My grandson Tolo organized and filmed a lovely poetry reading last night in which I was the featured poet. I haven't read my work in public in ages.
moved and delighted. Ana took this video of me reading a poem I wrote about Rachel
"And I always thought: the very simplest words must be enough./ When I say what things are like/ Everyone’s heart must be torn to shreds./ That you’ll go down if you don’t stand up for yourself/ Surely you see that." -- Brecht
My grandson Tolo organized and filmed a lovely poetry reading last night in which I was the featured poet. I haven't read my work in public in ages.
1. A visit to the shore
I’m on the beach, tired from dogpaddling.
It’s time for a little nap.
Before dozing off, I think
Thou shalt
Thou shalt
Feel immense.
The rest of you guys can wash up on the beach
And be shells.
The best kind of shells
Whose iridescence lasts forever.
I declare.
Milestones cry,
I am no longer a young man.
I am a man.
Dayenu!
Memories curl
On my tongue.
Did I ever see a waterspout?
Ten guys marching at the water’s edge, playing tubas?
Whatever became of my sea glass collection?
I dunno.
2. Ocean Heist, New Jersey
We went to the South Shore
To steal the ocean.
We’d planned it for months
And God found it funny.
We were spotted by a lifeguard,
Of course.
The cops brought us in for questioning,
Waves lapping in our pockets.
I felt like a fool,
Sand in the crack of my ass.
Once, I was handed a lever
And told to move the world.
And I did, I budged it a little,
In my own way.
But that was a different caper.
Oh Ocean Heist!
Here girls drool
Over my six-pack.
Danny is safe and happy here.
Rachel smells of breastmilk.
Here they train porpoises
To be bus drivers for the Short Line.
Here I eat chicken parm in the Hotel Arizona.
Here I plot with Bob to make a million dollars.
Asked why I did it,
I just played dumb.
“Basically, I dunno.”
I managed to slip away
And hide under the boardwalk,
Which soon was a future boardwalk,
A raft for refugees.
It was getting late.
They warned they’d come for us
If the sea wasn’t where it was supposed to be
By sundown.
I swear we always intended
To give it back.
- New York City, 20 August 2024
- New York, January 21, 2024
Suddenly ambushed
By whatever the hell
Holds up the ceiling
And nails me to the floor
I am an inch tall
I weigh a ton
Red fluids slosh
That woman in the blue sweater?
She will blast off into space
At any moment
Spoons and lamps spinning after her
We are smithereens
We are rubble
The bowstring of the day is drawn
As far as it will go
Numbered days
Numbered skies
Numbered gardens
Patience of the roof
Generosity of the shining bridge
Still alive in 2023
A war
-- New York, December 20, 2023
When the world's horrors get particularly intense and the cries of the suffering are ringing in my ears and the blood splatter is right in my face, I sometimes feel guilt and disgust over the mere fact that my life goes on and the planets of my existence continue in their orbits.
Some fundamental decency would require the Universe to pause and retch and take some oxygen before moving on.
The human capacity for standing up after falling down is wondrous and deserves a standing ovation. Evolution has given us scars as the answer to injury. Thank god for renewal's potion of forgetfulness.
But this resilience and all that it implies in averted gaze and suits of emotional armor seems perverse at the same time.
How dare I laugh, how dare I hum a tune, how dare I feel hungry so soon after the atrocities and the disasters inflict their punishment on our collective spirits!
That's why the rituals of mourning and celebration of lost lives are so important, the hand-drawn placards, teddy bears and flowers at the scene of tragedy, whispers of condolence and hope to the survivors, to one another. The solidarity of resistance and transformation. Even on social media.
You are my minyan and quorum, dear friends. Thank you!" -- Facebook post, 18 March 2019
by Jaime Sabines (translation by Robert David Cohen)