April 25th, 2010

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Review by Mary Harwell SaylerBeads for the Messiah's Bride by Yakov Azriel

BEADS FOR THE MESSIAH’S BRIDE: POEMS ON LEVITICUS
by Yakov Azriel

Time Being Books
10411 Clayton Road
St. Louis, Missouri 63131
ISBN 978-156809-128-0
2009, 118 pp., $15.95
www.timebeing.com

As a lifelong lover of the Bible and an almost lifelong writer of religious poems from a Judeo-Christian perspective, I’ve been especially drawn to the works of contemporary Jewish poet Yakov Azriel. When I first researched his poems on the Internet, I glimpsed a lively mix of devotionals, prayers, humor, and poetic forms in his series of books, each of which relates to one of the five books of the Torah.

Eagerly I received a review copy of Beads for the Messiah’s Bride, the poems on the book of Leviticus, then immediately wished I’d read the full books in sequence. For example, Genesis, the first book of the Bible, contains a synopsis of the basic plot for almost every story on earth, giving ample opportunity for an eclectic mix of comedy and tragedy. Exodus continues the story of God’s people as they leave behind captivity, while Leviticus lays out the rituals and laws to which the Levitical priests had to adhere.

As you might imagine, Leviticus and levity do not necessarily go together. In this more somber section of the Torah, readers learn about their offenses and what they are to do about them as they bring to God, through the Levitical priests, their cereal offerings, peace offerings, wave offerings, thank offerings, sin offerings, trespass offerings, and guilt offerings, the latter of which might be given, say, to offset a rash oath.

However, healing and cleansing also occur in Leviticus, for example, in chapter 14 when a person has been cured of leprosy. On such momentous occasions, the Levitical priest was to dip cedar, scarlet, hyssop, and a living bird into the blood of one slain. “And,” in verse 7, “upon him that is to be cleansed, (the priest) shall sprinkle seven times, and shall pronounce him clean, and shall let the living bird loose into the open field.”

With such celebratory acts, offerings, and rich priestly heritage from which to draw, Beads begins with the sonnet “Sacrifices Made” as the speaker brings “no oxen, cattle, sheep or goats” nor “choice offerings of barley, wheat or oats/ To burn on altar-fire, while Levites sing.” Instead the “I” of the poem declares: “I sacrificed those former-truths that might/ Have been my guiding truths and ruled my youth.”

As the sacrifice becomes an offering of poetry, the next sonnet, “The Burnt-Offering,” asks God to take the “mumbled, crippled prayers,” because “You comprehend/ The inner sense of all the sounds You hear;/ Send down a ladder made of angels’ rope/ From Jacob’s dream, and let my words ascend.” The next sonnet, “The Meal-Offering,” asks God to bring bread for the meal, while in “The Peace-Offering,” the speaker says, “I have heard that contrite prayer/ Constructs a sturdy bridge, a meeting-place/ Where God and man may meet, for You declare/ How near You are, my distant Lord, how near.”

Like the Bible itself, these poems relate to matters of faith and one’s relationship with the Most High God. My own relationship, however, seems about as opposite as a Christian woman in the South can get from a Jewish man born in New York, but is it? In the church, for example, devotees may join holy orders or give up their names at baptism, and at 21, Gerald Rosenkrantz did something similar when he changed his name to Yakov Azriel and moved to Israel to be closer to God and His Word.

As happens with many of us though, distance from “my distant Lord” occasionally occurs as expressed “Within The Temple Courtyard.” In this double-sonnet, the speaker admits, “Sometimes I want my money back, the price/ I’ve had to pay, my God, is just too high;/ The Sabbath suit You ordered me to buy/ Is thread-bare, and its fabric full of lice.”

Levity bursts forth unexpectedly, too, in “Last Year, on Yom Kippur” where “I dug a grave/ For the old ‘me’,” whom the speaker stabbed, hanged, shot, and poisoned but still witnessed “a resilience of his own,/ Rising up every time.”

Old habits, old selves, and old stories of the Bible rise up in this book, often from a fresh perspective. For instance, “Orpah and Ruth: Two Roads Diverged,” does not tell the familiar Naomi-Ruth tale but, rather, a free verse view of Naomi’s other daughter-in-law who stayed behind in Moab. Similarly, “The Prayer of the Lame Temple-Priest” shows how Levitical laws might affect someone who was born into the priestly Tribe of Levi and devoted to God yet not allowed to serve. In “Ruth Gleaning in Boaz’s Fields,” the field-hands just do not see the divine hand in this ongoing love story.

People today often say, “I love it when a plan comes together,” but this book gives a glimpse of how the plan of the Most High God begins to come together. Yet, even the Bible includes weighty words, and so does this book, especially in the rhyme-pounding poem “The Exile” where, for over two printed pages, singularly rhyming words hammer with an insistence that, for this reader, became overbearing. The rhymes also marred the sense and syntax, which might have been held in check by, say, a villanelle that would allow for repetition while whittling down words to what most needed to be said. On the other hand, the free verse poem “The Canaanite Slave” seemed to me to be the brief synopsis of what could be expanded into a very interesting historical novel.

The poem “Beads” has the bead of a novel idea too, which could make for interesting fiction. From that poem also comes the title for this book and, perhaps, the life theme of the poet as hinted in the words of the speaker: “So what can I present or show/ To justify my life?/ May songs I write be brought as beads – / Beads for the Messiah’s wife.” Likewise, the sonnet “Credo” ends the whole book with a profound statement of faith: “And I believe that God alone is King./ And I believe the Torah nests His word/ With echoes of His voice. And I believe/ In hours of grace we hear the Torah sing.” For those of us who add an “Amen!” this book (and most likely the entire five-book series) comes highly recommended and most highly favored.

____________

Mary Harwell Sayler is a freelance writer, poet, poetry editor, and student of the Bible in almost every translation. Since 1983, she’s hoped to help other poets and writers through her poetry home study course, critiques, blogs, and websites, www.poetryofcourse.com and www.thepoetryeditor.com.

April 24th, 2010

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Nadine Tardie

DR. LEVINE’S QUERY

He wanted to know
about my breasts and vagina
like, were they aroused
when I was 14
and my stepdad touched me
I couldn’t remember.
I couldn’t remember anything
but humiliation
and embarrassment
dirt that won’t wash
even with a loofah
I want to remember
I want to remember
The wires got so crossed
I installed an auto shut off valve
on my breasts, early in the game
it was activated when he touched me
yet something, something was there
an irritating mix
of feeling, not feeling
of enduring yet
drinking in his attention
I must be sexy
but it was so disgusting
having my mother watch
and my brother
what was it
what was it
I want to remember
sitting down at dinner
while his hand slid down my bra
teasing
a short circuit, yes
but what about the vagina
did it lubricate
was it silent, seething, nauseous
14 year old genitals are tricky things
fickle and hungry
seizing up under man hands
but I can’t remember
did I feel it
was I aroused

from Rattle #22, Winter 2004

April 23rd, 2010

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Lynne Thompson

A LOVER, REJECTED, REJECTS THE MYTH THAT IS BILLIE HOLIDAY—

knows she was an uncommon arroyo who understood
   that blue on the quintile is a withering thing;

knows Billie lived in an upended Vermont and was
   not unlike a nova or a seed in a scalawag’s belly;

figures that La Gardenia’s mistake was believing that
   autumn in New York would make a satisfactory break

and that junk was the best horse she never saddled.
   But I have learned to beware the tonsils of swivelhipped

conquerors whose lanolin cannot absorb
   loneliness. I have gotten lost in the politics of

undressed mud and am no longer obliged to lie down
   with fat cats. When I am too scared to dream,

I, my own bald-faced tympani, admonish my dismal pen
   to publish the music that will alarm my arrogant judges.

from Rattle #22, Winter 2004

April 22nd, 2010

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Jamie Thomas

1973

If spring is the season of beginnings,
then autumn’s the shotgun wedding,

though the shotgun is seldom needed
in these parts anymore. The idea

of the thing is as loaded as the thing
itself. Think powder blue tuxedo,

bride slightly showing, January baby.
It’s not their fault; the whole decade

was a mistake. Not the chalkboard
but the fingernails. The morning

after the night they’ll never remember.
All that polyester, all those sand paper

leisure suits—all the Quaaludes
make sense now. Forget about words

like turmoil that try to be too much
about life; they’re not nearly enough.

The word alone won’t burn you.
First yell Fire, then run out into the snow.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2005

April 21st, 2010

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Alyce Miller

LION IN SUBURBIA

They spotted him one early gray morning
placidly seated by the children’s swingset,
over-sized marzipan cat,
like a child’s stuffed toy abandoned to the dew—

(Pathera leo, you with ratty mane and skeptical look,
briefly free of the torments that brought you here,
what compromises have you been asked to make,
while imagining a world where God shuts not the lion’s mouth.)—

What amazed them all was how still he sat—
like a statue!—is he real?—motionless predator
balanced against the backdrop of swings,
shell-shocked yellow eyes

staring down a newly-mown suburban lawn.
Roar for us! the children howled,
safely beating on glass panes.
Come away, children, come away from the windows.

We have to call someone, they said.
We must alert the authorities.
Yet they too were perplexed and transfixed
by the frayed version of mythic grandeur.

And later when the lion was surrounded and shot dead,
the spectacle of his limp yellow body
splayed in final retreat,
the children ran out in search of paw prints,

claimed remnants of the tufted tail.
They traced the flattened grass for souvenirs of fierceness,
ran roaring circles pretending to be lions too.
One child gleefully recalled the lion’s loamy eye

holding the light, like this! like this!
the proof of his terrible danger.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2005
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