A Poet Who Must Be Read

Is an emerging voice here on Substack. His name is Francisco J. Bernal. His voice is soul-piercing in its unflinching humanity, courage and piercing beauty.

Editor’s Note: I am new here on Substack with no background, experience or education in writing. I write because I must. But, as a reader, I can appreciate the value of words that bring life to the lifeless, memory to the forgotten, pierce darkness with light. I came to Substack originally as a reader. And I just read something I must write about, howsoever imperfectly, so please read this post as if we are sitting together, just you and me, perhaps over coffee or tea, while I describe a discovery so meaningful I simply must share it with you, my friend.

Thanks, Chana

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I just read a post that, like his others, ripped through me and inflamed my soul with aliveness, love for someone I’ll never know, and devastating grief. Francisco J. Bernal’s poem about Tzeela pierced me, as his writing will, with his own indelible humanity, grief and toil.

Without Bernal, without his friendship and insightful mentoring, it’s tragically too easy for me to fall into the abyss of judgement and othering, slide unconsciously into demonizing and condemning an entire group of people in response to the actions of those claiming to represent them. How many Israelis feel Netanyahu represents them? How many Americans feel that Trump represents us? Exactly. We are many. They are a few. Their choices do, however, result in how we are perceived by others.

Oct. 7 required from me a conscious commitment not to hate. Because then, Hamas would win.

I struggle every day not to abandon personal values I’ve held near and dear my entire life. Values I believe I inherited from my beloved grandfather, my very own Papa. I never saw him angry. Never heard him raise his voice. Not once. He exemplified everything I hold dearest in Judaism, not a belief, doctrine or religion, but simply his own, innate goodness and humanity extended generously to all he met and worked with, including African Americans who worked for him during the segregated Jim Crow and Civil Rights era in the Deep South. No one black. No one white. Everyone’s intrinsic value was recognized and respected by Papa and he was loved by all he knew. His favorite saying was, “You get more bees with honey.” He was a kind Jewish man who died too soon. I thought he is what being Jewish means. And I loved Shabbos dinners with him and my grandmother. They are my direct link to Mt. Sinai, my inheritance. And my responsibility.

The times I’ve felt most bereft of hope, alone, drowning in unfathomable sorrow…and feel my own humanity slipping away, like after Oct. 7, and after the Bibas babies returned to Israel in tiny, black coffins; and when violence erupts against Jews that is cheered and celebrated instead of condemned, I feel Papa standing next to my bed. He doesn’t speak. No words necessary. His reassuring presence reminds me I am not alone and to be strong. Our people have survived thus far. We will endure.

And now I have found another soul calling me back to myself. To the place where I vowed not to hate. Because, unconsciously, I sometimes respond to news with only black and white perception, clearly devoid of nuance, subtlety, comprehension that headlines rarely scream truth.

This is why we needs poets, artists, visionaries in our culture. To reflect back the best aspirations of our shared humanity. I find this reading Francisco J. Bernal’s poetry, prose and heartache in words, shape and form that defy categorizing. His voice is so original and the conscience of a culture refusing to stay human when we most need to.

Sometimes I feel rage towards Palestinians. Other times towards Israeli settlers and their violence against Palestinians.

Sometimes I assume the actions of a few represent the many, and they do not have faces, lives, families, aspirations of their own, only labels: jihadist terrorists, violent settlers, always clear perpetrators and victims, those to blame and those to defend. Well, it’s simplistic, stupid and dehumanizing. And yet I fall prey to my worst impulses again and again. Unconsciously, somehow.

Then Bernal posts something he’s composed from within himself as a gift to us all.

And I am struck dumb. My breath caught somewhere between here and eternity.

This Bernal does with flaming compassion, care and fierce, unflinching courage.

This is The Lantern and the Void.

Tzeela