FOR IUDITA
(a child of the survivors)
Artists without hands
hold the brush with their feet
Without hands or feet
hold the brush in their teeth
As for me and my friend
all that remains is the navel
And small circles
in the center of
the canvas
Monthly Archives: March 2002
HOLOCAUST IN THE NEW MILLENNIUM
HOLOCAUST IN THE NEW MILLENNIUM
This is the age of the coming of age
of the children
The children
of those who fed the fires
and of those who fed the flames
And we
who are the children of neither
are the children of both
And this may be the last time
this can be healed in time
Or are we to have a new calendar
so much like the old
where 2000 pages are torn off
and the pinup remains the same
Already 60 years A.D. (Anno Dachau)
still counting still counting still counting
THE POET LAUREATE AT NINETY FIVE
THE POET LAUREATE AT NINETY FIVE
The new poet laureate is ninety five
he’s been working on his demons
for a long long time
Six weeks before the poet was born
his father burns his demons out
by drinking carbolic acid in the park
Mother burns father’s pictures
forbids mention of his name
Young Stanley finds one in the attic
and asks about the man
She tears the picture to shreds
without a word
and slaps him hard
six decades later he still felt the sting
Bright boy gets scholarship to Harvard
okay but forget about teaching classes
these were not the days when a Jewish boy
could teach their ivy league asses
Marries a poet, move to honeymoon farm
she disappears never to be heard from again
The new poet laureate has had plenty of pain
each day he wakes as a poet
not a man of ninety five
still seeing everything new
still glad to be alive
MARY OLIVER
MARY OLIVER
Of all the poets I admire
only one did I envy
How she could take us all on her journey
remind us of the wild beauty of our lives
and the soft animal of our bodies
It is disowned parts of us I know
that we hold too high or low
And yet I wanted to go where she could go
This year in the merry month of May
on a trip in search of other things
a book I didn’t know she’d written
in a town where I didn’t know she lived
I hung five days like her hummingbird
on the green wheel of its wings
Her flowers were my food
her town became my town
her dunes became my dunes
Sip by sip on that Cape Cod shore
I began to envy her less
and love her more
And that pretty green stone
I was taking with me
I threw it back into the sea
AUNT EILEEN
AUNT EILEEN
(1912 – 2000)
The death of my aunt
came when I had been at the sea
and my pores were open
She entered quickly
Dragging shadows of other deaths
aunts, uncles, father, friends
All loud with the clanking
of the chains that still bind
KURT
KURT
I am sure that the life
of my dear friend’s brother
held great meaning for a great many
He will be missed
My poems will miss him
He would take them down
into the greatness of his being
wrap them in music and meaning
and sing them back out to the world
I am sure that Kurt touched many people
in ways they have not been touched before
nor will ever be again
My poems join in the mourning
for that touch
REED BETWEEN THE LIONS
REED BETWEEN THE LIONS
My mother’s will was always
stronger than my won’t
My father’s won’t was always
stronger than my will
Caretaker soft or Cowboy strong
How quick I learned to change my face
to face the faces that I faced
And’
I can still spin that mirror now so you
can see the face you want to see
But neither you nor I will know
which one is me
BLUE EYED BOY
BLUE EYED BOY
Blue eyed boy
blasts off from breakfast like a quail on a rail
Collie dog leaps on board
and they’re off across the prairie
barely touching the tops of hills
Sun gives warmth or cloud gives shade
all depending on his whim
birds and rocks and swaying grass
everything living embraces him
Burrs don’t stick and thorns don’t prick
even fences joining in the play
happily turning their barbs away
Floating along on the wings of four
not long now till they slam that door
WIND CLOUD
WIND CLOUD
Once the wind
thought it was a cloud
When it was told
this was not so
It cried and cried
until it was only
wind again