The Dean’s Suite ~ Donald Morrill

 

 “. . . with a puling infant’s force
They swayed about upon a rocking horse
And thought it Pegasus . . .” 

–Keats, “Sleep and Poetry”

 

 

 

 

          (welcome to the work)

Yield to each a “piece of you”
(If only the crease of your Italian trousers,
Your goofy smile, an assistantless moment).
Allow the barbed, green scholars their dubious hue
And the weary gaze of campus groundskeepers following your golf cart.
Allow the coterie of dwarves plotting in the cornered office
Their next rationalization. And the one jumped by the past before his third       sentence,
Who must live himself down—
Leave him the last scoop of glory, the kissed agenda.
One can be wet clay to his position. Allow your boss
As close as she dares. Don’t mention
The shave cream in your cohort’s ear. Be despised unjustly.
Think out of turn. The longed-for arts studio becomes
The Office of Career Services. The rival, arch,
Retains her curbside appeal. Don’t oppose
That prim program head (who doesn’t know you know
He favors anal-action flicks); his proposal for raising enrollments
Might just work; you need his vote next week for those long-revised guidelines.
Anything that lifts the chin to the horizon
When your molars pop in frustration.
The many No’s ground into a paste of Yes
Worked into ego cracks. There’s always that department business
Like cannon fire on the far side of a hill,
Some sparks and flares, and one or two ragged, bloody figures
Appearing on the crest then vanishing. Instead,
Hello! that senior fellow, who influenced several theories
Now discredited, trailing like a grand tomcat
His broken tail of farts.
Charm a laugh from the black burl in the throat.
You’d like to linger on that park bench with sandwich,
Construing lines by John Ashbery,
But your one o’clock is no doubt early
And ready with the most important complaint of the century.
Give to all, and recall the I Ching:
The finest clothes turn to rags.
Be careful all day long.


One asserts blessedly if the assertion is, first of all, a plaything. Patronize by listening—

__________

(personnel report: confidential)

 

All night, in dream, they crawl to my office door
The fucked-over, the sly joiners,  the replaced,  the self-slaves . . .

Each plunges a small figure into still water at my feet
The resentful and thankless,  favor-hunters and last-stabbers . . .

The water frees each object of its circles within
Firebrands, clarifiers, insisters, and gossip-holes . . .

The circles widen outward to the same moot vanishing
Mirror lickers, foisters, bright idea botchers, saints . . .

I wake yet drink from the same rusty pipe
I drink yet dream the lock twirling in my mouth


we’re judged, nearly always, by the unknowing. Who doesn’t study wounds cares little about

__________

 (take one step backward)

Don’t chase that nemesis beyond
The farthest gate of stated policy, don’t
Stray into thorny wilds surrounding
The bastion of “best practices.”
His ambush dreams await you there . . .
Or, worse, he contends as a dead man.
No matter how you’d savor seeing him
Like a pine bull-whipped of its bark,
Weeping for forgiveness, mercifully
There’s no stage for most in life
But the whispers of witness,
Years later, far away, or silent notice.
Don’t let him flay you with your private wrath,
Boring your spouse with midnight rants
In drink that only weakens you for dawn.
To gain advantage, make him teach you better.
Think of footfalls wearing down stone steps, and time
That cracks the child. Remember, the smaller soul
Devours worlds whole, in one sitting,
And shrinks with each. Stick him good
With measured prose, and beware:
The passive voice is never passive.


the future. If only money rotted—like fruit or bread—it might not spoil us instead. My ordeal,

__________

 (Q without A)

Is your leadership style
Three oafs in a rowboat, each swearing himself king,
Clubbing one another with a trophy?
Or a green log afire and gasping? Are you
Roused from sleep by falling blossoms clacking?
Or did your fruit arrive rotten last year
And you refused recompense and want us to know that,
Always? Will death make you beloved
For the span of evening pot luck? Are you
Beneath yourself? The black marbling of old bar soap,
The fat in the breath, the signed approval?

In the weekly meeting, are you
The bird in the bougainvillea, or the cat three feet away
Not trying for it? Or the thorns that decide this?
Are you the body tattooed with spooks? Do you
Feel the need to plan? Be positive—it’s no time for poetry.
You’re heading the task force on Wow Policy,
The Bye-bylaws. And your mouth bloody
From drawing the reins on yourself, is that your hand
Bloody, too? Days loyal beyond all cause,
And the derring-do in patience. Days held together by a necktie,
And the dulled edge honed by breaking.


your pettiness. Be rescued by the dreariest task. A paperweight speckled with trilobites: details,

__________

 (between you and me)

If a rumor like this came my way,
I’d be flattered someone hated me
Enough to put me in bed with X—
Not that I hadn’t thought already
She, or he, would be delectable,
Were I less repressed and sensitive
Of my position (public, not pubic)
Counting the years I need this post
If I’m to live well old,
Even as I suspect I’m wasting now.
You see, a rumor has no courage
Though stamina aplenty—
The deadliness of dumb youth—
And thinks it understands itself,
And will not be ignored,
Like any one of us pumping hands
At a downtown fundraiser,
Unaware his fly is open.


not tales. The obvious is a hiding place for the hiding place. Loyalists believe in table scraps. No

__________

 (case study A: your predecessor)

“I had confidence in black scuffs along my office baseboards,
From emergencies I’d galloped after. I counted on the thank-you’s.

Now I stare dully into spread sheets as into constellations. I wonder
How many times you can tell a recrimination to fuck itself?

The hypocrite outrages the hypocrite. The spider’s web is made
Of captured flies. So careful I was to avoid the possessive

When speaking of faculty! You didn’t disappear enough
Says my wife among her orchids, three times more disciplined than I.

Pride of ownership: tapeworm of the soul . . . . Until my successor arrives,
I must herd memos and hear petitioners (some competing blindly

For professional redemption . . . and so late in their careers!)
Betrayal, if not fatal, can introduce you to yourself.

My dreams once roared so I couldn’t hear the clock beside my pillow.
Yesterday, some department heads surprised the weekly meeting.

Wine was opened but none poured, waiting for me to do the honors.
The Good Luck card was signed by four of seven at the table.”


discovery is singular, but one’s curiosity must survive its onset. Say less—you may live to

__________

(engraving for a twenty-year watch)

The intimate wound knows
When fear retreats
Anger marches in and grows

It fights with shadows
But swears it meets
Glory in the shade of real arrows


forget it. Praise and pity sleep back to back. Tenderness: an inspiration that has learned to

__________

 (a big ask)

Why the father dislikes the son-in-law
Pouring his wine, tending the bonfire
Ringed with weekend guests, why
The land drains south to the sinkhole
And not into his most forgotten wish, why
The daughter’s big voice has gone
Behind her like a treacherous sister,
And why you’re here . . .

(The foot bridge over Grandpa’s grave
And the cast iron pig beside the pond
Agree they’re owned as you are
Just now laughing somewhat hard
As the father lauds his dog’s “black ass”
And his third wife’s “gold tits”)—

                             O yes, the gift
Of a lab named after his mother,
He begging you all this while, Beg.


doubt itself. Flattery: a scare tactic in reverse. Don’t let the hours bully you with indolence. Self-

__________

 

(plenitude)

How many gifts, Weariness,
You offer ambition!

Your blue numerals
Drift in my evening migraine.

Though I’m now ‘the rich bastard,’
My shirt collars still brown.

I’m rumored.  So I don’t even piss
In my office lavatory.

Boors I once damned
I flatter at dinner.

My wife craves quiet
Though quiet surrounds her.

I partition, a self-made of cross-outs,
Carved of simplicity.

Yes, bitterness is precious
To one through whom it grins.

But I’m glee in the worm’s apple.
I’m the gold-painted shovel

Leaned on at the groundbreaking.
It’s said the best cover story

Bends back all light,
Becomes thus invisible. I say,

Just before the battle,
One hand falls away.


possession: ownership of the damned. Regret: scar tissue of vanity. You’re never really

__________

(to hold and to have)

Here’s a prediction: we’ll have sex again,
And soon. I’ll go further: it will be good sex;
And we’ll gloat there in the dark and wonder
Why we don’t do this more often, knowing.
We may even high-five as this questioning
Hides our plea—Sex, have us!—in resolution.
Too tired, too drunk, craving “down time”
(Those falling feathers weighing on the eyelashes)
We’re partners again, as when we quested after
Everything via protrusions and orifices.
Others were significant then, somewhat—
Now, again, laboring beneath our fresh ascent
To fat office and pretend modesty,
Like the first dice (carved from hooves).
Each coin splits the flesh. Each illusion
Lusts for breakage on its own terms.


in-between but seeing with one eye then the other. Insult: unequivocal sincerity. To be

__________

(questionable fit)

Bad Judgment? Its daddy built (then lost) the works
It labors in now—so it believes—
Steady as a planet or a heart of bound-up scratches.
It cultivates you, its only future.

Earth’s own twinkling impedes seeing out far,
And money sanctifies much dreariness. Poor Bad Judgment—
Never listens for all like the underside of the dinner table,
Never moves its voice to the back of the throat . . . .


disillusioned by accomplishment is to meet a great foe. A waste of time is only a mistake

__________

 (transparency achieved!)

Praise your enemy in public,
So she must hate you in a silence
That bites her brain in two.
In her eye chanced against you
(Like a spool of razor wire)
Let her recall your friendship
Thrown away in fearful rivalry,
Inaccessible as apple blossoms
Swaying through your childhood.
Number her virtues
As though they stand intact.
The chin-snot of her envy
Should be visible to all.
Turn your back on her
In sweet humility. In truth,
Press the black knife on her
And bid her use it on her failure.


if the inspiration for it later seems an unlovable vice. One will slave to master what one imagines.

__________

(some antique counsel)

“Your motive should a misty window be.
Your stillness, the dialogue of others
Twisting, twining as freshets to the sea.
Your glance—not lightning bolt but breeze.

Rage through procedure only, salient.
Mirror none and all. Exit strategy.
Claimed by power be, model more than thought.
And in each hold the compromising document.”


Pay out in kindness and let duplicity do the rest. Sooner or later someone appears to show you

__________

(case study B, your predecessor)

“Shunted now from office, I keep
Only my predecessor’s memoranda—
Such proposals! . . . with the figures worked up,
Submitted, ignored.
Smarts didn’t help him,
He damned dull superiors. Jeanette left him
Broke in that big house at Greene Pointe.
Vodka stayed loyal . . . and finished him.

The day he was found, I had a root canal.
Cheek fat with anesthetic, I composed
A respectful, if brief, announcement.
(He’d been fired long before my appointment.)

In the live oak at my window, a hawk
Tore open its morning dove. A few feathers,
Too few, fall from one life to another.”


did not go far enough. Success usually amounts to belonging with the greatest vigor. All our

__________

 (five-minute commute)

It‘s good there’s a time you’re shut
And can see it, can fear it, adhere to it,
The flirty dissuasion of it, the air odd
When you speak in your car to your soul.

Why pretend to hunger for other than being
Leveled by a morning of agendas,
The praise of superiors and devotion of staff,
Those further along in confused pleasures?


strengths must be discovered. We stand of this earth, but shame shortens the legs. The grave

__________

 (gratitude)

He thanks me for my kind words—
The kind like weights in my pockets,

Placed there by an early mentor,
A committee chair who wanted me

To realize my longing, really,
To disappear now I’d been wronged,

To jump, really, from the high bridge
Of attention . . . who nudged me then.


dug to fool past enemies is yours alone. When you say position control number think

__________

(items for a year-end report)

Forgiving a dead friend, I put the wrong wrongs
On a grackle swooping out the broken window.

Duty honor family country praised at the awards function—
And how many there have licked themselves?

His gesture tries to salve the wounded air between us.
(I watch and will not let that hand come close.)

The facilitator disappeared his boorish wisecracks—
(Clued in, at last?) He’s common now as scarred floor.

A boulder in the mind, growing, squeezing out the sky.
Once, I knew exactly where my dick should go and how.

Have you gotten rid of one who didn’t meet criteria?
Even as our bones miscopy—Teamwork! That’s the stuffing.

Perched on the mesh trap half-exposed by low tide,
The Great Blue Heron stares at crabs unattainable, ours.

She glances toward the open office door, the empty seat there
Occupied by one who must never overhear us.

In the dream I was showing off as someone else’s mate.
Now this moth drowned in corked wine. Here, debts.

At the Planning Retreat: the horse train at the rail,
Saddled, each with one rear hoof lifted.

Of course they died she said at lunch. We’ve died. We’re hanging on
A little now, in you . . . the point—to a point . . .

By being sighted for a time, dust wrecks the darkness.
I cross the day on platitudes, lily pads . . . what depths!


nearly every shadow begins and ends at the ground. Each thing is a teacher—if not, a

__________

(adventures in self-assessment: episode 392)

This is your prime, your endangered animal
Reintroduced among plaques.
These are your falls
Gigantic, marching upstream
A meter a year—
impeccable
Tailoring, the lyrical mind
Stuck between vendors at a grip and grin.

Oh the cleaning people!—
they know
Crumbs from their midnight break
Star the carpets
Where you distance yourself.

Oh the crushed
Button on the starched shirt . . .
when you feel
You’re failing you’re
Complimented, so extolled.

The lozenge of schadenfreude
Melts under the tongue
then what?
Newly in charge
Less each day—
Your epitaph?
He paid off his house?
He loved the blue sunsets on Mars?

This is your moment. Allow
Its arms
folded over heart
To go to sleep and wake you up.


captive or captor. If you cannot live, go as far as possible into peace. Give of yourself, so

__________

(year-end report)

Recognition that the bones
Will be strangers to themselves soon enough
Remains unachieved, as does self-mastery,
Though the appropriate offices continue to be excited
About the near-term prospects for cliché. Resistance to change
And the bereavements of vanity, especially
The need to conceal both,
Persist as a priority among those with souls,
Despite potential fluctuations in enlightenment
I’m sorry, I was wrong, I don’t know
Have again struggled rarely into the speech of senior colleagues.
But the widening part in the poorly-dyed hair of one rival
May account for intermittent tender impulses
Usually suppressed in another
For years unacknowledging her presence
Even at the copy machine. A task force has been formed
To consider the feasibility of improved confidences,
Beginning with those to one’s own loafers propped on a desk
After raising the institutional image from 1.8 to 2.4
On the Newton Survey. Handshake gauntlets and role conflict
Show no sign, anecdotally, of less-frequent convergence,
Nor does the cold ham of sympathy and the management of getting
Even. The greatest accusers stay silent. Innocence and guilt
Preserve cubicle contact, though Quality Assurance
Denies this still, as expected. It appears the future
Will bear crucial questions
Lacking the interest of all
Unaware they can become the lunch-table joke.
Though coordinated mitigation efforts will arise
Spontaneously, the new must still play
Its hand with the cards facing away from it. Of further implementation,
Consult the curator who slaps her intern,
The security officer on his knees
In a certain fourth floor office each Wednesday at noon.
Capacity is all, as is said in Development circles.
An ongoing breakdown of the data
Indicates no abeyance in learning
The ways of genteel larceny. Thus an expanded commitment
To preferred feelings is recommended,
With increased buy-in from saved faces.


that you must find more to give. In the investigation of wrong, the first thing cleared is the

__________

 (beginner’s luck?)

Morning light across the conference table.
Don’t fall for it. Prepare to go, to be gone, always.
As the newbie chants, Every third thought should be of death.
Feeling like a clerk today? You are a clerk.
And every fourth thought should be, Forget that!
And every sixteenth thought? Assistants listen for it.
The forlorn solitudes of rooftops, facing only sky.
Which consultant wrote, Life is stronger than our love for it.
Your true voice reports to you behind your back.


investigator’s conscience. No one should speak to phantoms without a deadline for an answer.

Colin Morton

Canadian writer Colin Morton has published a novel and co-produced an animated film in addition to a dozen books of poetry, including The Hundred Cuts: Sitting Bull and the Major and Winds and Strings. 

Three Poems ~ Colin Morton

 

Stardust

I met a woman who said she stole
her father’s ashes from her mother’s home
spread them under her father’s microscope and saw
phosphorus constellations
shining.

 

 

Event Horizon

Does anything momentous happen
in the moment everything changes,
when a falling body crosses the line
between light and dark?

In the moment everything changes
is it an event at all
between light and dark?
Like the instant in debate

(is it an event at all?)
when you realize what you’ve said
– this instant in debate –
is fatal to your cause.

When you realize what you’ve said
and all your good reasons are past recall,
it’s fatal to your cause.
Or like one of those days

when all your good reasons are past recall
and nothing seems to happen.
Or like one of those days
you later see as the decisive order ativan cod moment

when nothing seems to happen
as a falling body crosses the line.
Later you see it’s the decisive moment,
the moment everything happens.

 

 

Broken Windows

(poem ending with a line by Louise Glück)

Shattered glass. And within each shard
a whole world of street and sky.

My mother laughs.
My father smokes.

Outside the house, with the slam of a door,
life begins.

On winter nights Orion chases across the sky.
Rigel, Betelgeuse. What’s the other?

The walk back from the bar alone is proof
the universe is expanding.

Leaves fall, then snow.
You want to know if there’s Christmas on other planets.

And if love is the answer.
Who said anything sillier, or better?

Find solace in that. Or in the poet’s words,
“the great plates invisibly shifting and changing.”

Elizabeth Poliner

Elizabeth Poliner’s books include the poetry collection, What You Know in Your Hands and the novel, As Close to Us as Breathing (winner of the 2017 Janet Heidinger Kafka Prize in Fiction). Her poems have appeared in the Sun, the Southern Review, the Hopkins Review, Ilanot Review, and Seneca Review, among other journals. Her short fiction publications include Ascent, Kenyon Review, and Michigan Quarterly Review. She teaches at Hollins University where she directs the Jackson Center for Creative Writing. 

Three Poems ~ Elizabeth Poliner

Hill Cemetery

The day after the funeral, we drive to the grave, and my mother goes alone to that patch of fresh dirt the size of her husband’s coffin. In it she plants five cut roses then steps back to look, then moves closer to read the marker left by the funeral home. She’s usually elegantly dressed, but today it’s sneakers without socks and a bulky coat she’s just thrown on. Who cares? To see her there, talking to no one, patting and patting the most important mound of dirt she’s ever known, is to witness that divide—invincible—between the living and the dead.  

*

When she returns, because she’s curious, we drive around the cemetery—Hill, as it’s named, simply and aptly enough. She asks, did she pick the right site? Early November, a long rain just clearing, and the sun breaks through, lighting the trees. Bits of gold and orange linger in the oaks, but mostly the fall is gone. We drive on wet leaves. The road winds up, and soon we see well into the Connecticut River Valley below. Late afternoon, and the light does that thing that only late afternoon light does. Oh, wow, we say, wow, then sit in silence. Finally, she adds, yes, yes, meaning she’s picked right. 

*

Middletown’s Jewish cemetery a mile away doesn’t compare to Hill. Right? For one thing, she notes, the land is flat and square, unlike that interesting, lopsided summit we just left.  For another, my father’s family is here, that first husband she’d prefer, when the time comes, eternal distance from. But look, I say, pointing at my great-grandparents’ graves, Abraham and Goldie, then my grandparents’, Israel and Gertrude, my uncles’, Harry, George, and Morris, so many, I say, look. Yes, look, she sighs, then softens as we pass Sophie’s, that kind great-aunt who married poorly and never bore a child, and when I bend for a rock to place atop Sophie’s grave my mother asks me to find her one too.

*

Three years earlier, and my father tells me he’s relieved: the synagogue has made an exception. His second wife, Catholic, can be buried beside him at the Jewish cemetery.  Already they’ve bought the plot. He’s smiling widely, sure now of the comfort of his final sleep. Hey, he cheerily asks me, want your stone here too?

*

Still at the Jewish cemetery, my mother and I find the gravestones hand-designed by so-and-so’s famous artist brother. On his father’s, shaped like a child’s toy boat, the artist-son has etched his father’s last words, a whole sea of them. Scratch my back, we read, among other banalities, and my mother asks, What if I put that stuff on Sam’s grave?I need the toilet’. ‘I’m tired.’  Can you imagine? But in fact at the end my stepfather said amazing things like, Why am I in prison? and, Let me out of here—things he didn’t even know he said, the illness was that bad.

*

But I want to be with Mom! I almost blurted to my father that day three years back.  Coincidentally, just the day before my mother announced she’d bought a plot for her and Sam at Hill Cemetery. And friends, too, had purchased plots, she explained, rattling off the couples then asking, excitedly, Want to see? Oh, I thought. I know this enthusiasm, the same as before every dinner party. She’s thinking: endless dinner party. That’s what death means to my mother. And despite her zeal, the way she couldn’t help but veer toward the cemetery entrance, I said, No. No. I don’t want to see

*

One would think those estranged two—my mother, my father—had a plan, the way three years ago they’d bought plots at the same time and then eagerly, even triumphantly, announced them. Today, days after the funeral, it’s me driving again into Hill Cemetery, my mother beside me, peering out the window, searching for that new mound. The car idles as I watch her rush, kneel, stare into the ground. Stare. I turn to a flurry of leaves, twigs, names, dates, and soon she’s back, speaking unusually gently, as if still to her husband, a man sort of asleep, sort of distant, sort of—this will take time—gone. When she says Ready, I nod, say nothing back. My stone: here or there or someplace untouched by my parents’ old war, I wonder, as we drive over fallen leaves, we two not yet ready to fall, though getting closer, not yet ready to leave, though leaving.




Women in their Forties

How they scared me, these students
in my writing class, not old,
not weathered or mellowed by age,
but not young either, with crow’s feet
and graying curls, their voices strong
and venturous, their lives done

with the work of pleasing men,
with childbirth, marriage, divorce,
the three strikes swung and over with,
and me—just thirty then—still eager
to get at bat. How they scared me
with their blazers and settled careers,

the huge upheaval of schedules
to tease an evening free, the way
this new endeavor, this beginners’ class,
was to them as straightforward
as parking the car. Get to it,
is what they wanted, these women

in their forties who had exactly no time
for introductions, no need
for loosening up exercises, their earrings
impatiently shaking, their hair cropped
or sensibly tucked back, their eyes sharp
as pointed pencils, their necks bent

over their blank pages, which, upon arrival,
they were already ready to fill,
oh, so much more so than the others ones,
the nice ones, so much nicer, it seemed to me,
than these women in their forties
with so very much to say.



Room of Our Own

The chicken coop behind our house
may have smelled rotten,
but its roof, gently sloped,
offered enticing, easy access,
and the holes on it didn’t scare us—
they were a hole family,
keeping each other company
in that lone distant corner.
I’m not sure who said it first,
me, my sister, or our friends
Susan and Gail, but the thought
was instant, unanimous
among us four. We could save it. 
We could paint that roof blue!
We pooled our resources—seven dollars,
few cents—and like saints
didn’t think of lunch
while running to the paint store.
Questions about square footage,
oil or water base, soared
like punted footballs
from the salesman’s mouth.
We dodged them and held steadfast. 
“Sir, don’t you have any blue?”
Sprawled on the roof, we smeared
our can’s contents—awfully thick—
as far as it would go. In the end
the small patch didn’t even have
straight edges. Back home
Mom caught us blue-handed.                                                                                     
She understood about the roof,
a room of sorts, a place to talk,
make our own. “But girls!”
she wailed, fearing the oil base
a permanent condition. With turpentine
the paint thinned, disappeared. 
But our inclination for such rooms, 
such roofs, remained
permanent, unconditioned.

Donna Salli

Donna Salli holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. Her poems and creative nonfiction have appeared in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies. She also writes fiction and drama. Her novel, A Notion of Pelicans, was released by North Star Press in 2016. Her play The Rock Farm has been performed in translation in Joensuu, Finland, and in Finnish/English productions in the US. In 2012, The Rock Farm received a staged reading and panel critique as part of PlayLab at the Great Plains Theatre Conference. Donna blogs about life as a writer in the northern Midwest: www.donnasalli.com. Now retired from teaching college English, she lives in Brainerd, Minnesota, with her husband, Bruce Eastman.

Three Poems ~ Donna Salli

                                                                                                                  




Nightshade

Blink, the tincture says, and be beautiful.
I close my eyes, open them to an explosion of stars—
the same stars medieval women saw, blinking belladonna
to be beautiful. A second blink of that devil’s berry,
and my pupils widen. I’m alone, on a deserted street
in a darkened town. Beyond the streetlight’s reach,
a movie house shines, the red on its lighted poster
turned to rust, the star-crossed lovers in the frame frozen
in embrace, that brace against the inevitable.

A man I seem to know steps from the dark,
wearing his solitary eye. Remember me? he says,
and slips an arm around me. So intimate—
and yet he holds his head exactly cocked so that I
cannot touch, I cannot see the empty orbit.
We walk—fields of flowers spread
on either side, tall dawn-bruised carillons of bells
ascending dull stalks. Behind
the broken screens of a dim hotel, a derelict
plays chess with a pint of peach brandy.
The man I seem to know sighs, pulls me close, leans
his chin against my forehead. You think me blind,
he says, but I see everything . . .

I’m hunkered, then, beneath a slant of ceiling,
on the top bunk of a desolate bed looking down,
legs naked and dangling. My heart throws off
its grave clothes, for at the foot of the bed stands my love,
my first, my broken vow, his back to me,
but still as if at any moment he’d be pleased to turn
and take my hand. He stands and gazes,
gazes, across a sea. Deep fog rolls to land.
When at last it clears, as if by the sweep of a hand,
a body floats into the shallows at his feet.
My hands rise to a shriek—
it’s my body, my hair, a floating fan.

I fall into a hell, land shivering on my knees
in the house of the dead—walls of stone, dark, damp,
and children tending corpse-strewn biers. Why am I here?
I say, and a woman like a man, medals gleaming
in the light from her torch, answers.
Do you want the job, or don’t you?
I do—I follow where she leads, up a pitched stone
staircase that grows narrower as we climb.
I stop. My children—what about my children? 
The broad back moves away, unwavering.
You can’t take children there.

We climb, narrower, narrower, until
she steps aside and I pass through a membranous gap
in the wall to a mountaintop. A storm brews—
something roils in the clouds, tortuous, undulating.
On the steep of the slope, children pray, two boys and a girl,
in white robes. Their eyes turn to me as one
as a volley of lightning fires down, a serpent of light
swims through the air. The hair on my neck
electrifies as it nears. Blood in my ears, heart in my wrists,
cold fear coming to birth. Somehow, sheer will
or terror, I brace, I drive it back—the force
of thought. The sweep of its tail in retreat knocks a third
of the stars from the sky, tumbles a discordant note
through the music of the spheres.

                                                                                                                      





Mother Tongue

                                                    Who can find a virtuous woman?
for her price is far above rubies . . .
She openeth her mouth with wisdom;
and in her tongue is the law of kindness.

                                                                                                Proverbs 31:10, 26; KJV

            1. Delilah of Sorek

What demon whispers in his ear? 
Tell me, and I will pray to it.

A dark familiar
drives him to my knees—sleep the only temple, and he
its worshiper.

Something torments him.
He says
it is his god. Can it be me? (I soak my veils
in myrrh, my nails
in wine. When he fails to meet my gaze,
I know he’s mine.)

If so, then justice reigns.
A woman might do anything to be touched
by a godly man—she might give
her soul. It is the god’s
hand on her.

            2. Sarah, Wife of Abram

Wasn’t it enough?
The sidelong glances of men, the hush that fell
whenever I entered the circles of women? The barren
bear more than the fruitful
can tell—each infant on its mother’s
knee, as on a throne.

And what of Abram,
to whom these strangers make their wild
promises?
More than the simple need of men brought him to my door,
hopeful, suppliant—
and yet each time, I rose as empty as I fell.

Even the slave girls of Canaan quicken
and swell.
But with each new moon, the Egyptian smirks
and fawns beside the cooking pit.

Yahweh promises descendants like stars? 
HA! Even that
which is added to Abraham’s name cries out
in derision.

            3. Rahab of Jericho

The King’s Guard are all business tonight.
The captain salutes me
with his spear, says, “Where are the spies who’ve come
from Joshua?”

Last night he was smooth as honey at the door.
His heavy cloak fell forgotten
to the floor, his unguarded face was grave.
(The king’s men whimper
in their sleep like any other.) 

This evening,
he won’t even speak my name.
The cur and his king think themselves equal
to Pharaoh!

Let them flail their weapons at the Lord . . .
Egypt’s chariots now take fishes as whores.

The red sash hangs signal on the wall.
I tell them nothing.
What do I owe you, Jericho? 
You made a harlot out of me.

            4. Tamar, Widow of Er

When Judah saw her, he thought her to be an harlot;
because she had covered her face.
And he turned unto her by the way, and said,
Go to, I pray thee, let me come in unto thee.

Genesis 38:15-16, KJV

Am I a cypress
by a dwindling spring, a whisper
up the whirlwind? My error was an errant man.
For that, the world would bind
my loins, or burn them.

No second husband, then, Judah,
from among your sons?
No male heir—as law commands?
So be it.

I acquired nerve
in the house of the dead—
the wretched naked and blue; infants dank
on small couches.
A maelstrom rages inside my head, that cave
of dreams.
Look closely, Judah. Father.
A veil of seems.

                                                                                                                       




At Daybreak, Ruth Still Smells the Barley Fields

So Naomi returned, and Ruth the Moabitess, her daughter-in-law, with her
… and they came to Beth-lehem in the beginning of barley harvest.

Ruth 1:22, KJV

Mother-in-law, Naomi
—you who called yourself Mara, bitter,
over your lost husband, then both sons dead—
in the mornings when I walked to the barley fields,
the widows’ fields, I would remember my words
to you: Where you go, I will go—and where
you live, I will live, too. And I kept my word to you,
though I had to pick through barley chaff
until my fingers dropped sweat and blood,
my back seized with stooping.

Your kinsman Boaz was kind.
He ordered his workmen to leave me alone—
he knew the sort of thing that a sort of man
might do. Soon, I was gleaning
side-by-side with the harvesters. The men
pulled stalks heavy with grain from their own bundles
and placed them gently into my hand.

You were wise. When you counseled me to wash myself,
perfume myself, and lay myself at Boaz’s feet
as he slept, I did.
He spread his skirt over the two of us
and exchanged his sandal in the city gate
to call me bride.  

Mother, Naomi, you’ve walked ahead on the path.
Light the olive lamp at dusk,
brew a pot of herbs. Watch for me. 
I follow at my own pace.

Claudia Serea

Claudia Serea’s poems and translations have been published in Field, New Letters, The Mahalat Review, Oxford Poetry, Asymptote, Gravel, and elsewhere. She is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Twoxism, a collaboration with photographer Maria Haro (8th House Publishing, 2018) and Nothing Important Happened Today (Broadstone Books, 2016). Serea’s poem My Father’s Quiets Friends in Prison, 1958-1962 received the 2013 New Letters Readers Award. She won the Levure Littéraire 2014 Award for Poetry Performance and the 2006 New Women’s Voices competition. Serea co-founded and edits National Translation Month, and she co-hosts The Williams Poetry Readings in Rutherford, NJ.  

Three Poems ~ Claudia Serea

 

We ate the ugly ones

The good ones,
we picked and handled like eggs,
sorted them by size and color,
and placed them in rows
in wooden crates.

The Aztecs called them tomatl,
fat water with navel,
the Italians, pomodoro,
apple of gold,
and the scientists called them
by their Latin name,
Solanum lycopersicum,
wolf-peach
of the sun.

My grandmother called the tomatoes plãtãgeni.

If they were good-looking,
they were worth more money.

Her knotty hands,
stained green from their sap,
used a soft rag
to shine each plãtãgean
like wiping a child’s face,

then nestled it carefully
in its tutu
of waxed paper.

We ate the ugly ones,

the scratched,
the blemished,
cracked,
spotted,
the over-ripe,
the warted ones,

tasty, fat
from water
and summer sun.

The days were long.
The lines to weigh the small crates, longer.
The money,
short.

The yellow-green tomatoes went to export
and ripened on the way.

I wondered if anyone from the West knew,
when they picked them up
from the supermarket shelf,
weighing in hand
the round red hearts—

did anyone know
whose hearts they were,

where they came from
behind the Iron Curtain?

I wondered
if any of the ripe ones
for the internal market
would land
on the dictator’s plate.

And if it did,
did it bleed a little

sweet juice
under the knife?

 

 

 

Winter break, 1988

We travelled first by freezing train
through the blizzard,
in the dark of the early morning,
hours and hours, through empty landscapes,

then by rickety bus
until it stopped
when the road wasn’t plowed any further,
and the driver said,
You’re on your own, kids.

There were no cell phones.
No one around.

We started on foot,
two dots
in the vast, wind-swept plain,

you, in your suit and wool coat,
hair slicked back,

and me in my long skirt
and high-heeled boots,
all dolled-up and hair-sprayed,
to impress
the future in-laws.

When we got tired,
we sat on the roadside
and ate frozen liver paté sandwiches.

We were the only man and woman in the world,
leaving behind
a shaky set of footsteps.

A cart piled up high with firewood passed by,
and the drunken peasant
picked us up.

We perched on top
of the white fields
until the next village
where the man went home.

So we were again on foot
until a car
filled to the roof with bread loaves
stopped
and we crowded in the back
in the warm fresh scent.

We rode through sheets of snowy night,
red-nosed,
glowing eyes,

and we weren’t cold at all.

 

 

 

Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1

The first time I listened to Tchaikovsky’s
Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat minor
was on a summer night in 1984.

I was in Iasi
with my new boyfriend Adrian
from Ploiesti.

We were both 15,
away from home at a two-week
national conference and contest
where we presented chemistry
research projects.

I’d say our chemistry was pretty strong.

That night, we were in the little park
close to the high school dorms
where we were staying.

Someone on the second floor
of the apartment building across the park
placed two large amplifiers on the balcony
and played at maximum volume
a disc with Tchaikovsky’s
Piano Concerto No. 1.

It was loud
and breathtaking.

Our words drowned.

We sat on the bench
in the music’s enormous embrace,
away from parents,
away from everything,
and kissed.

This happened five lives ago.

Meanwhile, I studied chemistry,
wrote poetry,
I met another guy and got married,
went through a revolution and its aftermath,
rented videotapes,
sold olive oil and coffee,
and worked in fashion.

I emigrated and moved
5,000 miles away to New York City,
worked as a hostess,
cleaned tables and served drinks,
went to school again,
worked in marketing,
publishing, advertising,
bought a house
and moved to the suburbs,
gave birth,
and wrote poetry again,
this time in English.

I never saw Adrian again.

And tonight, on the bus,
I’m reading Bukowski,
and, in a poem, he’s listening
to Tchaikovsky.

And I remember the Piano Concerto No. 1
and find it on YouTube
with 5.6 million views,
a small country in which Bukowski
and Tchaikovsky still live.

I remember the small park,
soft lips kissing—

and Bukowski’s laughing at me
his old bastard laugh,
and I laugh too,

with the piano’s perfect movements,
rolling,
rolling,
laughing and rolling,

with the whole world,
loud and crashing,

breathtaking,
into the night.

 

Peggy Shumaker

Peggy Shumaker’s new and selected volume is called Cairn (Red Hen Press).  Professor emerita from University of Alaska Fairbanks, she teaches in the Rainier Writing Workshop MFA at Pacific Lutheran University.