Alouette

An idle thought, a sad reminder, marks
This afternoon, a long and boring one
While I wait for the setting of the sun
(A sunset empty of delight, or sparks),
And try to stop believing that the larks,
With their plucked beaks and tendency to run,
Are after me. I’ve been under the gun,
But only small things bother me, like quarks.

I may be in the dark; I’ve lived too long
Not to appreciate the blissful state
My ignorance has left me in, both late
And soon, getting and spending, right and wrong,
Dispensing with women and wine — not song.
No, I’m still singing at a startling rate.

I Blame the Weather

Rents and disruptions in the atmosphere
Are nothing much compared to my own loss;
Some of the rolling stones have gathered moss
And silent thunder, fog so bright and clear
We shield our eyes, our sorrows sweet and sheer.
Fear warms our hopeful hearts with a cool gloss.
I grimace smartly as I hand across
My calling card, approaching much too near.

I blame the weather, but won’t back away:
We’ll be together some time, I insist,
This tether binding up our fates has kissed
(Light as a feather) our two souls today.
I put on leather and enter the fray:
Whether or not you want to, manage the twist.

Aim for the Neck

Aim for the neck. Once silenced, he won’t speak
And try to ruin everything you planned.
If you miss altogether, he might stand —
Not quite in opposition, but oblique —
Confusing them with Latin, modern Greek,
And mighty Tagalog. Just wound his hand,
No more, and, bellowing to beat the band,
He will oppress you, leave you faint and weak.

But aiming for the neck resolves the matter
(If you don’t count the sanguinary flood),
So do it right, now. This could be a dud;
A fine success; a win; a sour mess flatter
Than a pancake, so ignore the splatter,
Aim for the neck, and then mop up the blood.

This Unpleasing Bauble

I just ran dry this week. I couldn’t think
Of anything, not slowly, not in haste,
Although words may seep from my pores like paste,
Erato sometimes giving me the wink
And bam! A sonnet! Could I use a drink?
No, all I had was absinthe, and one taste
Made me forget pentameter. Disgraced,
I huddled underneath the kitchen sink.

When I came out, I watched the summer sky
And felt my lack of resolution wobble,
Sure that, with good luck, I could somehow cobble
Some verse for you, not aiming very high.
I knew I was only one sonnet shy,
So I concocted this unpleasing bauble.

Watching Jews in the World

We, too, know Nature — mountains, rivers, grass,
The endless sky, the moon, the spirit visions.
We won’t be able to watch four seasons pass
Without encountering untold collisions.
The written record isn’t damning proof
That we can’t feel except down on our knees.
I sat and watched, when I repaired my roof,
The redbirds nesting in the tops of trees.
Nothing in this hard world is too demanding,
Too difficult to fathom. Watch: a man finds
The flora, fauna, and the understanding
Flows from the five senses into our minds.
It’s all in there, so I don’t have to look:
We are the heart, the People of the Book.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is the blot. I am pristine,
Unblemished, unambiguously true
To all my principles and, unlike you,
My soul has never lost that lovely sheen
They leave the factory with. I was sixteen
When I began to comprehend this stew
Of salt and sour, our chains. Without a clue
From anyone, I managed to stay clean.

You must think I’m completely addle-pated,
An innocent, prepared to take a hit
Right through the heart. So sit yourself down. Sit,
And listen to what can’t be overstated:
Forgiveness is distinctly overrated,
And I’m just not inclined to offer it.

Enter the Room

If you enter the room from the southwest,
The sun may be completely hidden, blinding
If you turn around. You must keep minding
Your direction. I’d say north is best,
But that’s just national bias. I’ve confessed
My dark Canadian roots, severe and binding,
How they weave about my stilled feet, winding
Consciously, a sermon and a test.

Inside the room, there’s little unused space:
The plaques for Henry and Elizabeth
(Too many spouses, not enough), and Death
Filling the air with scent. Here is some lace:
When you enter the room, cover your face,
Pretend no time has passed, and hold your breath.

The Kids

I’m not scared any more, since I’ve kept goats
And seen the world’s glow through their slanted eyes,
A sort of amber-coloured light disguise,
With quizzical uncertainty and notes
Of worried bleating from their exposed throats,
Horror and passion, courage and surprise
Producing unexpectedly soft cries.
Who could be frightened, when a full heart floats?

It was an owl that shrieked. I think it was,
I hoped, and prayed it was, an owl that shrieked.
Was I in fact their target, were they piqued
By my not being frightened just because
I love the quiet, unassuming buzz
Of bees, and children young and apple-cheeked?

Lucky

I’ve lost the last of my autonomy,
Which you will notice if you light the lamp
And watch me dancing: I can twirl and stamp,
Reminding you of the taxonomy
Of horses and horse-ploughed agronomy,
But suddenly I’ll bend over with cramp,
Succumbing to the silence and the damp,
And losing what’s left of my bonhomie.

Having been branded as a hopeless case,
I start each morning searching for lost hope
With nothing but dread and a telescope.
The losses mount, the truth is on my face:
I’ve been abandoned by fortune and grace,
Lucky to be merely a misanthrope.

Recipes for Endless War

You’re marching from the river to the sea,
Blithely creating one more Holocaust,
A heady thrill, to drive the enemy
Into the deep salt waters. They are lost.
You will be murdering the children, too:
No one is safe, no one escapes unharmed,
Not dancers, visitors, the clean-up crew,
The unloved, the unwary, the unarmed.
Still, though having been burned by genocide,
No one has earned the privilege to bully,
Too many little children having died.
I’m not sure that you understand this fully.
Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong,
I heard. (Nothing to see here. Move along.)

I Kissed You Once

I kissed you once. It was on New Year’s Eve,
Before midnight. Once midnight finally came
You found yourself addressing an old flame
With much more than enough verve to conceive.
It did occur to me I ought to leave,
But I had almost nothing to my name
And I enjoyed the bubbly, to my shame,
So I allowed myself a brief reprieve.

I wasn’t really tipsy, around two,
When you informed me stoutly you were Mab,
Queen of the Fairies. “Call a taxicab,”
I answered. “I’m tired, and I’m done with you.”
Somebody else gave you a ride. Make do;
I’ve disengaged now, and pulled off the scab.

She Wears the Trousers

She wears the trousers, so I wear a dress:
So silky on my thighs, swivelling free,
Its hem not very far above the knee
But high enough so that she feels the stress
When I forget myself and worry less
Than I ought to about my modesty,
Sitting, my legs apart, too readily
Displaying all my — who would I impress?

But now she’s put on trousers, so my crotch
May be the only power I’ve got left,
My one last place of clear sexual heft,
So yes, I’m hoping that the girls will watch.
I’ll sigh and pour myself a dram of Scotch,
And pray she doesn’t leave my heart bereft.

Never Doubt My Weakness

Insist that I’ve been wasting time, and space,
And never doubt my weakness. I’ve been sitting
With my huge head aching, minding my knitting,
My hands securely covering my face.
As an exemplar of the human race
I hit the low spots, hovering and spitting
In the air. Sure, I am thinking of quitting,
But not to choose some fine and private place.

I’m weak but not an idiot, uncouth
But not a licker of behinds, unjust
But not a chimney sweeper come to dust,
Devoted wholly since my misspent youth
To eating worms: no undue weight on truth,
No chance at love, no brains, no fear, no trust.

Excess of Corn

“Corn is the food of love, hard to resist,”
Begins the botanist. “Please note the genus.
If you should take some ears of corn to Venice
Remind yourself that there may be a twist:
Watch the canals for skulls, and shake your fist
At brainless fate. Remember poor St. Dennis
Who lost his head, ignoring the cruel menace
Of Roman goons who never had been kissed.”

“Corn is a tasty monocotyledon,”
He goes on, darkly. “Learning Botany
Will aid your love lives. I have family
In Uppsala, a holy place in Sweden,
Where Carl Linnaeus’s Garden of Eden
Ensures that every Swedish girl loves me.”

Whom I Adore

Her lips are razor thin, her smile is nasty,
Her attitude is itself cruelty,
Her skin is flaky like a Cornish pasty,
But her nails are everything to me.
She swears exactly like a drunken sailor,
Her greasy hair lies both uncombed and flat,
She’s been at odds with dressmaker and tailor
All through the last six years. Yes, she’s like that.
My arms and back are raw, and badly scarred,
Her bowlegs cry her personality,
She never lets me kiss her — soft or hard —
But I’m safe in my unreality.
Her eyes won’t level, her grip is terrible,
And losing her would be unbearable.