{"id":86,"date":"2014-05-13T20:50:56","date_gmt":"2014-05-13T20:50:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/?page_id=86"},"modified":"2018-01-25T03:48:01","modified_gmt":"2018-01-25T03:48:01","slug":"poetry","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/?page_id=86","title":{"rendered":"Poetry"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"IMG_3153\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

THROUGH WINTER’S VEIL<\/p>\n

In the snowbound world
\nlifted off its tracks
\nin a windy Nor’easter years ago<\/p>\n

my girl burst in the door
\nfresh from the mall,
\nface aglow. She couldn’t<\/p>\n

wait to show it – the tiny
\nlittle thing of lace,
\nstrapless, backless<\/p>\n

with a tulle, tutu skirt
\nall pale and blushing
\nlike a rose.<\/p>\n

Who am I to tamp down
\nanyone’s ecstasy – but really?
\nThe lace we were watching<\/p>\n

had piled up to ten inches
\nwrapping cars and ground;
\nand that path I’d shoveled…<\/p>\n

But oh, that spring dance –
\nit was 7th, 8th grade – so
\nfluttery, buttery –<\/p>\n

The howling winds,
\nits frosty cheeks, pursed lips
\nkissed the innocence<\/p>\n

a whisper tucked in its bluster.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>Loose Lines, Winter Storm<\/strong><\/p>\n

The snow is slicing at itself at three angles, like three samurai. Fascinated, the train conductor stops to watch.<\/p>\n

A sickly green light, absinthe tint, is stuck in the globe of a streetlight.<\/p>\n

A white lacquered ladder leans against a milk factory, in the corner.<\/p>\n

In our all-white winter circus, trapeze artists will walk on lines of charcoal.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The winter day, shiny as a tin can<\/p>\n

Transparent as aerosol<\/p>\n

Medicinal, flat on the tongue<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

How I Learned to Love the Bomb Cyclone or The Shape of Snow<\/strong><\/p>\n

Needlepoint of snow in the streetlight
\ncross stitches in the gusting wind.<\/p>\n

Cars begin to disappear, the nearby elms
\nfade in the distance.<\/p>\n

By the shore, four sharks roll up,
\nbone dead, though a dog learns
\nto amuse himself with a hill and a sled.<\/p>\n

Warm inside, a fire rages like twin sisters,
\none blond tresses, the other red-headed.<\/p>\n

The fire in the fireplace begins to die.
\n\u201cI\u2019ll always love you!\u201d\u00a0shouts the child.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>In Autumn’s Vase<\/strong><\/p>\n

Glass so thin today,
\nwe in the lower bowl
\nare swelled by light and air,
\nclear atmosphere, brilliantly
\ntinted by elm trees
\na hundred feet above our heads<\/p>\n

The yellow jazzes
\neven if it’s November’s hour glass;
\nthen sands ting and settle,
\nour limbs replete, filled.
\nShift your excellent body under mine:
\nthe hour glass flips again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Thanks to C.D. Wright for the “excellent” line.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In Crisis: Poignancy<\/b><\/p>\n

Attempt emergency resuscitation:
\nit lays on a pyre of fighting words,
\ngasping and fluttering.<\/p>\n

The lilting head of a blue hydrangea
\nthick and petalled, thinking.<\/p>\n

Even brooding is old-fashioned.<\/p>\n

Bludgeon me with your compassion.<\/p>\n

Shout it till you\u2019re blue in the face: I love you, stupid!<\/p>\n

Let Me Be Clear as a coffin lid.<\/p>\n

Brood your way through the American spirit
\nback to the Scarlet Letter.<\/p>\n

Let\u2019s define terms first:\u00a0 \u201cwe\u201d\u00a0 \u201cwho\u201d\u00a0 \u201care\u201d<\/p>\n

Hips still thin as pencil stubs,\u00a0blonde cascading hair
\ndirty school girl look<\/p>\n

What creature wouldn’t want to jump them<\/p>\n

old as day<\/p>\n

the Bible’s full of it<\/p>\n

Let’s all have another cup.<\/p>\n

The word ex-patriot makes me blue.<\/p>\n

I’m in exile from being an ex-pat.<\/p>\n

Singing is a celebration of oxygen.<\/p>\n

The celebration of oxygen is every artist’s charge.<\/p>\n

If there’s one thing you do, celebrate oxygen!<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The RITES OF MAY<\/strong>
\nto Don DeLillo<\/p>\n

The tail end of a violent semester
\nparents rush in with their Suburbans
\na mixed bag of doubled emotions<\/p>\n

Living next to Brown I see
\nthe flying styrofoam pitched by mother
\nin a pique of anger.\u00a0 The Chinese doctor<\/p>\n

beside her fares no better, Pacman
\nmattress strapped onto his New York beemer.
\nBattered chairs, resculpted fans<\/p>\n

twisted bike frames blind, without eyes
\ncrutches,\u00a0messy Amazon boxes; wait –
\nIs this Lourdes?\u00a0 Against a wall
\nheaps of discarded crutches – the plagued can walk!<\/p>\n

Oh, the disarray of time, the leap
\nfrom melancholy autumn, sentimental
\ngoodbyes amidst the burnished elms.<\/p>\n

Separation then seemed so stark; turns out
\n(frat boys belch while pretending to help)
\nshedding wasn’t forever.<\/p>\n

Relief!\u00a0 My own sassy, long-haired girls
\nare heading home – and with curated
\ntransition will settle in.<\/p>\n

It isn’t “Sunrise, Sunset” which I played
\non the black and white upright at nine
\nfeeling sorry for the parents bereft<\/p>\n

It’s refeathering – the kids are moving
\nback in.<\/p>\n

The Enlightened<\/strong><\/p>\n

Are flushing out darkness.
\nThey have reasoned down
\nthe dome of the sky.
\nThere is only starry light, not starry
\nnight. Eyes refuse to close,
\nwe are a dreamless troubled lot.<\/p>\n

Our nerves catch every
\nmorsel of bread tossed to us,
\nsick from being overfed.
\nYet we are starving, hungry still.<\/p>\n

Love me in the cellar
\nbehind the stairs.
\nBurrow deep so I may remember
\nthe questing of bells, the touch of my
\nown hand.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>January 20, 2017<\/strong><\/p>\n

Something is happening back in Washington,
\nthough we are 40,000 feet above the Mediterranean.
\nWe are rising high, the scalloped
\nedge of the Holy Land a mere hem below,
\nthrough unraveling skeins of clouds,
\nthe hush unearthly.<\/p>\n

It is 18:30, late day rays spreading,
\njust another day ending.\u00a0 Look! – I gasp –
\nthe liquid fuchsia in the
\nuntouchable distance<\/p>\n

(while seven hours back, he
\nis laying his small hand on his family Bible)<\/p>\n

That red lake of light pooled in the clouds!
\nClearly not the devil\u2019s stirring pot –
\ntoo beautiful.\u00a0 No sinners turned upside down
\nno naked bodies skinned
\nalthough we don\u2019t have our binoculars handy.<\/p>\n

18:45; 19:00.\u00a0 The tide is turning.
\nHe wrests the podium.\u00a0 Fans are
\nmagnified in his mind.\u00a0 Although we are in
\nLebanese airspace, soon over Turkey, we can
\npractically see the spottiness of the crowd.<\/p>\n

In Rome, the Tiber is misting moodily,
\nParis birds are skittering gaily
\nin the frozen fountains of the Tuilleries.
\nNo matter where we are
\n(40,000 feet above the Mediterranean),
\nthe world is spinning madly.<\/p>\n

Le Soir<\/strong><\/p>\n

The crickets chant
\nan endless round<\/p>\n

soft, softer still
\nthey melt and falter<\/p>\n

you can hardly
\nhear their dervish call<\/p>\n

a distant planet
\na rubbed-out moon<\/p>\n

they woo my heart
\nas big as the abyss<\/p>\n

they sing without a sound
\nbeyond the open door<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ode to a Cold<\/strong><\/p>\n

Cold of the ancients! My head
\nIs a stone. O sun, the fog is lifting.
\nBring me some lightness and
\nPatience.<\/p>\n

Streams of the healthy rush
\nTo jobs in cities. \u00a0My labor is breathing
\nAnd easing the drip. \u00a0Curtains
\nOf it slip.<\/p>\n

When I talk, no one hears,
\nAnd when they talk, I can\u2019t hear.
\nOpacity! Tea,
\nMore tea.<\/p>\n

Steaming water: a bath to
\nBreathe into. \u00a0Muscles give way
\nTo grapefuit and citrus
\nAnd eucalyptus.<\/p>\n

I bow, bow to clouds,
\nTo shreds of cirrus as naturally
\nMy viscosity gives way
\nTo bliss.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Riffing with My Daughters after the\u00a0<\/strong>Sharansky-Douglas Show<\/strong><\/p>\n

One evening after seeing Natan Sharansky,
\nI was telling my girls who he was when he was
\nfamous, brilliant, mythic, admired.
\nWe were drinking tea, it was late.<\/h4>\n

But the excitement of the day \u2013 rushing
\ntowards an illegal spot, jostling the crowd,
\nseeing Michael Douglas \u2013 a thrill even if it
\nwas a bit of a horse and pony show \u2013<\/h4>\n

must have made me ditzy. Not to mention
\nthe absurdity of protests\u2013 a couple of old
\nJews sitting around kibitzing?
\nPolice with guns had been called in.<\/h4>\n

So I told them,\u00a0When Natan was finally released
\n<\/em>from prison, about to board a plane,
\n<\/em>he sat down, refusing to move.
\n<\/em>The Soviets wouldn\u2019t give him back his book of palms.<\/em><\/h4>\n

Palms?<\/em>\u00a0I\u2019d been mixing up words a lot.
\nWe howled. I\u2019d meant\u00a0psalms,<\/em>\u00a0ones that he\u2019d
\nread over and over during those nine dark
\nyears of being a refusnik.<\/h4>\n

We laughed harder about my
\nmistake, knowing that the book he\u2019d held in his hands
\nhad become part of his body, the front and back
\ncovers like left and right hand.<\/h4>\n

Or the reverse: his thin body had become part
\nof the book. Open-hearted, open-palmed like an
\neternal harp song.\u00a0\u00a0 He\u2019d become free;
\nprison was merely an encumbrance.<\/h4>\n

Mandelshtam wrote, You left me my lips,
\nand they shape words, even in silence.<\/h4>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    THROUGH WINTER’S VEIL In the snowbound world lifted off its tracks in a windy Nor’easter years ago my girl burst in the door fresh from the mall, face aglow. She couldn’t wait to show it – the tiny … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-86","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P4D5qU-1o","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/86","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=86"}],"version-history":[{"count":19,"href":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/86\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1633,"href":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/86\/revisions\/1633"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.jillpearlman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=86"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}