From Sparrows and Dust
Our Cup Runneth Over
Sometimes on Fridays,
you return.
We set the table, light
candles, say Shabbat shalom, hug
and kiss, fill tiny cups with raisin
sharbath till the burgundy liquid
spills
into the saucers.
We drink.
The cool sweetness slakes
our thirst. And later, we sip
fine scotch together.
We argue
and laugh loudly.
Just like we used to.
Raise our voices, raise
our glasses.
Roar
L’chaim.
Between Worlds,
and in worlds within worlds,
we live.
Your fingers ruffle my curly hair. Always
wild. It is longer, more jagged. And has grey
in it now. Like ashes.
Junglee, you say, and mum
runs her fingers through its snarly
thickness as she tries to braid it. Which
ancestor blessed me with these gifts?
How could
these bonds
break, this
wildness ever
leave us?
Now cool winds stir the pond.
Swallows skim
the surface
of the water. The crows I feed
gather in yellowing
trees. In the dirt
at the foot
of a beech tree—
a chorus
of chirps. Small clouds
rise. A curly-haired child
lit by sunset fire
watches
sparrows bathe
in shimmering dust.
From 101 Jewish Poems for The Third Millennium and Sweet Malida: Memories of a Bene Israel Woman
Sweet Malida
a mix of water-softened
flattened rice, sugar,
dried fruits and nuts,
was a dish made for
Shabbath or for breaking
fasts. Cooling,
light on the palate, and
to the body and the spirit,
it was welcome in the heat
of day or night. We, like
our Muslim, Christian and Hindu
neighbors and friends,
had many foods in common,
and we often celebrated together
their festivals or ours. I relished
particularly fresh coconut,
the regional staple, its milk
or its flesh added to almost
every dish. But this was to me
the best way to eat it,
finely grated
by my mother’s hands,
left unsweetened
and sprinkled haphazardly
on the malida, juicy threads
with a fleck of stubborn
brown kernel here and there
that sometimes crunched
in your teeth like sand,
and you winced and swallowed it,
knowing that there was no
simpler or purer
or truer form than that.
Zilka Joseph
From In Our Beautiful Bones
Voyage
--The Upanisads explain how wisdom can be absorbed through sound,
how the ear is a vessel –the receiver of divine messages
The lightning fell, and I only knew
that it entered my eyes, and thunder
repeated words in my ears
I could not understand
in the grey-blue light of evening.
A sheet of silver drew itself
like a shroud over my car –
its engine an animal thrashing
in the hold, my heartbeat
like oars slamming hard
against every climbing wave,
my hands on the steering wheel
clawing at it as if it were
a raft. At sixteen, my father sailed
the Bombay steamships, nearly
deafened by their sound;
gales, ice, St. Elmo’s fire striking
on the high seas, then sailed diesel
vessels through squalls
when the sky was black and the water
black, and the sailor’s hearts
shrunk from fear –
all listening, on deck and on the bridge
and in the bowels
of the engine room,
to what the thunder said. And turning
into a vacant lot on Opdyke
near Pontiac, the storm
washed me clean
off the road. Wipers swept leaves
and yellow-black sky into sea
foam. I watched the windshield bulge
like a goatskin. It strained,
but held. Then a dam of white
light broke, the wall of water
shattering it’s cargo, and me
inside it like a seed
giving itself up to water
and to wind. In the west,
the sunlight crashing
in the broken branches
of oaks, burned a tunnel
of sienna through
which the bow
of my ship rose
to meet the horizon,
and my father, the Chief,
roared to his engineers,
their faces streaked with oil
and boiler suits sweat drenched;
men whose torn lips
bled as another peal shook
the flailing vessel, and we turned
our faces to the upper
deck. Like our Jewish
ancestors wrecked on the
Konkan coast thousands
of years ago, we waited
but no calm came
until the wind suddenly
fell. My car almost shoved
on to its side, now only swayed,
a metal cradle
spat from the mouth
of thunder. I smelled its breath,
its teeth left bloodless marks
on my skin, my bones
shook, and though it was gone
I felt its pull, a lift,
a nameless terror,
and my deafened ears
received every word it said –
what it had said
to my ancestors
what it had said
to my father
to his men
as it had let the sailors go,
as it had let my father go
and let us all go home.
Here is a brief history of the Bene Israel--mostly referred to as Indian Jews, and the community which I am from:
There are many theories about the origins of the Bene Israel (called “Shanwar Telis” or Saturday oil pressers) from the west coast of India. The three most well-known ones are (1) they arrived after the destruction of temple by the Romans in 70 C.E., (2) that they were the descendants of the Lost Tribes, who came around the time of King Solomon in the tenth century B.C.E., and probably the one most popular is that they were fleeing from Galilee and the rule of the Greek overlord Antiochus Epiphanes, in 175 B.C.E. Some scholars seem to think it was more likely that they came in the fifth or sixth century C.E. from Yemen or South Arabia or Persia. Sources: The Jews of India by Benjamin J. Israel (Mosaic Books), and The Bene Israel of India: Some Studies by Benjamin J. Israel (Orient Longman).
Jewish Unity through Diversity, a video of my conversation with Professor Shalva Weil explores Bene Israel history, culture, food, and my poems from my new book Sweet Malida: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivy_ACs4jhw
An article in Forward: https://forward.com/culture/617986/indian-jewish-food-poetry-bene-israel/
RIVKUSH, Podcast, Canadian Jewish News, interview with Rivka Campbell:
Artwork:
Exodus #2, the right side panel which is on the cover of In My Beautiful Bones is a painting by Siona Benjamin. Siona is a Bene Israel artist who lives in New Jersey. https://artsiona.com
Two paintings by Raina Ezekiel Imig make up the cover of my new book Sweet Malida: Memories of a Bene Israel Woman. One is of a Malida bowl and the other of the fiery sky and the chariot of Prophet Elijah. Raina's father was Professor Joseph Ezekiel, a member of the Bene Israel community, and brother of the poet, Nissim Ezekiel. https://shamandalaservices.wordpress.com
On this page I share some poems taken from my books Sweet Malida (Mayapple Press), Sparrows and Dust (Ridgeway Press), Sharp Blue Search of Flame (Wayne State University Press) and In My Beautiful Bones( Mayapple Press), and from the anthology called 101 Jewish Poems for The Third Millennium (The Ashland Poetry Press, edited by N.N. Carlson and M.E. Silverman). My poems reflect all the various influences (culture, religions, music, art, literature etc.) in my life in India and in the US, and some have references to Jewish and Biblical themes and/or are spiritual in nature.
From Sharp Blue Search of Flame
Bird in a Blizzard
this is when you know
you should have stayed home
this is when you know this is
not your element
when you know
you have been blown way off course
that water changes its face every day
and the faces you love blur
in that churning
that the whispers in the thick flood of flakes
come from elsewhere
that the ones who gave you shelter
are gone
that the cracking of the spine of the frozen river
will be the last sound you will hear
the thump thump thump you hear in your head
is someone trapped inside your heart
yes this is when you know
your ancestors are wanderers
singing tunes you never knew you knew
you remember
every word of the song
that the wind rips apart and flings
but how quickly your throat fills with snow
and when you turn again you shiver as if you are wingless
wingless
you can move
in only one direction now
deeper
The Hands that Lit the Shabbat Lamps
My mother’s hands –what did they dream?
Tough and weathered they are,
heavy, thick, square-
nailed, strong; did a lifetime
of labor
in a man’s world; bore the weight of all our needs,
the brunt
of a mother-in-law’s tongue, Dad’s quick temper. How hard
those pale hands slaved –
tinted with turmeric, smelling of garlic, cilantro,
or cloves, cinnamon and butter on high holidays
and at night Ponds Cold Cream. For special
times she wore
nail polish for silk sari evenings, or gold jewelry events
dad’s official dinners, for weddings. The rougher
her fingers grew, the more
she slid into her shell,
hiding her true heart. Just as her mother’s
had even before the fourth,
the unwanted daughter –my mother,
was born. When did her palms
turn to steel? Child given extra
work, less education than her sisters, even less play?
These hands so old now, so brave,
what did they dream? These hands that taught us how
to light our shabbat lamps? When did they have soft
skin? How wise these hands
webbed
with cracks, and curling early
to fit inside my father’s palms. Now arms weak,
heads bowed, they both stand by the door,
reach to touch the mezuzah,
say Shema, kiss
each other on the lips… Holding
hands when they leave
the house, she leads him –
the half-blind head of the house,
and takes one shaky step at a time.
Apples and Oranges
There never were any apples in Eden.
Only oranges –vibrant suns shining,
fruit of dust and heat that warmed to her pulse–
beating stronger and brighter,
fruit of earth itself. She was ripe like the sun
before she even thirsted, reached and opened
her petals to the radiance fragrant in her palm,
before the lush fire licked her tongue
and before the coiled serpent of Creation
threw her into subterranean shadow.
She knew she would always be the sun
even when the gates closed behind her
and though History would try new tricks,
twist orange to apple,
the men with missing bones,
the snakes, would stay the same.
Where Sparrows Nest
above ceiling fans
and in the cement ventilators mynahs
sing and screech all afternoon
like children practicing
scales, here within these sun-filled
walls, my parents live. This red
brick building was young once,
banyan saplings now thrive in its cracks,
and inside, large rooms and high ceilings
offer spiders a home. The mice
find ways into the three refrigerator-
turned- cupboards and the oven
stuffed with plastic bags and string. Bulbuls,
sometimes a golden oriole still visit
the small medley of trees in the afternoon.
Crows are the kings
of the breezy verandah, conquering
more territory every day, hiding
their bloody treasures even under cushions,
behind old books, the photo
of Robert Redford, the tiger cub
poster in my room. My parents keep
those doors closed. They are Adam and Eve,
aged now, amid a forest
they can’t let go. A ragged Eden
I never left. Where teak
furniture made long ago to order
is strong, though the upholstery
wore away and cotton
sheets cover it now. It gets a fresh
skin of soot every day. The walls
have grown darker, but it's always bright
in the late day sun. Frailer
than the dust motes, my parents.
I am already thinking of my next flight,
over the Atlantic, the Caspian Sea,
the Arabian desert, the Hindu Kush
mountains, the holy Ganga,
the rush up two flights of stairs,
mumble a quick Shema –
will I see their faces? Feel their thin
arms, sweet embraces? Or find
empty shells, a handful
of dusty feathers?
Night Watchmen
On the landing
shifty angels huddle
lovers of cocaine
these half-wraiths hunched
outside our Kolkata apartment
on the landing dark
as a young girl I chanted
when I ran up the never-ending steps
and before I slept and when I visit now
Now I lay me down to sleep
they never raise their heads
or look us in the eye
near the walls in smoky air they melt
when I ring the bell
I hold my breath till
mum or dad slowed by age
will open the door
to sleep to sleep
how I prayed then with folded hands
the prayer
my grandma learnt in school
breathe in breathe out
the men shield a flaring match, hold their breath
Now I lay me down to sleep
when the stairs are bright with evening sun
thick vapor fogs the panes
breathe in breathe out
stifling heat
their candles cast pale waves
I pray I pray thee Lord
this slender teak door is a veil
pulled over our small lives our eyes
our trembling in the shadow of our door posts
our trembling like the fingers of these men
starless night Thy love
the match flickers and dies
I pray thee Lord thy child to keep
the light the hallway light we turn off at night
the light replaced a hundred times
O keep dear Lord keep
our mezuzah stolen
the lamp ripped out every night
the broken bulb
swinging on its bare red wire
we bar the door and prepare to sleep
but the men with slanted faces
never go never go
Thy love go with
these men who have blackened the walls
with sooty fingers Thy love thy love
made murals of spit and handprints
these shadows of men
hold handfuls of blue flames
Thy love go with me all the night
foil-crackle and white dust
whispers echo in the throat of the stairs
Wake me Lord Wake me
some men fall at sunrise as if dead
some half-waking stir Thy love
some do not wake do not
Wake me O Lord, with the morning light
and the eyes who watch our helpless door
never sleep never sleep never sleep