מתגעגע

מתגעגע

Milki.
Warmth.
The strength in the eyes of the young girl in uniform who got me on the right bus.
Grocery store clerks who yell at you for asking where something is.
Taxi drivers who ask about your sex life.
Oranges, bananas, apples that don’t taste like plastic.
Fresh squeezed pompagranate juice.
Shwarma.
Eyal Golan playing on the bus.
Thick hot chocolate.
Arguing.
Rioting.
Kacha.
Achla.
Ein Baya.
Cold nights in the desert.
Feeling like I need God.
Ir Hakodesh.
Black, brown, and yellow men in kippot.
Arsim selling ripped CDs.
Short, direct, hard words in Hebrew.
Fresh shakshuka before hiking.
Swimming in the winter.
Bringing a gun to bed.
Wearing jeans to work.
Kissing.
Yelling.
Noise.
Closeness.
Openness.
Scars.
Saints.
Heroes.
Cats.
Fire.

Coming back from a month in Israel was hella tough, and the Hajj returners packed on my flight and the Christmas carols echoing through the airport didn't really help.
Neither does this cold.
But what bothers me most, I think, is how quiet it is.
I used to think the noise that all my relatives complained about so much about would get to me. I have very sensitive hearing -- everyone in my family thought I would end up becoming a musician when I was a kid. But my life took a different path.
As it turns out, I miss the noise. I miss the musica mizrahit on the overcrowded bus, the guy with the loudspeaker who screamed "PEROT PEROT YERAKOT ANAVIM BANNANA" every morning in the yard near my aunt's apartment in Haifa, and singing zmirot as I walked down the streets of Tel Aviv with friends on Shabbat. I miss loud arguments over soccer matches, angry protests in front of government offices, honking cars, and screaming children.
The streets here are dead. People rarely venture outside...only to their cars, and back again in the evening.
I guess quiet does not suit me, after all. Unless its the quiet of the desert.

I miss Israel so much.

Plant that orange tree that hangs in Jaffa

What I really want to be

Is a wild orange tree

Growing in the warm dust

Of life’s sweet lust.

Here in Jaffa, I hang in a pot

I want to grow roots

I want my ripe fruits

To fall on brown earth and take seed,

Not sleep on this street and rot

Kicked into the sea,

Stolen for souvenirs,

For ornaments to hang on a different kind of tree.

What I really want to be

A wild orange tree

Growing in the holy dust

Watching heaven rust

Free.

To the Rising Sun

When my dreams are only shadows
And sleep escapes the forlorn
I’ll look to the rising sun
And to the land where he'll be born
When the silver bell is silent
And the heart no longer warm
I’ll look to the rising sun
And to the land where he'll be born

When my hands no longer long
To make a guitar sing her song
When my tongue no longer dances
High pitched cries of sandy storm
When both you and I’ve forgotten
All the promises we’ve sworn
Let’s look to the rising sun
And to the land where he’ll be born.

To Dream of Thunderclouds

To Dream of Thunderclouds

I am tired of this rain
I have not seen the sun in days
I miss your heat on me
This land never thirsts
It is green and young and full of life
It never wants
It never cries out at night
With the voice of jackals
And wind breaking on rock
There are roses here in gardens
Planted in perfect squares
Each has a gardener pruning her daily
Who will tend your wildflowers now that I am gone?
Who will sing your young jackals to sleep?
Who will shine the stars upon your sand
Lighting the way for your wandering prophets?
Who will kiss your rough stones smooth?
And where will my children play,
If not by your rocky sea?
And what will my children eat,
If not your oranges that grow like weeds?
And what will my children learn,
If not that love can melt the sun itself?
And what will my children dream
If not of thunderclouds?

The Phoenix

The Phoenix

From Europe’s black flame
A golden bird born of the shame
From Morocco’s mellahs suddenly
Arising robed in majesty
Light pours forth from her eye
That turns East to a city, and off she flies
To a city on a hill where she rebuilds her nest
After centuries of journey and test
Her song revives the ashes of the dead
And fills armies of sin with dread
And as she rises up in flight
Her wings bear up the lost with might
And from her heart a spark of light
Banishes a long-lived night.

Message In a Bottle To My Beloved

Message In a Bottle To My Beloved

Somewhere in the dawn’s warm air I feel freedom
The breaking waves of the ocean lap at my toes and
I wish that I could walk on water,
Just a few steps closer to You
And as the Eastern skies light the sea on fire
I wonder at my strange unease
For I am in a peaceful land,
Far from bullet holes in babies and
Bombs on schoolbuses but
My whole being aches for You
And for Your broken golden city
Between the bloody puff of smoke that was my ancestors
And the red star that will hang above my childrens’ cradles
I have lived this morning in a borrowed peace
A peace that I know is not mine and will not be for ages
A quiet not for godkillers
A sleep not for the stiff-necked
One my restless mind cannot hold onto
But only call to it
Cry to it,
Beg to it,
From the shores of the Exile.
From the ends of the West.

Here and There

Here the trees have lost their leaves
And in your womb, the orange ripens.
Here the sun is asleep
And in your sky, he is laughing.
Here, they speak of Hollywood and golf
There, they speak of war and God.
Here, I am alone
There, I am surrounded by family.
Here, the fruit is beautiful but unripe
There, it grows like weeds in neighbors’ yards.
Here, the spirit is silenced
There, it shouts with joy at another dawn.
Here, everyone smiles
There, they smile if they mean it.
Here, they ask politely
There, they do not ask, but know.
Here, there are whispers behind your back
There, they shout into your face.
Here, few die young
There, it is expected.
Here, we have the mid-life crisis
There, twenty-one year olds are old men.
Here, we live forever
There, we die tomorrow.
Here, the ocean is far away
There, I can hear it in my kitchen.
Here, we are slaves to the clock
There, thousands of years change nothing.
Here, our hands are clean
There, our hearts are clean.

Flower in the Desert

I want to feel
The air steal the tears in my eyes
Dry them up before they even fall
As the moon flies and
I want to kiss
With lips burned and cracked the kind that
Whisper prayers for what I really need
Water
Shade
And a billion stars in the night of my mind

I want to grow my flowers in the desert
To wake the seed of wilderness within
To call upon the rainclouds in my heart and
Open them and wash away the sin

I want them to bloom and I will show You
Roses that do not wilt in heat
Lilies smiling without water
Between the stones where earth and heaven meet

I want to climb the cliffs of the Masada
And may my skin turn red and sting with pain
Two thousand years of winter stole its color
And smoothed it with two thousand of rain

And let my hands be cut and coarse and calloused
Become such hands that serve Your servant well
They yearn to touch the rocks, take hold and break them
And with them break from slavery and hell

I’ll find Your Name there, in the sand and sunlight
And floating in the saltiest of seas
If not, I’ll plant a flower in the desert
And she will bloom, and speak Your Name to me.

myrrh and oranges

Will I die in the warm arms of exile?
I am afraid
That my heart will not remain
Empty
Good food and wine dull hunger
And a lover’s kiss steals solitude
I pray for restlessness,
Peace is a curse to me,
Comfort is a scourge,
Will dream drown in contentment?
Will desire be smothered?
Do not call to me, Beloved,
Send me no letter but a warm Eastern wind,
Carrying myrrh and oranges.
For lacking word of you
I will seek you,
Remembering
Nothing of this world
Can fill my emptiness
But your own emptiness
Silent, frightening, ever-questioning,
Covered by a black desert sky.

I thirst for sand not water

I am in love with you
I thirst for sand not water
I am in love with you
I thirst for sand not water

Stars are many, nights are few
I want to make your old soul new
I want to touch your heart of stone
And warm it with my hands alone
I thirst for sand not water

To watch you wake and rise
To watch you stretch up toward the skies
To see the sun in your gold eyes
I thirst for sand not water

Your blackest errors I’ll erase
To nighttime terrors I’ll give chase
And hold to mine your tired face
I thirst for sand not water

Dreams are many, days are few
And yet I am in love with you
Until I’m wrapped in white and blue
I’ll thirst for sand, not water.

With eyes half-open

With eyes half-open

With eyes half-open, I see your rays
They adorn my dark lashes with gold
From the east you beckon me in the morning
City of light, when will I walk your streets
I can smell incense, or am I still asleep
I swear, I felt your caress as I awoke
Your name is on my lips, Zion
On lips that kissed your sweet stones
That dripped upon them
Honey-colored blessings

The Morning After

The Morning After

The aroma of the coffee you are brewing
Spreads through our humble campsite
The stars have faded, the moon is falling
The fire has died; only smoke remains.
I watch your hands, covered with black powder
And brush the sand out of my hair
I feel the wind bring tears to my eyes
The black above us was our blanket
The silence of the desert was our song

Only remember me

Her voice calls me home
Across the wide sea I once crossed
Asleep in the belly of a metal bird
To this land of empty smiles and hearts
Across the pain that drowns me now
I know I will find my way
Her voice is the song of the dove
Cooing gently in the dawn
Perched on a broken wall
Whose stones stand watch
Over the West’s temptation
The Eastern light melts my fear
Her golden arms will carry me
Steal me away, love,
In the early morning.
I will kiss your tears,

Only remember me.

The bus stop

The Bus Stop

She is smiling, she can’t let him see her cry
Just until next week, not long at all
She is laughing, Oh, something got caught in my eye
He is still so thin, he is still so small.

They are calling the boys, the driver honks his horn
She stiffens at his sudden, final embrace
And she hears her heart screaming inside as it’s torn,
And she fears that she won’t remember his face

Her little one protecting her, with his eyes of light
She chokes back a scream, take me,
I can fight,
I can shoot,
I can kill,
If only he’ll be
Alright.

Please. Don’t go. This was all my mistake.
Wipe that foolish pride off your beautiful face.
Let’s go home, I’ll cook soup and a big juicy steak.
Let’s leave this dream. Let’s leave this place.

He won’t stay, even as he holds her tight.
Ima, don’t worry. I’ll be alright.
I’ve got to do this, for you and for me,
And for all of our people, so that we can be free.

The bus pulled away and her lips were blue
And her tears warmed her face as the snowflakes swirled,
Thus wept Ha-Shem, Ha-kadosh Baro-chu,
When the ruach left heaven for war in this world.

Arava

so, I haven't been posting in like...forever. I have been writing, though. I've decided to use this blog for my Zionist poetry now. I am working on a project called 99 poems for Zion. Some of them will be posted here. Make Aliyah. Peacccee!

Arava

I thirst for the wilderness
I dream of the desert
But with my skin, pale as the moon
With my heart, simple and open
With my mind, tripping on idealism
Will I make it?
Will it break me, as it broke those
Who returned, claiming,
“For what must we suffer,
For half-a-mile of dust?”
Knowing, in their guts,
All their pain was worth
One grain of its sand
Will my desire cool?
Will the summers be too hot,
And the wars too bloody?
Will my skin be burned by the sun,
That seems to seek vengeance of that land?
Will my heart be closed,
When the one I love does not return home,
But walks away into the dust I’d die for?
Will my mind be confused,
By hypocrisy and apathy,
By corruption and disruption of my people’s perfect unity?
And yet, I’ll walk
The footsteps of my prophets soon
And yet, I’ll talk
The truth they tried to tell
A hill, a rock
To them it’s just a desert dune
They laugh, they mock
But I can find the well.