To Phrase a Prayer for Peace
A Conversation with Donna Spruijt-Metz
To Phrase a Prayer for Peace is a collection of poems by Donna Spruijt-Metz written each day since the October 7, 2023, massacre of Israelis, bearing witness to both the horror and grief of that day and the ensuing and ongoing assault on Gaza. The poems in this collection feel desperately necessary in their insistence on seeking a prayer for peace. They grasp onto fraying shreds of humanity, asking us not to look away from the horrors, and also to look within, to hold our own grief so that we may be able to hold the grief of others and to demand a different path forward out of the endless bloodshed. In this interview, I asked Spruijt-Metz to describe the origin of these poems, what prayer means to her in this context, and how writing poetry helped guide her through this difficult time.
Hila Ratzabi: Around the middle of this book, in the poem “Day 82: I Want,” the speaker declares: “I need / a poem driven / by the unbearable / dailyness of this / time.” This felt like, to me, the engine of this book—these poems are driven by a desperate need to witness the horrors of war and to simultaneously carry oneself through that act of witnessing. How did these poems first start arriving for you?
Donna Spruijt-Metz: Hello, Hila, and thank you so much for speaking with me about this book. I woke up on the morning of October 7th to the news—more than 1,200 Israelis slaughtered and 240 civilians taken hostage—at a music festival. It shook me to the core that this could happen. I lived for 22 years in the Netherlands. I saw firsthand what the aftermath of WWII meant, even decades later. I experienced the rise in anti-semitism that was already beginning in the ’70s. And I always counted on Israel to exist—in case they come for us again. On that morning, transfixed in front of the radio, burning my toast, I just had to write it down … write something down. I began every morning by trolling through all the Israeli news sources, some of the U.S. news sources, some British news sources, some Dutch, trying to get a picture of what was really happening. And I couldn’t stop writing. I just kept writing. Every day, another poem. A “cryologue”—I think it was Carolyn Forche who coined that phrase.
HR: Many of these poems function as prayers, addressing the YOU of the Divine. Can you describe your relationship with that YOU in the poems? How does the practice of writing poems help you access that YOU? Is this different from prayer in any way or is this a form of prayer for you?
DSM: These are wonderful questions, Hila. Here is an answer to the first one: I spend a lot of time with Psalms, and even more time, it turns out, writing about and thinking about the “Holy.” I got weary of all our names we have for the holy, the universe, the deity, Shechinah, the G-d or G-dess, however, you refer to the all-encompassing wonder. Every name holds only one aspect of the holy up to the light, and almost every name is gendered. Also, the third-person-ness of the names began to feel distant. I wanted dialogue, argument, closeness. The “You” that people often use didn’t seem big enough, and somehow, I came to think of the all-encompassing as YOU.
Answering that second question, I think, requires that I at least try to define what “prayer” means for me. I give credit to Rabbi Anne Brener for helping me think this through. Prayer could be seen as the intentional reaching inward to seek my best self, hoping for connection to a greater meaning. I think what I seek in prayer is a conversation between my deep, authentic self and the mysterious, unseen unknown that is the ineffable. Prayer gives me a tool for finding my most authentic voice at the moment, and for focusing it to ask, not only for myself but for the world, to be able to give and receive justice and compassion, drawing on the full spectrum of emotions to make those requests. And prayer offers continuity—a conversation with ancestors—a way to understand our ancient values, which I don’t always understand, which I sometimes find confusing, which I sometimes find comforting.
Thinking of it this way, feeling it this way, then, yes, I think much of my poetry is prayer—because it is fervent, sometimes needful, sometimes requesting, sometimes giving something of myself back. On the other hand, I don’t think it takes the place of traditional prayer—those in Torah and in the various siddurim (prayer books). It augments them, says the things I cannot say in traditional prayer, is perhaps more immediate in content—and yet also ancient. So ancient.
HR: In the poem “Leap Day,” the speaker describes “dreaming of pathways through the day.” How did writing these poems get you through each day?
DSM: I never set out to write this book. But after the first poem on October 8th, I couldn’t stop. The daily-ness of the poems helped me keep track of myself—I was trying to keep track of the motion of the world, how feelings and opinions and sentiments writhed and morphed subtly from day to day, how the war and the media and the people around me shifted, and how it all filtered into and through me. By the time I wrote “Leap Day,” I was actually trying to stop writing these poems. I felt silenced by the media, by strangers and friends, by how we couldn’t seem to have an open dialogue, by all the violence and corruption—I could go on. But coming each day to the page, delving into whatever the day brought me—these poems became my map and my lifeline.
HR: A number of the poems in this book converse with Yiddish poets, such as Aaron Zeitlin and Aaron Glants Leyeles. In what ways did these and other poets inspire your writing?
DSM: I was in free-fall while writing these poems—shocked and stunned, and hyper-alert to any hold-fast another writer might afford me, looking for shelter and resonance. I was taking a class on Yiddish poetry with Danny Kraft (by the way, I highly recommend his classes!). These were “aha” moments. I read the poems, and sometimes there was a flash of recognition … “here is the thing I meant but couldn’t access,” or “here is the thing that is a clarifying reflection of what I am trying to say”—it was a bit like being electrocuted—a flash. But this also held for poets I had read before—like Adélia Prado—there would be that flash, and I would remember something I read of hers, and it would be completely fresh and scarily relevant. Like Dana Levin’s #WeAreToast. I thought it was brilliant the first time I read it–but it took on a new relevance as the war—and the poems—progressed.
HR: In your poem “Day 118: The Proper Way to Phrase a Prayer for Peace,” the speaker struggles with how to find the right words for such a prayer, worried, “What if I ask / for the wrong thing?” The speaker continues by listening and waiting “for my heart / to soften,” and only then might the conditions be created for finding the right words for a prayer for peace. Can you say more about how you have leaned into silence in order to discover the words you need?
DSM: What a great question. My answer is related to my earlier answers—how I feel like I have to try, at least, to fall in direct conversation with the Holy—and my thoughts on prayer, and the incredible power of words. My mother used to say— “be careful what you wish for”—meaning, weigh each word. And there are a gazillion jokes about getting only three wishes and wishing for the wrong thing. Prayer is beautiful and dangerous and difficult. And getting it right is the eternal goal. There is much midrash—discussion and interpretation—in Jewish texts, on how important words are. It is taught that a person’s words, as currently formulated, create an obligation whether they intended it or not. So I seek silence, partially to avoid asking for the wrong thing—out of being impatient, not understanding all sides, or selfishness. I seek silence, too, out of reverence—I know there is something bigger than me, that knows better. And I seek silence out of hope. Can I find the words? How can we pray for peace with exactly the right words and intentions? What is it that, finally, needs to be said?
Donna Spruijt-Metz: Donna Spruijt-Metz is an emeritus psychology professor, MacDowell fellow, rabbinical school drop-out, and former classical flutist. Her debut poetry collection is General Release from the Beginning of the World (2023, Free Verse Editions). She was featured as one of “5 over 50 debut authors” in Poets & Writers Magazine (11/23). She is the author of three chapbooks and translates Dutch poetry.
Her collaborative book with Flower Conroy, And Scuttle My Balloon, is forthcoming from Pictureshow Press in 2025. Her translations from the Dutch of Lucas Hirsch’s Wu Wei Eats an Egg is forthcoming from Ben Yehuda Press, also in 2025. Visit donnasmetz.com to learn more!