Peaceful Poet

Poem: Breathing

2008-12-03T05:50:00.000-08:00

"Breathing"
by zenjew

lying next to me
breathing heavily
baby in stomach

baby heavily
breathing in stomach
lying next to me

we are

family lying
baby breathing
breathing next

next

2007-12-27T09:10:00.000-08:00

Drunken Dream

by zenjew

distorted purple
Manischewitz? bottle
Still

and still
sitting on my green
linoleum kitchen

where we lived
oh, so long ago

father’s face
front of mine
yelling

mocking that he’s
Knowing

i sink down
first anger

and that moves away

with a love

first for myself
and then for my father

a love that washes
over me so deep

that I pray—

now suddenly,

my alarm clock is blaring
in some other world

that I take this
here to there—

And I awake.

poem: fleshy animals. and, namaste!

2007-05-28T19:29:00.001-07:00

hey dave_on_the_lake--thanks for still reading!

I've been writing all year, but have really been very busy, especially as of recent times. With the help of God, my life will continue to take many beautiful and unexpected turns.

I hope to revive this blog now...I have lots of poetry waiting to post, and my future job as an English teacher will (hopefully) only continue to inspire this creative process.

to those still reading (and to those new to the blog)--

namaste.

----

below is a poem i wrote this year; it needs to be reworked and reworded, but for now, here's the poetry-in-motion.

-zj

fleshy animals

Grind in rhythm
And prance
In symmetrical metal
Smooth and shiny
All the while

Reciting speeches
Sounding off like
Well rehearsed
Sitcom shows

I, well I am
Disgusted
At my own misshapen body

My own failure of symmetry
Of my limp, and falter
Where I so completely
Show the wrong part of myself

Entirely

At my own awareness
Of my own
Lack of ignorance
Of my own
Embodiment—

I can only laugh:

When considering
My arms like
The crooked branches of the tree
Winter curling ugly around
Where I can fit so well

And when
My voice rises and falls
Bubbles and stirs
Like the broken voice
Of the wind and river

And when
I am an ill speckled deer
And I limp until I fade
So majestically into the dust
Of the ridden forest floor.

imagism with avi c.

2007-05-13T20:21:00.000-07:00

many thanks to this man for his recent assistance with the preparation for teaching shakespeare's sonnets.

below are some of his recent images and creations.

Images
by avi c.

Red wine splashes down onto white cloth
As cigar smoke swirls above our heads
Amongst the saffron lights:
The lords of all creation.

Click-clack of the train track
While a homeless man plays his harmonica,
And smells of sewage.

On the subway,
A Dominican boy struggles to read a sign,
And his mother answers in Spanish.

We will sit here together, you and I,
And watch the daylight die against a sky
Of crimson and gold,
And ponder all that we’ll be when we’re old,
Breathing the electrified air of youth.

Poem: "Coffee for 5" by guestpoet e.

2006-12-04T14:55:00.000-08:00

a special poem by a very special person.
enjoy!
zj

Coffee for 5
by guestpoet e.

four mirrored eyes stare across in pairs
profiles create a symmetrical delight
pleasing to the eye tenderness grows
fondness recollects a vision of his own

You became a father, and we were loved
paused for a lifetime in a bustling day
by chance, misplaced emotions intertwined
an awkward satisfaction for strangers

A daughter is remembered, a father, brought to life.

Poem by Guest Poet LC

2006-11-29T14:08:00.000-08:00

Poem
by Guest Poet LC

With your help

I write to you a melancholy state something I remember, but never had

Between us there was never love, nor anything more than there ever was

Yet you, both, primal elements in my prior worlds, still grapple with my sign

Where did your speartips pierce, I see no wound upon me

When did you skulk away.

From where I can remember, it was never you not I to leave, but left alone we were.

Let alone I am.

My goings and comings have produced ponderous depths, and mounting lows,

Remaining me, with chapped hands that carry nothing by their quasi scars.

I love you both, I swear it. I only know it now.

But now is known only because I felt in then, each of you once.

You, the earlier:

I was at the house of a friend no longer, a kid among them kids.

Out back pretending

to be lost in a game

youthful football as they call it

though they know not how the player woke his head to see you watching.

From where did you come, who you were, we did not know these things.

There was, however, a heightened sense of presence, a pointed remembering of my existence,
as there should be.

As it should be when people find you. Have all your lovers felt awakened by your stare? Have all your plays been returned? Damn it has anyone noticed your tender sadness without being told so first. We were something, for a moment,

But we were young and nervous, and forced

by our friends. The same ones we have now, in that none has changed. But has anything ever; changed? Is not the world but a letter of a voice ringing out? Is not the call of confusion asked us every day? The eternal is the moment, and the memory its guise. Am I not still pretending to be focused on the ball?

Oh and you, friend, found first in a field of apples, between cabins, upper-class at the camps. Gentle and perfect, I see your comfort as you call.

Yet that was not where I truly found you as a helper torn from my side. It was on vacation, when you saddled upon our ship. We were older than we let it, as we danced easily between the opened doors.

I only felt it when you left, but I have heard its torment pressing since.

Absence: You were gone, what I never knew was there had left me.

It has never left me, only led to places I still reminisce and rehearse and remember

only to relive without choice. I do not choose to miss you children, I did not think I ever would. I would have let our fingers touch just once, that’s all.

Poem: Waterfall Disbelief

2006-11-25T18:07:00.000-08:00

you do not deserve

to call that cascading
israeli waterfall

that you know
so well

beautiful--

i just don't believe you.
what do you know of beauty

you have spent too much time
with your smile wrinkled on
and your voice raised just so
talking of money,
and people, and things.

you have not seen me
fall asleep
on your dining room table

you did not watch my eyes move away.

poem: wake up whisper

2006-10-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

based on real life events.
namaste.
-zj

wake up whisper
by zenjew

a diamond singing
in my ear

your voice
whispering my name

i hear it spoken
for the first time

softly

i awake.

poem: extended moment by guestpoet tani

2006-10-09T13:00:00.000-07:00

to all:

the poetry writing is coming slow...so i've asked my friend tani to contribute some of his beautiful works. thank you tani for your contributions! hopefully we'll have a series of these poems presented on the blog. you'll find his first poem below.

just by way of introduction: tani's poems are imagistic, and if i may say so myself--quite zen. a self-contained meditation within each poem...

peace all, and chag sameach!

-zj

Extended Moment
by guestpoet Tani

something about the
combination
of the
train’s motion
& this music…
if only these tunnels
were endless
this rumbling train could forever
elude sunrise.

poem: an empty fragment

2006-09-27T23:14:00.001-07:00

hey all,

wow. its been a while. i'm not sure who's still reading, so i guess i'm just blogging "l'shma". if anyone's still interested in reading, please feel free to comment. now that the school year's started, my creative energy is back again (i.e. i'm spacing out alot in classes, thus allowing me to write plenty of crappy poems).

and alot has happened in the life. but thats not for the blog. thats for real life. the blog is just for the poetry.

anyways, Rosh Hashana was a strange time this year, and this actual experience occured that inspired me to write the following....i pray that it is not a siman ra (bad omen) for the year.

please G-d.

peace all.
-zj

"an empty fragment"
by zenjew

on Rosh Hashana eve
on the rusty metal bench
waiting Outside

when the proud teenager walks by
heading blurring parades and
slowly turns and points his
black baseball bat
at a slouching forehead

and gazes at the wall behind
and pronounces

You’re dead.

poem: "moed" (9th of Av)

2006-08-02T20:58:00.000-07:00

"The Lord has trampled all my heroes in my midst; He proclaimed a set time (Moed) against me to crush my young men. As in a winepress the Lord has trodden the maiden daughter of Judah"
(Eichah--Lamentations 1:15)

"We do not say Tachanun on the 9th of Av, nor do we fall on our faces, for it is called Moed"
(Shulchan Aruch Orach Chayim 559:4)

may this be the last tisha b'av of mourning.
-zj

“moed”
by zenjew

On the

Birthday
Of one who will save

I pray for myself.

I don’t invoke the thirteen attributes
There can be no mercy

I don’t pray for all those
Cattle cars of
Raped women
And their boiling blood
Crying out for their
Already broiled
Children

There can be no mercy

I pray for myself
I’m scared for myself.

Too weary to clean
Too desperate to eat
Too anxious to sit

I skip Tachanun
In anticipation of the

Birthday
Of one who will save.

poem: song for the boy and his mother

2006-07-26T19:37:00.000-07:00

i never thought i'd write a poem about this boy or his mother (though i did write a college essay about "a person of integrity" based on the mother) because i never thought i could capture the tragedy and energy involved in this family...they live through it everyday and i don't...i'm just an outsider and help out here and there.

but i've been away for a while and when i came to visit it kind've just struck me...the whole situation and all...you don't realize the craziness of it all sometimes unless you have the space and distance of stepping back.

so here it is--as an outsider anyways...the poem i never should've written.

peace.

song for the boy and his mother
by zenjew

steel oxygen tanks
snake into the nose

of this unmoving
adult child

bathed by
different hands
every night.

and fed through a tube
attached to a
swollen stomach
he lies still

sometimes clenching
sometimes not
his eyes flit around the room

catching nothing,

and while the world
steps around him--

some sing for him

and a few
even pray to him.

and there is no calendar
in his room

just a large, blank
round clock
that spins in circles

every day
is the same day--

his mother becomes
moments, days

rituals

and then
sleeps at night.

poem: i am the man

2006-07-19T18:21:00.000-07:00

hey all--
this is something i dug up that i wrote this past school year, when i still lived in a roach-infested apartment that provided "stinging showers of luke-warm water" studying english literature and masechet kiddushin (thus the literary references).
enjoy!
-zj

i am the man
by zenjew

i am the man
who wakes up every
dark, drizzly morning to
take stinging showers of
luke-warm water
so i can drink muddy coffee
and enjoy crumbly, stale donuts

and i am the man
who flies through space and time where
i visit wordsworth with his wandering clouds and daffodils
while the medieval talmudic scholars of germany debate with me
about indentured slaves and the jubilee year and freedom

and i am the first man
to land on the moon
and the first man
to die protesting the vietnam war

and i am the man
who returns from my interstellar trip
to relieve my bladder and bowels
in the same restroom
with the same city roach
i had retreated with
for a secret rendezvous
just the day before.

poem: where are you

2006-07-17T13:22:00.000-07:00

feeling very detached from it all...

peace.

"where are you"
by zenjew

"where are you"

Being said
(anticipating future Hegelian dialectics)

to now awkwardly fig-leafed
cowering
Others
now standing in places
of

"their very own"

in a place
where they now believe

in binary distinction
they must now return

to the Being

they never departed.

poem: dead in Central Park

2006-07-12T22:11:00.000-07:00

dead in Central Park
by zenjew

please may i

laugh lightly like
the executive's assistant
strolling through tree-lined pathways
handtwined with
his fresh fiance

or please may i

smile secretly
as my ipod whispers
sublime truths
to my knowing ears
of the constant rhythm
of the falling leaves

or may i

smash my head
so strongly against
this still standing oak
i cower beneath
until i collapse in a pool of
painful bliss

where my
dripping
pounding
bleeding head

distracts me

from this
dull
but elusively
persistent
tight
throb
pulsating at
the back of my throat

for a short while

poem: belief is false

2006-07-09T21:13:00.000-07:00

hey blogosphere friends.

guess what? im back! yahoo...

just got back from my 2 week summer program.

it was very intense, very reality-tv like.

now i need to getaway.

was in a shul this past weekend, and realized...

in the end, we're all just tubes, who think we're not tubes.

always remember: *you are not that*

liberation--is freedom from identity.

peace.

belief is false
by zenjew

see really

top opening
inserting food
and bottom
releasing waste

just a
narrow
clear
plastic tube

that believes--

a beautiful
blonde, tapering
feather-hatted woman

swaying

praying.

poem: be here now

2006-06-23T08:48:00.000-07:00

goodbye new york.

so my stay in this crazy city has now come to a close.

at least until next semester.

i hope to post over the summer from home, but for the next two weeks at least, i won't have access to the electronic world of internet and email.

how liberating!

i'll leave you with a poem i wrote earlier on this year. a variation of it appeared on the now defunct zenjew blog.

have a good shabbos, a great summer, and stay good.

for the next couple of weeks...peace all.

be here now
a tribute to ram dass by zenjew

"i'm here"

vibrates the indian cashier mystic

as if he's held his secret close

carefully calculating the ringing of the doorbell
the scrape of exchanged goods
and my half-interested
"how are you"

to gently reveal:

"i'm here"

his crystal voice
washes over my skin
straightens my spine
heightens my breath--

with each slow step i take
towards my return to school

i remain
here

vibrating.

poem: twilight in new york city

2006-06-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

hey all...so many of you have noticed the bus poem trend. as david put it, its great time, during that limbo time, during the between "here" and "there", to reflect and just generally take a step back from reality. i've found that i've shared some of my most deepest secrets with random strangers on such travels. its a very surreal, contemplative space conducive for intense philosophizing.

anyways, so as not to continue the bus poem trend (though i did take a greyhound bus today back to nyc, i slept the whole way back), here's a poem i wrote about a month ago when i was out in the city... on one of those days when you just start to notice that the days are getting longer...and i was with someone who is a really special person, a gentle personality, who enjoys that soft, magical time of twilight.

in other news...when i was home this past weekend, i realized that its firefly season!

apparently some parts of the world don't have fireflies. i had a friend over from LA who goes to school with me in NY, and he had never seen fireflies before in his life! i thought that was pretty cool...what was cooler is that--and i had never heard this before my father told me--that the fireflies only come out at twilight!

is that not the most beautiful thing ever? when i heard that, all i could say was...God is such a poet! the most magical thing for the most magical time....

peace all.

twilight in nyc
by zenjew

looking eastward

only the very tips of
towering buildings are
brightly splashed with a
coat of deep orange paint.

while westward

an absent sun's horizon
mixes melting jellybeans
until the dimming navy blue
swallows the purples, yellows, oranges, reds.

looking up

the sky is still a light azure--

while

street lamps flicker on
spotlighting stray cats

cab headlights flare onto
darkening cross-walks

storefronts glow on shadowy faces--

all with a light just
a little brighter

than that of the sky.

poem: desperation

2006-06-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

dozing lightly

on this worn
half-full
coach bus

it is a sunny, late afternoon
inter-state road trip
leaving home

i am startled
awake--

my mother just passed an hour ago

my mother just passed an hour ago

i hear it first
then again

and then again

my mother just passed an hour ago

stop

stop
the
bus

please

stop

just for a moment?

the bus doesn't hear
that her mother has passed

it doesn't slow.

out of desparation
i replace my headphones

and drift

back to sleep.

poem: bus ride back from camp, may 2006

2006-06-11T18:53:00.000-07:00

He is entrusted to me

By another,
From many others.

He doesn’t talk

To me
But he loves me

All the same.

We've just met.

We'll be traveling together
Home.

His small
Shedding
Blind head
Rests in the crook
Of my arm

He fits

Just right—

Nestled sideways
In the aisle seat
Of a coach bus

His nimble legs
Drape slightly
Over the seat’s armrest.

His salty fingers on my lips
(From his bag of potato chips)
His gentle chewing on my arm hair
And flaky scalp on my lap--

His giggling, clapping,

Squirming

Angelic body--

We’re not so different

This small,
blind, silent boy

And me.

guest poet gary snyder: "there are those who love to get dirty"

2006-06-06T21:58:00.000-07:00

this was sent to me via the electronic version of mail from tani, a fellow tea drinker.

gary snyder is a contemporary poet, and is tani's favorite.

snyder needs no introduction.

peace, fellow tea drinkers.

There Are Those Who Love To Get Dirty
by guest poet Gary Snyder

There are those who love to get dirty
and fix things.
They drink coffee at dawn,
beer after work,

And those who stay clean,
just appreciate things,
At breakfast they have milk
and juice at night.

There are those who do both,
they drink tea.

poem: greyhound bus ride home (erev shavuot 2006)

2006-06-01T12:41:00.000-07:00

although i can always take rides home to my hometown from college, i always find that i meet the most interesting, most beautiful people while taking public transportation.

playing off whitman's "to a stranger"...sometimes you meet these people, as in a dream, and it just clicks. its just right.

especially on 4 hour bus rides, when you have all the time in the world to learn about another person....until you have to get off...and really never see he or she ever again.

anyways...

this morning i was heading home for shavuos....now i'm home writing this poem.

its not so much of a poem as it is prose...stream of conciousness like.

chag sameach l'zman matan torateinu!

namaste.

-zj

greyhound bus ride home (erev shavuot 2006)
(tribute to walt whitman's "to a stranger")
by zenjew

The young Israeli beauty sitting in front of me—

(Shikma is her name
It means sycamore)

Invites me to sit next to her—
We are fast friends.

She cuddles against me
Shows me digital pictures
Of her boyfriend in Columbia
Of her on sandy beaches
Of small dogs in foreign countries

She has seen the world
And she has dropped from planes.

She has served her time
In the Israeli army.

The music professor
(father, Reconstructionist Jew)
To my right

(Middle-aged
Balding
Drinking diet coke)

Philosophizes—

He explains the intricacies
Of Bush’s imperialism
And the meditative potentials
Of a jazz pianist.

He has not traveled much.

I show him my Talmud Kiddushin
And my book of Breslov Hasidut
By Rebbe Nachman.

We discuss the medieval hyperlinks
On all these ancient pages….

The three of us

Together

Recline

In

Limbo

Suspended

Between this place

And that

Sharing

What it seems

For lifetimes--

Lifetimes

Of experience…

Until

The tired greyhound bus
Comes to a hurried stop

And with a hurried smile—
She gives me her email address
So that we can be in touch
About dropping out of planes
When I come visit her.

I say to her everything I can:
Chag Sameach!
Shabbat Shalom!
Nesiah Tovah!
Derech Tzlicah!

Kol Ha’tov Ba’olam!

He steps off the bus with me
He’s an American
He offers me a peace sign
And is gone.

I stop.

(in limbo)

Have we met before?

Yes.

We have surely met before,
And we shall meet
Again....

I don't turn around.

I walk home

Alone.

guest poet: walt whitman's "to a stranger"

2006-05-29T08:35:00.000-07:00

wow. what an intense weekend. for many reasons.

since this blog is not the place for an explicit running commentary on my personal life, i will just leave you, my dear readers, with a beautiful poem by the innovative, modern american poet Walt Whitman. you can do the guess work on your own.

its called "the stranger", and is part of Whitman's legendary book of poetry "leaves of grass".

sometimes, these things or people--"come to me as of a dream". its so hard to believe...it often feels surreal, dreamlike... and its like at that moment of contact, you realize that in some alternate universe, or in some unrealized dimension, "I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you".

the only thing you can do at all, is simply hope for this stranger that you were blessed with to enter your life, even if it seemed as if just for a moment--and just hope that you might cross paths again someday: "I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again".....

sometimes, even when you've said all you can say...there's still that longing left that can't be articulated.

for that, i thank you Walt Whitman, for giving a voice to my imagination.

my dear readers--has this ever happened to you? have you ever wanted to say something to that stranger you may never see again? about what it could've been? about what you could foresee? please comment. i know this is not such a common occurence, but perhaps a common longing.

namaste.

To a Stranger
by guest poet Walt Whitman

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine
only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast,
hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

poem: shifting

2006-05-25T13:28:00.000-07:00

to my dear readers...

i hate bragging, but i can't help but show you a poem that just won an honorable mention in my college's writing contest for the category of "best poem or series of poems"!

i'm honored that i can share such deeply personal sentiments through this poem with so many people.

namaste.

shifting
by zenjew

This door is wide please follow me in just watch
Your step so many others have tripped before
On this gateway to this lonely rock desert
Sorry i can't turn around and show you my face
It's too hideous in the dark dim of this
Overhead light but follow my back--it's starting to bend
And twist just like the path before us
I fit in yes i've traveled this way but you
I'm afraid just might have to change just the slightest tweak
And you're on your way to filling the hole the gap
The need where our bodies will fit so perfectly
In the dead of the end of this chiseled crevice cave
Where the gray in between of the day and the night
Shifts enough to make it right and that's all.

guest poet mary oliver: "the journey"

2006-05-23T12:54:00.000-07:00

dear readers...as the summer months are coming, and my poetry course is over, i'm hoping to post from some other poets that have inspired me--both the published and the famous, as well as my not published, but famous classmates--to make it through these slow months (don't worry though, i'm still writing--just not at the rate i've been for the past semester).

below is a poem that i heard on a david whyte poetry reading on the topic of "self compassion". i actually posted it at one point on the now defunct zenjewbu blog.

i recently had another post from the poet Mary Oliver. She's an incredible, pulitzer winning poem full of a beautiful love for nature and finding her place in the "family of things" (quote from "wild geese"). she reminds me of another favorite poet of mine, the enlightened Walt Whitman. Maybe we'll post from him soon.

anyways, its a poem that changed my life--as its a poem that's challenged me to listen to the "new voice" that i "slowly recognized" as my own. self-compassion, learning to listen to your own voice, learning to act in a way that is uniquely your own, are all very difficult things, and especially so when you're working against the myriad voices that cry "mend my life"......

at the end of the day, for all of the things we want to help, for all of the people you can save, there's "only" one "life you can can save" before you can really do anything that's truly *your* doing in the world...

"the journey"
by guest poet mary oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Is He...Truly Everywhere?

2006-05-21T19:51:00.000-07:00

Mother pouring milk into baby—
God pouring milk into baby—
God pouring milk into God—
God pouring God into God—

God Godding God into God!

namaste.
-zj

guest poet marc: "gan sanhedrin"

2006-05-17T14:23:00.000-07:00

although this blog has served as a creative outlet for myself, it was mostly started because i took an incredible class this semester called "writing poetry".

not only did i personally learn a tremendous amount about the writing of poetry, but i had the unique privilege of reading the poetry of some of the most original and creative minds. i learned the most, i believe, from the workshopping with my peers and being exposed to their methods of thought.

i therefore thought that you, the blogosphere, might likewise enjoy some of the writings of these other poets, all written over the course of the semester.

our first guest poet would like to go by the name "marc". the title of the poem is "gan sanhedrin" or "the park of the sages".

the form is a "walk poem", an actual poetic form, where, according to my "handbook of poetic forms" by ron padgett, "there are at least four basic types of walk poems, of which there are a great many variations and blends: 1) a poem about what the poet sees during a particular walk, 2) a poem about a walk that produces a revelation of some kind, 3) a poem whose length, style, and shape mirror the length, style, and shape of the walk, 4) a poem that reflects the way the mind works during the walk.

some of the more famous walk poems include William Wordsworth's "An Evening Walk", Walt Whitman's "Song of the Open Road", and Wallace Stevens "An Ordinary Evening in New Haven".

our guest poet, marc, artfully blends the above techniques and more, sharing a profoundly personal walking experience. his imagery is so clear, i feel like i'm right there at gan sanhedria in jerusalem with him. his poetics and articulate expression are outstandingly original. without further ado...

enjoy!

Gan Sanhedrin (The Park of the Sages)
by guest poet marc

After furious battle-filled mornings
with partners and against teachers
in the wide crooked hall,
whose snaking western wall
abruptly pushes in to steal space and symmetry,
a shape whose oddity makes it comfortable
like an old coat, that fits only you
the body that knows its seams and tears,
I step into the noon sunlight.

The burning white dot of the sun
visible only from the corner of my eye
makes the walls and courtyard
whiter than their white stone
a dazzling path moves evenly from door to street.

Flagstones urge me toward a hectic city,
but a worn shortcut peels off behind me
flanking and jumping higher
than the building’s four floors,
and running beside them.
I rise sharply and struggle
my way through prickly waist high grass.

Climbing this well-known secret,
Glancing off to my left
portals into the highest story
open themselves to my sight.
Behind bent glass
I see friends wrapped in blankets.

Spilling onto a quiet side street
I charge across, and up a long narrow staircase
cut between two pale iridescent buildings
square on their own hills
blinds drawn against the bright outdoors
resting
the people inside resting, too.

At the top of this shining white corridor
grass stretches and spreads out,
meandering is the straightest route
running gets you nowhere.
Sound is stifled by bundles of trees
left unmolested, forming an unnatural obstacle
to halt the city’s salvos.

I wander
up sudden hills
down stairs chipped into rock

From ancient blueprints
a doorway into ancient sepulchers
leads away below the park’s beauteous surface.
Conquerors, thieves, animals, playful children
have removed the once revered bones
these too recently iron-barred entrances.

A voice whispers intricate
bible portions into my ears.
From Saul’s boiling blood
David escaped to the cave Adul'lam
and conjured everlasting poetry
still used to beg divinity down
to the secular earth.
A fine artist, fear was his muse
perhaps nature will be mine.

I find my favorite bench
a low wooden thing
sunken down, shaded
legs resting comfortably
stretched out on the path before me
from this throne
I see green undulating
bathed in sunshine firing white stone

poem: bicycle-carriage chase

2006-05-14T08:02:00.000-07:00

so the main lesson i learned in my poetry class this semester...is to be concrete when writing! as poetry is an art form, you're literally painting a picture with words. therefore, it doesn't do any good to talk about "love", "loneliness", "hope", or any other abstract term that only you understand. you've got to be visual, you've got to show what's happening--and the picture you paint should speak for itself to include all the emotion and intensity you wish to convey.

in other words, you can't really comment or reflect in a poem. or shouldn't do so anyways. the detailed image of the poem should universally convey the serenity, hope, love, or whatever abstract concept you're trying to express. everyone reading should get it...without you explaining yourself at all! the beauty of this form of poetry is its ability to express to all of its readers profound and sublime emotion without saying anything overt at all.

this is certainly true of all good poetry...but a case in point is the haiku, which, in a very zen-like manner, captures the unique beauty of a fleeting moment in nature or whatever it may be.

now that's been said, here's a recent poem of a recent adventure of mine in the city....enjoy! (sorry, its not a haiku...)

namaste.

Bicycle-Carriage Chase
by zenjew

Treading through the rivers of
Raining city streets
Two wayward travelers
Too wet and weak
To catch evasive city cabs
Flag a teenage boy
Pulling a two-person passenger carriage
With his bicycle

The wind throws torrents of rain
And sewage in the faces of these
Three sojourners, all balancing
On the same three
Rusty bicycle wheels

Together they weave through
Limousines, garbage trucks,
And rushing pedestrians,
Speed through neon-red traffic lights,
Pass other passengers in other
Bicycle transports

Only to miss the ten o'clock train
To Far Rockaway.

wow. that's all i can say to you, my fellow bloggers.

2006-05-11T10:58:00.000-07:00

first, i want to apologize for the late response to so many well thought out comments. school is almost over, and the usual hectic climax of papers, finals, and craziness is reaching full crescendo. i'll try to respond to all the emails as well.

wow. that's all i can say to you guys.

i really appreciate the comments and sympathetic concern about my whole situation, and especially your great insights into this overall dillema of the frum blogger...personal expression is good, and anonymity is even better to enable that full, uninhibited expression, but it seems that for the most part, its entirely impossible to maintain...and with that impossibility, i risk misrepresenation and being totally misunderstood for the overall person that i am.

in relation to all of this, i'm terribly sorry about the bloggers who asked me to remove the links to their blogs on my sidebar because they felt they were being "discovered". good luck to you, my fellow bloggers, and i hope whatever you do here in the blogosphere does not adversely affect your lives in the real world amongst the regular, ego-driven people, all of which we like to call "reality".

it's also unfortunate that some individuals (eishet, this one's for you) have stopped blogging due to the impositions of others' emotional baggage on themselves. good luck to you eishet in whatever form your blog takes, and please feel free to comment on this blog.

so...i think i'm going to take a mixed approach, as per some of your recommendations, to this whole blog thing. maybe i can strike a balance, as frumgirl and anonymookie recommended. i'm thinking about maybe keep the poetry coming, maybe also do some creative prose like i used to do on my "zenjew" blog--life as haiku, that sort of thing...but full blown commentary and analysis on my spiritual/existential dialectics...now that i think will have to remain in my head and in the so-called "real world" of people i meet, can trust, and will listen and understand. also, maybe i'll do some reflection in each poem post, or ask a question...so that maybe will encourage more of the informal feedback/conversation/discussion that occurs in the comment areas of the blog.

in fact, i feel like that the comment areas of a blog are really underrated--they could be really used as part of the blog itself, and really encourage a productive and creative group discussion.

i guess what i'm saying about that is that i want the blog (or at least my blog) to take a new form--i don't want to rant and rave about my "unique" life and have everyone observe and appropriately comment. rather, i'd like it to be more of an interactive form where the readers' responses and discussion is as important, if not more important, than the post itself. perhaps the poem part of the blog could stimulate such discussion--or perhaps a relevant question that the poem raises, or that i raise, or that readers raise in relation to the poem, could spur such discussion.

all in all, thank you all for such sympathetic responses. i hope to resume posting soon!

namaste, and good shabbos!

reflections on this blog...

2006-05-04T15:52:00.000-07:00

thanks all for your comments on my a-z meme!

i hope you all continue to read this blog, in whatever form it takes.

yeah so i'm really enjoying this post and the replies (thanks again frumgirl for getting me to open up somewhat)...

i'm still wondering though how to make a blog where i can interact with others on a personal level like this without baring it all like i did on zenjewbu.blogspot.com (now defunct and apparently now taken by someone else as well).

in retrospect, writing like that was really quite cathartic and i think i wrote some of my best prose and poetry on that blog. it helped me find a forum for some of my deepest existential issues and created discussions with cyber-friends (both jewish and non-jewish) who were fellow spiritual seekers. i was especially enriched by some of the "follow-up" emails with torian rice and others from a world of non-duality dwellers i knew very little about.

however, the downside of the whole "personal blog"/"inner world" thing is that it could very well misrepresent the person for the blog. what happened with me is that i experienced, in real-life events of dating and the like, a real clash between the theoretical and practical--and for all the blog was worth, the pain i experienced because of this misrepresentation of self was not worth it at all.

therefore, i stepped back--hoping to just keep the poetry going as my most basic form of expression. that way, i could put something of myself out there, while only really speaking to those who could appreciate it, and not getting too overtly introspective/personal in the public realm.

i realize now that alot of what i think about and struggle with are very important--but shouldn't necessarily be thrust into the public realm. after all, that's what the internet is--public space. if anything, my blog should be an outlet, but shouldn't misrepresent the person that i am: a practicing, serious, and spiritual Jew and not a deviant hippie, drug-induced mountain dweller.

anyways, i'm not sure why i had to write this. apparently i had to, because i just sat down at my computer and did.

i'd love to hear your thoughts, feedback, etc. about what you think about this sort of cyber-space/real-world dialectic. especially for the religious, orthodox jews out there, who might keep their blog i.d. private.

namaste. peace. shabbat shalom.

I've been tagged: A-Z meme

2006-05-02T14:09:00.000-07:00

although this is kind've against what i'm trying to do on my new blog (and probably something i may have used to do on my old blog), i'm honored i've been tagged and will try to keep this as true as possible without disclosing too much about my personal life.

thanks frumgirl.

i guess i'll tag chasidic buchar and lost, the only two bloggers on my sidebar who haven't been previously tagged. go for it guys.

peace.

"A-Z Meme"

Accent: definitely not from new york. maybe southern? sometimes stoner-like. maybe i'm just accentless. i've been told my singing sounds punky--kind've like green day's billy joe.

Booze: i don't really drink socially...though i can drink. anything that gets me where i need to go. coors, jack, nothing too fancy.

Chore I Hate: cleaning my room. being human.

Dogs/Cats: reminds me of the zen koan: do dogs posses buddha nature? (the answer is no)

Essential Electronics: a shaver. i'm a music manic. please buy me an ipod.

Favorite Perfume/Cologne: not into cologne. people like my deodorant though--its cologne-like.

Gold/Silver: none of the above. how about wood?

Hometown: is where the heart is.

Insomnia: only if I'm caffeinated.

Job Title: unemployed. student. direct care worker. spirit seeker. (in that order)

Kids: i'd like to have as many as my wife can physically bear. now i just have to find a wife.

Living Arrangements: i'm a drifter. i'm living now. that seems to be arranged quite well.

Most Admired Trait: my guillibility. or trustingness. two sides of the same thing. wow. i just made up two words.

In others: ability to be. not to do. to be.

Number of sexual partners: hopefully just with the woman i love. whoever she may be.

Overnight Hospital Stays: once. in a foreign country. suffering from food poisoning. possibly the worst experience ever.

Phobia: clowns. sarcasm.

Quote: "you do not have to be good". repeat daily. "om mani padme hum". repeat daily as well.

Religion: and God said to Abraham, one day, your children will make me into a religion. (instead, understanding this as Practice: Jewish)

Siblings: check.

Time I usually wake up: 7-8 am. with the sun, of course.

Unusual Talent: rubick's cube champ, balloon animal artist

Vegetable I refuse to eat: they're all good. carrots are mildly disturbing.

Worst Habit: anxious/addictive thinking

X-Rays: xylophone?

Yummy Foods I make: i know nothing of the foreign land we call the kitchen. however, i can make a wicked chulent. low on potatoes, high in barley, beans, garlic, beer, and meat.

Zodiac Sign: Pisces. the fishes. the dualityof the super highs and the deep lows. i was born under a crazy sign. but thats not for now. hey baby, whats your sign? looking for a taurus, cancer, virgo, libra, scorpio, or capricorn to share my life with. always remember though: ein mazel l'yisrael.

poem: my prayer

2006-05-01T16:56:00.000-07:00

my prayer
by zenjew

“Gate,Gate, Paragate
Parasamgate
Bodhi Svaha”

(Gone, Gone, Gone Beyond
Gone beyond beyond
Hail the goer)

I want to look deeply
Into my eyes
And see no-thing

(nobody’s home)

I want to know
That I’ve always dwelled
Between the arches
Of the gateless
Gate

(always arrived)

I want to blur
the lines between
the skin air flesh
So that the skin contains
The wind from being
Shattered by the
Flesh and bones

(non
duality
not
unity)

I want to look deeply
Into my eyes
And see

(I want
Not to want
To want)

poem: untitled (nonsense poem)

2006-04-25T14:38:00.000-07:00

try it!

its the nonsense poem. a really fun form.

just wrote this for class without thinking too much--
and its teaching me some really trippy things!

woah.

untitled (nonsense poem)
by zenjew

Jumping jacks
And cracker snacks
Jabber all about

While junky genius
Jamborees
Jingle as they spout:

The end of this fluid forest flings
Its nasty tail

While the faces flush of floozies flirting
As the sailors set sail

Rowing boats rimmed with roaches
Wretched rafts railed to wreck

Who knows when death approaches?
Its dance is darker
Than this dismal deck

poem: comfort

2006-04-23T10:05:00.000-07:00

now that the comforts and pleasures of passover break have come and gone...
we must return to our usual reality of dead mice and slanty college-issue mattresses.

nothing profound here.

namaste.

comfort
by zenjew

As my room reeks
Of maggots munching
On dead mouse meat
Freshly excavated
From my filthy pink carpet
Festering over spring break’s
Reprieve

I leave the windows open
To aerate my odorous occupancy

Chilled from early spring’s night winds
Pummeled by an endless stream of traffic horns
Nauseated by the smell of decomposed animal rot mingling with Lysol

I lie, precariously balanced
On my malformed mattress’s
Slight slant

By morning, my rest
Achieves an achy resolve

chag sameach!

2006-04-12T14:33:00.000-07:00

so many things aren't in our control.

hakol bedei shamayim...chutz miyirat shamayim. ("everthing is in the hands of heaven...except for sight (literal translation) of heaven")--Talmud, Brachot

the only productive reaction one can ever take to unalterable situations is complete and total acceptance.

acceptance is really the deepest, most profoundest thing. be one with the tao and all of that.

but really...are you with reality or against reality? that's what it all comes down to.

they say this month, the month of nisan, is the month of redemption...the month that we were redeemed and will be redeemed.

the deepest truth is, redemption...is really here and now. it always is, it always was, and always will be. are you here? are you totally inline with what's now? or do you live life resisting what's right in front of you--thinking that what you think, in your mind, is somehow superior to what the divine intelligence, the tao, G-d, conciousness, Being, whatever you want to call it--willed to be the reality for this given moment. from the grandest thing to the smallest detail, watch your mind. are you with the bumping, tripping, and traffic? or are you against it?

ride the wave man. you'll find that things will only work for you, if you find yourself agreeing with all that's occuring around you.

hakol bedei shamayim...chutz miyirat shamayim.

that's what that really means...see shamayim in everything. its the only real choice you could make. everything else is totally out of your hands.

my apologies.

if you hadn't noticed, i'm really just talking to myself here...stream of conciousness-like.

i had to regress to my former zenjew mode and write this out before the chag...without journaling this out i felt like i'd be completely sucked into some of the negative energy surrounding me at the present moment.

o gosh. pesach can be an incredibly meaningful chag, but perhaps also the most anxiety-ridden one as well...i was thinking of looking up even more divrei torah before the seder, but instead, maybe i'll just go meditate. that might provide some peace of mind to make it through...

my blessing to those in the blogosphere, including myself: this should be a chag full of redemption realized, for all of the us, in the deepest way....

chag sameach.

-zj

poem: winter 2006

2006-04-09T07:53:00.000-07:00

sometimes...

sometimes you could love someone just by watching them sleep.

namaste.

winter 2006
by zenjew

curled nestled nested in the nook of this stiff leather couch's arm
the sleeping girl confronts me glows with a pure white light

though the lights are extinguished in this dim hotel lobby
her forehead blazes begging to be brushed

though her eyes are shut
a single freckle glares demanding to be kissed

though her arms are tucked to her side
her fingers twitch tremble scream to be held

still resting girl
tomorrow morning your impression will be left
deep in this leather couch

poem: the sky cried tonight

2006-04-04T14:56:00.000-07:00

night rain is a beautiful thing.

when its warm enough, its even more beautiful to absorb the rain. to walk through it. to dance in it. to get totally soaked in it. and soak up the rain's intense energy. anyone who wants to feel alive should just try this.

i can't wait for the summer rain!

i wrote this last night, a rainy night in nyc.

namaste.

the sky cried tonight
by zenjew

Teardrops softly pour down
The face of my apartment building
Dripping from fire escapes
Catching on my window’s
Blinking eyes.

Bickering alley cats
Hushed,
Blaring car horns
And ambulance sirens
Muffled,
All the crass, city-sounds
All stilled

To absorb
The sound of the sky’s
Sweet, sad sighs
Drip onto brick, pavement, glass,
And into slowly forming puddles.

I nestle in my dimly lit room,
Gingerly cocooning myself within
This celestial
But delicate
Weeping
Before it is lost forever
Running-off
Into the roaring rivers
Surrounding this island.

And I feverishly whisper
To no one in particular:

The sky--
It cried tonight!

poem: authenticity

2006-04-03T20:50:00.000-07:00

as part of the arts and culture festival, i read this, as well as other poems tonight, at an open mic.

just thought i'd share the festive spirit with my fellow bloggers.

namaste.

(reader's note: this poem may have appeared at one point on my previous, but now defunct blog. apologies to those who may have already read this.)

authenticity
by zenjew

You're so real.
Your prayer thrusts back and forth
Summon winds from the north,
'Till this brick building reels--
Caves in,
Falls,
And keels,
And God trembles in heaven,
and helplessly kneels.

You're so sincere.
Your whispers heal and save,
Rise the dead from the grave,
You're twenty and one years of age
And without
Hormone's and Ego's rage.
Your meek smile:
Wisdom of
The perfect sage.

You're so well meaning.
I knew it when you helped her
At the sefarim sale--
Move from one place
To the other,
You couldn't help
But take her number.

Hey man, who knows,
What other favors
God might require?

poem: spring

2006-03-30T14:17:00.000-08:00

if you've been outside today, you know that spring has sprung.

or at least in the greater new york area.

here's my tribute to the freshness of the season, in the spirit of the quintessential modern poet ezra pound....

first, here's his classic poem:

In a Station of the Metro
by guest poet ezra pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

and here's mine...

spring
by zenjew

spring’s white blossoms drift onto the sidewalk;
pigeon droppings splattered about.

good shabbos!
-zj

poem: facebook

2006-03-28T20:47:00.000-08:00

wrote this for my poetry class today....

facebook
by zenjew

junk fooding
on cyber wooing
and profile sleuthing
while relationshps shifting
and messaging whispering
of parties of flawless faces
secret meetings without traces...
computers screaming!
laptops overheating!
filling addictions that are speeding
towards even more masking
of lonely students asking
to fill their lacking
of back pats missing
and talks of kissing
instead they're settling
for relationships embezzling
eating paper-mache cakes
swimming in shallow mirror-lakes

poem: guitar strings

2006-03-27T16:07:00.000-08:00

just wrote this during my english class.

i must admit it was inspired by frumgirl's most recent poem post.

namaste.

guitar strings
by zenjew

tightly wound steel
chips skin tips
dulls calloused flesh

dancing fingers
softly squeak
stealthfully pluck

harshly vibrate

guitar strings.

Guest Poet: Mary Oliver and a Poem of Self-Compassion

2006-03-23T15:35:00.000-08:00

I heard this poem by Mary Oliver "Wild Geese" on a poetry reading done by David Whyte on poems of self-compassion. Its a beautiful poem that I carry with me always....especially when I'm unnecessarily hard on myself, which seems to be too often. Read it over and over. Its calming!

So many lines are so powerful. The simple, profound first line. The entire first passage actually. Its empowering. The fourth line's "You only"....its crazy how simple it is to say this "only", and how hard it is to actually implement in our lives....you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves...you only...you only....you only.....

Make it into a mantra. A meditation. David Whyte says you could sit in a buddhist monastary for 3 years, 3 months, and 3 days in utter solitude (as many advanced buddhist monks do), and you still might not absorb the force of this "only". Its an "only" that could change a life.

Final copying note: I kept everything the way I found it, except for the spaces between lines which are my own personal touch--how this poem breaks up in my head and therefore how its personally meaningful.

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--

over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

Poem: On Days Like These...

2006-03-22T20:41:00.000-08:00

On days like these
by zenjew

On days like these

I stumble into strangers
A blur of faces I wish
I didn’t recognize

On days like these

I pray I won’t have to
Leave my religious class
Before prayers
To cry alone
In an empty classroom

On days like these

I’m hesitant crossing the street
Sometimes my only choice
Is to choose not to

On days like these

I trip too often
Caught by the widening
Cracks of the sidewalk

On days like these

I collapse against cold metal doors
Too heavy to push

Poem: City Spring

2006-03-21T14:54:00.000-08:00

City Spring (Renga*)
by zenjew

Students stirring
Daylight longing
Deepening dreams of marching lambs

Mice scamper in hidden hollows
Breeding in cluttered student apartments

Paper weights
Teachers assign
Near death experiences

Rats avoid electric tracks
And wheels of monstrous transports

Breezy shoes replace
Plush heels
Stiff hiking boots

Walking with you to innermost places--
I stare at the floor at your most private parts

The saxophone rings
Holds long, warm tones
Telling of eternal, erotic nights

The 1 train black homeless man
Croons softly for his crack.

“She might run away
But Betty Sue’s
The only girl for me”

Spinning through full football fields
Central park absorbs me.

Strangers’ faces cry each others’ tears
And laugh each others’ smiles
Replacing themselves with more of the same.

The bulls-eye of this labyrinth
Centered by a high rising forest

The blurred sea washes over me
Lapping against the edge
Where my eyes touch the air

Mingling eyes cautiously,
Avoiding becoming mangled

Slathered in suntan lotion
Pink, raw, bodies
Envelope a crowded lawn

Fleshy islands
In this murky sea

Yellowed subways creep into
Crumbling stations underneath
For (what seems) the last time

Newlywed Swedish couple
Avoid touching each other

While African strangers rejoice
On this platform
Swaying hips with the approaching cacophony

Dirty coffee cups
Carefully placed along worn tunnel paths

Inhaling deeply
I devour my
Seatmate’s breakfast

Gated bridges link islands
While slithering snakes access underwater

Broken men wait, reincarnate
Chordless phones never ring
With quiet voices from quieter towns

Rose petals pressed in pages
Hidden notes, if you’re so inclined to find

Secrets whispered between
Intertwined ears buds
Of strangers’ ipods

Earth-people prostituted in dark basements
Recording laugh tracks and clap tracks

Dawn breaks early now
On the horizon
Of this murky river

Alarms jangle
Causing stacked rats to rustle

One night stands
Rejection before
The foreplay begins

Trains fail to depart
Predetermined paths

Avenues interrupted
With predictable numbers
Of honest pavement tracks

The rich vocabulary
Tells the same, singular story

Mistaken departures
At the wrong stops
Builds resistance

Streets are bursting with
Celebration of the same war
Fought and finally won

Old, tired men in yellow hats
Talk of rebuilding these tracks

Every moment
This city is erased
And rebuilt.

----------------------------------------------
*a "renga" is a complex image-filled form that consists of 36 lines, alternating between 2 and 3 lines each. There's typically 3 stages with this form: a buildup (first 8 lines), a highpoint (next 20 lines), and a 'coming down' (last 8 lines).

the show must go on....

2006-03-20T20:29:00.000-08:00

due to very recent personal events, i've realized that it may not be the wisest thing to air my very personal struggles, thoughts, issues, and rants in public space. all of that (and more) should stay in my head where it belongs.

the "zen jew" realized (the hard way) that how he presents himself in the most practical sense should be consistent in all ways of his self-presentation.

*real or virtual*.

the fact that part of his personality is always wondering, searching, and exploring shouldn't take away from his actual, true being and how he lives his life. and certainly shouldn't contradict this existance.

people are complex man.

there are many sides to a personality. its important, though, that people not mistake me for who i'm not, by only perceiving a private and very personal part of myself.

that's all my confused and overheated mind has to say.

instead, my blogging will only consist of my poetry. nothing personal anymore--just a forum for pure artistic expression.

of course, guest poets are always welcome. just let me know if you'd like to be hosted on the coolest, newest, most jewish blog ever.

namaste, and we'll hope to post soon.

-zj