December 2015
A rolling stone or tumble weed, I rolled and tumbled or, rather, often stumbled from a German war-time childhood to young adulthood where many talents tore me into as many pieces. I escaped my doubts, indecisions and bad judgments by traveling across Europe. Eventually I settled in London and created a family but couldn’t stay put for more than about 25 years. I am now married again and have finally settled for good in Lima, Peru. I also write poetry.
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Author's Note: 'A Pilgrimage' is a poem which grew in me over many years. About 30 years ago, when I was invited by a dear friend to visit him in Israel, I went with a fluttering heart, silently carrying the guilt of my fathers. We traveled everywhere and I connected with my own ur-legends as well as with my own ghosts. A very powerful experience which eventually had to be externalized. Hence, finally, 'A Pilgrimage'.
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A Pilgrimage
In Rosh HaNikra I look across
to Lebanon. Below me is the sea.
I pick up a stone and let it bounce
against the rocks.
The Sea of Galilee cuts me
with contrition. I want to atone
for sins to which I feel fettered
by blood. The Jordan washes the dusty crust
of the Negev from my skin.
The Dead Sea lifts my burden.
Haifa receives me in a language
I understand, Bethlehem’s brittle
alliances don’t inspire. My friend rejects
the kipah and holds my hand.
And Yom Rishon is the first day.
first published by Burning Word
A Pilgrimage
In Rosh HaNikra I look across
to Lebanon. Below me is the sea.
I pick up a stone and let it bounce
against the rocks.
The Sea of Galilee cuts me
with contrition. I want to atone
for sins to which I feel fettered
by blood. The Jordan washes the dusty crust
of the Negev from my skin.
The Dead Sea lifts my burden.
Haifa receives me in a language
I understand, Bethlehem’s brittle
alliances don’t inspire. My friend rejects
the kipah and holds my hand.
And Yom Rishon is the first day.
first published by Burning Word
©2015 Rose Mary Boehm