Jefferson City, MO
—Art Courtesy of Public Domain
—Art Courtesy of Public Domain
THE WHITE FLAG
1.
The white flag is not colored red for a purpose
nor is the red cross of the Red Cross two black lines
or the rip of bone near the heart an explosion of
halos and wings.
The lemon ice on the waffle cone fell to the cobble-
stones
joining the pools of blood and debris, and one white
flag
no longer white, but speckled now—no, splotched—
like a nose bleed on a clean white shirt, on a pair of
new shorts.
2.
In this field we played
moving small pebbles into shallow holes
one piece, two, three at a time
across what is now blood mud, Aharon Zisling,
the last memory of my mother.
1.
The white flag is not colored red for a purpose
nor is the red cross of the Red Cross two black lines
or the rip of bone near the heart an explosion of
halos and wings.
The lemon ice on the waffle cone fell to the cobble-
stones
joining the pools of blood and debris, and one white
flag
no longer white, but speckled now—no, splotched—
like a nose bleed on a clean white shirt, on a pair of
new shorts.
2.
In this field we played
moving small pebbles into shallow holes
one piece, two, three at a time
across what is now blood mud, Aharon Zisling,
the last memory of my mother.
BONE FRAGMENTS FOUND BY THE PLUMBER YEARS LATER
The flesh and wood effect,
a lack of bone—
roof and walls,
a Jericho revisited.
A home stolen
is a home stolen
and a ring from a finger
still attached to a hand
is a ring stolen.
Perhaps there is a difference,
Aharon Zisling,
when the house has been vacated,
when the finger is no longer
attached to a hand,
when the rapist is of your army
and the girl not one of your own.
HOW THE WESTERN WALL BECAME THE WAILING WALL
1.
How do you question
one so young sobbing against brick
and mortar, blood licking
their skin, the scent of gunpowder
and bone fragments in the dust
on their hands and faces.
Have you ever looked in the eye
of the dead who go on living?
2.
So let me create a refrain:
They dumped the children
before the western wall
and that is how it got its name.
Slip a piece of paper
in the wall for me
for each of the children.
WHEN YOU DIE, CAN YOU STILL SEE THE MOON?
You told me graveyards are that loud
and you were right. Noise skittles over crab grass
and dandelion greens, over locust stone and
devil’s claw
thick with spikes and wooden lures bloody for light.
Passageways of water flow beneath them,
and the voices flow with them gray and waterproof,
overcast and significantly silent. We are a people
of mourners. Hire us. We cry on cue,
like vultures at the edge of the Sinai frontier,
like elephants leaving their path to caress
the bones of a sister. We can scream like war
planes,
rend our clothing into scars, draw tattoos of death
exactly as a battle begins. Remember it was us
who fire-bombed the cafés of Jaffa
and it was us who people-bombed
the villages near Jerusalem.
We are one-hundred-sixty pounds of manure,
blood, gravel, fog—not enough
to cover all of the newly dead, but enough
to ensure there will never be silence in the
graveyard.
rend our clothing into scars, draw tattoos of death
exactly as a battle begins. Remember it was us
who fire-bombed the cafés of Jaffa
and it was us who people-bombed
the villages near Jerusalem.
We are one-hundred-sixty pounds of manure,
blood, gravel, fog—not enough
to cover all of the newly dead, but enough
to ensure there will never be silence in the
graveyard.
THE SOUND OF FEAR LATE IN THE MIDNIGHT HOUR
We talk about everything I don't want to talk about,
and that is enough.
Quiet sings from beyond widowed walls
and earth does expose children gone to pieces.
It's just that machine-guns really are that loud
and there really is intrinsic value to pain.
My daughter asks if blood washes vegetation,
if words can come from soil when it rains.
I'm afraid I do not know if I will ever understand
the answer.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RETURN
—Michael H. Brownstein
Now I climb the stairs,
enter the bounty of my home,
cracked plaster, broken glass,
a presence of eyes no longer present,
stilled, and heavy, almost sacred,
the war unable to end.
___________________
—Medusa, with season's greetings on this Easter Day, and thanks to Michael Bernstein for poetry from his new book, Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah, which is available online at https://booksonblog35.blogspot.com/.
We talk about everything I don't want to talk about,
and that is enough.
Quiet sings from beyond widowed walls
and earth does expose children gone to pieces.
It's just that machine-guns really are that loud
and there really is intrinsic value to pain.
My daughter asks if blood washes vegetation,
if words can come from soil when it rains.
I'm afraid I do not know if I will ever understand
the answer.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RETURN
—Michael H. Brownstein
Now I climb the stairs,
enter the bounty of my home,
cracked plaster, broken glass,
a presence of eyes no longer present,
stilled, and heavy, almost sacred,
the war unable to end.
___________________
—Medusa, with season's greetings on this Easter Day, and thanks to Michael Bernstein for poetry from his new book, Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah, which is available online at https://booksonblog35.blogspot.com/.
For info about
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
