February 24, 2016

Rachel Rose

THE PRAYER

In the morning I prayed the prayer of thanks
for having not been made a man.
I prayed the prayer of the unbeliever
which required that I bite the hand that feeds me.
It was the morning of the first day. I said Kaddish
for the dead and the undead. Which is to say
living. Which is to say my own hand, owned
by mine teeth. How I prayed for belief!
It was the evening of the first day
and I prayed the prayer of thanks
for having been made to bleed.

I lacked the genetic code for piousness.
It was the second day. What do you know? Sunrise!
I prayed the prayer of thanks for having not been made
a Christian. Which is to say known entity.
It was a long day, the second day. No moon.
I prayed in bed with you for the second
coming. I took the Lord’s name in vain.
Which is to say I spake it in passion.
Which is to say I linked my body to the holy war
of creation. Who shall forgive whom?

The third day was a dawn of rain.
All day white mushrooms bloomed in the wet leaves.
My grief was like unto the fungus spreading leagues underground
but all that emerged were those white fingers pressing
through the grave of earth. Let there be sleep, you said
and I slept.

The fourth day was an eclipse in the temple.
I prayed on my knees to the gold circlet of darkness
that had once been the sun. I prayed in the four directions
and burned the four sacrificial hearts, read the ash
for clues. As the smoke rose
the waters rose in the four directions.
No prayer could cool that benediction of heat
and I believed, at least, in fire.

It was the morning of the fifth day
and I prayed the prayer of thanks for having not been born
a lamb. As we ate you wiped my bloodied lips with linen.
We lifted our goblets of light and smashed them on the tabernacle.
Which is to say we prayed the prayer of those who have drunk
to abandon themselves. Which is to say we became unrecognizable
to each other. Which is to say I’m sorry I was unfaithful
though I remember little of the act. Your body was a shrine
but I went through the wrong gate.

We were glad for the sixth day.
We were hungover with effort and joy. Which is to say
we prayed the prayer of children on a treasure hunt.
I said the words of thanks to God for not having made me gold.
Night was a relief. I stared through the darkness
at the domes of mosques.

On the seventh day we could not rest. You paced the dawn.
I sang the scream of beaten women. You wailed at the wall. I kissed
the bronze knife of the Goddess. You ripped the sacred garments.
I served the breasts and miracles
on a platter of relics. You lit the joss sticks
and copied the sutras by hand.
I plucked the eyes from the vine
caught the stones in my mouth. I said the prayer
of thanks for not having to be reborn. Which
is to say Ash. Which is to say Amen.

from Rattle #50, Winter 2015

__________

Rachel Rose: “I am an atheist in ordinary life, but as a poet, I am able to become, or at least access, other selves, including those who grapple with faith and those who simply yearn to believe; in this way, calling upon all these contradictory voices, my poem, ‘The Prayer,’ was conceived.” (web)

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February 12, 2012

Rachel Rose

WHAT WE HEARD ABOUT THE CANADIANS

We heard they were not American.
Not British and not quite French.

They were not born in Hong Kong,
did not immigrate from Russia with one pair of shoes.

They were not all russet-haired orphans
who greeted the apple blossom dawn with open arms,

crying Avonlea! They were not immodest,
did not want God to save the Queen.

Their leaders were not corrupt, no;
they were not all Mounties on proud horseback

with hot tasers. Nor did they shit hockey pucks.
Fuck me was not considered impolite in their living rooms.

It was not just the weather that made them curse.
Not just frozen lakes cracked under the weight of the moon.

There was no great Canadian hush of things not to be talked about.
They did not ride sled dogs to the prom,

nor fight off polar bears for a chunk of Narwhal blubber.
Cod-stacking was not their Olympic sport.

Wedding guests did not dine on icicle, nor did the bride
wear a toque over a white veil. Not all of them

ignored genocide. Not all of them sang a “cold
and broken Hallelujah” as the bells broke crystal ice

across Parc Lafontaine. They were not rich and also
not poor. Not overachievers. Neither believers nor unbelievers.

C’etait pas tout l’histoire, and they would not
be caught clubbing seals on TV, red bloom

on white coat, melting eyes, they did not mine asbestos
in Quebec, make love in skidoos,

sleep in snowshoes. Never danced hatless
under dancing Northern lights. They were polite.

from Rattle #35, Summer 2011
Tribute to Canadian Poets

[download audio]

__________

Rachel Rose: “I write to order the burning world, and to burn the accepted order. I write to make sense out of the chaotic, the inexplicable, the unbearable, and also I write with the desire to imagine things being different than they actually are. I write to share an experience with an unknown reader, and I write as part of a great humanistic yearning to connect, metaphorically and literally. I write because I can’t play the banjo and I’m too shy to sing, but I can do this.” (link)

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February 11, 2012

Rachel Rose

WHAT WE HEARD ABOUT THE AMERICANS

We heard there was much to admire about the Americans.
Historically.

Their cuisine is buffet, all you can
overeat.

We heard they hire whisperers, buy guides for
idiots.

Foster special needs kittens. Are visited by
aliens.

We heard the Americans are our
brethren.

That they keep ten percent of black men
imprisoned.

Are stockpiling weapons for
Armageddon.

Believe that all good dogs go to
heaven.

God bless the Americans. God bless their inalienable
freedoms.

Bless Guantanamo. Americans sure know how to have
fun.

Even their deaths are more important than our
own.

Happiness is cosmetic
dentistry.

The global dream is the American
dream.

Liberty is a statue holding a soft ice
cream.

from Rattle #35, Summer 2011
Tribute to Canadian Poets

[download audio]

__________

Rachel Rose: “I write to order the burning world, and to burn the accepted order. I write to make sense out of the chaotic, the inexplicable, the unbearable, and also I write with the desire to imagine things being different than they actually are. I write to share an experience with an unknown reader, and I write as part of a great humanistic yearning to connect, metaphorically and literally. I write because I can’t play the banjo and I’m too shy to sing, but I can do this.” (link)

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