Good morning, good day, and goodbye! Here is the last offering of our 11 dedicated poets on this our 30th day of "30 Poems in 30 Days" in support of the family in residence at the First Congregational Church's sanctuary, supported by the Ithaca Sanctuary Alliance. We have offered these poems with love and much hope for a better future in which we finally defeat white supremacy, outrageous levels of wealth inequality, war, and the inhumanity that fuels all of the above. As Jews say, "Shanah Tovah v'Tikatavu" (May you have) a happy and sweet new year! If you have not already donated to this fundraiser, and have the extra income to do so, please check out our GOFUNDME site at: https://www.gofundme.com/f/30-poems-in-30-days-for-ithaca-sanctuary-alliance
DAY 30
On turning Off the Debate SUSAN ESCHBACH
spewing lies
vitriol, denigration
shameless disregard
indecent
while wielding, or hoping
to wield
boundless power
somehow in his
rotted morality
a mirror, some
toxic tenacious treatise
on the human condition
in the spaces virus grows
in festering hate
a reflection of a people
who want….what?
a law? a right? a write –off?—ok sure
but under this,
a fevered decay.
And I am ever stunned, enraged, paralyzed
and I write , shout, vote
wondering if this is mere salve that
cannot affect healing
wondering, what the hell happened?
Sometimes, Silliness is the Only Response BARBARA REGENSPAN
I, with my lifelong faith in education, couldn’t watch either, Susan.
There were cracks all along, when I’m honest—
the fraternity boys who complained to the dean
when I named governmental response to Katrina
a genocide.
When the eleventh grader in my best student teacher’s class
said, “But isn’t it true that Hitler didn’t get to play out his vision?
Maybe he wasn’t given a chance.”
When the Mexican asylee explained why the village could
not accept the safer stoves, and the hockey star said,
“Some people are just stupid. We have to accept that.”
When a brilliant black student explained why there were no
“good” slavemasters, and the fifth grader said, “But my dad
says some dummies like me were born to be slaves.”
Buddhism floats acceptance; Judaism demands a week
of joy following the “Days of Awe.” And I am one who
returns to Judaism when it suits me.
So I choose laughter, and a ridiculous few lines from The
New York Times I found once before, on November 20,
when out of words, in my first “30 Poems…” adventure—
and here, narcissistic enough to quote myself, I give you
what they would have called “a found poem” in the MFA program
I never finished:
Love Poem Found in Today’s New York Times
There are certain days on Capitol Hill
when things take on an extra crackle.
Photographers jockey—a little more frantic
staff members speak in heightened whispers—
something momentous is about to drop.
A person who knew he was saving himself—
a muddled figure in this story
could bring shared clarity to this matter:
“I remember the first girl I kissed,” he said.
Reviewing the Introduction to a Rosh Hashanah Sermon on the Morning After the Non-debate
RH Morning 5781 2020 DAVID REGENSPAN
Some of you may remember the early years of Saturday Night Live, when the late great Gilda Radner was in the cast and played many characters in her sketches. One of these characters was Emily Litella, a well-meaning news commentator who was hard of hearing. She would provide a commentary on an aspect of the affairs of the day and inevitably get it wrong by hearing something other than what was being spoken of. “What’s this I hear about” or “What’s all this fuss about” she would begin, and then launch into her topic. It might be “Soviet Jewelry”, or “the deaf penalty”, or “violins on television” or “firing the handicapped.” She would launch into an impassioned speech about why such things were ridiculous or unfair—why shouldn’t we have violins on television? Aren’t they good for teaching music appreciation to children?—until somebody would stop and correct her: “That’s violence on television; that’s Soviet Jewry”; “that’s the death penalty”; that’s “hiring the handicapped”. She would then smile and say, “Well, that’s a very different matter. Never mind.”
Today on ראש השנה, we all admit to being Emily Litella. We think we hear, but we do not. During the year we hear anger in someone’s voice, and do not realize that what we are really hearing is fear. We hear someone being arrogant or aloof, when what we are really hearing is shyness. We hear opinions that we regard as noxious and unworthy of being considered, when what we are really hearing is a cry for help or attention. Sometimes we think we hear nothing at all, when what we be should hearing is a faint sob of despair…
Reply to Emily Dickinson poem 315 Martin Bidney
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on –
He stuns you by degrees –
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers – further heard –
Then nearer – Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten –
Your brain – to bubble Cool –
Deals – One – imperial – Thunderbolt –
Then scalps your naked Soul –
When Winds take Forests in their Paws –
The Universe – is still –
Arising – in her chamber –
White, claustral – filmy dress –
An autumn tree enwhirled in leaves –
Though calmly combed each tress –
There is an alien flaming –
Unsteady – in the eye –
’Mid the invisible simoom
A huge and silent cry –
O god – and – edged in lightning –
So – awful – to await –
It hovers in a thundercloud
Enthroned in solemn state –
The heightened blood – and breathing –
The shaking of the pane –
EXPECTING WINTER Susan Weitz
The wild geese drawing arrowheads,
the balding oaks,
the coats retrieved,
the gardens abandoned.
The food bank lines,
the unschooled children,
the invisible millions dying,
the wind crying.
The shrinking daylight,
the growing gunfire,
the wild geese vanishing,
expecting winter.
Senescence Joanna Green
Three mangoes lie in a bowl
On my kitchen counter.
The bowl is from Provence
In cheery yellows, blues and green
And glows like a vineyard in the sun.
But the mangoes are dark
And swollen like rainclouds.
A good mango ripens like slow-breaking dawn,
Mute green to raucous gold and crimson, dripping with lust.
But these November mangoes will
Never know such pleasures.
They lie stillborn and cold against a
False promise of the sun,
Already old.
Anticipation. Carol Whitlow
waiting for a thing
both dreaded and expected,
cautiously hopeful,
expecting reassurance
anticipating relief
Remember to breathe -
to eat – to sleep – to build the fire
Until once again those things are done with joy,
Now we do them from a deeper place
One of faith and conviction.
From the Illustrated Field Guide FRAN MARKOVER
Markings are pedestrian by cardinal standards
The sparrows nicknamed little brown jobs
They are not robed for vespers, not stunning stars
even though their concert must begin at twilight
No soloists perform, just a choir, different sizes
Melospiza melodias not etched in bronze
but drawn so exactly in muted tans and gray
that painted branches sway with song, with
tchipping and sweetsweets fo
tired after a day's work, at home, light settling
onto eaves, over grillwork while canorous vines
tremble somewhere en masse, grace notes
that could waft from grids of brick and stone
This is what I picture when I turn the page:
the day lifting, the air darkening with feathers
A staff of wings
UNTITLED SANTIAGO RODRIGUEZ
Me acuerdo de mi primo, en paz descanse, y me acuerdo de su abuela. Y de estar en su casa, con mi primo, esperando a que algo pasara.
Y el viento soplaba. Y se oía como si estuviera granizando, pero eran las nueces cayendo del árbol en el techo.
Y cuando ya todo estaba más tranquilo, subíamos mi primo y yo a recoger las nueces.
Era un reto; tronar la nuez y sacarla perfecta de su cáscara, pero no importaba mucho porque mientras lo intentabas, te ibas comiendo nueces en pedacitos.
Y era una tarde mágica en la que nos llovían las nueces.
Qué bonito es tener un nogal.
