Poem for 3/30/23 - "My brother brought war to our crippled home" by Boris Khersonsky

Published on the website: https://www.wordsforwar.com/

My brother brought war to our crippled home.

by Boris Khersonsky

My brother brought war to our crippled home.
War, a little girl, hair tied in bow — she can barely walk on her own,
my brother says, she can stay with you, we’ll go out, we’ll hit the road,
she’s so little, she can’t keep up, can’t roam around alone!

My brother left, but war stayed, and she really is small.
She tried to help around the house, she swept the floor and all,
but she is sort of weird, she pokes around in the corner,
takes junk out of grandma’s oak chests in no particular order.

At night she’s restless — and we have no peace.
She keeps silent — we’ve had no days worse than these.
The windows are broken. It is too cold to stir.
And my brother still hasn’t come back for her . . .

Translated from the Russian by Olga Livshin and Andrew Janco

Брат привел войну в наш искалеченный дом. . .

Брат привел войну в наш искалеченный дом,
война – это девочка с бантом, ходит с трудом,
брат говорит – пусть у вас поживет, а мы погуляем, пойдем,
она у нас еще маленькая, не мокнуть же ей под дождем!

Брат ушел, а война осталась, и вправду она мала,
хотела помочь в хозяйстве, в кухне пол подмела,
сама какая–то странная, шарится по углам,
из бабушкиных сундуков тащит ненужный хлам.

А ночью не спит – и нам не уснуть вместе с ней.
А днем все молчит – и не было здесь печальнее дней.
Выбиты в окнах стекла, Выстужено жилье.
И брат все никак не придет, чтоб увести ее...

(July 2014)

BORIS KHERSONSKY

Boris Khersonsky was born in Chernivtsi in 1950. He studied medicine in Ivano-Frankivsk and Odessa. He initially worked as a neurologist, before becoming a psychologist and psychiatrist at the Odessa regional psychiatric hospital. In 1996 Khersonsky took on an appointment at the department of psychology at Odessa National University, before becoming chair of the department of clinical psychology in 1999. In the Soviet times, Khersonsky was part of the Samizdat movement, which disseminated alternative, nonconformist literature through unofficial channels. Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, Khersonsky came out with seventeen collections of poetry and essays in Russian, and most recently, in Ukrainian. Widely regarded as one of Ukraine’s most prominent Russian-language poets, Khersonsky was the poet laureate of the Kyiv Laurels Poetry Festival (2008) and the recipient of the Brodsky Stipend (2008), the Jury Special Prize at the Literaris Festival for East European Literature (2010), and the Russian Prize (2011).

июль 2014

Poem for 3/29/23 - Note to Self Work by Beau Sia

 

Note to Self Work

Beau Sia 

get there before sundown.

feed yourself 
only with what nurtures. 

let the process of shedding 
be joyous in its eternity. 

create and call it creation. 

tell lashing out that 
it isn’t worthy of your song. 

beat the drum
instead of yourself. 

beat the drum when hands 
want to become fists. 

beat the drum to get 
beneath the surface. 

jump off the bed. 
welcome waves in the tub. 
cook as if dancing. 

be a metaphor
when literal is too much. 

cry into your journal
as if it is rising’s way. 

praise into your journal 
like you ain’t apologizing 
to no one for shine. 

claim into your journal, 
for there’s no need 
to die waiting. 

be too vibrant for lingering
on those who neglect. 

too awww 
to keep treating yourself 
so poorly. 

be more than knowing. 

in case you need encouragement, 
I’mma share 
that memory 
you tucked away, 

scared you’d be laughed at 
trying for more than 
drowning spectacularly. 

that shows you beyond 
the bad beats. 

who you were before 
that season you’ve forgotten. 

to remind 
that every victory counts
and that you’re 
one step closer today. 

From Well Played (Not a Cult, 2020) by Beau Sia. Copyright © 2020 by Beau Sia. Used with the permission of the publisher.

Poem for 3/28/23 - The Red Cow Is Dead by E.B. White

                     

E.B. White and his dachshund Minnie contemplate the death of the Red Cow.

                      The Red Cow Is Dead

by E.B. White

Isle of Wight (AP) -- Sir Hanson Rowbotham's favorite Red Polled cow is dead. Grazing in the lush pastures of the Wellow Farm, she was bitten on the udder by an adder. -- The Herald Tribune.

Toll the bell, fellow,

This is a sad day at Wellow:

Sir Hanson's cow is dead,

His red cow,

Bitten on the udder by an adder.

Spread the bad news! What is more sudden, 

What sadder than udder stung by adder?

He's never been madder, Sir Hanson Rowbotham.

The Red Polled cow is dead.

The grass was lush at very last, 

And the snake (a low sneak)

Passed, hissed, 

Struck.

Now a shadow goes across the meadow,

Wellow lies fallow.

The red cow is dead, and the stories go round.

"Bit in the teat by a dog in a fit."

"A serpent took Sir Hanson's cow--

A terrible loss, a king's ransom."

A blight has hit Wight:

The lush grass, the forked lash, the quick gash 

Of adder, torn bleeding udder,

The cow laid low,

The polled cow dead, the bell not yet tolled 

(A sad day at Wellow), 

Sir Hanson's cow,

Never again to freshen, never again

Bellow with passion

A ruminant in death's covenant,

Smitten, bitten, gone.

Toll the bell, young fellow! (1946)

Poems for 3/27/23 - Two Poems from If I Were Going to Stay by Jeanne Guillemin

Two Poems from If I Were Going to Stay

 Jeanne Guillemin

Jeanne Guillemin was an eminent American anthropologist and, more important for me, the grandmother of one of my daughter's best friends (the entire family is important to us). I had the honor of officiating at Jeanne's funeral (a good story, by the way) and was invited to a recent gathering of family and friends to celebrate the publication of a volume of her poetry. No one besides Jeanne herself knew she wrote poetry, but among her final instructions to her family was to locate, organize, and publish the poems she wrote for herself between the early 70s and her death in 2019 (click here for her obituary)

At the gathering, we were each asked to choose a poem to read. The first poem here is the one I chose. Since there were poems in other registers, I chose a second one for this blog. If you're interested in seeing more, the book is available through the publisher. Amazon also has the book, with the Foreword, which explains the book's path to publication.

Broken in so many places

Life can be like that, suddenly

 in a quiet space, if you can find it, 

the fractures and fissures make themselves

known, having been silent, having held

their peace, as if you were intact, 

merely shaken, not broken.

An intrusion of music, maybe a rapturous aria, 

an adio by a doomed Butterfly or entombed Radames, 

voices that are logarithms of fatal pain

as it is being absorbed, and 

you feel every penetrating loss

that eluded the standard rituals, those crutches 

of banality handed out at funerals or after 

the shooting or car crash or the empty house, 

when our speechless hearts break and break.

Persuasion

When I call rejoice and rise up, 

you wild Isaiahs, will 

these isolated sensibilities

turn, culminate? I have 

cast off the anguish that 

tore, made me a red flower, 

the strength of my children's 

virtue renewed: I touch it 

and am saved. This living light is 

everywhere, on the salt-bitter 

sea, on the honey clover, in 

all journeys comes the radiance.

Are you willing?

Have you waited for the day?

Parthenia!

The hyacinthine egg is burst!

We are at last the colors of love 

and we shall sing together.

November 11, 1983

Poems for 3/20/22 - Birthday by Ana Božičević and San Diego Serenade by Tom Waits

Thanks to Ammi Kohn for suggesting this poem. The litany of clichés transformed reminded me of an old Tom Waits song that also suggests that vision and emotion can reinvest the quotidian with meaning. I've appended the lyrics along with two links to him singing it in different versions...

Birthday

By Ana Božičević

If the sky is such a cliché
Why is it falling?

If the tree is such a cliché,
Why is it dying

If soul is such a cliché
Where is it hiding

If love is such a cliché
Why isn’t there enough to go around.

For my part
I can’t get enough of the sky.

For my part, I can’t wait
For those leaves to come back.

For my party
I am inviting the clown Love

For my birthday I want a cake
Revealing the color of my soul.

---

Ana Božičević grew up in Zadar, Croatia, before coming to the United States. Her latest book, “New Life,” from which this poem is taken, will be published by Wave Books in April.

San Diego Serenade (1974)

by Tom Waits (Click for Live Performance; Studio Version)

I never saw the morning 'til I stayed up all night
I never saw the sunshine 'til you turned out the light
I never saw my hometown until I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody until I needed a song

I never saw the white line, 'til I was leaving you behind
I never knew I needed you until I was caught up in a bind
I never spoke "I love you" 'til I cursed you in vain
I never felt my heartstrings until I nearly went insane

I never saw the east coast until I moved to the west
I never saw the moonlight until it shone off of your breast
I never saw your heart until someone tried to steal, tried to steal it away
I never saw your tears until they rolled down your face

I never saw the morning 'til I stayed up all night
I never saw the sunshine 'til you turned out your love light, baby
I never saw my hometown until I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody until I needed the song

Poem for 3/8/23 - [Dog Is a Way of Thinking] by Magdalena Zurawski

 

[Dog Is a Way of Thinking] (from the NY Times Magazine)

By Magdalena Zurawski

My language, which likes
to prove I am not

alone, wants
to talk to me again
today. It’s

telling me, Don’t
forget: you want
to be less like Homer and
not at all like Milton, but
more like your dog. Your
dog, my language
says, knows things are
there, doesn’t want
blindness to see
a world, only a nose
to know what’s
knocking now, who’s on
her way home. There’s
no yesterday.

Your dog, if he could
talk, my language tells
me, would, every
day, like a radio,
catch an air wave and
say, “Today. ... ”

Poem for 3/7/23 - Bears by Adrienne Cecile Rich

Bears

by Adrienne Cecile Rich

Wonderful bears that walked my room all night,
Where have you gone, your sleek and fairy fur,
Your eyes' veiled and imperious light?

Brown bears as rich as mocha or as musk,
White opalescent bears whose fur stood out
Electric in the deepening dusk,

And great black bears that seemed more blue than black,
More violet than blue against the dark­ ­—
Where are you now? Upon what track

Mutter your muffled paws that used to tread
So softly, surely, up the creakless stair
While I lay listening in bed?

When did I lose you? Whose have you become?
Why do I wait and wait and never hear
Your thick nocturnal pacing in my room?
My bears, who keeps you now, in pride and fear?

Poem for 3/2/23 - They tear down my family home by Iman Mersal

Thank you to Michal Goldman for turning me on to Iman Mersal's poetry. I was able to attend a reading at Brookline Booksmith last week, at which Iman read this poem in Arabic, followed by a friend who read the translation by Robin Creswell.

They tear down my family home

by Iman Mersal, translated by Robin Creswell

As if sledgehammers weren't enough
the demolition men use their hands

to tear down the window jinn used to flit through 

and with a kick the back door is gone. Its memory is gone.

Underfoot I feel the remains of the sugarloaves, oranges, and mangoes

our furtive visitors hid under their black shawls.

They would come after evening prayer, the hems of their long gallabiyas

brushing across the threshold of the back door, 

a door of gifts and sorceresses, now a door to nowhere.

The roof that never protected my childhood from the delta rains 

has reverted to its old self--a few trees you can count on one hand.

Now they're tearing down her old bedroom, casting into the air 

strands of her still-wet hair, hair that flies up from the cracks 

of earthen walls about to become clods of dirt, 

as if no one had ever rested their back there.

Did my mother bathe before bed or at dawn?

Did she pull her hair from the comb's teeth to ward off 

the evil eye, or fire, or the stratagems of neighbors?

My mother's hair slips away like a gift, or retribution.

What ties me to her now?

I donated her dresses to charity because they didn't fit me.

If we met, I'd be her older sister.

What ties me to her now?

Her womb is with her in the ground--there 

under the camphor tree, where early death is close enough to touch with your hand.

Poem for 3/1/23 - [love is more thicker than forget] by e. e. cummings

[love is more thicker than forget]

by e. e. cummings

love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly

and less it shall unbe

than all the sea which only

is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win

less never than alive

less bigger than the least begin

less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly

and more it cannot die

than all the sky which only

is higher than the sky

E.E. Cummings, “[love is more thicker than forget]” from Complete Poems 1904-1962, edited by George J