Poetry
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Poems written by Bruce R Taub
A Visit to the Cemetery
I visit the local cemetery today
And pick out my gravesite.
I have visited and walked at this cemetery before,
But had never imagined spending eternity there.
I go with my son
Who is visiting from the other side of the continent,
Speaking of other sides.
The cemetery borders conservation lands
And we pick out a spot near a young oak tree.
Not so close as to disturb its roots
But close enough to feed her,
Having chosen what is known as a green burial
In which I become compost
In proximity to the Earth which bore me.
At one point, my legs became numb
And I lost my balance
Reaching instinctively for my son’s hand
As he helped hold me up
Which he’s so often done.
We talked about gravestones
And made light of inevitability and loss
I visualized being brought here at some future date
Laid to rest and covered with the soil I adore
While dozens of crows called out
Welcoming me to the neighborhood.
Just not too soon I hope.
(c) brt 03/26
POETRY
Epistle
There are these elements and aspects of the sand painting that is my life:
Work, friendship, worship, love, sex, loss, women, men, Maia, my family,
Political questions, ethics, values, investment, expectation, reward,
Success, failure, accomplishment, mastery, longing, joy,
Engagement, stimulation, trepidation, the Word itself,
Fear, habit, breath, death, health, running, eating, other bodily functions,
Music, counting money, trying hard, not trying at all, giving a damn,
Being open, being hurt, helping, the unknown,
Housecleaning, laundry, dishes, cooking, shopping, driving,
Arranging baby sitters, writing, reading, shaving and showering,
Weighing myself, making love, talking to crows,
Seeing butterflies, horses, turtles, and birds in profuse array,
flying, scurrying, or dead in the highway.
I live my life.
I pay the bills.
I remember always the vast mystery I participate in,
This vast liveliness, this immense universe where goodness abounds,
Where illness, injury, depression, pain, and death stalk everyone inevitably.
Where by the greatest of luck, and some effort, I walk
my current, common, narrow, blessed, simple, single path.
Where hope, fear, fantasies, and realities whisper breezily about me.
Where time passes slowly and in the wink of an eye.
Where love that is strong one moment is faded the next.
The nonstop changing that I hold onto, adjust to, anticipate and hallucinate.
This is the peeling birch bark, snakeskin shedding, noon whistle time.
Understanding evolves. Understanding is illusion.
I am momentary. pleased, cautious, strong, ambitious, quixotic, romantic,
Thankful, awestruck, blissful, present, past, and future,
Changeless and forever, daily, divine, and never,
Before me, after me, regardless of me and mine.
We pause in the stream of life
The waters are rushing swiftly
We touch, smile at, and puzzle one another
We struggle against the current,
We follow the path of least resistance.
We are none of us the Grand Canyon, nor the Colorado River.
I have had occasion to love you.
November, 1976
POETRY
Meeting the Dead Poet
I meet the dead poet for our rendezvous, as planned.
He looks good, even if dead,
and wants very much to know
how things are going.
I began by describing his memorial service,
Trying to tell him who was there
Though I knew far less than half of them,
To describe the poems that were read,
alhough I didn’t understand any of them,
Except for one of his poems,
Read by the woman who led the labyrinth walk,
The woman with the seven-year-old boy
Permanently attached to her side
The boy I played chess with
While others ate and schmoozed.
I’m not very good at chess.
The boy was worse.
I made sure all games ended in a draw.
The best poem was the poet’s own poem,
Read by the woman from the spiritual center
About a time when the poet and his very Jewish father
Went to the local Catholic Church,
Something shocking all in itself,
To help the priest untangle and string the Christmas lights.
I don’t recall the specifics of the poem
But it was very dead poet-like
And involved allusions to light
And color
And Prometheus,
who stole fire from the gods
and gave it to humanity.
It was a lovely poem.
I even called it brilliant
Which, of course, the poet liked.
Afterwards, we found ourselves sitting at a table
In a Serbian café drinking kava,
Charming the young waitresses,
And drawing the attention of other patrons
Who were amazed that foreigners were among them
And wouldn’t believe the poet when he told them
He was dead
Although they promptly brought him
A tray of peeled garlic cloves
And conveyed numerous facts
About the garlic’s healing properties
And how easy they were to propagate,
Which inspired the dead poet
To put one of the cloves in his pocket
For planting when he got home.
We were next in a hotel lobby
Where a poetess was giving a reading
That was impossible to hear
Over the din of the crowd.
So the poet moved as close to her as he could
While I went off to find a new pen
With which to write the amazing poem
I knew was within me
About my encounter with a dead poet,
who I knew well.
You cannot imagine
How hard it is to find a good pen
With just the right sharpness
To create a good poem
No matter how many stores you visit.
POETRY
Flautist – inspired by George and Ira Gerswin
I say flautist
And she says flutist
She says well dressed
And I say nudist
Flautist
Or flutist
Well dressed
Or nudist
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see
She likes the high notes
And I say play low
She wants more rhythm
And I want more show
High notes
Or low notes
Rhythmic
Or slow
She’ll take her clothes I know
She likes being well draped
And I like her bare
She is socially nervous
And I couldn’t care
Well draped
Or bare skinned
Socially nervous
Or free
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see
She lives in a small town
Her needs are quite few
She was perfectly happy
Until she met you
Small town
Or needy
Self conscious
Or free
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see
I say it’s Paris
And she says Pari
She says, it’s no go
And I say we’ll see
Paris or Pari
Le no go
Or oui
She’ll take her clothes off for me
She plays the classics
And then plays the blues
She is red headed
And there go her shoes
Classics
Or blue notes
Red headed
Or gray
She takes her clothes off … hooray.
POETRY
blood
blood, blood, irrational blood flowing through my gates
down my thighs useless and hysterical.
what shall we do with this blood
are we in control or are the fates?
here, i shall paint your face with my blood,
draw blessed archaic symbols
on the walls of your arms and legs
remind us of the hunt, the sustenance we need.
i call upon you to taste me
as we smooth the way
for your
dna
to come inside me
when the blood is flowing
and it is safe to welcome these eager explorers,
this advance party of terrestrial observers
who shall all die in their service to the queen.
yes, i shall conspire with you
to send forth another party of your henchmen
your visionaries
inside the road to the sacred city
I shall welcome them passed these holy gates
to meet my ancestors and my future
to become the entire history of our species
to merge, to reemerge
potential bearing potential being potential
and for some while,
for the first time in a quarter of a century,
all this blood shall cease.
POETRY
The Furry Bug
On a humid, dark, cloudy summer night,
Temperature still in the high seventies,
Streetlights not working,
I step out the door as a huge fluttering bug
Flies smack into my lips.
I do not see it.
I know it is not a moth or mosquito,
More a furry flying beetle of some sort.
And just as I do not see it, I do not hear it.
Rather I feel its flutter and the soft thud
As it crashes straight into the very center of my closed mouth,
Smack in the middle of my pressed lips.
I blow and brush it away quickly,
Feeling its dimensions only slightly.
I respond in surprise and shock,
But without fear or disgust.
I know at once that I have been sweetly touched
Not assaulted or attacked.
And though my rational mind recognizes it as probability expressed,
A happenstance of fate
A random intersection of invertebrate and human,
I am aware instantly of having been kissed by a beautiful stranger,
A princess living in the body of a bug,
The light but explicit tap tap tap of god’s finger
Calling forth my attention.
“Hey you,” the bug commands with her furry kiss,
“Wake up, we’re in this together, man.
Live life fully aware
And appreciative of me,
Fly around in the muggy dark night
Kissing strangers with me,
Let’s be in each other’s company as much as we can bear.”
Later I stand inside the rushing waters
Of a mountain stream
Spray frosting my face
Pulled along by a frightening, exciting, inexorable flow to the sea.
I am the water.
I kiss your lips.
Poetry
Homage to an Unattractive Woman
The most unattractive woman I ever made love with –
I know you think that unkind –
had a seizure disorder and took dilantin,
but had a wonderful mind.
Her teeth were rotted,
she was short and quite plump,
had stubbly hairs on her face,
wore glasses, even in bed …
and bloomers.
Her hair was a mess,
her knees were knobby,
when she opened her mouth
saliva stuck to her upper and lower palate.
She was an English teacher
in love with poetry,
romanticism,
Bharati Mukherjee
and Alan Ginsburg
She even looked like Alan Ginsburg,
laughed like him,
turned in onto herself,
aware of who she was,
and how she appeared,
and the fact that she had you in bed
and was going to enjoy it.
She had slept with my best friend Henry,
who I also adored.
She even loved him,
as did I.
He was so handsome
so beat,
and just the right mixture of
longshoreman and literary intellectual.
I was clearly her second choice,
as well it should be.
Her mind was brilliant
Her hands were a mess
Her clothes were a mess
She was brutally honest
Lovely in her way
Especially naked.
Her courage was more daunting than Henry’s
who is still in hiding,
her thighs softer,
she made nicer noises,
and never belched
or maybe she did.
I don’t remember everyone I ever slept with,
but here’s to a beautiful woman I do remember,
her name, in truth, was Linda.
POETRY
Bharati Mukherjee
Shivering in Majesty
1.
I have earned and care for a small plot of land
A small cottage
A dog
Sometimes a woman
My son.
2.
My daughter has found a good man
She has love, wisdom, and a daughter of her own
If they keep loving one another
They will be lucky
That’s what the owl in my yard said
3.
In the yard are Tibetan prayer flags.
Brought and hung by my sister.
When the breeze blows in off the bay
The things I’ve wished for come to me
The smell of the salted air
Birds at the bird feeders
A sense I belong
That I do not consume more than my share
Some seaweed, some flax seed
Though I give back so little –
Juice for the hummingbirds
A house for bats
My flesh to feed the worms and earth
in a pauper’s grave
by the sacred waters
4.
When the breeze goes out
it takes my hopes and wishes with it
they ride over the Tibetan prayer flags
and are made holy
My wish for peace
for relevance
for the happiness and well being of others.
my compassion washes over the banners
carrying words I do not understand
5.
These words reach the bay
where small fishes
are being chased by bigger fishes
chased by men
in boats with two hundred horse power engines
towed to the beach in three hundred horse power cars
to catch one poor fish
to remind them of the hunt
the cycle
the natural order
of the big eating the small
forgetting the grace of small nets
6.
And beyond the bay
Are the wars I finance
Fueled with jealousy, envy, hunger,
The wish for relevance,
An inherent primate consciousness,
And a sense of mission,
A desire to be of use,
to turn oxygen into carbon dioxide
so that plants too may live
shivering in the majesty
of immense rolls of summer thunder
stretching out to remind us
of our tasks
and our roots
in the heavens.
© BRTaub – 8/08
POETRY
She Has Loved 100 Men
She asks
How is it possible
She has loved one hundred men
And at their impaired age
This is the best love making she’s known.
He says it’s an illusion.
She asks
Can he make her taller
With blue eyes
And unwrinkled skin
And can he really unearth the dead
But what she is really asking
Is that he hold her
And promise to never let go
She says
You are so solid
And means the flesh she draws near
And the man inside the flesh
With his flaws and foibles
And a willingness to be weak
Standing in his power and strength.
Then she says his name
Speaks it into the ether
In ways he’s never heard it spoken
Radiating out into the universe
Before she herself goes out
Radiating who knows where
Although before getting far
She taps on the glass
Peering in through the window
And again mouths his name.
©brucetaub – 02/08
POETRY
Cheerio Box Speaks of Love
Cheerio box speaks of love and nutrition
and makes the days I share with her happy,
as well as providing a reduced risk of heart failure.
She uses all three parts of her whole grains,
a serving of nutrients,
the strength of iron,
all allotted in half cup servings.
She is enlarged, whole, overflowing.
contributing her non genetically modified ingredients
into the very depths of my being;
– though trace amounts of engineered materials
may be slightly present –
all a result of unavoidable cross contact
with others, with sugars,
with omnipotent grains of corn.
See how she makes my mornings
with a positive start that brings forth my happiness,
that invites me to consume her,
and to love her back.
Mi amor Integral.
Sharing positive enhancements
my Cheerio box explicitly tells me
that her freshness may be preserved
and that the essence of her character
ought be measured not by volume
but by weight,
the truest measure of her contents.
Enlarged to show her soluble fiber in detail
any one patented serving
contributes to my limited recommended daily diet.
Best if used before her expiration date.
She welcomes my questions and comments.
POETRY
