I Am Going to Cause a Tiger

And so, as I sleep, some dream beguiles me, and suddenly I know I am dreaming.

Then I think: this is a dream, a pure diversion of my will; 
and now that I have unlimited power, 
I am going to cause a tiger.

~ Jorge Luis Borges

Do not wake me, says the dreamer,

let me pass through Indian forests

and glimpse the crushing velvet,

the hunter's molten eye.

Let me speak Blake in my sleep,

grind syllables between my teeth

like citadels of crashing light,

forming meteors that arc the iris -

fallen stars devoured

by my own slumbering depths.

Let me whisper to my darkness

the golden oath I dreamt:

I am going to cause a tiger.

But do not wake me. Not yet.

Song of Ourselves

March 8th was International Women's Day. A few weeks earlier, I had written a personal reflection on what it means to be a woman today. It was published last Friday on American Public Media's On Being blog. You can read the essay here:

SONG OF OURSELVES

My mother, Jacqueline and her dear friend Judith, Haifa, Israel

Becoming the Sun

Giving a poetry workshop on the weather at first seemed like a tall order. But once I started poking around, the poetic possibilities seemed endless. For a start, there are all the different words for "wind" around the world - xlokk, sirocco, hamseen, simoom, sundowner, williwaw...

Then, think about climate change and biodiversity - two things intimately related to the weather. In each London classroom I've visited, biodiversity is on riotous display. Children with names as beautiful and diverse as the wind: Fatimah, Ashok, Timothy, Aliya, Matthias, Natalie, Binah, Princess...

I asked them to use their imaginations and invent new weather patterns to rival 'It's raining cats and dogs'. Plant a seed in children's minds, and the gardens that sprout are either paradisiacal or nightmarish, depending on what they've experienced. 

A little boy from Bangladesh told me about a monsoon he had seen - and its devastating affects. Others drew rainbows of black, gold and red. Storms of coloured snow that stain you blue or pink when the flakes touch your skin. One boy imagined swords and demons raining from the sky, while others preferred blizzards of chocolate and cash.

But the best part was creating poetry with 30 children - all together - about sun, wind, and rain. It gave new meaning to the word 'brainstorm'...

Here's one of my favourites:

Year 3 and the Sun

Last Tuesday in the park,

Under the flaming trees,

We had tea with the Sun.

Our eyes turned to stars

And we saw new worlds.

The trees turned to metal and fire.

The Sun gave us a magic book

And strong armour.

We turned into sunflowers, butterflies

And lions.

We reached out to touch the Sun,

But the Sun disappeared...

We became the Sun!

Imagine standing in front of thirty 7 year-olds, all of them shouting that last line at the top of their lungs: "WE BECAME THE SUN!" In that moment, London must have experienced an electric surge. I know I did.

Space to Sing

Space to Sing

What is the most perfect music?

Silence.

~ Sting

And with this quote to tickle our muses, I began a poetry and spoken word workshop with three young women at London's Eastside Educational Trust.

For me, poetry must have at least four ingredients:

- words

- silence

- music

- soul

The teens at the workshop had words, music and soul in abundance. So I worked on giving their poems plenty of silence to breathe - and space to sing.

Silence and space are often overlooked in music and poetry. But the places where we draw breath, pause, and look into the listeners' eyes, is for me the essence of poetry - its quiet heart that our words must honour.

At the same time, poetry's living music is also essential. So I asked the girls to write me a poem starting with this line from Rumi: 

"We have fallen into the place where everything is music."

Here are their creations:

Rashana

We have fallen in the place
where everything is music.

From the beat of your chest,
to the oceans and the seas -

waves of mood-setters
playing that magnificent tune.

Speaking to you, calling out to you -

from behind the shadows
of the trees,

down to the last grain of sand -

blares that burning
sweet melody,

fluorescent in all its beauty
and glory.

Tides are put to rest in disbelief.

Carmen

We have fallen
into the place

where everything
is music.

Music affects the soul
in ways that a surgeon

never could,

and it gathers space
for a new sound

to complete the orchestra,

along the road 

we call “life.”

Silence is
the loudest beat

in a symphony.

Hannah


We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.

The rushing of wind mixes
with people’s meaningless chatter.

The beating of birds’ wings mingles
with the sea’s angry movements.

As I lie here I imagine
the rapid beats of my heart

sending trembles
through the ground.

Fear and passion all in one.

But, above it all, an unheard silence
lingers in the air.

Like a mystical ghost,
an unwanted stranger.

Now, stop and listen.

Witnessed Words: Names

Witnessed Words:

"Names"

"You know the name you were given, 

you do not know the name that you have."

~ Jose Saramago, All the Names

My mother had many names, one of which was given to her by the Tiwi people of Melville Island, off the northern edge of Australia, in the East Timor Sea.

During her time on the island, she formed a women's weaving group, since the old art of basketmaking was being lost. So they gave her the name Miradinga, which is the Tiwi word for the pandanus palm, used for making baskets.

The woman who gave my mother her Tiwi name was called Eileen.

This, of course, was not the name she was born with. A British schoolteacher renamed her along with thousands of Aboriginal children from the so-called "Stolen Generation" - those who were taken from their families and sent to boarding schools to be "re-educated".

During my mother's stay on the island, a family asked her to adopt one of their children, Anita, since they knew the opportunities my mother would be able to provide her in America. 


But my mother was young, unmarried, and too aware of the emotional and spiritual risks of taking Anita away from homeland. So Anita stayed on the island, and Mom moved back to the States.

I grew up hearing about Eileen and Anita, Foggerty and Deaf Tommy. These people were just names to me, but fortunately, before she died, Mom and I dug through her old slides to find a few fading faces to give life to the names.

Eileen and Beverley

Deaf Tommy, Foggerty & Friends

Anita

My mother's given name was Jacqueline, after her father, Jacob. 


Her maiden name was Aipperspach - German for 'little running brook.'


When she married my father, she struggled - should she give up her name and take his?


She did, becoming Jacqueline Lefton.


The story of Lefton is one of shifting identities too. Initially Lefkovits, when the family fled Hungary before WWII, they changed their name to Lefco, then to Lefton - in the process removing all traces of Jewishness.


Mom's parents did not give her a middle name. But in her thirties, she received one from an elderly Persian man of great faith and learning:


"Your name," he said, "is Tahirih."


Tahirih means 'the pure one.' It is also the name of one of history's great heroines: In 19th century Iran, Tahirih refused to be veiled and stood up for the right of all women to be educated.


This, in her own way, was my mother too - she cared for the unseen and unheard in society.


My father called her 'Anis,' which means Companion.


And I, of course, knew her by one name only: Mom.


So my mother, who came into this world with no name at all, left with at least seven.

I began to wonder: What does it mean, to name someone?


Naming can be a gift of acceptance and new beginnings.


It can also cause a violent loss of identity.

Naming something can give it power. 


It can also remove its mystery and take away its power.

Naming is an act of definition, declaration. I am This.

But if it comes from the outside, it can also be an act of confinement and limitation. You are That.

Naming makes the unknown known - but only partially. For a name can conceal as much as it reveals. It is only a hint, a clue to the inner mystery.

In Islam, it is said that God has ninety-nine names, each a facet of the divine essence. So a name is the robe that shelters and honours the essence.

The wrong name can be as degrading as an ill-fitting suit of clothes - worse, perhaps, than no clothes at all. Besides, if you have no name, you are still given one. You are called "Anonymous."

And think of all the wisdom attributed to Anonymous!

There is great freedom but also great loss associated with being Anonymous. You gain the power to say anything and not be held accountable. But you lose recognition and singularity.

I think we are all anonymous for most of our lives, even to those we know best. I think of my mother - did I really know her? Did I really see her?

Only when we are truly seen can we be truly named.

The real test, of course, is to see yourself clearly. 


And then to give yourself a name.


What's yours?

Anita and Jacqueline (Miradinga)

For my Mother

1 June 1951- 20 April 2010

Light #1

Light #1

I was thinking the other day about travelling to new places, and how the colour and quality of light is always different, and how we are always changed, even slightly, by absorbing these new frequencies. So of course I wrote a poem...

Another City's Light

I sit on the verge in the sunburnt light.

Nearby, a man coaxes music from an old guitar.

On the street, two boys kick a football

between the goalposts of a tourist's legs.

The city smells of salt water, car exhaust,

the shy perfume of sand.

I am a stranger here, and sometimes I think

pilgrimage, not citizenship, is man's rightful state.

I watch the sun drop into sea

like an overripe persimmon.

And when it's too dark to read the street signs,

I trace the cry of fruit bats back to my apartment

but do not flip the switch -

dark is not light's absence, but its breath.

And after all day in the city's glare,

I just need to breathe. 

Long, luminous breaths.

Untitled

(Pilgrimage)

Witnessed Words: Selah

Witnessed Words: 

"Selah"

People say a picture is worth a thousand words. I happen to disagree (obviously, I'm a writer). But I do think there is something powerful about the combination of words and images, which is why poet Billy Collins allowed his poetry to be animated (worth taking a look at). I've often paired prose and photography, but never poetry and photography. This series, "Witnessed Words," is just me brainstorming how to meld these mediums in my own way.


I'll begin the series with the word "Selah", which is often used in the Psalms. It is an ambiguous term, and much has been written about it by scholars. For me, selah means "may the ears hear and the eyes see." It means "stop and listen - really listen - to this song"...

 ~

On this, first morning of my life, 

hosannas are not enough.

I walk and walk, 

up streets with Jewish names,

down streets with Arab names –

All in celebration of great poets 

or killers. 

Men who were both poets and killers.

May my pen draw blood and pour wine.

I walk through old monuments, 

tombs of alabaster, car soot.

Slogans half hid 

behind green bombs of melon,

grenades of black and purple grapes.

In the end, who will history anoint? 

I forget who was Isaac, who Ishmael.

I walk and walk, 

forgetting my own language, my alphabet, 

the one carried by Phoenicians 

from port to port –

trading letters aleph bet 

that were rounded like stones 

by a lapidist alif ba 

and passed from mouth to mouth 

until they lost all but essence a b 

and continue to be worn and smoothed, 

until, as jewels,

only their memory is left –

as I limp through harbors, 

the bilge of refugees -

in this, last moment of the day, 

when the sky burns purple 

and the ocean breaks black,

when the streetlamps tremble and, 

all around, 

the noise of guns and worship –


Selah. Enough.