Poetry

Mandalay Hills
I return to the big pagoda
At the top of the Mandalay Hills
Having forgotten everything about it
Until the jeep going up the steep incline
Leans sharply into the first hairpin turn
And I am tilting over
Onto my right side
Where I come to rest
Against the soft and welcome shoulder
of memory.
We were here before.
I can see the footprints we left.
I remember our negotiations
At the vendors’ stalls,
The wonder we shared
As we viewed the distant river,
The town we visited
Where we rode in the ox-cart
And borrowed a guitar
And you sang
So beautifully and bravely
Outside the ruins
Near the hospice
Next to the temple
Where a family is leading their blind grandfather
Around the temple’s circumference by hand
And a group of young men and women eating together
On the temple floor
Invite me to join them
People silently seated in front of statues of the Buddha
Praying, or at least reverential,
While a soldier in uniform
Regards the foreigner engaged with his laptop
With suspicion
As incense is lit
And bells ring
And the spell is broken
By the man pushing the dry mop
Smelling of ammonia
And I shake my head in wonder
Brought back to self-awareness and green,
To monks and the mystery of consciousness
To languages I do not understand
And refracting mirrors embedded in jade
The wonder of memory
The gifts delivered by wise men
Of awe, of gratitude, and love
Here, in the Mandalay Hills.

There was an old laddie who went for a swim
With a winsome young lass who had beckoned him in
“Beckoned?”, you say, why now whose fault is that
The man, the young woman, or the sickly old cat.

Well not “old,” no not really, in old old cat years
But not youthful, or dancing, you bring me to tears.
Now look what you’ve done, gone and lured me again
from the lad, and the beckon, and the where, what, and when.

Oh yes, I remember, we’re talking ’bout “It”
Not the moon, nor the planets, nor the earth where “it” sits.

It’s the “It” that we’re seeking
that funny old noun
not a he or a she
or a pinch or a pound.
Not a boy or a girl
or a smooch or a twirl.

It’s a thing that we’re calling
It’s the itness of “It”
It’s surprising and scary
and givin’ us fits.

It’s delightful, refreshing
It’s charming and gay
Its blessed and soulful
Not gay in that way!
It’s revealing, concealing
It’s funny, it’s sad
It’s the king of all Itness
It’s good and it’s bad.

It’s so good I can tell you
it won’t go away
It’s so bad I can tell you
We’d better not say.

It gambols and gambles
It rambles and roams
It calls us
And mauls us
And shivers
and moans.

Now you’ve got me all dopey
Which doesn’t take much
It’s a song, it’s a prayer
Its a bowl full of mush,
It’s plain and it’s simple
It’s groovy. It’s kind
It’s warm
and it’s nourishing
a thing of the mind.

And the heart and the soul
and the sinew and such
it’s the wish and the promise
the balls and the touch.

Oh, you’ve got it, I take it
this essence of It
the long and the short
and the weak and the fit.
The glory
the gory
the thrill of the ride
the soulful
the doleful
the queen and her pride.

The cats
and the Rats
The considered and ill
the loyal
the foible
the charge and the kill.

Now we’re talkin ’bout It
yes the queen and the king
it’s the aria, the doo wop, the jazz that they sing
it’s the celtic, the redwood,
the worm and the crow,
the whale and tiger
all sing as they go.

They’re searching and lurching
earth spins without stop
and the It keeps on dancing
on the bottom and the top.

Now it’s true you can’t “get” “It”
But it’s easy to “know”
It’s the found, and the promise,
the go and the grow.

It’s the coming and going
The sail on the ship
It’s the me and the you
the old re lation ship

There, I said It
I named it
I called the shot true
In the giving and receiving
In the me and the you
In the pardon
the blessing
the do and the don’t
In the hope and the fear
in the will and the wont.

It’s the “It”
great lord willing
the tall and the small
the snail
and the wail
it is nothing
It’s all.

1 – Charcoal.
The twigs I gather as a girl are consumed, as intended, by fire.
With one partially burned stick I draw lines in the back of the only book we own.
I use the pads of my fingers to spread the charcoal on the page,
Thinning it, stretching it, creating shade and shadow,
Revealing another dimension, like my father’s rage.
At finding the holy book, not meant to be drawn in,
But there was no other paper in the cold cottage outside Warsaw.
Then I drew on the walls, sweeping my arm like tree branches,
Brushing the charcoal in wide arcs to reveal animals running and people in battle.
Mother tried to clean it before he came home, but could not
So she took me into her lap and whispered
I will tell him you will never ever draw again and you mustn’t.
It is the will of God. So I did not. And here I am, one hundred and thirty four years later.

2 – Ink
He was my husband
Before I knew what the word meant
He broke the glass and my hymen
And he loved me, or so he said,
Before I knew what love meant
Before there were children
I went to the mikvah where women bathed and talked
Of blood
And rules
Of inequity and injustice and fate
There were those who accepted everything as the word of God
And those who questioned everything
I told no one that I imagined my blood was ink.

3. Her Ruth
I had no sisters, no teachers, no schools
No mother I knew after age eight
No photographs, and a father more absent than present,
But my mother-in-law took me in as her Ruth
Loved me as her own, talked with me about my husband, her son
Of her wishes for him
And for me
Aided me in my time
Prepared warm cloths to soothe me
Sat behind and held me as I cried in terror and pain
“Mother,” I screamed
“Push child,” she told me
“This is what we do for them. For God.”

4 – Somewhere a Czar
I had his name, his seed, his children
But the Czar wanted his body
Which he yielded reluctantly, leaving for parts unknown.
I was destitute, did not hear from him
Or know of his fortunes for eight months
And then he returned, said he had walked for weeks
Deserted them to find the children and me
We laughed and cried and lay in bed with the boy and girl
Until the soldiers came.
We hid him under the table with the Sabbath cloth pulled down to the floor like a tent
But they shot him anyway, under the table, in front of the children, his mother, his wife
Left him there, his blood seeping into the floorboards
A stain forever

5 – And then America
America is an English word that means,
“And then thy children shall depart from you.”
Leaving the village to take a boat to heaven knows where
To a place called “I shall never see them again”
Even when I get a letter I cannot read
In an alphabet I cannot write in ink or blood.
I am plucking dead chickens to live
I am cold in winter, and immensely alone
But there is bread to eat
And warm water flavored with an onion and chicken feet
To soak it in
And my menses have ceased, and my tears have dried
And across vast salt oceans float my children

6 – I Arrive in the New World.
There is no word for the misery of the crossing
The anxiety, the quarters crowded with sick strangers
An adventure beyond my wildest imaginings on the vastest sea
To leave all that I had, which was nothing
And all that I knew, which was nothing
For something I could not imagine
Because the rabbi’s wife, who never talked to me outside the mikvah
Gave me a piece of paper she said was a ticket paid for by children
Who would meet me on the other side of the World
And although this was impossible I knew
With my three dresses and one pair of shoes
With my 2 undergarments, my shawl, my brass candle sticks
With all that I owned, I stepped across the water.

7 – My Daughter’s Husband
We cried together, we mourned our losses
And then we laughed.
It is all a miracle
She is a mother, with a son, and another on the way
In an apartment, with a husband who is never home
Except to complain how hard his work is, and then to sleep
A good man she tells me
Who never goes to shul
And neither does she
There is no mikvah, and neither can she read
But this thing called a radio speaks in Yiddish
And although nothing makes sense
We are all together

8 – Seven Grandchildren
My seven grandchildren produce five marriages
Ten great grandchildren
The husband is hospitalized
In the East River forever
Three kids go to War
Two become firemen
Another a pilot and policeman
Every child leaves home but one
Who I fear for
Though I have my daughter, and she has me
And we make sweetbread each New Year
And are visited by a great spirit
Wrapped in honey

9 – Great Grandchildren
We visit their grandfather, my son in law
On Welfare Island
Going down a huge freight elevator
From the bridge at 59th Street
My grandson, the fireman, who should have been a rabbi
Takes me and his mother, my daughter, and his sisters
He and the two girls, the loyal ones
I lived with him when his wife was ill
Passed my hands through the Sabbath candle flames
Brought warmth into my eyes and heart
Saved the young boy who knew only criticism and terror
With my shawl and black clunky shoes
With unconditional love and a roll of life savers

10 – The Old Age Home
They speak some other language the people here
And I cannot see them
When they move my form
To sit me up and lay me down
To make my bed with clean sheets
Cool and firm
And the visitors who fall in upon me
Dropped from heaven.
I do not know if I am living or dead
When the fireman places the wet washcloth edges in my mouth so I may suck them
And folds the cloth with love to place it upon my forehead
And gives me my great grandson’s hand
Which by its feel I know him

11 – Reflection
Many years ago I drew the animals in the holy book
I remember everything about them
Except how I knew of them
Or knew of anything outside our hut
What is “know” anyhow
And how do we know it
The great teachings in the Book –
Love the lord
Be kind
Know the rules and never break them.
There was an ark I was told
And inside the ark devoted couples
I knew a man, I was a child

12 – Death
I am ninety two years old they tell me
When they bring me to the party
I have never had a party before
I see only shadows, but hear everything
The rabbi says my name
People are singing
Each one gives me their hand
Which I feel and know
They bend down to kiss me
As I lie perfectly still, cold to their touch
She was a saint the rabbi says
As he places pieces of thick blue glass from a broken bottle
Over the lids of my closed still eyes

13 – After Life
Once more I pass my hands through the flames
Bring the light and the warmth into my eyes with my fingers
Sand passing thru the egg timer
Turned upside down to count again
A grain who understands her purposes
To flow, to rest, to be the tide
Here I am 75 years old in the apartment in the Bronx
Now 50
Now with charcoal staining my fingers
Shading the she wolf and dog
Now inside my mother
As she receives the semen
Now again swimming

the beautiful jumping spider awakens
on the inner side of the south facing window pane
on a warm day in winter
resting on her mullion

on the other side of the glass
between the exterior of the window pane
and the storm window
a much smaller spider
awakens to spin her web

wherever the smaller spider moves
the bigger spider follows
as if magnetized
up and down across the pane
tracking with instant accuracy
but never to meet
the larger inner spider
seems not to understand
the reality of glass and transparency
the smaller outer spider
seems oblivious

the inner spider wants more meaningful contact
whether love or consumption
we do not know
sometimes they are merged
oblivion and hunger
separated by a pane of glass
though unlike these spiders
i am sure of my intentions
and can actually smell you

I called my partner
Sitting alone in her office
Near the sea
And proposed
We chant together
Which we did
My cell phone resting on Alan’s wooden coffin
The speaker on
Joy chanting softly into the phone
Me chanting out loud
Alone in the chapel
wondering what if anything
the body in the box
felt of the vibration
of our hearts
our breaths
and our voices
our prayers
and our intentions.

We live in a small town
Joy and I,
In a small cottage
With a dog
And one mouse
Who – while I was away at the funeral –
Must have been practicing
His high wire act
And had fallen somehow
Straight into the dog’s water bowl
and drowned.

Like the mouse
Alan had known years of high wire balancing
And had fallen off his wire
Only to land miraculously on his feet
Dazed but still breathing
A dozen times
He just kept running
Every time but once.

Two weeks after his death
I sent Alan an email
With Picasso’s line drawing
Of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg –
It was the anniversary of their deaths –
And about the struggle in Palestine –
Which I knew he’d want to hear about
And would have had something to say
That would have helped put my pain
In perspective,
But the email returned,
With a note that read,
“Out of Office,”
Whereupon I noticed my own high wire perch
And losing balance
Fell down praying
As I had
Over Alan’s coffin.