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Helen Bar-Lev
Miracles and
Disasters
The exciting news
this month is that I have organized a workshop for 11 June in
Haifa at the home of our gracious secretary, Susan Rosenberg.
1. Thilde Fox: WARMING UP WITH RHYME AND RHYTHM
2. Dina Yehuda: INSPIRATION FROM OUR SOURCES /OR MUSES AND MOSES
3. Tom Berman: ANIMALS AND OTHER BEASTIES
Lunch break
4. Shulamit Bat-Or: MUSE AT THE HEART OF DARKNESS - THE MYSTICAL
EXPERIENCE OF POETS AND MYSTICS
5. Rochelle Mass: THE SPACE OF PLACE
6. Mike Scheidemann: THE HEART AND SOUL OF POETRY; WHY IT IS
DIFFERENT TO ANY OTHER WRITING FORM
All presentations will last no longer than 15 minutes followed
by poetry-writing exercises - (except for the last presentation
where there will be no exercises for lack of time).
A chapbook with some of the poems written during the exercises
will be published.
We are very much looking forward to this event, which has taken
place in June for the past 3 years. I'll let you know how it
went next month.
We had somewhat of a miracle occur here, in that, after the two
rescued-from-death nine month old kittens had killed about five
birds in the space of two weeks, and one mouse, an unconscious
bulbul we thought was dead awakened and flew off; below the
poem:
A Bulbul
Miracle
In the veranda,
glass enclosed,
on a table
lies a feathered figure,
on its back,
feet upwards
in a gesture of death
familiar in its yellow,
black and brown garb,
it is a bulbul
squeamish as usual,
I rush out of the room,
summon my partner,
hapless disposer of rodents,
birds and other creatures
the cats have killed
but to our surprise, it’s alive,
and outside, resurrects,
flies up into the willow
and we wonder
if it would have awakened
from its coma, and if so,
flown around the room
until it dropped of exhaustion
or until caught again by the cats
and we wonder also,
at the benevolent spirits
who took pity on this bird
and prompted me
to walk into the veranda
at that moment
to admire the fuchsias
Of course we were
all touched profoundly by the disasters in Myanmar and China. I
have not, probably because of the enormity of it, been able to
yet write a poem about these events, and perhaps I shall not
ever be able to do so. Below is a poem I wrote about an
earthquake I lived through in 1971 in Los Angeles.
Earthquake
It is 1971
in Southern California
the clock shows six am
the babies, one and two
dream in the adjacent room
And then the house begins to rumble
first gently,
a gradual getting used to the thought
Now very strong
the closet door in the bedroom
opens-shuts-opens-shuts
in violent protest
while the light bulb inside
offers a frantic on-off-on-off,
like a light-house in distress
and then the power is cut
It is all so eerie
a terrifying mystery
Bookcases crash
dishes smash
the floor shakes
like a horror movie
like waves in the sea
so that I hold the walls
and fall on the floor
trying to reach my babies
The elder awakes terrified
the younger sleeps through it all
the shaking subsides
the city is paralyzed
the aftershocks
continue around the clock
That night I scream in my dreams
and my screams awaken me
I did not realize
it was possible to be so terrified
The ultimate of horrors,
no warning, no control
whatsoever
Two years later
I leave Los Angeles
forever
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