Monday, August 31, 2015
Unveiling
Unveiling
I wanted to stay with you
after I put the stone
on your monument,
but I was expected
to leave
with my dad,
and it would have shocked
everyone there
if I had said,
"I'll take buses and trains
back, so go without me."
So I looked all around
and visited you
through each year
that you were with me
and added all the years
to the words
on the monument,
with the sentence,
present in supposedly
non-authentic Jewish texts:
"We'll meet again."
Not goodbye, then,
but good new life
and years.
Come when you're ready.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Leading Through (On the Occasion of My Mother's Unveiling - 8/30/2015)
Leading Through
(On the Occasion of My Mother's Unveiling - 8/30/2015)
On the cover
of the program
for your unveiling,
I stapled a photo
of Pelham Parkway
where it meets
Wallace Avenue
on the esplanade.
The funny thing
is that
in Letter,
instead
of arriving as
a photograph,
it branched
into some kind
of modern impressionism
in which tan
became red,
the shadows
mellowed to green
and the air
between
blanched to
sheer white.
It made Pelham Parkway look
like Psalm 23.
Then I realized
that this is indeed
where you might rest
and that you were here
would always be here
with me
and I thanked Letter
format for blending
two times and places
and for joining us
once again.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Bronx Elevated Train Stations - 1
Built
in the 1900's through 1920's,
Bronx elevated IRT Stations
were serious about trains
flying over track
far above the ground.
They featured
massive tan bricks
over light tan cement,
and columns like those
of an aqueduct.
At the time
subways seemed to rocket
through
their underground
Manhattan lairs,
then shoot up
at Jackson Ave.
through thick air
to become els
in light and messy
sparkle.
Even now,
between West Farms
and 180th,
the 2 train, now an el,
still curves to reveal
buildings, streets
and other trains,
as well as people,
at angles
and panoramas
as wide as shock.
It's as if you see
ten miles
and two centuries
revealed
in kaleidoscopic
mini-drama
and all the shades
of ground and sky
you can encompass
and possibly some
that you can't.
Then, at 180th,
many tracks
come together
and trains glide
straight in.
If you get off
to change,
you can feel
the Zoo
not far off
and all sorts
of old quiet
in stations
never completely
demolished
that give unexpected
pleasures in wood.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Back to Me
Back to Me
To the memory of my grandmother, Helen Glaser (March 15, 1900 - March 3, 1988)
All the rainy nights
bring you back,
Nothing has changed.
I miss the fierceness
of your love
And I miss
without stopping
the finest glance
in the world
and I miss
your clarity
of heart,
more beautiful than the best lies,
and more thoughtful
than any beauty.
The 10 Commandments and Shavuos
The 10 Commandments and Shavuos
(According to Mel Brooks,
15, but one tablet broke.)
The great granddaughter
of the Muscover Rebbe
could tell you
what the holiday Shavuos meant
and why
she didn't believe in it.
"God wrote and spoke
Hebrew?"she said.
"Or any other languages?"
I would add
that belief systems
adduced a god-voice
when they wanted
to own power
and point up truths:
outpourings of culture,
campfire legends.
My grandma would grimace,
then turn cheese blintzes
in the pan.
"This is my truth," she would say.
"We eat dairy on Shavuos."
The blintzes were crisp outside,
melting inside.
In my grandma's kitchen
was the land of milk and honey.
This was my truth.
I wanted no other.
From Pelham Parkway Esplanade
From Pelham Parkway Esplanade
I sit on a bench
on the esplanade.
It's summer,
and the drowsy life
of green too green
and dried grass
fans out.
All the times
I spent here
slide in order,
like a powerpoint.
and even before,
as if I'd been hypnotized
like Bridey Murphy:
Mom sitting with friends,
flirting outrageously.
Mom here with beaux
(I love that old-fashioned syllable.)
Great grandma with friends.
Grandma and grandpa
with neighbors.
Then it's the dawn
of my time,
and I'm in a carriage.
I'm older, being hit
by a neighbor's boy.
Older yet,
in patent leather.
Then it's onto Son of Sam
and quiet as my dear friend
guides us away
in case horror obtrudes.
And now.
after they've all gone,
I'm the last one
in the bus.
I flow back.
Like Edelweis,
the benches are glad
to see me.
And even missing
all the people
in my photo album
doesn't hurt
quite as much.
Summer Night Music
Summer Night Music
The music is different
on summer nights;
it makes you want.
You don't even know
the shapes want will
assume
and the music could even
be coming from your own
window
from a device you've known
all your years
and yet you'll feel
there's something
want is inspiring
that you would scream
or fly up
or unbecome
to capture
and yet you don't know
you cannot know
and you will never know
just what it is,
cannot name one syllable
of it
or the time it encases
which is just as well
because by now the music
has stopped teasing
and become pretty well timeless
and unshaped
and the night to which it belongs,
a hazy summer night
has uncurled
into smells of far off thunder
and something you hardly
recognize
as day.
City Quiet
City Quiet
To my mom, in memory
Your favorite summer sound
was that of the cicadas
and locusts
skricking at night.
Coming home from a dance
or party
you'd stop and listen.
On the Parkway
late pairs of lovers
sat on the far benches
happily alone.
The 2 train lurched
to a stop
with its trademark
screech.
All around,
city quiet,
not silence,
but many sounds
that should not have been
but somehow
ended up
emitting harmony.
City Island
City Island
Johnny's versus Tony's.
Both hug the end
of the Island.
We go to Johnny's.
We eat our fried sole,
some of the fries,
most of the coleslaw.
Then we take the leftover
french fries
and put them on the ground.
That's all.
Within three seconds
they're gone.
The gulls strut about,
their gullets full.
They stay near the spot
in case the miracle repeats.
We watch them
for a few,
then head out.
The Sound flows
in us,
unseen,
for the rest
of the day.
To The Dear One Who Came With Me To Pelham Parkway
To The Dear One Who Came With Me To Pelham Parkway
On the same bench
my mom, grandmother
and great-grandmother
sat, 70 years ago.
(My grandfather didn't have time.)
Old, blessed men
and young ones
played chess
on the same stone
inlaid sets.
The stone benches still
sparkled their metal bits
in the sun.
"This is nice," you said.
"Yes," I agreed.
The train screeched
into the el station
as it had for ninety years.
My mind fashioned
images
such welcome ghosts
to beckon
before those who sat now
in their place.
I was a fool
for leaving
for staying
and I hated
missing
what was
and was not
so much the same.
Thank you
for being with me
Frannie's Bed and Breakfast on Muliner
Frannie's Bed and Breakfast on Muliner
I'd serve bagels with lox, cream cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers
and slices of onion (someone else would peel the onion).
Sour pickles.
Whitefish, herring.
Cheese danish, breakfast buns.
Fresh squeezed orange juice.
Coffee, tea, hot chocolate.
New York Times in print
to spread over the table
in sections.
Then I'd take guests
to sit on the Parkway.
Later, we'd take the train
all the way to Queens
and then the 44 bus back
so they could sparkle
into rivers of light
over the Whitestone.
To bed,
removing cabbage rose
cotton spreads
on white cotton sheets.
Parkway traffic
would splay shadow monsters
on the walls
until 2 AM.
Good night.
Sleep very tight.
No bedbugs.
Open window.
Wind from the trees.
A short flight back.
No seat belts.
Just mind-years.
The War is Over/Not
The War Is Over/Not
You sit on parkway chairs
with friends
and boyfriends.
The war is over.
I and an almost
friend with benefits
stroll the gracious
parkway esplanade
then read
that Son of Sam
shoots couples.
The war has begun.
Friday, August 21, 2015
A Train For Us
A Train For Us
First three notes
of "There's a Place for Us"
from West Side Story
shriek from the 2 train
when it pulls out
of each station.
I wouldn't swear
for certain
that Leonard Bernstein knew.
But hell,
he rode the subway enough.
First three notes
of "There's a Place for Us"
from West Side Story
shriek from the 2 train
when it pulls out
of each station.
I wouldn't swear
for certain
that Leonard Bernstein knew.
But hell,
he rode the subway enough.
Circle
Circle
I still see them
in their chairs
on the sidewalk
No one minds.
In casual summer clothes,
they unfurl
the state of the city,
the country, the planet
but always return
to the Bronx.
Mrs. Resnick's son
moved to Florida.
Something with medical law.
The Anastasios' daughter
went, of all places,
to Utah.
"Is that still in the USA?"
one of the ladies jokes.
The Zoo now costs
ten dollars.
Once it was free.
Most of them
save with care.
There's a bargain
at Olinsky's:
chicken for 70 cents
a pound.
The massive stonework
near the building
somehow protects them,
even though
they're outside it.
Down through years,
their New York voices
rise in a circle
of raucous, happy sound.
Like a talisman
wrought from words,
not Commandments,
they keep me
even now
from a void
worse than harm.
I still see them
in their chairs
on the sidewalk
No one minds.
In casual summer clothes,
they unfurl
the state of the city,
the country, the planet
but always return
to the Bronx.
Mrs. Resnick's son
moved to Florida.
Something with medical law.
The Anastasios' daughter
went, of all places,
to Utah.
"Is that still in the USA?"
one of the ladies jokes.
The Zoo now costs
ten dollars.
Once it was free.
Most of them
save with care.
There's a bargain
at Olinsky's:
chicken for 70 cents
a pound.
The massive stonework
near the building
somehow protects them,
even though
they're outside it.
Down through years,
their New York voices
rise in a circle
of raucous, happy sound.
Like a talisman
wrought from words,
not Commandments,
they keep me
even now
from a void
worse than harm.
Happy Place in the Rain
Happy Place in the Rain
In the chair
of 1950's brocade,
goldish-green,
curled up
near the window
in the rain,
looking at the
deeper colors
of bricks
of the building
across the street
and its leering
gargoyles
that provided
unexpected comfort
as they stared back.
In the chair
of 1950's brocade,
goldish-green,
curled up
near the window
in the rain,
looking at the
deeper colors
of bricks
of the building
across the street
and its leering
gargoyles
that provided
unexpected comfort
as they stared back.
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