Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Angeline]

Once and Now

Once upon a time
is a fairy tale
that grew up to become
as long as I can.

Magic doesn't fall from stars,
sprinkling solutions
like twilight's pixie dust,
conjuring relief.

Night must be enough
happily ever after
because it absents day.
Night must be enough
for its hours skirt the edge
of memory, sleep knitting
a cloak of quiet
against uncertainty.

Once upon a time
is fiction because night ends.
I wake to real days, carry care
through them like eggs.

As long as I can
is not happily ever after,
but enough to lay a burden
somewhere between the seam
of storm and the again
of waking day, without spells
or charms, only promise.

 

[foehn]

just let us know what you want when you post a poem

I started this about 9 years ago, and although much of it is "made-up," a great deal is taken from studies of apocryphal writings (not so easily found, but in existence). What I want is to know if anyone thinks I should finish it; if anyone thinks it is already finished; or if most think I should just discard it and move on. I'd also be very appreciative of any comments indicating if the general perception of this piece of writing is considered to be poetry, or just poof. Thanks in advance, /foehn.





JOSEPH OF NAZARETH


My ears could hear, and when I heard the trumpets
I lay my adze aside and started out,
curious as to what the thing would mean.
Part way I met a herald, whom I greeted.
He asked, “Have I found Joseph, father
“of Judas, Josetos, James, Simon, and two girls
“who have no mother?” I answered “Yes” to this...

“Today, lots are drawn for that girl Mary,
“given by Iochem and Anna to the temple...
“Come.” And that is all he said, and turned
and disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared.
I thought of Lysia, of Lydia, with no mother,
the loss still felt. How amply had I fed
the mouth of death! And now another mouth?

To the air, perhaps, I said: “God won’t give
“me what he knows beforehand I’ll refuse.”
I laughed, then, and went along for duty,
but thought it strange. I might have known, however,
that when God takes away, He’s asking favors.
Takes away at the proper time, and asks
right favors of the ones He’s taken from.

Zecharia couldn’t see how God had chosen,
after the prayer; it was at this bad moment
a pigeon flew at me, as though from nowhere.
“I will not take the girl,” I flatly stated.
I was twenty at my marriage, which I held
for twenty years. A widower with six to feed,
wife scarcely gone a year. Now past forty,

I find it hard to swing the iron and haul
the heavy cedar to my working place.
“I do not need this Mary, do not hear the call...”
These things thought me, more than I thought them,
and then Abiathar said, “Joseph. We are priests,
“which we must be. Thus, it falls to us
“to show to others what we may perceive,

“and you may remember, too, of Moses --
“confronted by Korah, Dathan and Abiram:
“that they, like you, felt equal to the priests.
“Neither would they accept the murmured voice
“of God, and they and all their wives and children
“were swallowed breathing by the earth, which can
“be made to spit or swallow by command.”


This made me shiver, thinking some of James,
the youngest of my sons, now barely speaking.
Who would tell the world of Joseph, who denied
refuge to Mary, and life to himself, his heirs?
Who would touch the beams, the lintels I had placed?
I looked therefore upon the slender youth
then in her thirteenth year, the beam too smooth

and perfect for my house. Yet, this one came,
of its own agreement, following, with me,
who walked in silence made of worried nails.
Not knowing anything, I found her space
within our walls, and went to retrieve my adze.
It had been difficult for James to lose
the one who meant the most to his young life.

I thought along these lines, and came beneath
a Terebinth tree, and sat down in the shade.
Why shouldn’t James adopt her for a mother?
Mary, too, will need some useful task,
short of a wifely sort, to finish youth.
We had not spoken on the journey home,
until I showed the place where she should rest.

I grew from a boy in my father’s house and learned
his trade, and trained my arms in moving tools;
bow drill, adze, the hammer and the axe.
I used the awl before my father’s eyes,
and later, all the work, and he grew old;
I carried forth the timber and he taught
me how wood may be made to live again.

And I was sent to keep his trade, and built
templates for the masons, scaffolding,
houses and beds, strong and proud. I married,
may her name remain in Heaven, that good woman,
who walked with our first fruiting, Judas, Josetas.
My donkey drew my tools to lengthy visits
with country folk, who paid. My name was good.

Then came Simon, in the wet year. She who made
my bed and stomach soft, also walked
with him; Judas apprenticed to a scribe,
when she began to cough, and Josetas
came with me, but liked to look at stones.
James came easy when I had two carts;
I took a nursemaid after the first girl.


And after Lydia, the west wind wouldn’t blow,
dust hung in the air. There was a sense
of something waiting to come, but what I knew
approached my house, I wanted to keep still.
But Death blew through, a gasping fit of breeze,
Josetas went to a mason, near his brother,
James wandered listless. Simon came with me.

I had heard of the girl, and versions of the story
that placed her in the temple. Many thought
the dedication covered a disgrace.
But it’s hard to look the high priest in the eye
and tell him what you’ve heard, and other reasons
with which you might excuse yourself from labor.
Thinking forward to how you will feel is false.

This day, Simon had stayed behind, with James,
I thought for watching, some for consolation.
In any case, there was a listlessness
and some strange light in that one’s eyes, which showed
some need greater than that my work demanded,
shaping planks for a neighbor’s cistern cover --
which work would wait a day, or two, with need.

And there I was, in the shade of a sparse and sprawling
tree, seeing the haze behind Nazareth,
tears in my eyes, and fear in my hardened breast,
lost as never before, complexity
of form, and utter hopelessness of use,
and the uselessness of hope, all embraced me
as though to squeeze me out for oil. I wept.

Some days, joining planks, I’d see – could almost feel –
young girls watching, daughters of my friends,
till their mothers, vexed, would send them to the well.
Lysia, some days, would want to touch the drill,
and then would turn, to chase a blowing leaf,
or a lizard, writing its strategy in sand,
or would touch our door, gaze at the sky and sing.

Now, to take a twelve-year-old for wife,
granted a standard wait in chastity,
but chosen, nonetheless, and set as in bronze:
this was a cruelty to me, what seemed
my greatest hardships, but the sting of death,
beyond me. Oh, at least up to this day,
none of my friends had grounds to laugh at me!


Mary, Mary, chaste little one! How I envied
Iochem and Anna, and how I’d have chastized them;
but I knew nothing of swelling childless years.
If, then, we laughed at their misfortune,
I was more like them now; not for the child,
no, nor yet the bud of love that swelled in me
from tasting the spring of that one’s peace – but for laughter.

Laughter, like thorns that grow within the wheat,
hidden by seeds of life, but that prick to blood,
and a minor pain that magnifies because
the injury isn’t enough to set one’s tools
aside, to rest in bed and pray for life.
Only enough to make one laugh himself,
and wince a little in the setting sun.

Mary, Mary! I’d not have chosen her,
or anyone at all. A year had passed,
no more, since part of me had gone ahead.
But now I chose. There is no better way
to give an answer to the Lord, who commands,
then steps away, permitting disobedience
to dance in shadows. Not always, He returns.

Mary! For this I chose you, to prevent
a greater scorn, and not so much from trust
in plans larger than those which I have studied.
Yet having chosen you, a heaviness departed,
and I was Joseph again, a carpenter,
widower, father of six, a promised groom,
a simple man, your friend, and the Lord’s friend.

I seemed to wake, following the path home,
and before I saw her sitting in the sun
beside the door, I’d seen her as though carved
in thousands of stones, in many states and places.
These seemed to fill the sky, as though with bright
and simple, separate clouds. I had a vision
which placed her by my door, her hand on James.

Thus I saw her, when my jaunt was over,
and when I spoke, I had made up my mind:
“Mary, welcome to our dwelling here
“on this slow hill. You know you are still young,
“and I will be your husband, should the Lord
“be willing, with your favor. Some years must pass.
“Till then, please grant, accept: be Mary of James.


“For this son of mine, he lost his mother young,
“but old enough to know her and remember,
“and something has been missing in his heart.
“Even today, not knowing it from any other day,
“he was strange, and shy, seeming at times to tremble
“from his waking hour. Now we perhaps know why.
“I wish you to be his mother, starting today.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said. Yet she was laughing,
as though a bee obeying to make honey,
a flower complying with its blossoming.
I turned to praise the Lord, Almighty God,
and spoke out loud. Then I was tired, and rested,
it seemed, three years -- while Mary learned to do
the work of the house, where priests wouldn’t feed her.

In added freedom, I found my labor expanded,
and able to move my craft to villages
where I hadn’t been before, or to lonely stations
where increase had been mighty, so that wood
requiring the skill of a joiner could be bought.
From cistern covers I moved on to columns
and roofs, and carts and beds for the righteous.

On coming home, I’d find my home in order.
My daughters seemed to glow with greater life,
and James would greet me with increased delight
on each return, sometimes after some weeks.
Judas and Simon were growing in skill and size,
and I’d rest and hold my daughters and my son
and talk to Mary, or often hear her sing.

And I heard no one laughing, and no stories
came back to me, except that all thought well of one
Joseph of Nazareth, chosen for Mary, skilled,
and diligent and honest in his labor.
Mary, in those weeks that flew like birds
from month to month, as though the months were trees,
would run to the well with James who ran ahead.

The girl from the temple was known as Mary of James,
on that account, and since he was always with her,
even on her visits to the temple,
where she went often. I built a larger room
for Mary, during which enterprise,
she watched and we would talk, or she would show
James some small chores which he might do to help.


She remembered little of her parents though
she knew who they were: she counted Zecharia
her step father, Elizabeth her step mother.
Iochem and Anna had given up all rights
to hold her as a daughter, having counted,
in their late years, the remission of the shame
of being childless to be a large blessing.

She was taken to the temple, then, at three,
and she said the priests felt something in her presence,
and Zecharia took her from her parents --
in front of many virgins who had followed them
carrying lamps in the evening air and singing --
and he set her on the third step of the entrance;
and as she danced with her dangling feet, he spoke.

Mary remembered the incident and not
the speech he made, but said Elizabeth taught her
it was said her name would pass from mouth to air
in every generation. This she told me
only because I wished to know, and shyly,
as though she would believe it from a sense
of wanting to show her faith, not wanting glory.

“The virgin of the Lord,” they called her there,
and this she remained to the priests and her kin,
the hight priest and his wife. Where she was known
in town, as I have said, she was now known
for obedience in mothering my son.
Still, she laughed, and she sang, and offered prayers
which held myself and my children to her heart.

And so it was that I too, felt something
like rest, like peace, in being near the face
so scarcely turned by youth, and yet for me
this sustenance renewed me. When the girl
had fifteen years, I was called to Scythopolis
to build, a task that would use up some months.
A loom was sent to my house, and Mary was called.

I would be pressed for time: a magistrate
in that city by the valley had made a purchase,
and grew rich from the increase of estate,
and needed, among the rest, the added shelter
which added labor seeks. The courier who arrived
to bring me to his master sat at my table
when Abiathar and his attendants brought the loom.


I asked Abiathar the meaning of his calling
my virgin, promised bride to return with him --
the vagaries of the priests being what they are --
and the Nazareth outside my door seemed to buzz
like a wasp, intent on driving me away.
In my center, my heart choked, for Mary,
whom no one but the priests could call away.

“I have to be gone away, to do some building --
“and gain a recompense to help us here,
“for that which will come here shortly.
“I must leave now, or lose,” I said. “But I
“need this one here, to care for that which I,
“because of absence, won’t be able to.
“And see, she is at peace. Why do you take her?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” Abiathar said, in turn.
“We are making a new veil for the temple,
“seen by Zecharia in a dream. It will be made
“of gold and white and blue, scarlet and purple,
“of linen and silk. This calls for weaving,
“though we have at hand already the supplies.”
I glanced at the loom, and the men who had set it down.

Abiathar continued: “You see, the loom is here,
“and the weaving asked of Mary will be done here,
“but there had to be a way to decide what color
“and which virgin come together in the art;
“since all would choose the regal color, purple,
“if given the choice of honor.” “I would choose white,”
said Mary, but turned, embarrassed, and covered her mouth.

“The choice will be made by lot,” the priest went on,
“and will not require much time. James may accompany
“our ‘mother of James’, and both will return here soon.”
James lept from the floor and ran to cling to Mary,
who smiled and caressed his hair. I went to them both,
and laying my hands on their shoulders blessed them there,
and turned to my other guest, and said, “I’m ready.”

And that was how we parted, in the late summer,
a hurry felt by all in the fading heat,
and I had my tools in Scythopolis with me,
and many that weren’t my own, and I labored
from the opening wink of the sun till its eye closed up,
but on the Sabbath, I would think of my life,
of Mary, my children, God’s blessing – and would smile.

 

[Angeline]

I started this about 9 years ago, and although much of it is "made-up," a great deal is taken from studies of apocryphal writings (not so easily found, but in existence). What I want is to know if anyone thinks I should finish it; if anyone thinks it is already finished; or if most think I should just discard it and move on. I'd also be very appreciative of any comments indicating if the general perception of this piece of writing is considered to be poetry, or just poof. Thanks in advance, /foehn.





JOSEPH OF NAZARETH


My ears could hear, and when I heard the trumpets
.....

First off, do I get a medal for reading the whole thing?

I am of two minds about this poem. I do think you can't just put it aside at this point--you have too much invested in it. I feel though that you have left no stone unturned, told the whole story, which you can do but if you do you really need to put it in sections. Even if you do that I think it needs trimming. And that's where the other (of my two minds) is. This is a poem, yes it is Joseph's story and it needs authenticity in its images to convey place and time and overall, tone, but there is a theme that doesn't need every detail to convey itself.

I think about this actually because I write poems based on fairy tales (no disrespect to Joseph and Mary, lol, but a story is a story). I always ask myself at what point I need to gloss over detail, convey enough of the key points to say whatever it is I want to say because the theme is in the metaphor, not the details. If that is the case with your poem you could cut it back quite a bit and still convey whatever you want.

And that's my opinion.

 

[foehn]

thank you, Ange

First off, yes, you get two medals:

One of gold for reading the whole thing.

Another of molybdenum for calling it "poetry."

I can appreciate your being of two minds about that offering, as I have also been of two minds; however, mine leaned more in the direction of burning or keeping for further work.

If I receive no further comments, I'll keep for further work. I do find, and think I'll always find, your input to be valuable to whatever becomes of my "art." ... and,

thanks very much.

 

[Tathagata]

I am three years old...on a warm summer day

There is no pain in the taking
only in the loss,
or thoughts of the loss,
like swallowing knives
to kill the spider
it stays with you...
How does one comfort the internal scars?
They wait like jagged corners in a dark room
ready for the slightest mistake in judement.

Mainline the barley water and dance
following the magic footprints
stomped into the earth by seekers,
gratuitous greased grinding,
filling yourself with the sacrosanct smoke of forgetfulness
all to ease the ache of knowing,
knowledge is pain
repeat like a mantra as you drag
your crippled body through each day.
A horse race for dead flowers
lathered and lame,
we reach the winners circle to stand alone.


three years old and my cousin has a green balloon...from a parade

You feel around
braille readings of soft imperfections
tender spots ,
and find a warm embrace
as your hands join the trap is sprung
and letting go becomes death.
letting go is life...holding on is death
It colors your gift,
covers it in flagellistic spikes,
some holy sacrifice
that makes you rightous,
but eases your brain down
into fears' cooing bed...
like lying with a dying relative,
afraid to stay,
afraid to leave.

my cousin asks if I want the balloon, I say yes....and he lets it go

We chase pleasure afraid of catching it
because then ,
we grow claws,
strangle and suffocate
I petted him too hard george
the hole within us becomes an abyss ,
a garabage dump,
we jettison all we can
to satiate its hunger,
all the while admiring it's teeth
coated with specks of our well being.

contentment comes bearing a blight
a wasting withering of your confidence.
you can't hide when you're crippled inside
where once you were at home
you find desolation
and the house echoes all your private anxiety


I jump and miss the string...I watch it float away for what seems like hours...my father says it will get only so high before it pops, one of the only true things he ever told me


We capture the flag and turn to see
a thousand better flags,
cruel reminders of conquests untried, unrealized
markers of self loathing
o're the home of the brave

I watch them fall
where is the catcher in the rye?
My net is careworn and patched
with snipets of archaic tongues,
that whither in daylight,
vampire recitations of faith,
bloodless and virginal,
and ultimately evil at the core.


3 years old ..and things float away

The world shifts to one side
and you lose your balance.
You grow holes in your hands and heart
everyone can feel the wind blow
you can't hold the sands of time,
you can't keep out the killing frost,
draw a curtain over the window, a shawl over your shoulders
and a shroud over your heart.

These lessons learned burrow
and wait till the season of you changes,
and in the midst of your cold desolation
they flower,
lillies on the grave,
and bring you some measure
of peace.




even now 42 years later..I catch myself searching the ground..for a frayed length of string..tied to a green weather worn piece of faded rubber

 

[foehn]

Now I feel indebted to comment on at least some of the really fine stuff I've seen in this thread. But gosh it takes me a lot of time, sometimes.

Just wanted to mention that Tath's poem is extremely intriguing (and good, I believe). Some typos could be washed out, like "judement" for "judgment," " 'ore" for " o'er " [wait, can't we just say "over"?], and commas after spaces. But that's mostly just typographical stuff. I've liked lots of the recent postings but want to study this one first.

Well, I also wanted to apologize for posting such a long one, but I appreciate the kind forebearance. That long damn thing has been like an albatross around my neck for nearly a decade.

 

[Tathagata]

Now I feel indebted to comment on at least some of the really fine stuff I've seen in this thread. But gosh it takes me a lot of time, sometimes.

Just wanted to mention that Tath's poem is extremely intriguing (and good, I believe). Some typos could be washed out, like "judement" for "judgment," " 'ore" for " o'er " [wait, can't we just say "over"?], and commas after spaces. But that's mostly just typographical stuff. I've liked lots of the recent postings but want to study this one first.

Well, I also wanted to apologize for posting such a long one, but I appreciate the kind forebearance. That long damn thing has been like an albatross around my neck for nearly a decade.

yeah I know
i just jot it down and go back later and run it through spell check
it's just the way I write
but thanks


and most of the italicized verses are almost quotes... or refer to something specific so, no ,we can't say " over"

 

[foehn]

originally posted by Tathagata:
and most of the italicized verses are almost quotes... or refer to something specific so, no ,we can't say " over"

Gotcha.
Good reason.

 

[Angeline]

Is this better?

Divide the sea, Moses.
Move my brethren out of Africa
in a divine u-haul, traversing
the rusty floor grain by grain.

I'll stay here, sleep in bulrushes,
tend to the fishes, watch the banks
for wandering purple vines to see
if they cover denuded paths, those
absences where once you walked.

I'll stay here. Stick in their side
like a thorn of memory. I'll drink
to our people so they forget us not.
I'll buzz and eat their territory
like a damned Semitic Boll Weevil,
exiled, lookin for a home.

Take these lamps with you,
however many nights of oil
sustain you. I've burned nights,
davened enough prayer in bolts
of faith to pierce my soul straight
into Yahweh's timeless heart.

Leave me behind. I'll scratch here
in the sand, trayf, searching
for seeds of my own sea change.
************************************

I like it better. I think it makes more sense now.

pssst. pat? darkmaas? monkey?

Eve? Would it fly at LB?

 

[flyguy69]

Re: Is this better?

This is exceptional, Ange. I haven't seen it before so I don't know what edits you have made, but it reads very well to me. I had to google the Hebrew, however! It speaks to me of evolving Judaism following the daispora.

My thoughts:

I assume the "purple vines" are Wandering Jew, but the narrator seems unconcerned that they cover denuded paths; I wondered if he/she sought to foster growth or to prevent it.

"Exiled" doesn't seem quite the right word for the Boll Weevil since in the biblical account Pharoah was trying to prevent their departure. I like the displaced connotation, though.

The verb "pierce" seems to take "my soul" as its object until you get to the next line. I wonder if "drive" (or another split verb form) would work better, or if you could rearrange.

The final stanza is magnificent, now that I know what "trayf" means!

Divide the sea, Moses.
Move my brethren out of Africa
in a divine u-haul, traversing
the rusty floor grain by grain.

I'll stay here, sleep in bulrushes,
tend to the fishes, watch the banks
for wandering purple vines to see
if they cover denuded paths, those
absences where once you walked.

I'll stay here. Stick in their side
like a thorn of memory. I'll drink
to our people so they forget us not.
I'll buzz and eat their territory
like a damned Semitic Boll Weevil,
exiled, lookin for a home.

Take these lamps with you,
however many nights of oil
sustain you. I've burned nights,
davened enough prayer in bolts
of faith to pierce my soul straight
into Yahweh's timeless heart.

Leave me behind. I'll scratch here
in the sand, trayf, searching
for seeds of my own sea change.
************************************

I like it better. I think it makes more sense now.

pssst. pat? darkmaas? monkey?

Eve? Would it fly at LB?

 

[WickedEve]

Re: Is this better?

Divide the sea, Moses.
Move my brethren out of Africa
in a divine u-haul, traversing
the rusty floor grain by grain.

I'll stay here, sleep in bulrushes,
tend to the fishes, watch the banks
for wandering purple vines to see
if they cover denuded paths, those
absences where once you walked.

I'll stay here. Stick in their side
like a thorn of memory. I'll drink
to our people so they forget us not.
I'll buzz and eat their territory
like a damned Semitic Boll Weevil,
exiled, lookin for a home.

Take these lamps with you,
however many nights of oil
sustain you. I've burned nights,
davened enough prayer in bolts
of faith to pierce my soul straight
into Yahweh's timeless heart.

Leave me behind. I'll scratch here
in the sand, trayf, searching
for seeds of my own sea change.
************************************

I like it better. I think it makes more sense now.

pssst. pat? darkmaas? monkey?

Eve? Would it fly at LB?

Sigh... kids are bothering me. I fed them. What more do they want. Attention? lol I've read most of this. I need to come back to it. There are spots I'm not sure about. Spots I want to tinker with.

 

[Angeline]

Thank you, fg. You gave it such a careful read and made great suggestions. (This is why I love this forum.)

Specifically:

This is exceptional, Ange. I haven't seen it before so I don't know what edits you have made, but it reads very well to me. I had to google the Hebrew, however! It speaks to me of evolving Judaism following the daispora.

My thoughts:

I assume the "purple vines" are Wandering Jew, but the narrator seems unconcerned that they cover denuded paths; I wondered if he/she sought to foster growth or to prevent it.

You're right, and I think the problem is the word "cover" because you can't watch for something that covers; it would have to get there first. I will revise.

"Exiled" doesn't seem quite the right word for the Boll Weevil since in the biblical account Pharoah was trying to prevent their departure. I like the displaced connotation, though.

hmmmm. I see your point, but I like using "exiled." I always get conflicted about historical or literary accuracy versus the word I want. The trick is to er be both, lol. I shall try.

The verb "pierce" seems to take "my soul" as its object until you get to the next line. I wonder if "drive" (or another split verb form) would work better, or if you could rearrange.

oooh, you are right again. i don't intend "soul" as the object of "pierce." I changed it to "discharge" which seems very blah to me but I'll use it as a placehold until i figure out something better.

The final stanza is magnificent, now that I know what "trayf" means!
thank you again. you give great feedback.

s


Revised

Divide the sea, Moses.
Move my brethren out of Africa
in a divine u-haul, traversing
the rusty floor grain by grain.

I'll stay here, sleep in bulrushes,
tend to the fishes, watch from banks
for wandering purple vines to see
if they return to the denuded paths,
fill absences where we once walked.

I'll stay here. Stick in their side
like a thorn of memory. I'll drink
to our people so they forget us not.
I'll buzz and eat their territory
like a damned Semitic Boll Weevil,
exiled, lookin for a home.

Take these lamps with you,
however many nights of oil
sustain you. I've burned nights,
davened enough prayer in bolts
of faith to discharge my soul straight
into Yahweh's timeless heart.

Leave me behind. I'll scratch here
in the sand, trayf, searching
for seeds of my own sea change.

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: Is this better?

Sigh... kids are bothering me. I fed them. What more do they want. Attention? lol I've read most of this. I need to come back to it. There are spots I'm not sure about. Spots I want to tinker with.

See revised above and bless your heart. (I speak a little Southern.)

 

[flyguy69]

...thank you again. you give great feedback.

s

All the girls say that. Then they run off to be with their friends.

 

[Angeline]

All the girls say that. Then they run off to be with their friends.

You are my friends.

 

[flyguy69]

You are my friends.

Just be sure to tell them my feedback was t h i s &nbsp l o n g.

 

[Angeline]

Just be sure to tell them my feedback was t h i s &nbsp l o n g.

It personified pulsating passion. It was productive and pretty prolific. It pounded its points home.

 

[Angeline]

Darling Billy

He said memories
are everything.

If you try hard enough,
you can almost make
a person from a memory,
a daddy or a whole family.

You can bring him ice cream.

Chocolate is best for dying men
who need to make everything
a memory, a life
and its cool sweetness,
a daughter or a whole family
who feed you ice cream.

Chocolate is sweet like life
and dark like loss and even
comforting like forgetfulness,
though it’s ok not to forget
the way the spoon scraped
against the bowl, the click
of his labored swallows,
and the nurse’s plain voice
mingling with Aida.

He’s not supposed to have that.

The freckles that once rioted
across his face, punctuated anger
now are barely there, fading
memories under his pale skin.

Later,
in the dark hushed room
my woman’s voice sang to him
the child’s song we knew
and sang once then, I
whispered now again

Can you bake a cherry pie Billy boy, Billy boy?
Can you bake a cherry pie, darling Billy?

Later,
the sound of tires crying
on the highway driving home.

 

[WickedEve]

Re: Is this better?

I have not read the other suggestions, so I may be repeating what's already been said, but I doubt it.

Divide the sea, Moses.
Move my brethren out of Africa
in a divine u-haul, traversing
the rusty floor grain by grain.
divine u-haul. yeah. okay. I don't know. I guess I just don't like the word u-haul and it's so predictable. everyone uses u-haul. damn u-haul. What are the other ones? Ryder? Never mind.

I'll stay here, sleep in bulrushes,
tend to the fishes, watch the banks
for wandering purple vines to see
if they cover denuded paths, those
absences where once you walked.
"cover denuded paths" is perhaps one syllable too much. Other than that, love the stanza.

I'll stay here. Stick in their side
like a thorn of memory. I'll drink
to our people so they forget us not.
I'll buzz and eat their territory
like a damned Semitic Boll Weevil,
exiled, lookin for a home.
love thorn of memory. I'd drop damned. I really would.

 

[champagne1982]

Re: Is this better?

Divide the sea, Moses.
Move my brethren out of Africa
in a divine u-haul, traversing
the rusty floor grain by grain.

I'll stay here, sleep in bulrushes, bullrushes -- this is interesting, I feel more comfortable reading it with two L's but the form you use is acceptable as well. Brought to you by "Google"
tend to the fishes, watch the banks
for wandering purple vines to see
if they cover denuded paths, those
absences where once you walked.

I'll stay here. Stick in their side
like a thorn of memory. I'll drink
to our people so they forget us not.
I'll buzz and eat their territory
like a damned Semitic Boll Weevil,
exiled, lookin for a home. Is this lapse into colloquial intentional? It seems out of place in a strophe where you use the more formal "forget us not". I don't think adding the 'g' to the word, lookin, would ruin your meaning, but it would keep the reader in the right frame of mind to receive your references.

Take these lamps with you,
however many nights of oil
sustain you. I've burned nights,
davened enough prayer in bolts
of faith to pierce my soul straight
into Yahweh's timeless heart.

Leave me behind. I'll scratch here
in the sand, trayf, searching
for seeds of my own sea change. Personally, I would like to see a little more information with the Hebrew usage, to infer the meaning of unfamiliar words. Besides being uneducated in the Torah, gentiles are notoriously lazy and we tend to gloss over the unknown and do a disservice to ourselves and the poetry by never 'getting it' ... Thankfully, there's google.

Maybe, you could work 'kosher' into all of this and that would help lead the reader into the meaning of 'trayf' .. and because he's already exploring a bit, they'll go back and realize that davened isn't a devined typo at all and has a different meaning, once you read it as Hebrew.

I really enjoyed the read, thanks.

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: Is this better?

Divide the sea, Moses.
Move my brethren out of Africa
in a divine u-haul, traversing
the rusty floor grain by grain.

I'll stay here, sleep in bulrushes, bullrushes -- this is interesting, I feel more comfortable reading it with two L's but the form you use is acceptable as well. Brought to you by "Google"
tend to the fishes, watch the banks
for wandering purple vines to see
if they cover denuded paths, those
absences where once you walked.

I'll stay here. Stick in their side
like a thorn of memory. I'll drink
to our people so they forget us not.
I'll buzz and eat their territory
like a damned Semitic Boll Weevil,
exiled, lookin for a home. Is this lapse into colloquial intentional? It seems out of place in a strophe where you use the more formal "forget us not". I don't think adding the 'g' to the word, lookin, would ruin your meaning, but it would keep the reader in the right frame of mind to receive your references.

Take these lamps with you,
however many nights of oil
sustain you. I've burned nights,
davened enough prayer in bolts
of faith to pierce my soul straight
into Yahweh's timeless heart.

Leave me behind. I'll scratch here
in the sand, trayf, searching
for seeds of my own sea change. Personally, I would like to see a little more information with the Hebrew usage, to infer the meaning of unfamiliar words. Besides being uneducated in the Torah, gentiles are notoriously lazy and we tend to gloss over the unknown and do a disservice to ourselves and the poetry by never 'getting it' ... Thankfully, there's google.

Maybe, you could work 'kosher' into all of this and that would help lead the reader into the meaning of 'trayf' .. and because he's already exploring a bit, they'll go back and realize that davened isn't a devined typo at all and has a different meaning, once you read it as Hebrew.

I really enjoyed the read, thanks.

Thanks Champ. I really appreciate the feedback. Bullrushes--is that the first, more familiar spelling? If it is--I'll check, too--I'll change it. I know what you mean about "lookin for a home." I keep thinking about whether I want that or not because it's so informal, but it's the way I always heard it sung. Also, this is such a heavy-handed poem about my own conflict with the faith (as opposed to the culture), I thought a little levity in the middle of it all to lighten it up might not be a bad idea. The Yiddish I was hoping would be clear enough in meaning--if imprecise--from the contexts of the references. Maybe not--I have to mull that because I hate overwriting to define especially if the reader can look it up, and yet you have a good point.

You're a gem to give it such a close read, thousand-aire.

 

[flyguy69]

It personified pulsating passion. It was productive and pretty prolific. It pounded its points home.

Sorry to walk out on you Ange; I had this overwhelming urge for a cigarette. And i don't even smoke.

BTW Eve's suggestions are ones I also considered.

 

[Angeline]

Sorry to walk out on you Ange; I had this overwhelming urge for a cigarette. And i don't even smoke.

BTW Eve's suggestions are ones I also considered.

I feel so abandoned.

I guess I'll just put another poem in this thread.

 

[Angeline]

Laura walked in Washington Square,
a cup of something hot in hand
that winter morning in the snow,
the park still clean and quiet
absent junkies, cocaine blues train
buy and sell, and fast-talk flim-flam man.

Laura walked on by at 8 a.m.
on positively 4th Street
when neighbors own the square:
old women with suspicious eyes
and two unwary dogs passed there.
Two gamers jabbed indignance,
pointed at a snowy bench,
at no-go early morning chess.

Across the street a couple
moved as one, their wool coats
pressed, heads bent, hair the same.
I could be seeing double
till they laugh and separate,
her moving south toward NYU,
and him who knows.

But Laura!
Teenaged once and future empress
of the New York Tendaberry
walked cool, hip sista,
daughter of my tribe,
Laura, urban blues waif
in tweed cap, hair tumbledown
and soul-smart black-brown eyes.

She was the shaina songbird
of my city, gliding through the square,
so beautiful, as rare as a black swan,
her cup held carelessly, her breath
a trail of streaming air

Sometimes it seemed unreal
in New York City then, a stage,
a Broadway set, a photograph
in black and white, another time
remembered in her walking by
deep-voiced, unstudied grace.

Laura once and now
my natural snow, once
and still a cameo,
a weaver’s daughter
born for loom’s desire.

Not gone,
not blowed and gone,
alive, a phoenix voice alive,
still singing timer’s winter
city blues to love again, alive
in flames of December’s boudoir.

 

[champagne1982]

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I think it's a poem that needs direction. Gimme a nudge, please?

Never Brought To Mind

A young man of a certain age
is putty in my hands.
A look, a glance, a fluttering finger
wave leaves them stuttering
incomplete nonsense
off their tongues
when all that young Lothario
wants is to flutter his tongue
over my senses.

The streamers flew and the confetti
caught amongst my curls as the horns
were blown and champagne flowed.
The putty boys slowly melted away
and I was left with only three to kiss me.

The wistful notes of Auld Lang Syne
went dancing out to friends
just newly gone from the living ether.
I sang it for those who passed
and who I'll long remember,
should auld acquaintance be forgot?
In my heart, they live forever.

After the glitter of a gala night
what's left but to sweep it away?
The foil that shone so bright,
the coloured cellophane -- a filter
on a too white light, all so much
dross in the hung over fog
of a new year's dawn.