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III. The Dream of Life
Time in Between
This morning, I once more beat the sun, first one rising and waiting to greet the day— not counting the counterparts of crescent moon and cosmic handful of shrinking stars. So there we are celestials and non in the darkness just before dawn. The trees, shadowy clusters of limbs, trunks, and leaves, look like the last vestiges of dreams, waiting to be chased away with sleep at the coming of morning’s first light. It is a strange mood, this space between night’s last stand and the flourish of daybreak’s light. In the middle of a left-over pool, one among the shadows, searching for first light, waiting for the dream of life to wake me. —P.C. Scheponik
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Author, born 1939
You may not realize that the author of this poem you are reading is exactly three years old. Today, visiting for her birthday, she saw her grandma, a tough old lady her daddy calls a Communist, shoot a snake with a long rifle, right on the front steps of her dilapidated farmhouse in New Jersey. Last month, however, this writer was a 9-month old in a wood-barred crib, listening to her parents talking, raised voices in a language she was just becoming friends with: Baby she hears. No. Something’s wrong, but what is it? Is baby her? Another time, during “the war,” shopping with her mother down near the subway station, she wonders (in her loud toddler voice) why one place hasn’t got big letters on its plain grey door, and why there is no window in the front so they can see the things it sells, like the other stores. And why do they have to knock before the man will let them in. Her mommy shushes her, index finger on her lips, and the man asks what she wants to be when she grows up. Later, she hears her mommy tell her daddy she had to go to the black market butcher since there was no meat at the A & P, none at all. At two, she knows her colors, and she knows butcher, and market, and that place was brown, not black!
She doesn’t write about these things. She writes about the usual topics poets write about – Love, beauty, nature....But also violence, war, famine, disease, despair, the horrors newspapers and the internet delight in. She writes because she likes to talk on paper. She talks to you, to all the ages you have been. Like two children, meeting in the playground, making friends, at least for that afternoon. —Marian K. Shapiro
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DAREDEVIL Jr.
At five years old — and only having just learned how to ride His two-wheel bike without a training wheel on either side — He sat astride his shiny Schwinn, his gaze fixed on the hill — A steep descent on graveled path — and summoned up his will
His little boy bravado, unchecked by common sense Or painful lessons dearly learned from past experience No parent there to intervene, no sibling to decry His tempting fate and safety where such daunting hazards lie
But only in his mind the thrill of pushing off the summit And pedaling with all his might, straight down the hill to plummet Like flying! Yes, indeed! Take wing, and feel the rush within! The five-year-old, so brave and bold, set sail upon his Schwinn
He pedaled once or twice and then, o’ertook by gravity, His legs could pump no faster in a free-fall downhill spree, His baseball cap blew off; his watering eyes went wide in panic His trembling hands, white-knuckle gripped; his agitation manic
Along the gravel path, the trees appeared as only blur As faster, ever faster, toward the crash that must occur For now, a realization — when he ventured from the top His thoughts were all of speed; he never reckoned how to stop!
Alas, it was a biggish rock along the pebbled strip That jarred the handlebars and ripped them from his panicked grip Askew, the wheel in front dug in, and o’er the bike did sail The boy slid, scraping skin and bone along the rocky shale
In tears, and with his mangled Schwinn, he limped and whimpered home Where Mother, horror-stricken! sprayed a disinfectant foam On bloodied, bruised and ragged skin on elbows, hands and knees Then dried his tears and kissed his brow; her hug, a gentle squeeze
She tucked him into bed and read his favorite bedtime story, Then clicked the light, and said goodnight, and told him not to worry His bike was not beyond repair, she’d fix it soon enough “Yippee!” he thought, then dreamed of doing more daredevil stuff. —Doug Stoiber
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Sticky
Mira sat on the porch, peeling an orange. The rind split easily, juice slicking her fingers. She thought about calling him, just once more. But as she pulled the fruit apart, tearing membrane from flesh, she saw how clean the break could be. She licked the citrus from her hands. —Rowan Tate
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IN THE TRAIN, ON THE CELLPHONE, NEXT TO ME
No, I don’t want you to say that you want me to come, I get it that if you say yes you mean yes and that you’re sick and tired of all my games. But what I want is to feel that you really want me to come, Abba. —Hamutal Bar-Yosef tr. EC Abba – an Aramaic word adopted into Hebrew and generally used by children in addressing their fathers. It has neither the formality of “Father” nor casualness of “Papa,” “Daddy” or “Dad.”
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grandma's wisdom for a new mother
Remember playing house with your favorite doll giving unconditional love, singing songs, whispering words when dolly slept in the tiny carriage stuffed with toys? Feeling responsible as she lay on your pillow, her plastic body was stroked. Now grown, with a real baby, it's scary. Trust yourself as you did with dolly. —Lois Greene Stone
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Giving the Loss Back Any Way Possible
I prefer going walking on over the sand dunes, moving past the fields of blue wildflowers with the ease of a desert local used to sitting on the front porch after the desert rains, admiring the full moon, a woman who knows who she is, a lover of dogs and purple mountains, planning out a simple life using less since you left, and sticking to the way things are for me now faithfully day by day. Reclaiming a life is what it is all about today. I am letting the old flower petals fly off into the wind and I’m waving at the mountain blue birds in flight as if they are my newest dearest friends, and I’m moving along as I used to with a strong step, a graceful easy lope on my way home or anywhere I need to go, everywhere, anywhere, and now I am on the move again, exactly as I was before the loss. Saying hello and waving goodbye, goodbye to all that. —Charlie Langfur
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Tip of the Blade —Doug Stoiber
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SPRING SONNET
For herself
You know old love songs pass through your body. They’re routed, wireless in aether. Stray words get lodged in your aging brain, and long years echo. Each scrap of note no one else hears is light as the first sight of her. She stirs. You shift in bed, captive to melody playing your bones. They must pass through her, too. You roll on your back, let ghost threnody unspool springtime songs. Memory, old and near in time (there were times without her, when fears crawled out from under your bed, held you still but trembling, like fading music that spills through your body). The equinox is near. It hangs you up. She’s still your spring, each year. —Mark Mitchell
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The Magical Part
Every year when I taught the electrical unit—the difference between static electricity and circuit electricity—I’d give each kid a balloon, tell them to blow it up and tie the end (they usually needed help tying the end) and rub it on themselves. RUB, RUB, RUB. That was always the fun part. Then we’d put it on the blackboard where of course it would stick—that was always the magical part. Now, if they could tell me the principle behind it—why the balloon was sticking, what was happening with the protons and the electrons—they could keep the balloon. And if they couldn’t, well, we’d pop the balloon. I had a giant safety pin and we’d pop the balloon: POP, POP, POP—that was always how all the other classrooms knew when I was doing the electrical unit. I miss teaching. I hated to give it up. I haven’t been able to do anything since the amputation. Here I sit in a wheelchair waiting for a kidney transplant and a prosthetic leg. I’ve gained twenty pounds since January. I’d like to get back in the classroom, but I need a leg first. Can’t get into the classroom without a leg. People treat you differently when you’re missing a body part—they will talk to the person you’re with instead of to you. Or if they talk to you, they talk louder, like you’re hard of hearing. Kids are wonderful, though. No inhibitions. They walk right up and point: “What happened to your leg? Where is the leg now?” Like ta-da: the leg is gone. In the grocery store I have a scooter—the store provides them. I turn the key and presto! I go zooming up and down the aisles. The kids all think it’s the cat’s meow. They’d give anything to ride it. I’m like the pied piper: they follow me through the store, asking for a ride, asking where the leg is, asking questions no adult will ask or deign to answer. —Paul Hostovsky
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Reunion Reckoning Rye, New York, June 2017
They come to confirm what they remember— the beautiful, the popular, the smart— but learn that each was a casted member for a future, mostly ad-libbed, part.
The tallest boy was never basketball material, despite the coaches’ call; the wrestlers are still wrestling their weight. The girls admit their crushes now, too late
to make a difference to a teen’s morale. One hated school and gladly went to war. Most heard their calling in a new locale, or, drawn by spouses, sought an open door.
The high school tour becomes historical: golden plaques of names in perennial rollcall, refurbished classrooms and labs; gone digital, the library’s looking drab.
They walk the halls where they used to hurry with their lunch bags and books (and steal a kiss). They hear the bells ring without the worry. One pushes a wheelchair with tenderness.
Unfurled around the auditorium, banners proclaim eternal champions; respected rivalries adorn the wall. It is, for them, a victor’s banquet hall.
The buffet table caters to each diet with vegetables, a choice of meats, and sweets. The cash bar queue struggles to keep quiet when the host rises and formally greets
the seated guests, offering a welcome toast with her commemorative, garnet-colored cup. On cue, the class historian jumps up to lead them in their alma mater song. Most
look happy to be found and recognized for who they were or have become, disguised or not: the women strove to keep their age in check; the men preferred to turn the page.
Now, after fifty years, comes a film sequel to their play The Class of ‘67, remastered, and distilled of good and evil, its captive audience bound for heaven.
Its premiere was a classic in its day: stars were stars, the sets were self-designed, the script was well-rehearsed, the school band gay— reviews were positive, the seats, assigned.
Today, they gather here to reminisce how much back then they chose to miss, as they unreel their movie, clip-by-clip, with soundtrack, and make-up team, and grip—
while their lost classmates’ names, faceless and mum, scroll up the credits in memoriam. —John Delaney
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The Man in the Corner in the Dark
Nightfall in Autumn, winter nigh, a shadow on my soul Life’s final pages, turning swift, beyond my will’s control A presence in the room besides myself, and I remark “Who are you, Stranger, hidden here beside me in the dark?” No answer issued from the man in the corner in the dark.
An eerie calm, my mind at ease, but burdened nonetheless I sensed the stranger’s presence augured sorrow, I confess His nearness in this shadowed room foreboding did impart And I could only wait to learn my future in the dark What doleful message from the man in the corner in the dark?
“I fear you, Shadow. Tell me how this dread encounter ends "Your ghostly presence with me woeful destiny portends "Please calm my fears and put at ease my wildly tripping heart "For I am old and frightened at our congress in the dark.” A whispered, “Say goodbye” spoke the man in the corner in the dark.
“Your mind has lost its moorings, and adrift your memory strays "Those near and dear to you become but phantoms in a haze "Your grasp of life’s events erased, no longer clear and stark "A stranger to your past, confused, and stumbling in the dark For you are now the helpless man in the corner in the dark.” —Doug Stoiber
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In the Winter Country
My hair has turned gray and my once rapid steps have become halting. My quick response to comments has become thoughtfully slower and I do not trust political discussions with the few friends who still remain. My once keen eyesight is now lost in mist. I walk into a room and forget why, my back aches every morning, and the soothing sound of my voice has become a wheel crunching on gravel, My hearing needs assistance. Each day, a little more of me disappears. I have been exiled to the winter country, where spring never returns. —Mel Goldberg
Kaddish for my Sister
You are the silent mirror of my mind closed and weeping You are the Robin singing green and fragrant You are my hands my blood my Sister You lie in a pine box in a cement lined vault I would lie beside you I would go anywhere with you
You held my hand, taught me how to walk, led my on ice skates over a frozen pond Taught me how to bare sorrow and disappointment Thanked me said you owed me
I am lost, I grab for the thin threads that will lead me to you I still hear you I still feel you I want to go with you but it’s not my time so I pray to the clouds to the angels I beseech them —Jean Varda
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Roundel as Social Reproach
“It was his time” is often said By those who think these words sublime To those who know about the dead “It was his time.”
A saw worth not a damn or dime Cannot stop tears from being shed For this loved one lost past his prime.
A life both good and bad was led; The bell has tolled, then sounds the chime When silence should be shared instead: “It was his time.” —Jane Blanchard
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My Mother is the Moon
When she was young, she was skinny and climbed trees. When she was very old, she became frail and thin again.
Then she died. She was cold as the moon. But her light still glowed. She was our mother. Even though she was dead she lit the darkness of the sky. She looked down on us as if to say it’s time to go to bed or to do your chores.
We saw her every night. She came to us only as an orb, not some angel or ghost. We were amazed at her stillness. When she was alive, she never stopped moving, always cleaning or taking care of us.
As a mother, she worried about us. Now she is indifferent as the moon. But her light makes us believe that she will never leave us.
That’s why, when they ask if I grieved, I tell them when my mother died I climbed a hill and watched the moon rise and I knew it was my mother who even in life was a shining. —Marjorie Sadin
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The Conundrum
In the cave of his mind the man wondered why he would die.
He looked to the sky for an answer. The sky was silent.
He journeyed to the summit of the mountain but it only echoed his question.
He asked the waterfall but it was singing to itself.
He asked the forest but the trees were busy talking with each other.
He followed the bison trampling on the ground, but their footsteps didn’t answer.
He was alone like the reflection of the moon. Nothing would tell him why he would die
except that he saw a meteor burning out in the sky
and it dawned on him that he would die because he was alive. —Marjorie Sadin
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PRI CHADASH
Spine Poem by Esther Malka Fein Remembering Ruthie Fogelman
purple rainbow archways beckoning offering welcoming stability guidance to wavering wandering new arrival to Yerushalayim oh! ancient Jerusalem cobblestoned nooks and crannies hidden treasures to be discovered revealed recognized redeemed restored —Esther Malka Fein
Pri Hadash (new fruit) – title of a writing workshop given in Jerusalem by Ruth z”l for many years
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IN MEMORY OF RUTH FOGELMAN, z”l
The Comet
When a comet
begins its arc,
So too are the
leaders: —Hayim Abramson
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TO MY BROTHER AVI
The lemon tree gives its fruit You with your hands planted Lines of vitality Pulsing quietly A compassionate gaze That revived the heart A lucid word That still gives wisdom Echoes.
Being reveals itself From nothingness Wave upon wave From silence The tomb is sealed Something is opened. —Tziporah Faiga Lifshitz tr. EC
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