Poetry

When I love myself
I am small and thoughtful
And don’t use much space
Or oxygen.

I am a man who listens well
When I love myself
And then am critical of my narcissism,
My need for attention and affirmation,
The immense amount of work it takes me
Just to keep this tall, fumbling man with bad manners
And nose hair
Alive and safe.

The impact of truths exposed
Will not always be pleasant or good.
Appraising one’s self-criticality
Is not always pretty
All of which makes self-love a challenge
But commends the object of the man’s affections
To high self-regard for his honesty.

when spring arrives

the ice flows out of the bay

but the dead dolphin does not.

something is eating him,

portions of his tail gone,

a fin.

a creature with sharp claws

has opened a gash in dolphin’s soft underbelly

from which still red entrails fall

onto flattened marsh grass

and what was once beautifully poetic

turns macabre,

frightening,

disintegrating,

the promise of resurrection eradicated

in the reality

of what remains,

and what remains

is what is never more,

in spring,

when the ice flows out.

1.
Reunion – a coming together after separation
Of those who have a shared experience.
That would be us.

2.
There are many reunions, of course,
An island in the Indian Ocean,
An arena in Dallas,
There’s Reunion the software program
Reunion the screenplay by Harold Pinter
Reunion, a book of poems by poet laureate Fleda Brown,  
Reunion, the steamy novel of bondage and sexual erotica by Laura Antoniou
Reunion the TV show
That follows close friends after high school
Each episode a year in their lives
A mystery of love and loss, marriage and death, triumph and scandal,
The hopes and dreams of 18-year-olds
and the realities that mark their lives decades later.
And perhaps winner of best “Reunion” overall,
the song by Jimmy Webb,
With the lyrics:
“In the mathematics of the soul,
When we’re together
We each feel whole.”

3.
Our union begins at the rectangular city block
Carved into what was once a hilltop meadow in the Bronx
Bounded by Creston Avenue and Morris Avenue
184th Street and Field Place
And the building placed on the meadow
Created nearly a century ago
By craftsmen from a different millennium
Morphed into the Bronx HS of Science
Now the Elizabeth Barrett Browning Junior High School
Near the Grand Concourse
Modeled after the Champs-Elysees
Near a deli named Boxers
A little luncheonette
And a billiard parlor
Where I learned the first proposition of Einstein’s theory of relativity
“Time equals money.”

4.
Each one of us here today
More or less as we were there then,
A composition of fifty trillion cells
A mass of genetic nuclei
The energy producing mitochondria
The cytoplasm
(Who says I didn’t learn anything at BHS,
even if I graduated 703rd out of 746 graduates?)
To be intelligent may be a boon,
Said Henry Miller,
But to surrender without reservation,
Is also one of life’s supreme joys.

5.
So what did we intelligent Science graduates surrender to?
To love, of course
To children
And grandchildren
To pets
To careers
To the folly of our egos
To the search for peace
Interior peace
Familial peace
Peace in the wars with our neighbors
Peace in the wars with our parents
Peace in the wars raging inside ourselves.
Attaining peace,
Now there would be a reunion.

6.
In 1958 our class president, Phil Lilienthal,
Won election on a platform asking,
“How will you know what you want
Until you get it?”
Have we gotten what we want yet?
Phil runs a camp in Africa for teens confronting AIDS.
Ask him.

7.
Did you know that Stokely Carmichael,
“Prime Minister” of the Black Panther Party
Who personally helped raise the number of registered Black voters in Loundes County Alabama from seventy to 2,670 in the summer of 1965,
Who I personally threw down the stairway from the fifth floor lunchroom in 1957 and later became allied with
was a Science graduate?
What a different path than our own Bill Taubman: Russian history scholar, biographer, winner of a Pulitzer Prize Award,  
And Susan Gilbert Levine – Science HS class of 58 historian, scholar, eternal cheer leader, winner of the Elmer’s Glue Award
Or Angel Martinez, social activist and environmental visionary – who personally asked that I send his love today.
Robert Reeback, fine artist and painter.
John Burke, philosopher, pianist, railroad engineer, union man.
Captain Steve Sperman, once Brigade Adjutant of the 4th Army Division, a Jewish kid from the Bronx being saluted by German officers, a man who did what he believed was right: duty, honor, country.
You know we had three sets of twins in our class:
Jack and Fred Mazelis, Judy and Paulette Lambert,
And Constance and Cleonis Golding, now Elaine and Ellen Golding
Their home in Harlem a hub for friends and neighbors
Their family always generous with their time and compassion
As Ellen and Elaine are, to this very day.

8.  
Listen to Ralph Berest Bennett, physician, healer, our valedictorian, who said at our graduation, “Let go of insistence on perfection.  Be open to what life brings you – it is full of wonderful surprises.”
Or Marcia Klaster, our class salutatorian, who went on to teach biology at Bronx Science who said, “Work and love are what really matters.”  

Work and love are what really matters …

9.
That’s what Liz Scoletis, co-captain of our cheerleading squad, Dean at the Graduate School of Business at Columbia University, whose sons attended our alma mater, also said, “Interesting work is the most seductive of all obsessions.”  The most seductive of all obsessions?  Maybe only at the Bronx H.S. of Science do cheerleaders say that.  But then again, what more is there really to say?    

10.  
More than that, my classmates, whatever marks we leave are no more than footprints awaiting the next tide,
That we were traders of oxygen for carbon dioxide, which made some plants happy,
The throwers of balls which someone caught,
The kisses we blew which someone bought
The things we learned, the things we taught
We’ve spun our tales
We’ve called the bet
Our lives were precious
They are still yet
There was a school
Built in the Bronx
Where we learned Science
From hacks and wonks
Where we made friends
Where we found love
The plus the minus
The hawk the dove
A full half century
These fifty years
Of joy and sorrow
Of smiles and tears
You see my friends
The planet’s spinning
And all of time has no beginning
And since that’s true (how else can it be?)
There is no you, there is no me
There are our lives
The biosphere
The large, the small
That we hold dear
There was a time
Within our line
When you’d your life
And I had mine
We’ve known the small
We’ve known the great
There was a class
Science ‘58

Come my friends let us continue the conversations we have yet to begin.

© Bruce R. Taub

The sun has set behind the Panamint Mountains
Before me are a pair of well-worn shoes,
A blanket,
The finest sand eons ever created,
Just this side of fairy dust
Outside of Stovetop Wells
Having chewed on the lord’s finest blue veined mushrooms.
The moon, did I say that it was full, arisen
The sand still fine
People speaking foreign languages disappearing
Those picnicking by the light of the moon gone back to their rental vans
Children no longer somersaulting down sand dunes
Outside Badwater the lowest point on the continent
And the Artists’ Palatte
Where god glorifies form and color.
Perhaps a memory here
Three years old
Wanting mother to know as much about me
And my needs and limits
As I knew of hers.
Perhaps a beautiful woman
Perhaps a distant auto slowing
There was a sign down a way,
Obviously placed there for me.
It read, Restoration in Process

Only there was nothing needing restoring

And then I was again alone.

1.
Ancestor crow hear me:
fire of black crow wing,
dragonfly.
What wonderfulness is life,
that I and thou in each others’ presence
pick hungrily at dead animals
in needle pines, in the forest of the city
Soaring with our altercrows
over freeways to the sand dunes
Singing our rhythmic song.

2.
Gathering forces we glide,
black crowfeather carries us
on air and prayer.
Maybe we will espy some matters delicious:
dead flesh soft and fragrant
colonels of corn naked in the furrows
some water at somewaters edge.
Easy pickings.
Lovely.

3.
My father was crow and my mother was too
all my sisters and brothers
and, of course, me and you
all our entire nation
vast jet black infestation
we must wed midst our kin
meet our needs from within.

4.
In the airwaves we flutter
dipsy doodle and mutter
this is all that we know
as we go to and fro
there is nothing to strive towards
all we’re given are rewards
simple foods, airs, and waters
and the love of our daughters.

5.
I love to eat me grasshoppers.

6.
In large flocks we gather,
the cawing of our species fills the air.
Our movements ponderous and gracious
we hide in tall grasses
from treetops we call,
the fat cat, the red winged, the human.
Still we multiply.
7.
Time is to flight as shoreline is to sea
Altercrow calls from branch site
Bouncing over stones I press air beneath me
Working hard my wings I lift off
The currents carry me to tall tree.
I am clear and invisible.
Hey you.  Caw.

brtaub – 1978

I discover my whitened bones in the desert
where they have resided for decades.
My head is detached from what was once my body
and lies some distance away from my ribs and chest cavity,
which have been gnawed upon by wind, wild animals,
grains of sand, and the passage of time
until naught remained but bone.
And although the bones were scattered
reconfiguration was easy.

We estimate this to have been a male,
an older specimen,
who weighed approximately 85 kilos and was 190cm tall.
Evidence suggests the cause of death
to have been starvation or perhaps a blow to the heart.
Several natural teeth showing signs of wear and care
are still embedded in the mandible.
Six thin metal springs each the size of a blood vessel
are discovered behind his breastplate.
We know no more.

We are as insects trapped in amber
Last alive in the Eocene,
Which makes us very old,
Moths perhaps.
Our resinous coffins shaped, shined, and fondled
By Cro-Magnon and Baltic men and women
Who burn with wonder
That we were and are and aren’t.

I don’t want to be a bug in amber I cried
And it is hardly being a bug that troubles me
It is being stuck in this terminal goo forever
A prison
A shiver of fear
The terrifying reality of sticky feathers.

I love the pattern on my wings
my dusty pigmented scales
that evoke
female pheromones
and pheromone receptors
sensory neurons
olfactory sensilla
male antennae.

I did not intend this amber fate
He says, as they rest atop one another
atop the branch
on which they are delirious and invisible.

Oh blessed entomology
What is possible
What is true
There is me
And there is you.

At the end of my first thirty day yoga teacher training course (which I took with Anna Forrest in Santa Monica in the 1990’s) the attendees were offered the opportunity to speak for 3 minutes and I offered this “poem,” which is meant to be chanted at a pace to be completed in under 3 minutes. Out loud. Try it. Mean it. Or not. Even disobedience deserves a gratitude.

Gratitude is an attitude
Not a platitude.
Be Gratitude.
See Gratitude.
Sculpt Gratitude.
Wear Gratitude.
Where’s Gratitude?
Here’s Gratitude.
Practice gratitude.
Standing. Gratitude.
Death. Gratitude.
Breath. Gratitude.
Downward dog. Gratitude.
To the injured. Gratitude.
To the healers. Gratitude.
In suppression. Gratitude.
For expression. Gratitude.
Courage. Gratitude.
Caring. Gratitude.
Not caring. Gratitude.
Wish it were different. Gratitude.
Wish I were different. Gratitude.
Accepting what is true. Gratitude.
Openness. Gratitude.
To pain, to pleasure, to change. Gratitude.
To jealousy. Gratitude.
To crow pose, to lion, to life. Gratitude.
To the teachers. Gratitude.
To their flaws. Gratitude.
To the slights. Gratitude.
To the mind. Gratitude.
To the heart. Gratitude.
To muscle, sinew, joints, and bone. Our gratitude.
Electrons. Gratitude.
DNA. Gratitude
Our spirit. Gratitude.
Ancestors. Gratitude.
Continuity and flow. Gratitude.
To distrust. Gratitude.
In trusting. Gratitude.
Pranayama. Gratitude.
It’s a feeling. Gratitude.
It’s all thought. Gratitude.
Love of beauty. Gratitude.
Look before you leap. Gratitude.
She who hesitates is lost. Gratitude.
No matter how much I try … Gratitude.
It will never change. Gratitude.
In the rocks and in the stones our gratitude.
Step in the stream. Gratitude.
Don’t give a damn. Gratitude.
I’d give my life. Gratitude.
For our genitals. Gratitude.
And our effort. Gratitude.
Inspiration. Gratitude
Transformation. Gratitude.
Warriors I, II, III. Gratitude.
To the liberators. Gratitude.
Thinking. Gratitude.
Don’t know mind. Gratitude.
Fish, fire, phoenix. Gratitude.
Mother, brother, straddle. Gratitude.
Tomorrow. Gratitude.
Bird of paradise. Gratitude.
In beauty. Gratitude.
The hoop of our people. Gratitude.
Loved and lost. Gratitude.
Humility. Gratitude.
Futility. Gratitude.
Magic. Gratitude.
Tragic. Gratitude.
The arrival. Gratitude.
The departure. Gratitude.
The explicit. Gratitude.
The unstated. Gratitude.
In the Word. Gratitude.
The inversions. Gratitude.
The unconscious. Gratitude.
All the dreams. Gratitude.
And the dreamers. Gratitude.
To be small. Gratitude.
To be huge. Gratitude.
Active feet. Gratitude.
Chanting. Gratitude.
To the monk. Gratitude.
To those present. Gratitude
And those absent. Gratitude.
To our graces. Gratitude.
For the dolphins. Gratitude.
Tears and fears. Gratitude.
Competition. Gratitude.
To the guys. Gratitude.
And the goddess. Gratitude.
No one asks. Gratitude.
Bring it on. Gratitude.
Forward bend. Gratitude.
In the dark. Gratitude.
In the light. Gratitude.
Namaste. Gratitude.
Blessed silence. Gratitude.

When crossing the border
Which you do on foot
From Tanzania to Kenya
The sign that reads, “Welcome to Kenya,”
Which has seen better days
Also marks the start of a strange little piece of Earth
Where you’ve departed Tanzania
But not yet officially entered Kenya
Not until you reach the visa office
Some hundred yards away
And it is in this very space
That dozens of colorfully bejeweled and beaded Masai women
Some with absolutely stunning faces
Have established a free trade zone
Designed to separate the tourist
From any remaining Tanzanian shillings
Left pleading to stay close to home in his pocket

Their technique is masterful
As they grab dozens of colorful necklaces and bracelets
Hold them out to you by the handful
Offer them to you at genuinely low wholesale prices
Bracelets and necklaces you really don’t want
Which they are slipping onto your wrists
And hanging about your neck
As you worry about pickpockets and say
“No, no, no,” in English, German, Mesopotamia, and Swahili
As kindly as you can

“Then keep them as a gift for your wife,” they say,
“Your girlfriend, your daughter, your mother
Take them, they are yours.”
At which moment
You first notice the young tall African man wearing the extra large,
Green T-shirt with the number 5 on it
The word Celtics on it,
And the name Garnett, your favorite player, on it
Standing on the court as it were, here in no-man’s land
Wishing you had your camera
Which is still in some illegal pawnshop
On the wrong side of the tracks in Moshi
Hoping that you will rescue it
To take pictures with it like these
Of the incongruity of Kevin Garnett
Your favorite player
Here in no-man’s land
Against the backdrop of trailer trucks clearing customs
       and bejeweled Masai women
When the man sees you looking at him
Approaches you
Asks what you are looking at or want

So you point to his shirt
To the number and name on it
To the words on it
As you say, “It’s my team, my favorite player”
And before you have put your finger down
He has pulled his shirt off
And standing gloriously thin and beautiful above his belt
Just like Kevin Garnett does
He hands his shirt to you,
Says it is yours
As you are saying “No, no, no,”
In English, German, Mesopotamia, and Swahili
To which he replies, “I am African, keep it, it is yours.”

And you want it
Want to give him some money
Or at least a young goat
But at the same moment
The bus driver has taken your arm
Hustling you toward the visa office
And a customs officer watching the event unfold
Is pointing at you,
Moving toward the scorer’s table,
Motioning that you are to give the shirt back
To the half naked Africa standing in no-man’s land
Maybe a little drunk, or a tad crazy,
Or someone with poor impulse control,
Or poor boundaries at the borders, you joke with yourself
Handing him back his shirt with regret
Enter the visa office
And exit ten minutes later
An official visitor to Kenya
About to get back on the bus
Greeted by the same coterie of Masai women
And one familiar Kenyan man
Wearing a black jacket
You cannot imagine where or how he found so quickly
How he grasped the situation so quickly
And is waiving what is clearly your green Kevin Garnett
Number five, official NBA T-shirt

And notwithstanding the bus driver
Trying to move you along
And a bus filled with Indian’s, Kenyans, Tanzanians, and Americans   
Who also want to move along
You reach into your pocket
Giving the man your last ten thousand Tanzanian shillings
The equivalent of about seven U.S. dollars
As he gives you the shirt
The Masai women screaming at you
And at him
At the injustice of it all
The ridiculousness of it all
That you are paying for a dirty green T-shirt
When you could have a jewelry box filled with treasure
For even less money
And the bus driver is blowing his horn
And the passengers are waving you forward
And you climb onto the bus
With your new shirt
Checking your pockets
And waving at the Kenyan Kevin Garnett
Who has clearly made the winning shot at the buzzer
And is smiling.