Kushner: Childhood/If Only...
- Thursday, December 17, 2015
- 11:00am 1:30pm
Poets are invited to perform two poems. A poet will have 3 minutes maximum to perform both poems.
The format and topics for the poems are:
1. One Free Verse poem about the topic “If only…”
2. One Catena Rondo about childhood. What was it like to be a Jewish child? You can revisit memories of early childhood or discuss later childhood and early adolescent years.
Winners will be chosen in the categories of “Best Poet,” “Best Poet Honorable Mention,” “Best Free Verse Poem,” “Best Catena Rondo Poem” and “Best Presenter.”
Winners:
1. Odelia Fried, SAR, Best Poet
Sometimes Explaining Feminism to Orthodox Jews Feels Like Talking to a Brick Wall
how do I explain feminism to orthodox jews?
to a community with traditions codified
where being a woman sometimes feels like being unqualified
how do I explain feminism to orthodox jews?
to a community with traditions codified
I am searching in a framework made for men
where I am not a member, I am a visitor who mumbles amen
to a community with traditions as codified
I am searching in a framework made for men
where rabbis said that learning Torah would turn me into a harlot
well, might as well slap on an A and paint it scarlet
I am searching in a framework made for men
how do I explain feminism to orthodox jews?
to a community with traditions codified
where my contributions are cast aside
how do I explain feminism to orthodox jews?
untranslatable
i don’t know how to write something raw enough;
to contain my feelings into neat letters
(when i can barely contain them in the hollow of my throat,
the swell of my collarbone, the arch and dip of my face)
is blasphemous
tiny letters form tides against the backs of my teeth,
not strong enough to make a tidal wave,
they stick together for a second and then crumble
unable to unite properly
how can any language explain
this solar system of being,
gravitating towards an almost-painfully bright sun
that soupy knot of adolescence that came into our life like a drizzle and is now a permanent storm
the languages I know
in the corners of my mind, words sticking to bones
like benevolent splinters, tugging at my vocal cords,
telling them to just spit it out, say what you want
I create translations faster than I can spit out the right words
In the right language, finding which expressions translate
And how to not misstep and misspeak
Like that one time when instead of signing
(sign: nice to meet you)
I signed
(sign: nice to sleep with you)
and I am floored--I know so many words from so many
places, so many passive participles and idaafas, so many shemot poal,
and yet i can’t say what i want to, nothing
comes out correct
how can any language say “i love you”
properly?
i love you
ani ohevet otcha
aHabak
(sign i love you)
nothing is enough, so i mix them,
ani love you
ana ohevet you
i oHib otach
if only i was able to express myself in a language of my own,
my fluent english and hebrew and rudimentary arabic,
the bits of german and yiddish and hungarian that remain
buried in my family’s history
stitched together with the cadence of fluttering fingers
(sim-comm) I L O V E Y O U
it is in these moments,
when my languages blur together
and all i can spit out is a unholy mess of translations and idioms, expressions, and sayings,
when all the dictionaries I know and remember
come spiraling out of me in a tangle of
“i love yous”
this is when i come alive
with the untranslatable
2. Joey Yudelson, SAR, Best Poet Runner-Up
Catena Rondo
I grew up with a confused theology,
Reading tomes by Vonnegut on friday night,
Dissecting his meaning by candlelight.
I grew up with a confused theology,
Reading tomes by Vonnegut on Friday night,
Because people feel more real to me then gods.
People who were, with assenting nods
Reading tomes by Vonnegut on Friday night.
Because people feel more real to me than gods
They hold my ecstatic fascination
But when I pray, I think I pray sedition
Because people feel more real to me than gods.
They hold my ecstatic fascination
Because of their endless hope and confusion
And their race to find in all things a solution
They hold my ecstatic fascination.
Because of their endless hope and confusion,
I grew up with a confused theology.
A make-your-own epistemology.
Because of their endless hope and confusion,
I grew up with a confused theology,
Reading tomes by Vonnegut on friday night,
Dissecting his meaning by candlelight.
I grew up with a confused theology.
Free Verse
I must admit,
I'm sometimes disheartened
When I'm starting
To look around
And too much of what I see
Are fortresses being built
And people left unfilled.
Bees in honeycomb-pattern houses,
With productive walls around
The cells they've founded.
Whether they be constructed from
Insecurities,
Emotional immaturities,
Nervous inability,
Or heightened sense of responsibility.
So each man becomes an island
While I'm stuck inland.
And teasing some love out of life
Is like squeezing a lemon
And expecting honey,
The kind that comes from hives
And their protective productivity:
A hexagonal grid
Sectioning relationships.
Maybe the cure is a bacchanal,
A chance to get a little bit of love for all
Involved.
To tear down our faceless
Honeycomb walls.
Now this may be a little hypocritical
I don't know if I've loved like I should,
Like I could,
Like I would
If I only wasn't afraid
To look like a fool
And lounge in my small, still pool.
Secure in knowing that before long
The rain'll start to pour,
And rain stained clothes will be torn off
And the near-empty pool
Won't be anymore.
And maybe what we'll have is a bacchanal,
And there'll finally be some love for all
Involved;
But right now still stand the honeycomb walls,
Just waiting for the rain to fall.
3. Shira Levy, SAR, Best Catena Rondo
Cradle to Grave
From cradle to grave was the promise we made.
Became a kindergarten sorority of blood brothers,
children swearing a lifetime of friendship to each other.
From cradle to grave was the promise we made.
We were a kindergarten sorority of blood brothers;
trust was a shared possession
handed over without intention.
In our kindergarten sorority of blood brothers,
trust was a shared possession
indiscriminately shared and broken,
we watched delicate things shatter and open.
Trust was a shared possession
indiscriminately shared and broken.
We hung our hearts up on our sleeves
with a sort of innocence that leaves you
indiscriminately shared and broken.
We hung our hearts up on our sleeves;
how sad it is to watch perfect things fall.
Some things you mean when you say, but they mean nothing at all.
We hung our hearts up on our sleeves;
how sad it is to watch perfect things fall.
Cradle to grave was the promise we made.
Painted love behind our eye lids so it wouldn’t fade.
How sad it is to watch perfect things fall.
From cradle to grave was the promise we made.
Became a kindergarten sorority of blood brothers,
children swearing a lifetime of friendship to each other.
From cradle to grave was the promise we made.
4. Eli Sharvit, YUHSG, Best Performance
How To Write a Love Poem in 10 Easy Steps:
(A response to the online article)
1. Start with a blank page
Stare at your computer screen until the emptiness fills you. Everyone loves angst filled poetry.
You may consider leaving your doors unlocked, you can use it as a metaphor for the best way to
steal your heart.
2. Find the right words
They may be buried deep under the piles of dirty laundry hidden in your closet, do not be afraid
to take the plunge.
3. Use imagery
Sew similes to paint yourself a canvas of new reality, make sure to metaphorically compare her to
every thing she is to you. Since she is your “everything”, this may take a while.
4. Never use an eraser
Show her that your love is permanent, use pen. Nay, use a sharpie, tattoo her name into your
paper, bear your skin in shreds of vulnerability.
5. Relive every first
Cry yourself a river to swim into the fluidity of memory. Tell yourself the way it really happened.
6. Sketch out your relationship in patterns
Write your poem the same way you plan your dates: predictable, always on time, and preferably
within the preconceived notions of the social norms. Build a sturdy rhyme scheme.
7. Start keeping a swear jar
Because real poets curse like sailors,
Feed it every time you think of “If Onlys”, smash it every time you think of someone else.
8. Find Someone to love
Remember that gifted poets can fake feeling about anything, but when you write for her, you will
guard your words like diamonds in a vault, you will keep her safe, because there is nothing more
dangerous than an emotional train wreck.
9. Date a poet
She will probably want to write you a love poem back, that’s why we all date poets!
10. Publish a love poem
Because there is always another slam to write for.
So when you are still coming up empty, start staring at your computer screen again.