A Search for Light: The Poetry of Zelda Knapp
This Tuesday we suffered some major blows against democracy: the trifecta of a senate, a house and a presidency that are all Republican, joining a conservative judiciary to pave the next four years towards a Trump agenda in the USA. And here in Israel the firing of Defense Minister Yoav Gallant, who was the last member of Netanyahu’s cabinet who stood up against the Prime Minister and who worked towards bringing home the hostages, democratising the Israeli conscription and (finally) taking a hard look at exactly what happened on October 7th in order to fix any problems in Israel’s security. In hopelessness, where can we turn but to poems? And in poems, to hope we can find some light. Here are some poems by actress and writer Zelda Knapp. These poems are full with concern, the concerns we are all grappling with, and yet, they still contain that small spark of hope. That a page will turn, that things will change, that dark times will pass and light will return to us.
That Fucking Refrain
And there’s been another shooting
That’s what the broadcasts say
The ground so steeped in blood it’s coming up the drains
And we cannot wash our hands clean when it’s dug under our nails
And we cannot see through tear-stung eyes to clean them anyway
And there’s been another shooting
And we all know what they’ll say
So quiet no one noticed him, a lone wolf crazy man
And who could have foreseen it, and really it’s too soon
Let’s not politicize it, thoughts and prayers anyway
And there’s been another shooting
So I guess he’s had his say
Tell him to be angry, tell him who’s to blame
Tell him to avenge it, tell him why and how and where
Then tell us that we cannot stop a madman anyway
And there’s been another shooting
And there’s nothing I can say
This is where we live now, this is who we are
And there’s been another shooting
What’s another anyway?
Phoenix
I can feel my tiredness hang below my eyelids,
sagging into my cheekbones.
As if, when I close my eyes to blink,
they will maybe not open again. As if
I can carve my skin out with my pen tip.
I want to walk on water. I want to take a step,
plant my foot, and hear the boom reverberate,
and feel the roots spring out,
and see my landscape open, flatten, round up.
I want to feel my skin open. I want to molt,
to shed my old skin and see what color I am underneath.
I want to see my pulse before my eyes.
I want to drain my pores dry so I cannot weep.
I will shave my head to kill my vanity
and trudge naked through the street.
I will plug my ears with cotton balls and plug my nose with q tips
and open my mouth in a silent scream.
I.
I will stop crying.
I will gasp out my breath on Mt. Olympus.
I will drink ambrosian nectar and build a hive and market my gold.
I will tear down the walls at Valhalla.
I will freeze clouds and sell them on sticks at theme parks.
I will build a border between ceiling and wall,
build a barrier, build my home there. I will build my home
in a knot hole, in an oak tree, on the grass, I will build my home.
O Miserae.
O Fallen.
I will weep, open, on the day my grief ends.
A bird with a broken wing
falters, keeps flying.
I Held Your Hand Tonight I held your hand tonight. Briefly—the length of three slabs of pavement. Not enough to venture too far into the not-real, the never. Your hand was larger than mine, your fingers thick and soft, uncalloused. I lifted my arm away from my hip, curled my fingers down, grasping the weight of it, feeling you there. We swung our arms like a church bell. I miss you, I said. You said you knew. And then your hand slipped into nothingness, my hand rebounding off my hip, empty. You couldn’t say you missed me back, and so you couldn’t stay.
27 Av 5784 We tear our clothes to symbolize the physical tearing away of the one we lost may their memory be a blessing we tore our clothes twelve hundred times and now six more we do not want to tear our clothing anymore we sit shiva our garments tattered into threads they drape a fringe over shivering spines what's left of them on what's left of us we cover mirrors and do not shave or cut our hair we have not seen our faces in almost a year we light a candle we light more candles than there are stars in the sky we cannot see the stars we visit their final rest and leave a small stone to mark our presence we have placed enough stones to build a new western wall eleven months I have been immobile a cicada shell memory of myself with no one come to see they do not know that I am gone the who I was died that day you cannot get her back you will not see her again so tear your clothing light your candle cover your mirror and leave a stone sit shiva for the who I was may my memory be a blessing
Zelda Knapp is a writer of many stripes in New York (short fiction, plays, poetry, theater reviews, television revisits, and academic scholarship) and an overall theater junkie. She graduated from NYU's Tisch School of the Arts with a BFA in Drama and a minor in Creative Writing. Her plays include Butterflies, This is Hell, Something On Your Mind, and her solo show Evidence, which played at Theatre Row in NYC. Her short fiction and poetry have been published by Standard Culture and The Biscuit, along with her first collection, This Is What They Made It Out Of: tales from the end of the world. She reviews theater on A work unfinishing, as well as reviewing television revisits on Once More With Extreme Prejudice. Her articles on musical theater have been published by Routledge, Oxford, and in various journals. She is currently seeking representation for her second collection. Here is a link to Knapp's first collection of short fiction and poetry: https://www.amazon.com/This-What-They-Made-Out-ebook/dp/B00A6GM3DK And some delights... a) What are five tiny delights that lift your spirits and make you happy; *planning a visit to see my family *gala apples *Rosamund Pike reading the audiobook of Pride and Prejudice *Cats: The Jellicle Ball *studying Japanese for a trip I'm planning with friends b) What are five tiny JEWISH delights that lift your spirits and make you happy? *the memory of my brother, for whom "I Held Your Hand Tonight" was written *matzoh ball soup at the 2nd Avenue Deli *that one of our symbols is the word for life *my Jewish friends with whom I've gotten even closer this past year *earlier this year I got to spend Pesach with the cutest toddler, a young boy appropriately named Gidi