as cultural artifacts and instead offer constructive theological concepts. I do not exclude atheism, antitheology, or agnosticism from this field of constructive theology, particularly in the experimental mode of Modernist poetry.
Three particularly helpful anthologies are:
·      Burnshaw, Stanley, et. al., eds. The Modern Hebrew Poem Itself, Second Edition (2003)
·      Glazer, Myra, ed. Burning Air and Clear Mind: Contemporary Israeli Women Poets (1981)
·      Kaufman, Shirley, et. al., eds. The Defiant Muse: Hebrew Feminist Poems from Antiquity (1999).
Finally, the study will also include seminal works of literary fiction in, or in reference to, this period in the history of the Israeli state (particularly the works of Amos Oz), and works of visual and performance art that further the analysis of the artist’s relationship to statehood.

Disciplines Review

Biblical Theology
It is significant that I have chosen to align with biblical theology as a central discipline rather than biblical studies—which currently enjoys greater legitimacy in both secular and seminary-based higher academics. While contemporary scholars offer significant exceptions, biblical theology as a discipline can be seen as antiquated based on the burdensome assumptions of scriptural inerrancy, divine provenance, and the supersession of the Hebrew scriptures in light of the New Testament. It is, however, precisely the continuation of these practices that I plan to explore, with the aim of challenging them through the lens of contemporary literary endeavors rather than biblical studies methodologies.
            Outdated efforts to study and teach biblical theology remain largely inaccessible or uninteresting to non-Christian readers, because the effort of the field is to provide a foundation for homiletics, pastoral leadership, and seminary education that presumes faith-rootedness. Its origins date back to the 2nd and 3rd centuries, with the works of the early church fathers, so that the field remains active primarily in orthodox communities.
The contemporary historical critical project of biblical studies, however, often aims too far toward the complete demystification of scripture and remains largely inaccessible to Christian faith communities. While some of the resources of contemporary biblical hermeneutics that have emerged from the field will be of value in this project, the aims of my work are quite distinct from the field of biblical criticism.

Comparative Literature
            Comparative literature is a well-established contemporary field of study that will provide the essential components of my methodological approach to my doctoral study. The practice of comparative literary study has its origins in transnational literary community in 19th Century Europe. It remains a vital field of study, though often considered too methodologically broad to provide a critical mass of direct academic dialogue. Its natural concerns with sociology, anthropology, history, literature, translation, religious studies, international relations, etc. create a wide field for topical focus.
While many contemporary comparatists focus on transnational literary criticism—and thus the concern of intercultural communication, translation practices, power relations, etc.—my focus will be primarily the comparison of literary culture across time and political experience (particularly the Shoah, the Jewish diaspora, and the creation of the state of Israel). There is, no doubt, a comparative concern in the relationship between Israeli (Hebrew, Yiddish) and Palestinian/Arabic sources in the post-war period in land increasingly being claimed as Israeli territory. However, the central question of the project is how the literary intent of the bible is renewed, reinterpreted, reappropriated, and undone in later literary sources. 

Additional Fields of Inquiry/Sources of Methodology
The project will require exploration of several other disciplinary fields, including: 
·      translation studies (biblical Hebrew, modern Hebrew, modern Arabic, Aramaic, Yiddish, and English)
·      critical theory (feminist, postcolonial, queer, and literary theory)
·      border studies (diaspora and the nature of modern-contemporary Israel/Palestine)
·      Jewish studies (hermeneutic traditions, literature in society, Jewish mysticism, secularization and post-secularism)
·      Middle Eastern studies (modern and contemporary political concerns)
I will engage these additional fields as sources of alternate perspectives and critique, particularly for where they point to sites of marginalization and erasure, to the political and social implications of my work, and to the translation of my work into contemporary religious practice communities. Each of these fields is itself by nature interdisciplinary, calling on a variety of methodologies. Most notable are the foundations of linguistics, political theory, political science, religious studies, history, psychology, gender studies, and textual studies.
Translation studies and critical theory are in large part embodied in the practice of comparative literature, and will not represent a significant departure from that primary field (though each is dramatically broad in its own bibliographic and conceptual reach). Jewish studies and Middle Eastern studies are unavoidable as fields of consultation/critique as I pursue study in this literary field.
I am particularly interested in the work to be done with queer theory and queer theology in my area of study. One of the foundational realities of the Israeli state is a return, in the wake of the Shoah, to a cultural hyper-masculinity, an equation of national sovereignty with virility. One sees the theme throughout the statehood period (as well as in contemporary history and historiography), understood by many Jewish studies scholars as a reaction against anti-Semitic tropes that feminized Jewish men. Gender play and linguistic and theological queering are used widely in the poetic works that comprise this study. Some work has been done to explore secular queer theory in this context, but the activation of queer theology remains to be done (again, largely due to the presumed antitheology or secularism of this body of work.)
Border studies has consolidated quite recently as an academic field focused on the formations of physical and effective political boundaries in international power relations. It simultaneously investigates both practical social and political circumstances and the metaphorical significance of border-making and -breaking. It is a particularly meaningful field for my work given the dramatic impact of post-war nation-state delineation during the period of my study, as well as the contemporary concern of the expansion of the Israeli state and Palestinian sovereignty.
There is the potential for my work to benefit the field of border studies with an investigation of the theological and rhetorical effort at play in the construction of boundaries. The theological foundations of the history of Jewish sequestration in the West and contemporary practices of Palestinian containment are explored more frequently in literary responses to social circumstances than in political ones. This study has the potential to free some of those underutilized literary resources.

Professional Goals
Multivocationality has been the reigning logic of my entire working life, in part due to financial necessity and in part due to the significant divergence of my interests. I have embarked on this doctoral study with the intention to remain multivocational for the foreseeable future, although it is my hope that the fields of my interest will begin to converge more naturally over time. Ideally, I would like to find a meaningful but not exclusive place in academic dialogue and teaching in undergraduate or seminary settings. I have mostly ruled out the option of seeking employment solely as an academic in a larger research institution, both because I am much more committed to teaching than to academic production and because I hope to continue to engage in other efforts, including active part-time ministry and housing equity activism.

Terra Incognita
The most critical area for my immediate growth as a scholar in this field is in the mastery of Hebrew and Yiddish. This is not exactly “terra incognita” but rather a recognition of the need for a near native-speaking mastery of the languages so as to be highly attuned to subtle biblical references and their cultural implications.



[1] Garber, Zev and Bruce Zuckerman. “Why Do We Call the Holocaust “The Holocaust”? An Inquiry into the Psychology of Labels,” Modern Judaism, v 9 n 2 (May 1989), pp. 197-211.

18 September 2016: First Christian Church, San Jose

“Cry out, therefore, and write thus”

 

I was 18 years old when I first met her

on the lips of a man I never knew

under a ceiling of stars

in a meadow in the shadow

of a sleeping library

built to look like a fortress.

With my mouth,


he whispered,

Hildegard wrote,

God says,

 

I kiss my own creation, every image
I have made out of the earth’s clay.

 

In the same year of her life,

Hildegard’s feet kissed the threshold

of the convent.
Imagine: finding tenderness

on earth and in heaven at once.

 

In her cell

(yes, they really call it that)

her pen poured out

the questions to their answers.

 

It came to pass,
when I was 42 years and 7 months old,

            that the heavens were opened

            and a blinding light of exceptional brilliance
            flowed through my entire brain.

And so it kindled in my whole heart and breast
like a flame, not burning, but warming,
…and suddenly I understood
the meaning of the expositions of the books.
But although I heard and saw these things,
because of doubt and low opinion of myself
and because of the diverse opinions of men,
I refused for a long time the call to write.


It is quite irrelevant how bitter

the approval of men tastes.
It is mother’s milk.
We are weaned when we are weaned.
Hildegard named her emergence “dread.”

 

Part of the terror is to take back our own listening.

 

It took 833 years after she passed to eternity

under two raging streams of divine light
seen by two Sisters
and therefore unverified

for a committee of men in inherited regalia,

at a table carved by the clandestine dreams
of lesser men and no women at all,

to declare her a Doctor of Souls.

They called it “equivalent canonization,”

the consolation prize.

 

I dare you to say  

it is too little, too late.

4 June 2016

On being the mistress 

I have generally learned to ignore
the things men say in bed. 
But you leave dripping fatalism in my ear
like honey. 

"You will be the end of me." 

Soon I search the fogged mirror
for anything more nefarious 
than unshed adolescence, 
hunger and tears equally ready. 
No one there is peddling extinction. 
There are the beasts, of course, 
disordering the dark libraries of my mind, 
but I know them, 
and all they want is ample solitude. 

Speaking of which, 
I begin to suspect that you are 
being a little dramatic. 
What is the end anyway
except beginning, 
asking all the questions again, 
the quick flaying of coming clean 
when you thought the game 
was to layer compromise on compromise 
and forge a life
from the religion of consequences. 

Eliot said to hold fast to the end, 
if you are fortunate enough to reach it
still breathing. 
The beginning is there again, 
and the end again--
find it enough, 
and you find home. 

But it is not advice easily taken, 
or often. 


23 May 2016

Doctrine

What you left me,
ultimately,
is the doctrine of irreplaceability.
It feels like the place
where your hair meets the skin
the skin of your neck,
rising with touch.
It sounds like the holy quiet
of night giving way to dawn.

In a dream, I place you,
an anachronism
in my grandfather's garden.
After decades of failed attempts,
I am suddenly, strangely
able to grow things.
I can watch the sprout of a pepper plant
and know how light and air
will preach it into bearing.
I can feel the delicate spines
on the skin of a ripening tomato
and see love and letting go
open a window
on the crowded earth
for it to arrive.
Our four hands share
the prophecy of dirt,
the late summer drought
yielding to fruit.

14 May 2016


Trinity

My brother is an artist,
though I am not sure he remembers.

I picture him drawing in charcoal years ago: 
strong, thick lines to delineate an image, 
which he then rubbed off, 
black fingers and muddled page, 
to create the contours 
of an actual, breathing body. 
It is a thing I will never understand, 
this movement of dust into flesh. 
And it is not what I do with words. 

I turn flesh into dust, 
and I rearrange the grains
until they speak some strange new word.  
He resurrected, 
I deconstructed. 
That was always our way. 

And now you, walking back,  
breathing your warmth into what was last
and will be. 
I am not sure which gesture it is.

What was it I imagined otherwise?
Likely some idea,
immaculate at its sharp edges. 

Creator's intent, 
Sustainer's history. 
And at the apex, 
this wound, not healable, 
and not meant to be. 
  

10 May 2016: PSR Palestine Immersion Chapel Reflection

After six days Jesus took with him Peter, James, and John the brother of James, and led them up to a high mountain by themselves. There he was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light. Just then there appeared before them Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus. Peter said to Jesus, "Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters--one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah." While he was still speaking, a bright cloud covered them, and a voice from the cloud said, "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!" When the disciples heard this, they fell facedown to the ground, terrified. But Jesus came and touched them. "Get up," he said. "Don't be afraid." When they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus. 

When it comes to the Transfiguration, I begin in a foreign place: the pine forests of Georgia in my childhood. Where, in a certain season, the cicadas abandon their skins by the hundreds on the bark of the trees. There are transfigured bugs somewhere. But all you see are the pearl-pale skeletons of bodyshapes clinging.

In love with all things fragile, I wanted to collect them. But each one I touched crumbled. Though I tried every delicate procedure, their no-longer-feet still held fast with unseeable insect tenacity and their ghostly bodies were nearly nothing, disintegrating with the slightest pinch. 

I want to say something about what it is that makes a place--however small--or a time--however brief--holy. But it takes more voices than I have. We could say something about permanence and impermanence, certainty and conjecture. The places and times that wound and heal us. The nowhere and everywhere, suspended time and fleeting time. Finding our way and losing it all at once. 

On Mount Tabor, there are two churches. You would think there was only the one: with mosaic tents for Moses and Elijah and a grand sanctuary for Jesus built on the triumph and treasure of the apostolic assembly. Its doors await the Rolls Royce, the cameras, the rose-bedecked bride. But there is another: ragged quarter walls and damp, dark earth. Perhaps the site is more ancient, more true. Perhaps not. But it is certainly more inviting for the prayers of the dispossessed--a place to imagine the promise of a restored body. Fresh soil calls out, asking to be dug up for a new order, an unvisited wholeness. 

The sunset falls from the crest of Tabor over fertile checkered farmlands claimed a hundred times over. If you squint, you can see the desperate effort to scrawl lines of imaginary safety. I am photographed taking a photograph, the sunset multiplied in the image, as if it could belong to more than one people. 

I did manage to extract a cicada shell once, as best I could tell with all of its microscopic borders intact. It is in a plexiglass box in a mildewed chest somewhere in one of a dozen storage sites in Georgia. No one will ever rock in silent prayer over it as the women do in seclusion at Abraham's tomb. And I do not pray to it today, but to the creatures I could hear but never see emerging into the woods, the ones who search the living earth and air for what is next.

8 May 2016: Berkeley

Fiddleheads

On that particular hillside,
the fog arrives over these three days
in five different bodies
like a shapeshifting god--
     fairy wisp,
     clan of snakes,
     liquid wind,
     lovers' arms,
     queen's full repose.
They tour the villages of private miseries.

In the high hills,
the fog mists over the darkened bedroom windows
of the dozen girls here
with bowed legs and sunken eyes
who dread portioned meals.
It curls around the contemporary facade
of a house full of pacing and blame-throwing,
where the phone registers
the pleas of the novice addict:
the stolen wallet, the blind eye, the never again.

In the low hills,
it brushes past the crumbling apartments--
one earthquake from surrender--
of the young lover
dieting on Ativan and vodka
and the woman
who lost her son, her sister, and her mind
all at once.

At the edge of the cloud,
between the water and the ridge,
is our house,
the children waiting at the window.

I try to imagine what can hold
this immense, provincial ache.
Something in the mist
sets my mind on fiddleheads,
how they turn in so perfectly to hold
their own fragility.
The head of the leaf, the extremities,
the skin and spores,
all one embrace
and shield.
In their season,
thousands of fiddleheads
dwell in the hills outside this window,
fortresses of tortuous waiting
and coming release.

4 May 2016

Credo-40

This is the day I will hold it all lightly,
for my own sake.
I will tell myself that your hands and eyes
spoke truth, what they knew of it,
and that love does not rain on dry ground.
I will not dwell on the alter-worlds
of erasure or return.
I will declare my heart both
entirely taken
and entirely my own.
I will trust that the world
just outside my skin
is not made of daggers and fire.
I will hold the image of you
arriving, and arriving again--
freely, with fresh anticipation--
the last night so like the first.
I will forgive my remembering,
though it draws you dangerously close,
with the soft persistence of your mouth
when words were at rest.

And I will believe the stories people tell--
not because they can be lived,
but because they are believed.

3 May 2016

Mothering

The thing about single mothering
is that you can't have a feeling
without the children, the animals,
the house itself
having it with you.
Your heart is not a sanctuary,
it is a compound.

I haven't had a solitary feeling
since my five year old son saw me cry for the first time
and decided to live in the wilderness
and survive off of the generosity
of hoarding squirrels,
until his sister called him in with a reminder
about fire ants
and his present lack of claws.

We grieve together, always--
such injustice.
They are certainly not learning
that the world is an inheritance
of meritocratic bliss.
I suppose that's the up side.
But they are taking the body blows of loss--
theirs and mine alike--
as if they were prepared
for the atrocities of love.

The alternative, of course,
is to make them objects of hope,
rather than its water bearers.
And when, precisely, then
would our souls meet?
That magic was simply
unwilling to wait.