Transformations

TRANSFORMATIONS
—Thomas Hardy

Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew,
Bosomed here at its foot:
This branch may be his wife,
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot.

These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century, for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I often tried to know
May be entering this rose.

So, they are not underground,
But as nerves and veins abound
In the growths of upper air,
And they feel the sun and rain,
And the energy again
That made them what they were!

____________________

Regretfully, Sacramento poet Anatole Lubovich passed away this week, following heart surgery. Anatole moved here from the Bay Area several years ago; he has maintained ties to friends and poets in that area, as well as forming new friendships here. He will be missed at the Hart Center Tuesday Night Workshop, as well as at Ina Coolbrith Circle events, where he usually won prizes for his skillful wit and smooth use of the rhythm of words—a facility which he also expressed in his many light-opera performances onstage. He and I shared a love of Gilbert and Sullivan; our last conversation, in fact, was about how appropos some of the political commentary of HMS Pinafore remains today.

Anatole was also a frequent contributor to Rattlesnake Review. I don't think he would mind if I published some of his poems here today. The first appeared in our very first issue:


GRAY HEREAFTER EVERAFTER
—Anatole Lubovich

Some, with rapturous visions of postmortem vacations,
Hope to catch God's attention by self-flagellations.

While mouthing high praise for His bounty—it's funny—
They insult Him by spurning His wine, milk and honey.

No wings, harps or haloes, or heavenly robes
Await these ascetics and hedonophobes.

The just disappointment they'll meet after death
Will eternally reek from their pious gray breath.

_______________________

PROPER PLACE
—Anatole Lubovich

When one says something tongue-in-cheek,
Then squints his eyes and makes a face,
I think, what's odd 'bout tongue in cheek?
It seems to be its proper place.

_______________________

And then there was the Limerick Olympiad, where he and Mabel Mello faced off in Issue #3:

There was once a young chieftain of Gypsies,
Who insisted his love was for keepsies,
But divorce court's inquiry
Subpoenaed his diary,
Which was dotted with rows of ... ...

_______________________

Rest, Anatole. Our community has lost one of its own.

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)