the moon turning round from white to
white in morning’s sky where mercy appeared
irrelevant, the cottonwood’s naked black
February limbs reached for that sky that after-
noon—a Union Pacific graffiti-tagged freight
train surging beside a black & blue river the
rain pinging the gray tin roof that evening, the
season’s first rain as if metaphorical tears could wash this a-
way—moonset along the mesa in nimbus
overcast & bitterbrush—a heart tattooed &
straining—a freight train inside the tunnel—a mild
edema, a waxing moon holding water, a white
rope hammock in graying snow between the
cottonwood & the locust—the unin-
habited house trailer atop the bluff where trees
did not take root, the rusted drag harrow
cast off in a sky gray snowdrift—gibbous moon
in an afternoon sky weighed down with
power lines, expectation, a promise of ice the
damaged heartbeat the naked trees the train’s
graffiti as far as the eye can see
Jack Hayes
© 2011
My mid-February poetry spasm continues today with another new poem—& a reminder: if you're interested in reading the poetry from my most recent book, The Spring Ghazals you can either read them on the dedicated blog at the rate of two per week (Wednesday & Saturday), or purchase the book from one of these fine outlets:
Lulu
Amazon
Barnes & Noble (new—& a bargain at $11.40 US!)
Amazon UK (£7.94)
Both Amazon & Lulu have the book for $12 US.
Showing posts with label BN poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BN poetry. Show all posts
Blameless Mouth – the Stories We Tell
This is the task Fox-Wilson tackles in her debut collection, Blameless Mouth; she sets herself the task of exploring stories about hunger, consumption, satiety & want both culturally & in her own experience. These are fundamental issues, speaking both to our overall human condition & more specifically to our situation as members of a consumer society. But the poet doesn’t stop there. She also specifically examines how these issues affect her & women in general—at its core, Blameless Mouth is deeply feminist.
Ms Fox-Wilson includes retellings—“re-visions” in a sense—of several important cultural myths. There are at least a half dozen poems that treat the creation myth & the Eden story, all from Eve’s perspective. For instance in the poem “Eviction,” which gives a title to the first of the book’s five sections, Eve describes herself as the coolheaded one, while Adam becomes hysterical about their eviction from Eden. We read:
Even then, as Adam cried
about the loss of home and work and God,
as angels watched us pack, I calculated
our rations, how long we’d remain sated,
how long the fruit would last.
This introduces a theme that is central to the book: the woman’s role as provider, & how that cultural role affects her consumption. While Fox-Wilson sees the consumerist society as preying on women in terms of body image & self-esteem, she also sees a built-in self-denial faced by women that makes them refuse to satisfy their own wants. She discusses this most eloquently in the poem “The Day I Learned the Definition of Lacuna.” Fox-Wilson writes:
I saw
all the women in my family
who came before me, trimming the fat
off their own meat, slipping the best parts
onto a child’s plate.
This poem & others with a similar thematic concern (especially “Better to Eat Us With,” which I’ve reproduced with Jessica Fox-Wilson’s permission as a companion post) can be read against “Womyn’s Center Topless Spaghetti Dinner,” “Maenads” & “Daughter to Mother.” The first of these describes a wildly exuberant spaghetti dinner at a Women’s Center, & as such seems to locate a form of healthy consumption in the midst of poems of insatiable want. “Maenads,” which immediately follows “Womyn’s Center” is a somewhat darker vision of women being free to explore their appetites. Finally, “Daughter to Mother” is an interesting re-telling of the Persephone/Demeter myth—in this case, Persephone welcomes her Underworld incarnation because the act of consumption has also given her power.
They do not ask anything of me;
their mouths forever shut. I sit
on my black throne, gorge
on the sight of all
the heavy, full bodies. I absorb
every nutrient I need
from their forsaken lives.
As in the “Lacuna” poem, again we have a dialogue between mother & daughter. This poem is preceded by a piece entitled “Things My Mother Did Not Teach Me,” which describes how the poet’s mother could deftly slice an apple. Apples again—Eve & Snow White, who appears in the poems “Waiting for Snow White” & in the very strong piece, “Inside My Glass Coffin.” This is again a mother-daughter dialogue in which Snow White’s entombment in the glass coffin is contrasted with the stepmother’s fixation with her mirror. & at that rate, Snow White’s release by Prince Charming takes on a whole new meaning in Fox-Wilson’s vision:
I was no more
a beautiful girl, captured in her prime. I was
like her, a woman imprisoned against her will,
in her own fragile and perishable body.
Blameless Mouth is a strong & engaging collection of poetry, & not simply because of Jessica Fox-Wilson’s willingness to handle deep & compelling themes. As illustrated by the quotes (& I could go on at length with examples), Fox-Wilson also is skilled in her handling of poetic language. Here are two more quotes I can’t resist:
Wrap your body in thousand thread count cotton sheets
and you can be the woman, sleeping at home, wrapped
in thousand thread count cotton sheets.
“Magazine Says: You’ve Worked Hard”
At the heart of a shipwreck
is a child
staring into a hungry mouth broken boards/splintered teeth
shiver/sink
descend into black depths,
learn to breathe water.
"At the Heart of a Shipwreck"
This is writing by a poet who has a clear conception of voice, image & rhetoric, who can convey both strong emotion & precise thought.
I give Blameless Mouth an enthusiastic recommendation. You can purchase the book on Lulu.com at this link; & don't forget to check out one of the poems from the book, "Better to Eat Us With," in the post immediately preceding this one. You also can join me in following Jessica Fox-Wilson on her excellent blog, everything feeds process.
Writers Talk with Tess Kincaid (aka "Willow")
I'd just like to add that if you want to put together a successful blog, Life at Willow Manor would be a great model to use. Tess has assembled a blog that is always diverting to read & is always a visual pleasure as well. I had the pleasure of meeting Tess last spring during a cross-country road trip, & I must say that the good spirit found in her blog presentation is also abundantly there when you meet her in person. Finally, please don't forget to check out the Writers Talk blog, where you'll find a set of three poems by Ms Kincaid!
When did you first realize your identity as a writer?
Poetry has always been an integral part of me. My earliest memories are of my grandmother reading the delightful Hoosier poet, James Whitcomb Riley. As a precocious colt-legged girl, I adored memorizing little pieces for “show and tell”. Fascinated with the rhythm and textures of words, I read poetry aloud to a captive audience, my youngest sister and her stuffed animals. It became a delicious habit, which I imposed on my closest friends, and later, my husband and children. It wasn’t until a year or so ago, waking up one day in an empty nest, that I began to write my own poetic tools of torture. Only in recent months has it occurred to me, that I am, indeed, a poet; a curious, sadistic notion.
Describe your creative process.
I am a collector, a magpie at heart. I keep several notebooks handy to jot down words and phrases that tickle my fancy. Sometimes an entire poem will come to me in that wonderful semi-lucent space, just before waking, and other times the process is like digging a trench. Most of my inspiration comes from my macro views of the mundane.
Could you describe your relationship to the publishing process?
Since I am a fairly new writer, I am currently sending my first chapbook manuscript out for publication, a process which I’ve found is not for the faint of heart. It is, however, a huge encouragement to know hundreds are currently reading my poetry posted via my blog, Life at Willow Manor.
How has being a writer affected your relationships?
My husband and adult children have been my personal cheerleaders, but many of my friends and extended family don’t really “get” me, as a poet. I’ve learned to skirt the subject, if I throw out the word “poetry” and it lands like a dead fish on the coffee table.
How would you describe the community of writers you belong to?
It’s exciting to be part of a virtual “Bloomsbury” community of talented poets and writers. The immediate feedback and rapport is tremendously supportive. Last February, I started a creative writing group blog, Magpie Tales, which has been the impetus for much of my writing.
What are your future goals in terms of writing?
My current goal is to procure a publisher for my poetry. I also have a rough outline for an autobiographical novel, actually more biography than novel, since truth is often stranger than fiction.
Bonus question: If your writing were a musical instrument, what would it be?
A button accordion, since my writing is small and quirky.
"How The Journey Begins"
[Sorry to say that this brings B.N.'s Journey Music manuscript to a close; both B.N. & I have so much appreciated your support for her poetry! But not to worry: B.N. has fiction that I'll be posting on Robert Frost's Banjo. Please stay tuned for details, but I will tell you that the first such post is slated for Monday, August 30!]
How The Journey Begins
Because the journey always begins near an over harvested forest
Filling with expansive patches of snow
You can still imagine the wide open clearing
And how you stood, your breath rising
A thin white awning in front of you,
Like a fragile veil that might evaporate in the sunlight.
There are nights torn open still, you awaken to a blink of street lights
Trying to conjure up the image of a distant forest
The sibilants of a language that once you
Knew. But the memory is always problematic like falling snow
At the end of a slow epic movie, and when most people rise
To leave the theater you remain trying to see a clear
Picture of what moved you, the fleeting final shot, a table cleared
And an empty kitchen, or just the lights
Coming up again, the gentle collapse of the rose
Colored curtain. There are wrongs as thick as forests
And days when you can't help but return to a snow
Filled country. There exists no calender for you
What happened, happened often without documentation, and you
Have no real idea how many days passed—clear
Nights punctuated only by a brief snow
Fall in early spring, and a glimpse of a sudden shaft of light
Pouring through an open trap door near a thicket at the edge of a forest.
As silent as steam the monks still rise
For matins. And you too woke and rose
To the whisper of their cloth as it brushed against you.
For nearly three years you lived near a thinning forest
In the remains of a wine cellar knowing that clearly
There are places where a heart can starve for want of light
And that the rescue of entire lives might be made possible by snow.
Years later in a field you saw a horse marked abstractly by snow,
Grazing behind a fence where the land begins to slowly rise
Away from the sea, only bottles of colored glass in the window catch light
Masquerading as the shades of wine that kept you
Company. No matter how hard you try to clear
Away that part of memory, you can't remember the word forest
In that language. Other words rise so lightly
And fall like snow or ash through a clear sky
But forest is the one you want, the word you have forgotten.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Because the journey always begins near an over harvested forest
Filling with expansive patches of snow
You can still imagine the wide open clearing
And how you stood, your breath rising
A thin white awning in front of you,
Like a fragile veil that might evaporate in the sunlight.
There are nights torn open still, you awaken to a blink of street lights
Trying to conjure up the image of a distant forest
The sibilants of a language that once you
Knew. But the memory is always problematic like falling snow
At the end of a slow epic movie, and when most people rise
To leave the theater you remain trying to see a clear
Picture of what moved you, the fleeting final shot, a table cleared
And an empty kitchen, or just the lights
Coming up again, the gentle collapse of the rose
Colored curtain. There are wrongs as thick as forests
And days when you can't help but return to a snow
Filled country. There exists no calender for you
What happened, happened often without documentation, and you
Have no real idea how many days passed—clear
Nights punctuated only by a brief snow
Fall in early spring, and a glimpse of a sudden shaft of light
Pouring through an open trap door near a thicket at the edge of a forest.
As silent as steam the monks still rise
For matins. And you too woke and rose
To the whisper of their cloth as it brushed against you.
For nearly three years you lived near a thinning forest
In the remains of a wine cellar knowing that clearly
There are places where a heart can starve for want of light
And that the rescue of entire lives might be made possible by snow.
Years later in a field you saw a horse marked abstractly by snow,
Grazing behind a fence where the land begins to slowly rise
Away from the sea, only bottles of colored glass in the window catch light
Masquerading as the shades of wine that kept you
Company. No matter how hard you try to clear
Away that part of memory, you can't remember the word forest
In that language. Other words rise so lightly
And fall like snow or ash through a clear sky
But forest is the one you want, the word you have forgotten.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
"Journey Music"
[Here's the title poem to the collection of B.N.'s poems that we've been posting on Robert Frost's Banjo over the past several months; it's also the penultimate poem in the collection. Enjoy!]
Journey Music
The world darkens into an unrecognizable form
Until even the latch on your
Own door eludes you.
Scattered throughout town tea pots cool
In empty kitchens, and after a while the little
Kerosene lamps flickered and went out.
Yet the town was not deserted—
Saturday afternoon in the cinema
The projectionist asleep by the third reel, and
That first night the neighboring dogs,
Moving wolf shadows, turned their terrible heads
And eyed you crossing the cow pasture.
By dawn they seemed to recede in
A damp fog, big, innocent, treading
The Roman stones in another direction.
Winter did not come those next few days, and
From the top of the hill you could just make
Out the road into town,
Near the marshes where the wooden handles of farm tools
Lost or dropped forever turned to stone
Houses and barns are abandoned.
Two days later in a village twelve kilometers north
People had taken to digging their own graves
Swinging spades, pickaxes and pails.
You watched the corollas in an ordinary flower,
Opening as deftly as the fierce heat
Trembling in the world's outstretched hand.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Journey Music
The world darkens into an unrecognizable form
Until even the latch on your
Own door eludes you.
Scattered throughout town tea pots cool
In empty kitchens, and after a while the little
Kerosene lamps flickered and went out.
Yet the town was not deserted—
Saturday afternoon in the cinema
The projectionist asleep by the third reel, and
That first night the neighboring dogs,
Moving wolf shadows, turned their terrible heads
And eyed you crossing the cow pasture.
By dawn they seemed to recede in
A damp fog, big, innocent, treading
The Roman stones in another direction.
Winter did not come those next few days, and
From the top of the hill you could just make
Out the road into town,
Near the marshes where the wooden handles of farm tools
Lost or dropped forever turned to stone
Houses and barns are abandoned.
Two days later in a village twelve kilometers north
People had taken to digging their own graves
Swinging spades, pickaxes and pails.
You watched the corollas in an ordinary flower,
Opening as deftly as the fierce heat
Trembling in the world's outstretched hand.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
"Remnants"
[Please enjoy this week's poem by B.N., a beautiful example of terza rima!]
Remnants
Lately you embrace the regularity
In what you know, the obvious transitions
Between the seasons, long stretches of ordinary
Days filled by simple tasks, a reason
To go out and buy a useless shade of solitary
Cloth, now abandoned in a drawer alongside legions
Of stashed rubber bands, old stamps. An imaginary
Tapestry you could never bring yourself to start
Except for a few stitches as a border, a momentary
Fidelity to a bright crimson, a heart
Shaped emblem started slowly to emerge.
Now Prussian red accumulates in the dark.
Even the letter you tried to write almost verge
On the brink of some archaic sadness.
History moved at break-neck speed to merge
Together all the details. Dead of winter, an early darkness
Tucked even the seraphs into bed, those famous piles of stacked
Eye glasses, hair and shoes and the immense
Expanse of what you have tried to explain in a letter
Give them a vision, a comb, and a map to follow
The route home tracing along the cracked
Glass frame of the one, the only photo
You managed to save, it sits like a knife
Or bread, on a table, intimate, essential.
Lately you embrace the regularity
In what you know, the obvious transitions
Between the seasons, long stretches of ordinary
Days filled by simple tasks, a reason
To go out and buy a useless shade of solitary
Cloth, now abandoned in a drawer alongside legions
Of stashed rubber bands, old stamps. An imaginary
Tapestry you could never bring yourself to start
Except for a few stitches as a border, a momentary
Fidelity to a bright crimson, a heart
Shaped emblem started slowly to emerge.
Now Prussian red accumulates in the dark.
Even the letter you tried to write almost verge
On the brink of some archaic sadness.
History moved at break-neck speed to merge
Together all the details. Dead of winter, an early darkness
Tucked even the seraphs into bed, those famous piles of stacked
Eye glasses, hair and shoes and the immense
Expanse of what you have tried to explain in a letter
Give them a vision, a comb, and a map to follow
The route home tracing along the cracked
Glass frame of the one, the only photo
You managed to save, it sits like a knife
Or bread, on a table, intimate, essential.
© to the author 1983-2010
"The Jews Reading Rilke"
[Here's another fine poem by B.N. for your enjoyment!]
The Jews Reading Rilke
All night the Jews are awake
At their oak tables, Rabbinical insomniacs
Mistaking the intonation of restless birds
For the sure knowledge of something beyond
This world, the ghastly redness
Of the spilled wine that never suggests blood.
They read Rilke to the slow monotonous
Pull of the underworld, and have become
Orpheus each turning to address you as the errant
Uncle who conned the family out of the fortune.
In Prague at this time of year nettles have sprung up between
The cracks in the pavement; if you were to just
Brush against them lightly they'd burn your hands.
A few still may remember how a soup or tea
Of these boiled in shallow black pots.
But I imagine you far from the city, at the window
In the tower you could see swans pulling their
Lengthening reflections across the water. Sweet afternoons
Poured into Dresden cups. In those days
Europes' aristocracy had to satisfy your longing,
You inventing your own ancestry. It no longer matters.
How could you know that your lyrics were celebrating
The last innocent hours of your language.
From my window the world is repeating itself
In the arch of tree branches. Your city comes to me
Tonight as a memory of bridges, archways, and ornate
Bavarian clock I saw once as a child. Perhaps a replica
In a gift shop window. Figures marching to the
Precise mechanism of an empire flung down
Like a stone into the dirt. What we in the Americas
Call history, names of towns and cities we have
Traveled to (for whatever reason) dropped as if
To say, yes we know we've been there and stood and
Looked out from that very bridge also.
Down by the river, the construction keeps the time
As longshoremen men adjust their belts and hoist up
Sacks of grain, readying for a strike. On the news
Prague is a celebration in streets, one long drink
Taken up and spit back out defiantly. Tonight
I read you in disguise—a translation.
You bow a kind and haloed head, your advice
Moves like an emissary taking a princess's
White hand to your lips.
I am writing because lucidity fades like language
Or lyric, and I know that it is an unlikely
Connection to make, but when my grandmother calls
She speaks to me half in English and half in Yiddish.
There in the subtle stages of her senility, I
Believe that I might be able to make out the thinnest
Hint of your German. It is in this confusion of
Words spoken in a dying language, sounding so poetic
So damned poetic that it keeps me up.
For me an understanding of that language always
Depends on something purer than fluency—
Call it hope, or expectation, or even the simple
Knowledge that it was the language used to
Render me the beautiful girl I was not.
Once she stood in a line, in your city for D.P.'s
I do not know how she came to be there
Or how long she stayed—a night or two I imagine.
There was still a shop left then with an
Unbroken window with Hebrew letters spelling
Out the word, books in Yiddish and a long list
Of names of people and towns had been posted.
Tonight all the people you knew
Are dead just as all the people she knew are dead
But someone close to you must have lived
Long enough to have seen what I am talking about.
Those pages inscribed with the names
Of the righteous. Maybe some of the names you
Might recognize, people you knew in passing,
Someone who sold you a woolen suit, someone
Who served you a meal, someone who touched your hand.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
The Jews Reading Rilke
All night the Jews are awake
At their oak tables, Rabbinical insomniacs
Mistaking the intonation of restless birds
For the sure knowledge of something beyond
This world, the ghastly redness
Of the spilled wine that never suggests blood.
They read Rilke to the slow monotonous
Pull of the underworld, and have become
Orpheus each turning to address you as the errant
Uncle who conned the family out of the fortune.
In Prague at this time of year nettles have sprung up between
The cracks in the pavement; if you were to just
Brush against them lightly they'd burn your hands.
A few still may remember how a soup or tea
Of these boiled in shallow black pots.
But I imagine you far from the city, at the window
In the tower you could see swans pulling their
Lengthening reflections across the water. Sweet afternoons
Poured into Dresden cups. In those days
Europes' aristocracy had to satisfy your longing,
You inventing your own ancestry. It no longer matters.
How could you know that your lyrics were celebrating
The last innocent hours of your language.
From my window the world is repeating itself
In the arch of tree branches. Your city comes to me
Tonight as a memory of bridges, archways, and ornate
Bavarian clock I saw once as a child. Perhaps a replica
In a gift shop window. Figures marching to the
Precise mechanism of an empire flung down
Like a stone into the dirt. What we in the Americas
Call history, names of towns and cities we have
Traveled to (for whatever reason) dropped as if
To say, yes we know we've been there and stood and
Looked out from that very bridge also.
Down by the river, the construction keeps the time
As longshoremen men adjust their belts and hoist up
Sacks of grain, readying for a strike. On the news
Prague is a celebration in streets, one long drink
Taken up and spit back out defiantly. Tonight
I read you in disguise—a translation.
You bow a kind and haloed head, your advice
Moves like an emissary taking a princess's
White hand to your lips.
I am writing because lucidity fades like language
Or lyric, and I know that it is an unlikely
Connection to make, but when my grandmother calls
She speaks to me half in English and half in Yiddish.
There in the subtle stages of her senility, I
Believe that I might be able to make out the thinnest
Hint of your German. It is in this confusion of
Words spoken in a dying language, sounding so poetic
So damned poetic that it keeps me up.
For me an understanding of that language always
Depends on something purer than fluency—
Call it hope, or expectation, or even the simple
Knowledge that it was the language used to
Render me the beautiful girl I was not.
Once she stood in a line, in your city for D.P.'s
I do not know how she came to be there
Or how long she stayed—a night or two I imagine.
There was still a shop left then with an
Unbroken window with Hebrew letters spelling
Out the word, books in Yiddish and a long list
Of names of people and towns had been posted.
Tonight all the people you knew
Are dead just as all the people she knew are dead
But someone close to you must have lived
Long enough to have seen what I am talking about.
Those pages inscribed with the names
Of the righteous. Maybe some of the names you
Might recognize, people you knew in passing,
Someone who sold you a woolen suit, someone
Who served you a meal, someone who touched your hand.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
"Winter Marriage"
[Another beautiful lyric poem from B.N. - enjoy!]
Winter Marriage
Consider, how consistently the light gets less
in the rim of the window, then the room,
the way we grow quiet each night at 8 o'clock.
It has been a winter of arguments, broken clocks
and black-outs. We aptly call these silence and darkness.
Given enough time I can make sense of anything,
our tracks in the snow, the snow filling the forgotten
boots next to the back stairs, the clay pots
on the sill, the TV and our heads
in R.E.M. sleep.
I know that the geese, afraid to be overcome by snow travel
In a constant V and sound a hard call back and forth, knowing
both their shape and sound as imperative.
Sense has a pattern like snow and sleep
or silence and darkness.
And here we are the power concealed in it.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Winter Marriage
Consider, how consistently the light gets less
in the rim of the window, then the room,
the way we grow quiet each night at 8 o'clock.
It has been a winter of arguments, broken clocks
and black-outs. We aptly call these silence and darkness.
Given enough time I can make sense of anything,
our tracks in the snow, the snow filling the forgotten
boots next to the back stairs, the clay pots
on the sill, the TV and our heads
in R.E.M. sleep.
I know that the geese, afraid to be overcome by snow travel
In a constant V and sound a hard call back and forth, knowing
both their shape and sound as imperative.
Sense has a pattern like snow and sleep
or silence and darkness.
And here we are the power concealed in it.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
"News of Your Death Comes Like Rain"
[Hope you enjoy this very powerful poem by B.N.]
News of Your Death Comes Like Rain
Iris 1960-1989
I don't know why it is a rainy day and we are just eight years old
At Catskill game farm, we clutching our lunches in wet brown
Paper bags-- the odor of disappointment and damp hay.
The reluctant animals peered out from the drizzle except
For a mangy North American wolf too sick to move away
From his big red plastic water bowl and the whole class
Trying to cram in under one awing and two picnic tables.
And if the rain could have washed us clean it would have that day.
That was the year Mrs. Leoni, the special Ed teacher died
Of a stroke on the floor of her classroom, and all those
Children drifted out of the room and down the halls they were found
Wandering, clutching red trucks, dolls and dustpans—
Emissaries of misfortune. And everyone horrified as they realized
that
The children had to step over the body to get out the door.
Before that we used to walk Howie with his
"Lost In Space" lunch box passed his own house as a joke
But Howie too stepped over the dead, and that spring his
Mother also died after the Bar Mitzvah nobody went to
He was sent away to an institution named for the trees,
Or some other bit of nature that carries an inkling toward
compassion.
I heard that after a few years powders, liquids and needles blossomed
In our blood stream. One by one we have each been greeted and
Bid farewell, red paper Chinese lanterns set for a celebration
Extravagant hearts strung up in a criminal dark.
In the prison hospital grace is small and metal gated.
They allow you to drink from a straw. But you are
Handcuffed and strapped down and every time they change
The I.V. they call for extra guards. One drop of your
Blood could infect one hundred hearts.
On the phone your sister told me that you died
Tuesday morning on a cot welded to a chain link cage
Unaware of forgotten animals and morning rain.
B.N.
© to the author 1989-2010
News of Your Death Comes Like Rain
Iris 1960-1989
I don't know why it is a rainy day and we are just eight years old
At Catskill game farm, we clutching our lunches in wet brown
Paper bags-- the odor of disappointment and damp hay.
The reluctant animals peered out from the drizzle except
For a mangy North American wolf too sick to move away
From his big red plastic water bowl and the whole class
Trying to cram in under one awing and two picnic tables.
And if the rain could have washed us clean it would have that day.
That was the year Mrs. Leoni, the special Ed teacher died
Of a stroke on the floor of her classroom, and all those
Children drifted out of the room and down the halls they were found
Wandering, clutching red trucks, dolls and dustpans—
Emissaries of misfortune. And everyone horrified as they realized
that
The children had to step over the body to get out the door.
Before that we used to walk Howie with his
"Lost In Space" lunch box passed his own house as a joke
But Howie too stepped over the dead, and that spring his
Mother also died after the Bar Mitzvah nobody went to
He was sent away to an institution named for the trees,
Or some other bit of nature that carries an inkling toward
compassion.
I heard that after a few years powders, liquids and needles blossomed
In our blood stream. One by one we have each been greeted and
Bid farewell, red paper Chinese lanterns set for a celebration
Extravagant hearts strung up in a criminal dark.
In the prison hospital grace is small and metal gated.
They allow you to drink from a straw. But you are
Handcuffed and strapped down and every time they change
The I.V. they call for extra guards. One drop of your
Blood could infect one hundred hearts.
On the phone your sister told me that you died
Tuesday morning on a cot welded to a chain link cage
Unaware of forgotten animals and morning rain.
B.N.
© to the author 1989-2010
"Starlings"
[This poem begins the third section of B.N.'s Journey Music manuscript]
Starlings
They may be kinder at a distance, yet
The elements of solemn imagery.
They rise precise, a cast out net.
Here in the instant all the trees agree
To shed at once their pale and thinning leaves.
In winter potted lilies simulate
The summer, now to us they're turning wild
A metaphysics of imagined fate.
If in the middle, the loud ca caw, ca caw
A mild remnant, attendant angels bloom,
Take flight above our heads. Could we say we saw
The whole thing just watching from our room?
We paste stars to the walls in America
As replicas of summer nights we saw.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Starlings
They may be kinder at a distance, yet
The elements of solemn imagery.
They rise precise, a cast out net.
Here in the instant all the trees agree
To shed at once their pale and thinning leaves.
In winter potted lilies simulate
The summer, now to us they're turning wild
A metaphysics of imagined fate.
If in the middle, the loud ca caw, ca caw
A mild remnant, attendant angels bloom,
Take flight above our heads. Could we say we saw
The whole thing just watching from our room?
We paste stars to the walls in America
As replicas of summer nights we saw.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
"Night"
[This stunningly beautiful poem concludes the second part of B.N.'s Journey Music manuscript. I know you'll enjoy it!]
Night
Tonight is only the page I lingered over,
Feeling an easy sadness for a photograph
Of Freud's beloved chows, the way the
Light lilts on the paper and my girlhood
Becomes a small boat on a huge horizon,
The way sleep untangles the reasons between us.
We are as uncomplicated as water as unwashed as salt.
The neighborhood's gone to hell and to the sleepless.
We are walking inside the houses
Across the room, from the chair to the table,
Toward the vase of flowers to the door,
Out the door to stand ashen under porch lights.
We rise each morning to the rush of tap-water,
Like little kites . And it's good to
Share in such simple relief. Farewell,
To twisted ecstatic sheets, the terrible bleary-eyed
Songs from a portable radio on the kitchen counter.
America is one big fat memory for insomniacs.
Tonight, I would give anything
To touch the world's face, to see the crowds'
Cheeks fill with sparks of dust,
Dirtied only by regret, and I, with my finger tip
Could wipe it all away.
Tonight is the piece of paper
On which the dark writes its name
That wants only to be made clean again.
And at this hour the trees along the street
Let go their leaves like the old book left
Open on the red arm chair.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2010
Night
Tonight is only the page I lingered over,
Feeling an easy sadness for a photograph
Of Freud's beloved chows, the way the
Light lilts on the paper and my girlhood
Becomes a small boat on a huge horizon,
The way sleep untangles the reasons between us.
We are as uncomplicated as water as unwashed as salt.
The neighborhood's gone to hell and to the sleepless.
We are walking inside the houses
Across the room, from the chair to the table,
Toward the vase of flowers to the door,
Out the door to stand ashen under porch lights.
We rise each morning to the rush of tap-water,
Like little kites . And it's good to
Share in such simple relief. Farewell,
To twisted ecstatic sheets, the terrible bleary-eyed
Songs from a portable radio on the kitchen counter.
America is one big fat memory for insomniacs.
Tonight, I would give anything
To touch the world's face, to see the crowds'
Cheeks fill with sparks of dust,
Dirtied only by regret, and I, with my finger tip
Could wipe it all away.
Tonight is the piece of paper
On which the dark writes its name
That wants only to be made clean again.
And at this hour the trees along the street
Let go their leaves like the old book left
Open on the red arm chair.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2010
"Far Rockaway"
[Hope you enjoy this fine poem by B.N.]
Far Rockaway
Today even the name makes me drowsy
As the bus ride and ocean air.
Some trick of change, bit of silver shining.
Each time she rode the bus she tried to cheat
The driver out of a dime. And even he
Felt a loss when the used Kleenex fell from
Her purse like angels with wings stained
Claret red. It wasn't so much the money,
Busses were the synagogues then and we
God's emissaries.
When I think of it, summer is like a short guttural
In a dying language and I, half listening, catch a phrase or two
If she doesn't get up and find a husband soon, the birds will
build a nest in her snatch.
Journeys are a succession of rented summer bungalows
And winter apartments, they always belong to someone else.
These dwellings we give back graciously, the floors swept clean
These that are offered generously only in retrospect
And only once did we make it as far as the sea.
We wore scarves in the sun, greeted by multi-colored umbrellas
Set out into a loud fabric—an embroidered tapestry
Where the birds nest, the silver water changes,
The smug dime rests, behind the
folded wings of tissue angels.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Far Rockaway
Today even the name makes me drowsy
As the bus ride and ocean air.
Some trick of change, bit of silver shining.
Each time she rode the bus she tried to cheat
The driver out of a dime. And even he
Felt a loss when the used Kleenex fell from
Her purse like angels with wings stained
Claret red. It wasn't so much the money,
Busses were the synagogues then and we
God's emissaries.
When I think of it, summer is like a short guttural
In a dying language and I, half listening, catch a phrase or two
If she doesn't get up and find a husband soon, the birds will
build a nest in her snatch.
Journeys are a succession of rented summer bungalows
And winter apartments, they always belong to someone else.
These dwellings we give back graciously, the floors swept clean
These that are offered generously only in retrospect
And only once did we make it as far as the sea.
We wore scarves in the sun, greeted by multi-colored umbrellas
Set out into a loud fabric—an embroidered tapestry
Where the birds nest, the silver water changes,
The smug dime rests, behind the
folded wings of tissue angels.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
“Couples”
[Here’s our next B.N. poem!]
Couples
It is again a day in late summer, fin-de-siècle.
I am speaking to you over the sounds of the sea
Over sharks stirring up the sandy bottom.
I am talking because in this seaside town, music
Pours from car windows freakish and vagrant,
And because we know that in our future rooms
Only one of us bathed in TV light will go on
To descend into arm chairs alone. I hope I die first.
I have taken to watching old couples.
Imagining they all met at a New Years Eve party 1946,
The music of victory and Benny Goodman filled the air waves.
All the women wore boldly feathered
Or veiled hats, and a gang of plaintive apparitions
Bent to kiss the white gloved hand of a deserted bride.
In a restaurant last Monday I watched from across the room
As a man leaned over his wife and whistled
Into her ear, and for an instant they both seemed to share
The need to celebrate a nostalgic tune, to remember
Walking once arm in arm in the river light.
This afternoon I am watching again through a window
As summer dries up and drifts away. The promise
Of a harvest moon hangs in the air, a party decoration,
And already I remember our trip to the beach as
Some matter-of-fact talk in the kitchen.
For now, an amicable rain is the measure of our existence,
We've returned in time to praise the alchemy of industry,
Having lived long enough together to see on the street of our
Own Neighborhood, red Novas, blue Falcons, a gold Phoenix.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2010
Couples
It is again a day in late summer, fin-de-siècle.
I am speaking to you over the sounds of the sea
Over sharks stirring up the sandy bottom.
I am talking because in this seaside town, music
Pours from car windows freakish and vagrant,
And because we know that in our future rooms
Only one of us bathed in TV light will go on
To descend into arm chairs alone. I hope I die first.
I have taken to watching old couples.
Imagining they all met at a New Years Eve party 1946,
The music of victory and Benny Goodman filled the air waves.
All the women wore boldly feathered
Or veiled hats, and a gang of plaintive apparitions
Bent to kiss the white gloved hand of a deserted bride.
In a restaurant last Monday I watched from across the room
As a man leaned over his wife and whistled
Into her ear, and for an instant they both seemed to share
The need to celebrate a nostalgic tune, to remember
Walking once arm in arm in the river light.
This afternoon I am watching again through a window
As summer dries up and drifts away. The promise
Of a harvest moon hangs in the air, a party decoration,
And already I remember our trip to the beach as
Some matter-of-fact talk in the kitchen.
For now, an amicable rain is the measure of our existence,
We've returned in time to praise the alchemy of industry,
Having lived long enough together to see on the street of our
Own Neighborhood, red Novas, blue Falcons, a gold Phoenix.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2010
“Snow In April”
[Wow—this B.N. poem is lovely—enjoy!]
Snow In April
The tulips are so temporal
because they contain
winter in their hearts.
They are the elegy
of flowers.
Faint-hearted,
the weather dissolves us,
the way things grow
smaller in the distance,
miraculous and liquid.
Here, the seasons are compulsive
and winter left a vestige
tender and musky
It rises
with the other scents.
We do not travel
or take any such risks,
but this far inland the flowers
stand for imported life,
stray beauty, and the bit
of snow that can rest in
their bowls.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Snow in April appeared previously in Quarterly West
Snow In April
The tulips are so temporal
because they contain
winter in their hearts.
They are the elegy
of flowers.
Faint-hearted,
the weather dissolves us,
the way things grow
smaller in the distance,
miraculous and liquid.
Here, the seasons are compulsive
and winter left a vestige
tender and musky
It rises
with the other scents.
We do not travel
or take any such risks,
but this far inland the flowers
stand for imported life,
stray beauty, and the bit
of snow that can rest in
their bowls.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Snow in April appeared previously in Quarterly West
“Three Battles & One Flight”
[Our regularly scheduled B.N. poem—enjoy!]
Three Battles & One Flight
When your Commander tells you, wipe that smile
off your face, you want to explain the faulty
strategies of Jericho, Anzio, or Iwo Jima,
how thin saplings redefine our nobility,
how nothing should be taken and everything given,
how standing in a mine field the echoes of movement
are deafening—
like fish sliding just under the surface
of water, the dead are simple, untheatrical—
The fourteen year-old soldier smokes American cigarettes,
imagines the scents of sex, believes he will
be taken to heaven whole and clean.
They say the pilot is altered
by the sky—at times the horizon means nothing
and there is not enough fuel to go home. Like a
child practicing his scales at the piano—
he wants to go higher.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Three Battles & One Flight appeared previously in the Memphis State Review
Three Battles & One Flight
When your Commander tells you, wipe that smile
off your face, you want to explain the faulty
strategies of Jericho, Anzio, or Iwo Jima,
how thin saplings redefine our nobility,
how nothing should be taken and everything given,
how standing in a mine field the echoes of movement
are deafening—
like fish sliding just under the surface
of water, the dead are simple, untheatrical—
The fourteen year-old soldier smokes American cigarettes,
imagines the scents of sex, believes he will
be taken to heaven whole and clean.
They say the pilot is altered
by the sky—at times the horizon means nothing
and there is not enough fuel to go home. Like a
child practicing his scales at the piano—
he wants to go higher.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Three Battles & One Flight appeared previously in the Memphis State Review
“The Scent of Vinegar”
[The next B.N. poem—please enjoy!]
The Scent of Vinegar
for simple things,
a child, fortune,
you love a woman
much like yourself.
At night she prays
the whole house smells
of vinegar. She has been
rain. All night long your dreams
rise to the ceiling and evaporate.
By morning the cups
rattle more and more,
setting dyes.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
The Scent of Vinegar
for simple things,
a child, fortune,
you love a woman
much like yourself.
At night she prays
the whole house smells
of vinegar. She has been
rain. All night long your dreams
rise to the ceiling and evaporate.
By morning the cups
rattle more and more,
setting dyes.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
"Know What to Expect"
[A poem from B.N., the next in the series:]
Know What to Expect
In winter it is
always poverty-
stricken. The blue coat, Good Will,
the brown shoes, Salvation.
Trains and rates of exchange
are never exact. The Mafia
coins protection,
silver is change,
and destiny is a set
of tracks left in the snow.
I spend my life as I
always knew I would:
at the window—
small-boned and
the day is gone.
So, finally you confess,
the drowsy eye sees
the stars with long tentacles,
the sky with its enormous
blue-smear, the kid with his
minute red kite,
the surface tension
the way electricity
scrambles on the water
of pools. It was here
that we first recognized prophecy,
seven light-years
Let's just say
seven dark ones.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Know What to Expect appeared previously in Gulf Coast
Know What to Expect
In winter it is
always poverty-
stricken. The blue coat, Good Will,
the brown shoes, Salvation.
Trains and rates of exchange
are never exact. The Mafia
coins protection,
silver is change,
and destiny is a set
of tracks left in the snow.
I spend my life as I
always knew I would:
at the window—
small-boned and
the day is gone.
So, finally you confess,
the drowsy eye sees
the stars with long tentacles,
the sky with its enormous
blue-smear, the kid with his
minute red kite,
the surface tension
the way electricity
scrambles on the water
of pools. It was here
that we first recognized prophecy,
seven light-years
Let's just say
seven dark ones.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2010
Know What to Expect appeared previously in Gulf Coast
"Intimacies"
[Here's the next of B.N.'s poems, which begins the second part of the manuscript]
Intimacies
Among the small gestures
of intimacy is
that of taking the hand
of a woman and saying:
He will come back.
Things turn—
from beautiful to ugly
funny to bitter.
Like this inside me
you know, what I believed
to be bright red is
pale pink.
I like speaking in
bird calls,
imitating the being of
any small thing.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2010
Intimacies
Among the small gestures
of intimacy is
that of taking the hand
of a woman and saying:
He will come back.
Things turn—
from beautiful to ugly
funny to bitter.
Like this inside me
you know, what I believed
to be bright red is
pale pink.
I like speaking in
bird calls,
imitating the being of
any small thing.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2010
"Dark Glass"
[Here’s the next B.N. poem; this one concludes the first section of the manuscript. Please enjoy!]
Dark Glass
The animals are
our rightful heirs—
they strut and screech
so meek, so civilized. They come
from the book of Esther
with beauty to spare,
an understanding for kin and kingship
and the promise: Someday you
will love this life,
this famous grey house.
The crows are making
a pilgrimage across
the lawn. I love to watch them walk.
Take my advice, wait until you can
wait no longer.
You can stand
to be without them,
narrow and alone, thinking
This is the person
I was meant to become. Deadpan
in love is the diminishing
I know by heart
which means a likeness
to forgive.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2009
This poem appeared previously in Gulf Coast
Dark Glass
The animals are
our rightful heirs—
they strut and screech
so meek, so civilized. They come
from the book of Esther
with beauty to spare,
an understanding for kin and kingship
and the promise: Someday you
will love this life,
this famous grey house.
The crows are making
a pilgrimage across
the lawn. I love to watch them walk.
Take my advice, wait until you can
wait no longer.
You can stand
to be without them,
narrow and alone, thinking
This is the person
I was meant to become. Deadpan
in love is the diminishing
I know by heart
which means a likeness
to forgive.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2009
This poem appeared previously in Gulf Coast
"Faith"
[Here's another of B.N.'s marvelous poems; please enjoy!]
Faith
Mercy is when you get
a clear shot
you take it. The animal's
legs give way
and crumble under him.
We know how to betray
the dead with beauty,
making each bruise gorgeous,
the mark a prophesy
spot, and each heart
immaculate.
For months we've lived
in the house with
peeling wallpaper,
alongside a child's stars pointing
home, and a stick figure
etched on the wall underneath,
thinking very little
of a sad child.
I need to feel the body
move. Jazz or blue.
Suddenly everything is strange
and exquisite. Perishing
is a blessing,
the world closes behind us
and the birds' wings
open like hymnals.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2009
Faith
Mercy is when you get
a clear shot
you take it. The animal's
legs give way
and crumble under him.
We know how to betray
the dead with beauty,
making each bruise gorgeous,
the mark a prophesy
spot, and each heart
immaculate.
For months we've lived
in the house with
peeling wallpaper,
alongside a child's stars pointing
home, and a stick figure
etched on the wall underneath,
thinking very little
of a sad child.
I need to feel the body
move. Jazz or blue.
Suddenly everything is strange
and exquisite. Perishing
is a blessing,
the world closes behind us
and the birds' wings
open like hymnals.
B.N.
© to the author, 1983-2009
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