—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
BROOKLYN
Barry brought me a record
and asked me to play it for him.
I put it on the turntable.
Dad's scratchy old phonograph,
it was all we had then.
The singer's voice was familiar,
warm, sincere, expressive.
I didn't understand the words,
which were in Yiddish, yet
I knew what he was feeling.
His plaintiff, melancholy
baritone voice, rich as a
heart held out in his hands,
an offering to us, recounted
his love for his homeland,
of a town and a life among people
like him. He knew them well.
They were his own. He was content.
He was comfortable there.
It was a life he would never know again.
I looked at Barry, both of us
sad and serious, then
simultaneously smiling.
Neither of us needed to say a word.
We were remembering our Brooklyn.
Barry brought me a record
and asked me to play it for him.
I put it on the turntable.
Dad's scratchy old phonograph,
it was all we had then.
The singer's voice was familiar,
warm, sincere, expressive.
I didn't understand the words,
which were in Yiddish, yet
I knew what he was feeling.
His plaintiff, melancholy
baritone voice, rich as a
heart held out in his hands,
an offering to us, recounted
his love for his homeland,
of a town and a life among people
like him. He knew them well.
They were his own. He was content.
He was comfortable there.
It was a life he would never know again.
I looked at Barry, both of us
sad and serious, then
simultaneously smiling.
Neither of us needed to say a word.
We were remembering our Brooklyn.
MILLER AVENUE MELEE
I
"Agh, agh, agh!"
Jake Kramp is carrying a fruit crate
on one shoulder, on this morning.
"Go, you're all right! Go!
His wife Selma navigates.
"Agh, whew."
It's right under my bedroom window.
Jake enters the store,
walking backwards.
Crack, crunch.
"Stupid!" Selma yells.
"Turn around!"
The top of the crate gets smashed,
as it hits the doorframe.
Plop, plop, plop, plop,
oranges falling, rolling
into the street.
Jake drops the crate. Crash!
"Whew! Damn thing is too heavy!
Why didn't you tell me
it was gonna hit the frame?"
"You're an idiot, Jake!"
She shoves him in the chest.
He stumbles, but
regains his footing,
"Selma, you bitch! You dumbass!"
He moves toward her,
"I ought to ...", and he stops.
II
"Free oranges!"
Stanley screams
from across the street.
Three boys come running
to get as many oranges as they can carry.
Screech! A Chevy has just turned
onto Miller Avenue.
It stops short
of mowing Stanley and Buddy down.
The driver rushes out.
He grabs Buddy, shaking him,
"What the Hell is wrong with you kids?"
Selma dashes from the store,
armed with a sack of potatoes.
She swings it, and
whack! It bounces off Stanley's behind.
Stanley takes off, flying.
He falls toward the tarmac,
landing on Jake's back.
Jake had been bent over,
picking up oranges.
III
I close my window.
Squeak, squeak, smack.
"Linda," my mother calls
from the kitchen,
"remind me to get your father
to oil that window.
It's much too noisy."
I
"Agh, agh, agh!"
Jake Kramp is carrying a fruit crate
on one shoulder, on this morning.
"Go, you're all right! Go!
His wife Selma navigates.
"Agh, whew."
It's right under my bedroom window.
Jake enters the store,
walking backwards.
Crack, crunch.
"Stupid!" Selma yells.
"Turn around!"
The top of the crate gets smashed,
as it hits the doorframe.
Plop, plop, plop, plop,
oranges falling, rolling
into the street.
Jake drops the crate. Crash!
"Whew! Damn thing is too heavy!
Why didn't you tell me
it was gonna hit the frame?"
"You're an idiot, Jake!"
She shoves him in the chest.
He stumbles, but
regains his footing,
"Selma, you bitch! You dumbass!"
He moves toward her,
"I ought to ...", and he stops.
II
"Free oranges!"
Stanley screams
from across the street.
Three boys come running
to get as many oranges as they can carry.
Screech! A Chevy has just turned
onto Miller Avenue.
It stops short
of mowing Stanley and Buddy down.
The driver rushes out.
He grabs Buddy, shaking him,
"What the Hell is wrong with you kids?"
Selma dashes from the store,
armed with a sack of potatoes.
She swings it, and
whack! It bounces off Stanley's behind.
Stanley takes off, flying.
He falls toward the tarmac,
landing on Jake's back.
Jake had been bent over,
picking up oranges.
III
I close my window.
Squeak, squeak, smack.
"Linda," my mother calls
from the kitchen,
"remind me to get your father
to oil that window.
It's much too noisy."
PHOBIAS AREN’T PHUNNY
How do I explain a phobia?
I have two. They stem from
childhood experiences.
I've lived with them for a long time.
I am comfortable with them.
They are part of me and I have no desire
to be cured.
One is a fear of heights and falling.
I believe this is fairly common.
Mine began at the age of ten when
my family climbed a jagged mountain
behind Palisades Amusement Park,
at my father's insistence, to avoid
paying the price of admission.
We made it, but not without hardship.
There was slipping, screaming,
crying, and pleading. No enjoyment of the park
was had when we finally scaled a fence unseen.
Reinforcement of this fear later, through an
incident where I fell off the back of a school bus,
cemented my acrophobia forever.
My other phobia is a fear of cats. More accurately,
it is revulsion, a little harder to understand or relate to
for most people, including myself, because I once
loved them, and even believe that I possess similarities to cats.
This phobia also began and was reinforced by two childhood
occurrences and a story of my father's guilt
from being persuaded, by some boys, to kill a cat.
His subsequent phobia led to mine.
How do I explain a phobia?
I have two. They stem from
childhood experiences.
I've lived with them for a long time.
I am comfortable with them.
They are part of me and I have no desire
to be cured.
One is a fear of heights and falling.
I believe this is fairly common.
Mine began at the age of ten when
my family climbed a jagged mountain
behind Palisades Amusement Park,
at my father's insistence, to avoid
paying the price of admission.
We made it, but not without hardship.
There was slipping, screaming,
crying, and pleading. No enjoyment of the park
was had when we finally scaled a fence unseen.
Reinforcement of this fear later, through an
incident where I fell off the back of a school bus,
cemented my acrophobia forever.
My other phobia is a fear of cats. More accurately,
it is revulsion, a little harder to understand or relate to
for most people, including myself, because I once
loved them, and even believe that I possess similarities to cats.
This phobia also began and was reinforced by two childhood
occurrences and a story of my father's guilt
from being persuaded, by some boys, to kill a cat.
His subsequent phobia led to mine.
DEAREST
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
I was five and I loved her.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
Aunt Doris found her in the street.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
Her soft fur was gray, with white spots,
and slanty, black stripes.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
She looked at me with loving eyes,
pleading pools of aquamarine.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
I named her Dearest because
it sounded like Doris, my aunt.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
He was angry. He couldn't even look at her.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
He told Aunt Doris to come and take her back.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
I didn't understand. I hated him.
When I was a little older, after his attempts
to compensate with turtles and birds,
he told me a horrifying story, a boyhood confession
of having put a cat into an electric washer so that
he, the new immigrant boy would be accepted.
Then I knew why daddy wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
I was five and I loved her.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
Aunt Doris found her in the street.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
Her soft fur was gray, with white spots,
and slanty, black stripes.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
She looked at me with loving eyes,
pleading pools of aquamarine.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
I named her Dearest because
it sounded like Doris, my aunt.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
He was angry. He couldn't even look at her.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
He told Aunt Doris to come and take her back.
He wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
I didn't understand. I hated him.
When I was a little older, after his attempts
to compensate with turtles and birds,
he told me a horrifying story, a boyhood confession
of having put a cat into an electric washer so that
he, the new immigrant boy would be accepted.
Then I knew why daddy wouldn't let me keep the kitten.
THE ALLEY
We couldn't see the alley from our apartment. It was on the south side. We had windows only on our north and east walls. I stood at the open window in the kitchen. The wind was a messenger. It brought unbearable screeches and whimpers that sounded like a baby crying out in agony. The wind carried the crackle and the scent of fire. Always followed by the sound of children laughing and running. Their shoes pounded the pavement as they ran.
Later, when I went outside, the alley was quiet and empty. Garbage cans that lined the fence outside Mr. Persky's backyard were charred. The air smelled foul with smoke and mustiness.
I peered into the can with the strongest stench, holding one hand over my mouth and nose. I had no idea what I was looking at, the matted, black clump melded to the can. Curious as I was, I could not bear to touch any part of the corrugated, tin can. I left, nauseated, wanting, yet not wanting to know what happened in the alley. Something that had surely happened before, for all the garbage cans were blackened.
Another day on my way to meet my friend Vera, whose family were Mr. Persky's tenants, I walked past the alley between our buildings, seeing some movement from the corner of my eye, I turned and faced them. Vera's younger brother Fred and his friend Artie were up to something. Fred held open a brown paper bag. He was bent over, tapping inside the bag, while Artie nudged a reluctant kitten toward the bag. When the kitten was inside, Fred twisted the top so that she couldn't get out. I saw him take a book of matches from his pocket, and for a moment I froze. I was only nine at the time. The boys were about seven. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
Instinctively, I yelled out for them to stop. Fred dropped the bag. Two panicked faces stared at me. Then they ran from the alley, away from me, out the Bradford Street side. This time they were not laughing.
I went to free the kitten from the paper bag. She emerged unharmed. I could not bear to touch her. She looked up at me with innocence, as if I could explain what happened. I could not.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
I was raised on the streets, in hot, steamy Brooklyn, with stifled air.
—Barbra Streisand
* * *
Brooklyn is not the easiest place to grow up in, although I wouldn't change that experience for anything.
—Neil Diamond
__________________
Our thanks to Linda Klein for her poetry and prose poetry this morning! She writes: “Here are five poems relating some of my childhood experiences in Brooklyn, New York. It wasn't an easy place in which to grow up. It all seemed to pass so quickly that when I look back at it, in spite of everything, I wish I could go back. There is no going back.”
Tonight at 5:30pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance presents JoAnn Anglin and Jennifer Pickering at Wild Sisters Book Company, 3960 60th St., Sac. Info: www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=10158545657407933&set=p.10158545657407933/.
__________________
—Medusa
We couldn't see the alley from our apartment. It was on the south side. We had windows only on our north and east walls. I stood at the open window in the kitchen. The wind was a messenger. It brought unbearable screeches and whimpers that sounded like a baby crying out in agony. The wind carried the crackle and the scent of fire. Always followed by the sound of children laughing and running. Their shoes pounded the pavement as they ran.
Later, when I went outside, the alley was quiet and empty. Garbage cans that lined the fence outside Mr. Persky's backyard were charred. The air smelled foul with smoke and mustiness.
I peered into the can with the strongest stench, holding one hand over my mouth and nose. I had no idea what I was looking at, the matted, black clump melded to the can. Curious as I was, I could not bear to touch any part of the corrugated, tin can. I left, nauseated, wanting, yet not wanting to know what happened in the alley. Something that had surely happened before, for all the garbage cans were blackened.
Another day on my way to meet my friend Vera, whose family were Mr. Persky's tenants, I walked past the alley between our buildings, seeing some movement from the corner of my eye, I turned and faced them. Vera's younger brother Fred and his friend Artie were up to something. Fred held open a brown paper bag. He was bent over, tapping inside the bag, while Artie nudged a reluctant kitten toward the bag. When the kitten was inside, Fred twisted the top so that she couldn't get out. I saw him take a book of matches from his pocket, and for a moment I froze. I was only nine at the time. The boys were about seven. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
Instinctively, I yelled out for them to stop. Fred dropped the bag. Two panicked faces stared at me. Then they ran from the alley, away from me, out the Bradford Street side. This time they were not laughing.
I went to free the kitten from the paper bag. She emerged unharmed. I could not bear to touch her. She looked up at me with innocence, as if I could explain what happened. I could not.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
I was raised on the streets, in hot, steamy Brooklyn, with stifled air.
—Barbra Streisand
* * *
Brooklyn is not the easiest place to grow up in, although I wouldn't change that experience for anything.
—Neil Diamond
__________________
Our thanks to Linda Klein for her poetry and prose poetry this morning! She writes: “Here are five poems relating some of my childhood experiences in Brooklyn, New York. It wasn't an easy place in which to grow up. It all seemed to pass so quickly that when I look back at it, in spite of everything, I wish I could go back. There is no going back.”
Tonight at 5:30pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance presents JoAnn Anglin and Jennifer Pickering at Wild Sisters Book Company, 3960 60th St., Sac. Info: www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=10158545657407933&set=p.10158545657407933/.
__________________
—Medusa
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