More on: poetry

May the curious prayer of work keep me / in contact with the stone / / and who knows what else.

the gates are not pearly / but white and scaly / like fish.

I wasn’t afraid until / I peeked into the hall, saw a black-clad SWAT team / scooting along the wall, rifles held vertical, a strict formality / that made the whole world seem shabby.

‘Speak to us of poetry and politics,’ / he said to me from his seat in the audience / as I was on stage.

It is one thing to write an inspirational poem about the raising of Lazarus, from this great distance in time and space, and another to be Lazarus: to be the one who is raised. I think any genuine religious art leads the reader (and presumably the writer) to a place of encounter, an encounter with radical otherness.

Son’s / net-/ works / / veins under / the skin / of the dark / / call / see/ knock! / / a chandelier / glows / in the dark

Hadara Bar-Nadav on praying at Jerusalem’s Western Wall.

I wanted to break down part of the Gospel story. As I see it, it’s not just about the son sacrificing himself and all those dynamics that inform the biography. I wanted to look at the messages in the Gospels that haunt our lives. What would we do in this world with someone who could perform miracles—verifiable, right-in-front-of-your-eyes miracles? It would just blow the top off the joint. But at the same time, I’m sure we’d find some way to commodify it.

How to do it, how hold
in balance

what misses the mark
and what hits it

The first moment
is this moment,
this one right now.