PSH: Poets of the Week

Bio (auto)

Daniel Y. Harris, M.Div, Executive Director of the Jewish Community Center, Sonoma County, holds a Master of Arts in Divinity from the University of Chicago, where he specialized in Jewish theology and comparative religion and wrote his dissertation on The Zohar. He was born in Paris, France, and has lived in Boston, Denver, Chicago, San Francisco, and Oakland. In addition to holding a Faculty position at Lehrhaus Judaica and an instructorship at UC Berkley, he has held the positions of Assistant Artistic Director of the cultural arts organization, Artship Foundation, and Director of Communications for the Internet art hosting company, MesArt.com. Daniel is Poetry Editor of the Internet literary journal Muse Apprentice Guild and co-founder of The Sparks Project (2001) and Sitrahahra.com (2006).

Shekhinah

The rest is an aporia-
viscera

of she
who is poised
to haunt

as a theomorph
at veiled
risk.

I see
through
her-

the skein-light
of faith

burns the lids
of my eyes.

Bio (auto)

Cian Cafferky lives in Dublin and has been published in various magazines and online poetry sites.

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Cian Cafferky and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Greetings

The nun in her hide-away
Off the Via Garibaldi waves to the Muslim
Shopkeeper’s youngest son
Who always waves back.

They live where their laughter meets.
Their language is the pink light over the cathedral.

This I understand: We travel great distances
To be who we are- under the night sky,
Through the midblue of dawn,
By the early morning heat.

Bloody, unbowed, broken, as one.
With our hearts beating us on.

And when the shopkeeper sweeps his steps
He too smiles and knows a little,
The name for the river, where the streets go,
The price of things.

Each morning as the nuns file by on their way
To the market, he pauses in his work
And nods, not knowing their language,
And they nod back,

Each one after the other
In there ever diminishing number,
His son at his side
Waving with both hands,
With everything that has yet to come,
Until they are gone.

Last Things

I.
You made a bowl
And you put a bulb in it.
September seventh,
A fresh spill of leaves
Rotting in the drain.

A Cormorant on the headland
West of the outhouse
When you went for water
Was a ‘musical notation
Writ large’ against the sky.

Across the estuary
The sound of tractors
And the fading light.
A man in his field,
His son catching up.

On the kitchen table
A blank page lies open
Next to the lamp.
You have left the room
For other parts,

And I am sitting by the fire
Trying to think it,
That word which
Escaped you
And you went to find.

II
Beneath the small silver moon
With its matching chimes
The flower blossoms
Blue and vigorous.
It is early summer

And above the yard
The sky has spread its wings
And is taking flight.
The world is filled
With destinations,

Paths that narrow then
Open out into other vistas.
To those who would listen
I explain it thus:
The emptiness of this house

Is the note you struck,
Deep and resonant,
Its silence sustained
Against the coming night.