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Cape Cod
November, 2012
I love Cape Cod. It is sweet, and soft, and impermanent. I return here for two weeks – after the San Francisco visit, which I saw as such a triumph – for what seems like too few days. I come home to Joy, of course, and my most lovely cottage, about to get lovelier, and my most lovely son. To Thanksgiving, which for me is a National Day of Mourning, because, as we say, every day is a day of thanksgiving, and only some need to be marked for mourning, Columbus Day, and Memorial Day, for example.
The Indigenous People of MA are descendants of Massasoit, the Wampanoag chief betrayed by those lovely Pilgrims seeking religious freedom, his son’s head displayed on a pike in the village of Plymouth for twenty years after the white warriors returned home from Connecticut to celebrate the burning of 70 Pequot women and children in the first Thanksgiving. Yet the Wampanoag are still here, their language still spoken, their children still proud, the Earth still their mother, offering hope and good wishes to all, feeding 300 guests, calling for an end to war, offering hope and fellowship to their brothers and sisters struggling to protect their land and preserve their culture … in the Americas, in Palestine, and in all places where the guns and warships of the oppressor threaten the lives of the indigenous people.
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MISCELLANEOUS
At Home – Al Fin
I arrive home from Africa on a Monday morning at 2 A.M., drive down to the bay to see and smell it, to feel it blow and tingle. There is a strange light low on the night horizon glowing to the North Northwest, maybe Boston. The house itself is shocking in its level of disrepair and disorganization. I take off my Maasai watch and I get down to work, mostly on my back, in bed, in my office. The writer is in. Also the lawyer. And the lover. Once or twice the lawn and garden care guy. And, inevitably, the guy with foot-in-mouth disease.
I don’t leave the property until late Thursday afternoon – and then reluctantly – no car rides, no stores, no yoga, no phone. Glad I got home early given imminent PreTrial appearance date and obligations thereto. Even glad I’m here for the finals of the home renovation experience. Do a fair amount of straightening, laundry, floor sweeping, furniture moving, pissing off the crew. Watering houseplants. Measure out pills for the week. Hang out my shingle: “The writer is in.” Write. Play at being the housekeeper. Even cook. Listen to a lot of music. Don’t criticize myself. Clean things. Organize and put away things. Rest. Spend a lot of time feeding the fire. The house smells of smoke, incense, and paint.
I make cranberry lemon biscuits, cornbread, lemon-blueberry tea, pots and pots of coffee, Kenyan roast potatoes, and Zanzabarian sage merlot bean and potato stew with shallots and fresh garden kale.
Joy works. It’s what she does in addition to making music and spending a little time with me, even though I trust she finds me precious, even adorable.
I start to work in the yard and on the gardens. It feels so good to have clippers and a rake in my hand. Start to clean and organize the shed. Prepare witness lists and pretrial memoranda.
Sometimes I talk to Joy about Africa. But it is hard … and far away … and I’ve turned into a very here and now, present centered sort of fellow. I haven’t had a watch on for 5 days. And it is “crazy” being home, although if i don’t step outside the house i seem to be able to exert adequate stimulation control to stay grounded.
AFRICA
TRAVEL DIARIES
Alone – Jack Gilbert
I never thought Michiko would come back
after she died. But if she did, I knew
it would be as a lady in a long white dress.
It is strange that she has returned
as somebody’s dalmatian. I meet
the man walking her on a leash
almost every week. He says good morning
and I stoop down to calm her. He said
once that she was never like that with
other people. Sometimes she is tethered
on their lawn when I go by. If nobody
is around, I sit on the grass. When she
finally quiets, she puts her head in my lap
and we watch each other’s eyes as I whisper
in her soft ears. She cares nothing about
the mystery. She likes it best when
I touch her head and tell her small
things about my days and our friends.
That makes her happy the way it always did.
POETRY BY OTHERS
Death of the Dolphin
There had been small craft advisories,
Their boats were fewer,
Seas ran five to eight feet
With variable winds out of the northeast
Gusting to forty knots
Moving with the pod
Warm southern waters flowed into the currents.
As the storm abated and seas subside
We pass Provincetown
‘Round the horn
Passed the buoy
Into the sensations of the bay
Seas two to four feet
Sun obscured and waters warm
Echoes echo over the distances
Off the top and bottom
The floor and the air
Wave action pushing me toward land
Been in these waters before.
Now slightly disoriented
Separated from the group
In too shallow water
The waves are foamy
Something’s not right
Sensing hazard
The tides confusing
I bottom out
Helpless and alone
Sand below and around me
Socked in on my belly
I do not wrestle
I die, fin up,
Without struggle,
Resigned on the shore.
POETRY
Tryst with Death – Gina Puorro
death asked me to join him for dinner
so I slipped into my favorite black dress
that I had been saving for a special occasion
and let him walk me to our candlelit tryst.
He ordered a ribeye, extra rare
I ordered two desserts and red wine
and then I sipped
and wondered
why he looked so familiar
and smelled like earth and memory.
He felt like a place both faraway
and deep within my body
A place that whispers to me
on the crisp autumn breeze
along the liminal edges of dusk and dawn
somewhere between dancing
and stillness.
He looked at me
with the endless night sky in his eyes
and asked
‘Did you live your life, my love?’
As I swirled my wine in its glass
I wondered If I understood the thread I wove into the greater fabric
If I loved in a way that was deep and freeing
If I let pain and grief carve me into something more grateful
If I made enough space to be in awe that flowers exist
and take the time to watch the honeybees
drink their sweet nectar
I wondered what the riddles of regret and longing
had taught me
and if I realized just how
beautiful and insignificant and monstrous and small we are
for the brief moment that we are here
before we all melt back down
into ancestors of the land.
Death watched me lick buttercream from my fingers
As he leaned in close and said
‘My darling, it’s time.’
So I slipped my hand into his
as he slowly walked me home.
I took a deep breath as he leaned in close
for the long kiss goodnight
and I felt a soft laugh leave my lips
as his mouth met mine
because I never could resist a man
with the lust for my soul in his eyes
and a kiss that makes my heart stop.
POETRY BY OTHERS
Valentines Day in Israel
The waves are rough in the sea of love
This Valentines Day
Crows fly into the wind
Hoping for leverage
Seeking support
Buffeted though free
They call but no one hears
Accusations fly through the air
The sounds of lovers unheard, unheralded
Fractured families longing for simplicity and rest
Comfort, unambiguous pleasure
Safe harbors to anchor in
Sometimes it feels like a kiss
Sometimes just a breeze passing by
The sea is rough in Israel
This Valentines Day
Waves crash onto the shore
Depositing beautiful shells
The tiny homes of lonely sea creatures
Onto the sandy beach
That Palestinians are forbidden to walk upon
Where a man draws names on the beach with sticks
Then draws a big valentine around the names
Then writes the words, “Free Palestine”
His heart breaking with the weight of love
He builds a wall to protect his creation in the sand
But the sea is restless and just
And softly erases it all.
POEMS FOR PALESTINE
I Sleep with Rachel Corrie
I sleep with Rachel Corrie
Meditate on her message and meanings
She is smiling though dead
Her head tilted to her left
Her blond shoulder length hair
Tucked behind her ears
An all American girl
Who loved justice and the Palestinian people
Crushed by a Cat D9 bulldozer
With a restricted field of vision
And several blind spots
This last phrase sounds familiar no doubt.
Now but a memory, a martyr
A poster on the door
Of a home in Palestine
Where her mother comes to visit
To see for herself what moved her daughter
Who wrote
“A massive military machine is killing
The people I’m having dinner with
I am witness to the destruction of a people.”
The older Palestinian woman
In whose home the poster I sleep with hangs
Has seen more than her share of humiliation
Jail
Her land stolen
And death
She says to Rachel’s mother
“There is a field where flowers grow in our village
That is called Rachel Corrie
There are streets and plazas named for her
Your daughter is our daughter
Our daughters are your daughters
We will never forget your daughter
She is with us every day
Every time this door slides closed
Every time this door slides opened”
An American Court found
The bulldozer that killed Rachel
Was paid for by U.S. Government funds
But declined to rule on the merits
Concluding that whether the financing of such bulldozers was just
Or appropriate
Was a political question
Not entrusted to the Judicial Branch
On the same day Rachel was killed
Nine Palestinians were also murdered by Israeli forces
Including a man aged 90
And a child aged four
While Rachel, second wife of Jacob
Who stole her father’s idols
Was cursed unintentionally
By the husband who loved her
And died
The way of women upon her
Her doors slid open
Her doors slid closed forever
Tears in her eyes
Words on her lips
Crying for the end
To her family’s suffering
© BRTaub, Ja’ayus, Palestine – Valentines Day 2008
POEMS FOR PALESTINE
The Siege of Gaza
If Hamas is a terrorist organization
What does that make the occupying,
land-grabbing,
wall erecting,
falsely imprisoning
nuclear weapon-bearing Israelis
and the Israeli government?
The only true democracy in the Middle East?
“Terrorist organization” is a label;
that Gaza is sealed is a fact.
No food or medicine allowed in.
Think Warsaw Ghetto.
Think children starving and dying
Think “never again.”
Besides,
Hamas saying it is going to destroy Israel
is a bit like the Sioux on reservations
saying they are going to destroy the U.S.,
when as we know,
the U.S. is destroying the U.S.,
and Israel is destroying Israel.
POEMS FOR PALESTINE
Furry Bug
On a humid, dark, cloudy summer night,
Temperature still in the high seventies,
Streetlights not working,
I step from my car as a huge fluttering bug
Flies smack into my lips.
I do not see it.
I know it is not a moth or mosquito,
More a furry flying beetle of some sort.
And just as I do not see it, I do not hear it.
Rather I feel its flutter and the soft thud
As it crashes straight into the very center of my closed mouth,
Smack in the middle of my pressed lips.
I blow and brush it away quickly,
Feeling its dimensions only slightly.
I respond in surprise and shock,
But without fear or disgust.
I know at once that I have been sweetly touched
Not assaulted or attacked.
And though my rational mind recognizes it as probability expressed
A happenstance of fate,
A random intersection of invertebrate and human,
I am aware instantly of having been kissed by a beautiful stranger,
A princess living in the body of a bug,
The light but explicit tap tap tap of god’s finger
Calling forth my attention
“Hey you,” the bug commands with her furry kiss,
“Wake up, we’re in this together, man.
Live life fully aware
And appreciative of me,
Fly around in the muggy dark night
Kissing strangers with me
Let’s be in each other’s company as much as we can bear.”
I dream that night I stand beside the rushing waters
Of a mountain stream which calls to me,
Bids me enter,
To be pulled along in the frightening, exciting, inexorable flow to the sea.
I imagine being in the water.
I imagine being water.
I am a furry bug
I kiss your lips.
POETRY
Winter Fog
During the night a warm front
Passes over the frozen snowpack
And with it a sense of hope
And forbearance
Of limited visibility
Thickened air
And the pregnant
Odors captured in foggy droplets
That wolves and hunters know
Air warmer than the earth
Cats mewling
As we are mewling
In darkened bedrooms
Resentment, regret, and sorrow
All now like snow on the ground
Hidden in the wondrous fog
Poetry
