Reading remarkable study by Jon Levenson, Resurrection and the restoration of Israel. On changing (& misunderstood) concepts of resurrection in Judaism. Reminded me for some reason of the poem below.

You could think of this poem as a commentary on the solitude of anyone who turns to making poems. Acknowledgement, acceptance, recognition can be a long, long time coming.

Better not to dwell on it. But lately I'm haunted by a (delusional?) feeling of anticipation...

The poem was written about 25 years ago.


Adam, under the rain.
Under the somber branches.
To soften, to cross out
the scrawl in the clay -
evening in summer,
buried, sleeping.


Your name is blind,
your name, nowhere.
Your name in the ice,
in amber, solid memory.
An outline under the
compass of my lips.


Blessed be the name
in the rainy dusk,
on the long road
under the bridges;
blessed silence
for hearing you.


Under the old rain,
motionless, lips
flower - a rose
in the slow night;
breathing, solitary,
heavy with time.

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