That a skin-and-bones boy climbed down from
the rafters after the Cossacks spit, kicked,
and left little of the shack, the shtetland a terrified mother, and stumbled, hatless
and mapless, leading a fragment of family out
into bitter nights and a fetid ship to Texas.
That a young woman sweated days in a laundry
in the Bronx, labored year after year in night
school for the diploma she tied to a stack of love
letters and dreamed her way five days on the Texas
Southern Pacific to a depot in the desert, that her
dimples appealed to his skinny honesty, that his
gravel-kicked boots and roustabout hands skidded
into her romance-starved heart, that the two found
a circuit rabbi to marry them, a drilling camp
willing to take them, that there among a thousand
oil boom tents, one night in the bosses’ ten-by-ten
bedroom, when the blow-your-brains-out gusts of west
Texas dust hid the stars and left them nothing else
to do, that in a moment of tender whispers, they
huddled, caressed, and careened towards me like
tumbleweed, that together we were buffeted down
rougher-than-a-cob rutted roads, shaken and popped
like grains from arroyo-ridden land until their
trail left only half-buried tracks to a camp
on the desert of memory where I stand. Sand still
blows wild as mesquite, shadows prickle like cactus,
and eyes still tear from the sun, but courage
rooted deep here, gushed high and fierce here,
and generosity sprouted sudden as an occasional elm.
A Prayer the Body Makes
In fetal position, our knees drawn up,
arms parallel in supplication, and eyes
rolled back into the skull of sleep,
that dark absence that swallows us,
wrapping us in ivy, evergreen from
birth to death. A prayer the body makes
beyond words, beyond the unheard
frequencies of cells broadcasting into
the abyss, beyond the arc of another
body curling warm against our own,
belly rising, falling. Translate, the mind
demands. Translate this prayer that we
may all practice it together. Translate the
body’s pores breathing in, breathing out,
breathing in, breathing out—asleep or
awake—in the wordless center holding all.
At the National Gallery
some seen, some imagined
out of nothing
a poem follows me
catches me by the hair
raises it off my neck
my brain spurling
waiting for the crest
to fall into foam
to take form
all those ideas on the wall
foam into words
what we’ve tried to form
out of molecules
calling into being
in the museum where
such moments are hung
We have come to Speyer,
Franz, Doris and I,
on our first sunny day,
pilgrims to an ancient
place of pilgrimage
its thousand year old
cathedral rising from the earth
a spare and cold song.
Franz has played his violin there
its voice skimming bird-like in
the vaulted arches of rose and
white stone. Kings and kaisers
lie in crypts through
centuries of sound.
We stand in the Christmas market
place, my now slow cousin, his quick wife
and I. (How many characters have played
this scene in this two thousand year old town?)
A waltz comes through the loud speakers
and Franz begins to slowly bob.
Tanzen, bitte? he says to me.
I take his arms and we waltz.
Wir tanzen im Speyer, I say.
We are oldest of friends.
I am not sure he knows my name.
Later, Doris takes our picture.
We stand before that heaving breath
of stone, all silent,
the children we are.
Old Wine or Misfortune
November smudged underfoot, but all those stars:
everything else impossible or gone—I think of
the way we passed through each other, like light
through water. You would call it old wine or
misfortune. It was all so long ago, I can’t
remember what the promise looked like—as if
it never happened. And there’s nothing left but
that last moment of memory (a star committed
to its own vanishing, already burned out, as if
I imagined it). One of us looked up, one of us
looked away. I remember how sunset flared
behind you, your silhouette framed by that light—
and you, already less than real, already far away.
A Perfect Spider
A small plane thrums overhead, its sound melding into the rumble of a truck
at the intersection a block away, then the acceleration, the whoosh
spinning off down the main street to the call of a crow from the canopy of trees.
Underneath it all, the constant hum of insect life: the chirrup of cicadas,
a carpet of sound pervading my yard, their hubbub carrying on beneath the flurry
of our more important life: the spider clinging to the blue hydrangea
I cut for my bouquet, carrying it indoors, a passenger on the flower, to flush it
down the sink under the cold water tap
though it scurried with all its drive to stay alive, a perfect spider
minding its own business, having no foul intentions, doomed to a sloshy end.
The other night on TV, I learned about the breakdown of the Herschel telescope,
its existence dedicated to discovering potential planet earths
rotating around a sun, at a distance roughly equal to ours, cryptic places
where civilizations might have arisen or still be in the making.
The answer, only in possibilities, is thousands with water enough, the proper
atmosphere, the basics for generating life.
What if a life more highly developed than ours? Do we become like the spider
happily exploring the world of the hydrangea, that beautiful blue globe?
The insects, so intent on their own travail, mate, reproduce, pay no heed
to the woman on the porch, the small plane traveling overhead
or the larger plane with its deeper rumble making its turn over town,
heading south now, the landing field expectant.
How odd to be called pensioner
instead of retiree, though I am happy
to be admitted for a few pounds less.
I should ignore the exchange rate
and just spend, I tell myself.
Two times I’ve fallen,
once at Heathrow, running for the airport bus
and in Chiswick on a cracked sidewalk.
The trick is to land
so you don’t break bones.
Otherwise, life’s been favorable in London.
July days are long,
nights brief like the tea leaves
at the bottom of my china mug.
Years I have left.
Why torture myself
with what’s to come?
I will practice being balanced.
I write this at the library,
books my refuge and hope.
On the bulletin board:
This site helps you
to prepare for the Life
In Great Britain Test
required for settlement.
First Mass, Holy Angels Church
This child, unschooled in sin and hell, watches.
The Stations of the Cross show her the half-naked man,
stumbling beneath whips and thick boards. Under the organ’s
pulse and whine, she hums wild rage and tears, quick punishment.
Knows her father rules their house. But who rules god’s house,
these benches, statues, aisles? Not her head-bent father, mumbling
in his hands. Bright tiles sing: Not that carved eyeless lady,
not that man feathered all with arrows. Sweet, peppery smoke
flies past the cool stone railings, past the dove with clever eyes
and the old white-beard man, his hand reaching to her from
the round ceiling. There, swirls of winged girls dance, a whole band
of them pluck silver strings, while music braids their wild gold locks.
She reaches up, in thrall to wings that rule the shimmering air.
Halogen lights, caged in the vault above,
buzz, moan. I am backstroking—
alone, but for someone in the far lane
towing a blue Styrofoam noodle.She won’t hear me. She has no face.
I mark my bearings
by girders that rib the ceiling;
feel, behind me, for cement edges.
What else can I do, Anna—
you, far oceans away,
labor induced to deliver
a stillborn girl?
Your neighbors tell you
little Grace is with Jesus,
that He has called her to Him,
that she is an angel.
All I can do is stroke backward,
as if I could reverse time,
come to you, for her—
make the water end.
Lila’s Rocking Chair
“You need a pretty chair to rock your baby in,”
the old man said to Belle. She’d never seen him
on Stratton Street, but he told her he carved
things. From her porch she gazed at his motley coat,
his hands like gnarled roots. Clutched in her arms,
the newborn cried as her sisters twirled till they
fell down the way Belle’s days kept falling down
with four small girls and a fifth just born.
The old man carved a rocking chair of oak,
with a cascade of leaves, rounded like a crown
for the baby’s head, etched on a slatted back,
supported by six circular spindles.
The polished knobs, finials, and curved runners
shone in early sunlight and the oak grain
formed golden stripes like rissoles in the sand.
The rocking soothed them. The baby cooed
and slept. Belle listened to the ticking of two clocks
while she waited for her husband to come home.
Too big to rock his daughter in her chair,
Jim played tunes on his harmonica
then lifted Lila laughing in the air,
and the chair creaked out its secret tune
Begin where the dust blows by—our dirt drive.
Draw it grit brown, down past the clothesline
—a swaying sheet, some red for your old teenage two-piece—
(one hand-me-down I could never brave).
Now run it by the house, brown too, for bumpy
stucco, then out to the hot emery flat
of our dirt road. Curve it to edge past
the keep out chickenwire of Rock Crusher Pit:
draw rattlesnakes and skunks, scorpions
like the one that stings you to delirium
so in our sleep you whisper Bite! Bite!
but after, still walk where you want. You know
that pit is off limits—mark it with a skull-and-crossbones!
Now curve the crusty street past gray boulder houses
made from pit boulders long ago like the Flintstones—
cool inside, we imagine, when the sun is like God’s
spotlight—and there, the chapel, its window
shot through with a sifted-flour ray—
and now, across the road: Stonehurst Park.
Yes, that’s where you have heat stroke—show you
on your back in spiky grass, bare red feet
in the sandbox, burning knees splayed, me
scrambling home for Mama (aren’t I always
the scared one? But you have all the scrapes, all
the way to your last, the cancer)—and yes, Lord,
the Stonehurst Park trees—how will we
fit them on our map, that dry eucalyptus secret
rustle-whisper, impossible height pointing
into a shimmer? Your ashes beneath them,
the trillion brittle splinters of night above us?
Susan Deer Cloud
Before Language, Reutigen, Switzerland (for Beat Stähli)
Before language, it must have been like Reutigen
where my man and I once babysat a Shanghai cat
whose orange feline meows singed the air
like extravagant voices in Chinese opera…
where we couldn’t understand the villagers’
Swiss German, Alpine dialect drifting into
my ears softly as the dialect where I come from
in New York Catskills, the snow music of it.
Before language, it must have been like this,
no names for countries, mountains, plants and beasts …
long time ago when ancestors and ancestresses
spoke in the Ur language of smiles, lights in eyes,
body dances and hands flying birdlike through air.
Back then we must have petted each other
like sleek cats… when we hadn’t forgotten
to bow to the mystery of one another.
Before language, it is said that men and women
walked equal as they did in Orkney Island’s
Skara Brae, Neolithic village near sea whose tide
washed Selkies onto shore. Before words, seals
shed their skins, made love with humans,
created descendants like me with webbed toes.
Magical, free, no one doubted we could shape-shift
and communicate with hearts of beauty.
Before language, no one argued about religion
or believed anyone was better than anybody else.
Ask Beat Stähli, woodcarver relative who dwells
in my Swiss great grandmother’s Heimat of Brienz.
O my brother, my cousin, my friend, still I see you
dreaming through atelier window across ancient lake …
still there be knowing ones not separate
from water spirits and the holy trees.
Crossing the Calendar Bridge
The first New Year’s Eve without your turning
in grateful wonder: “Lucky us, we’ve earned
another year.” The mirror on the wall
granted pardon: throughout life’s judgment-hall,
one question persisted: “Why am I here?”
Name: doctor, mentor, science pioneer,
father—and sorcerer who alchemized
state-of-loneliness into you-and-I.
We laughed at a third in bed—our snug down
quilt—perinyeh—in childhood mother-tongue.
Light as a ghost but warm, the featherbed
rises and falls with my uncertain breaths.
If I could say “he’s in a better place”
might I foretell his welcoming embrace?
I did not always welcome his embrace.
Corralled in a split-level—breathing space
defined by husband/children schedules,
reassured by unwritten “good-girl” rules.
No studio—my clattery machine labored
under window with view of the neighbor’s
house wall. Marriage, like a boat poised at anchor
unswayed by flickering ripples of rancor,
kept us safe. Yet rhythm known in my bones
formed instrument, mute raised, like saxophone
riffs that tumbled into words. And we sang
off-key, happy, lyrics in differing language.
Our rhymes were true or near or simply free.
Five stages of grief compose an elegy.
Five stages of grief line up for elegy:
deny rant reproach barter and agree
to let you go, to cease reenacting
hot/cold days/nights of vigil. To distract
mind from memory’s sweated matted strings,
loosen knots, twirl his-and-her wedding rings
doubled on one finger, kiss them for luck,
and recognize the shape of me, unbroken.
Not to muse “if only you were here”
as the glittering ball slides down Times Square.
Get past the calendar, switch off the screen
stop conjugating “is” as “might have been.”
Yet how to tell the poem “don’t reminisce”
all moments lived are sparks to genesis.
Is, Was, To Be
Wood grays with age.
The weather-splintered rowboat,
beached on moss-covered rock,
returns to a place of beginnings.
Sun and water stir
reflections of bordering trees.
Leaves floating on slow current
nestle below the keel.
Seasons employ light’s probe
into substances—bark and foliage
dissolve into shifting colorations
Tree crowns act to shatter sun rays
reaching towards surfaces
in a constant flicker of exchange
proof that stillness
abides with motion.
Darcy Cummings's book of poetry, The Artist As Alice: From A Photographer's Life, won the Bright Hill Press Award and was published in 2006. It is a fictional biography of Wonderland's Alice, from after the events underground, until her death at 87. "First Mass" is from a new manuscript, Floating Women." She received an MFA in Creative (Non-Fiction) Writing from Rutgers Camden two years ago and has an M.A. in Writing Poetry from the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminar.
Susan Deer Cloud, a mixed lineage Catskill Indian, is an alumna of Goddard College and Binghamton University. Among many other honors she has been awarded a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship, two New York State Foundation for the Arts Poetry Fellowships, and an Elizabeth George Foundation Grant. Published in myriad literary journals and anthologies, her latest books are Hunger Moon and Fox Mountain. She is editor of Native anthology I Was Indian (Before Being Indian Was Cool) and the Re-Matriation Chapbook Series of Indigenous Poetry. Born a rover, she relishes the company of feral cats and wild woodcarvers.
Laurel Ferejohn is an independent editor working with literary and scholarly journals, winner of the 2012 Thomas Wolfe Fiction Prize, and recipient of an Emerging Artist Award from the Durham Arts Council. Her short work appears in the Thomas Wolfe Review, Southeast Review, Quiddity International Literary Journal, and other periodicals and anthologies. She is completing a novel.
Penny Harter is published widely in journals and anthologies. Recent books include The Resonance Around Us (2013); the prizewinning One Bowl (e-chapbook, 2012); Recycling Starlight (2010); and The Night Marsh (2008). She was a featured reader at both the first and the 2010 Dodge Poetry Festivals, and has won three fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts, the Mary Carolyn Davies Award from the PSA and two residencies (January 2011; March 2015) from Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She works for the NJSCA as a visiting poet in the schools. penhart.wordpress.com; www.2hweb.net/penhart.
Adele Kenny, founding director of the Carriage House Poetry Series, and poetry editor of Tiferet Journal, is the author of twenty-three books (poetry & nonfiction). Her poems have been published worldwide and have appeared in books and anthologies from Crown, Tuttle, Shambhala, and McGraw-Hill. She is the recipient of various awards, including NJ State Arts Council poetry fellowships, a Merton Poetry of the Sacred Award, and Kean University’s 2014 Distinguished Alumni Award. She has read in the US, England, Ireland, and France, and has twice been a Geraldine R. Dodge Festival poet.
Claire Keyes is Professor emerita at Salem State University where she taught English for thirty years. She currently teaches for the Salem State Explorers, a life-long learning program. She has won the Robert Penn Warren Award from New England Writers as well as a First Prize in poetry from Smartish Pace. The Question of Rapture, a book of poems, was published by Mayapple Press. Rising and Falling won the Foothills Poetry Chapbook Contest. What Diamonds Can Do, her second full-length collection, was published by Word Tech Communications in 2015. She is the author of The Aesthetics of Power: The Poetry of Adrienne Rich. Her poems and reviews have appeared in Prairie Schooner, The Women’s Review of Books, Spoon River Poetry Review and most recently, two poems on NPR’s The Writer’s Almanac. Online, you can find her work at Verse Wisconsin, Newport Review, Umbrella Journal and Red-Headed Stepchild. She has lived in Marblehead, Massachusetts most of her adult life and is married to Johnes Moore.
Charlotte Mandel's ninth book of poetry, Through a Garden Gate with color photographs by Vincent Covello, is published by David Robert Books. Previous books include two poem-novellas of feminist biblical revision: The Life of Mary and The Marriages of Jacob. Her awards include the New Jersey Poets Prize and two fellowships in poetry from New Jersey State Council on the Arts. Her critical essays include a series on the role of cinema in the life and work of poet H.D. She recently retired from teaching poetry writing at Barnard College Center for Research on Women. Visit her at www.charlottemandel.com.
Poet and songwriter, Susanna Rich is an Emmy Award nominee and a Fulbright Fellow in Creative Writing. Rich is author of three poetry collections: Surfing for Jesus, Television Daddy, and The Drive Home. She is founding producer and principal performer of Wild Nights Productions, LLC, with a repertoire that includes the poetry musical Shakespeare’s *itches: The Women Talk Back and ashes, ashes: A Poet Responds to the Holocaust. She received the Ekphrasis Prize for Poetry and the Presidential Excellence Award for Distinguished Teaching at Kean University. Visit her at www.wildnightsproductions.com and becauseicanteach.blogspot.com.
Helen Ruggieri lives in Olean, NY where she teaches a poetry workshop at the African American Center for Cultural Development. Her new book, The Kingdom Where No One Keeps Time, is from Mayapple Press.
Marianne Schloss has been writing poetry since age nine as a child growing up in Queens, beginning with the sometimes appreciated verses describing family members. A journal and poetry writer since, she was lucky in her mentors after her husband's long illness and death. Her subjects include gratitude in the face of life's inevitable losses. This poem, “In Speyer,” attempts to capture the bittersweet joy of family bonds and the continuing and stunning sadness of Alzheimer's disease. Schloss currently works as a therapist in New York City, is an active member of the New York Society Library's Poetry Workshop and continues to write about her amazement at life's complex generosity.
Carole Stone's latest poetry collections are Late, Turning Point in 2016, Hurt, The Shadow, Dos Madres Press, and American Rhapsody, CavanKerry Press. She is Distinguished Professor of English emerita, Montclair State University. Her most recent poems appeared in Cavewall, Bellevue Literary Review, Exit 13, Blue Fifth Review, and Talisman. She divides her time between Springs, East Hampton and Verona, NJ.
Davi Walders’ poetry and prose have appeared in more than 200 anthologies and journals. Her collection on women’s resistance during WWII, Women Against Tyranny: Poems of Resistance During the Holocaust, was published by Clemson University Press in 2011. Other collections include Using Poetry in Therapeutic Settings published by The Vital Signs Poetry Project at NIH and its Children’s Inn. She developed the Vital Signs Project at NIH in Bethesda, MD, which was funded by The Witter Bynner Foundation for Poetry, for which she received Hadassah of Greater Washington’s Myrtle Wreath Award. Other awards include a Maryland Artist Grant in Poetry, an Alden B. Dow Creativity Fellowship and fellowships at Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati, and elsewhere. Her work has been read by Garrison Keillor on Writer’s Almanac, nominated for Pushcart Prizes, and choreographed and performed in NYC, Michigan, Cleveland, and elsewhere.
I thoroughly enjoyed the poems from East Coast States poets. Having been fortunate enough to have Claire Keyes as a teacher,
It was a joy for me to read her poem. I appreciated the diversity of the poets and the poems. thank you