We should stop blaming the snake. First, do we really want to admit the reptile was that much smarter than we were? More importantly, how long could we have survived wearing the leaves, if anything at all, and eating fruits and vegetables? Okay, I grant you that is all I eat, but by choice and after considerable thought. And, by the way, never tell a Jewish male he can’t eat something. We all know full well that even shrimp and pork are kosher in a Chinese restaurant. At least on Friday night.
From within the belly of the beast
Sheol is a placid place, removed
from the waves rattling the timbers,
silent of the cries of the men
berating their fate, uncertain
as to the cause of their discomfort.
Let Nineveh burn, lets its people
scatter to the streets, let the King
stare out at the destruction and wonder.
He should need no prophet, no seer,
no interpreter of dreams to know
why all about him lies in ruin.
Inside the belly of the beast
it is warm, and comforting,
a womb from which one
should have no desire to be
cast out upon the land, or to drown
in the swirling waters of the angry sea.
There is only the hunger in the bowels,
and the blackness of a thousand nights,
a blackness darker than the shade
of the tree, which withers in the heat,
of the waters which disappear
before quenching the endless thirst.
Within the belly of the beast
there is no sound, no voice
to draw forth thoughts, no dreams
to disrupt the sleep that will not come,
only the void and the silence
and the cries that echo off baleen walls.
Nineveh lies in ruin, Sodom a pillar
of salt, the walls of Jerusalem lie
a jumble of stones, the oil of the lamp
seeps into the arid ground, and only
the weed springs forth to mark
the graves of the forgetting people.
First Appeared in A Writer’s Choice, Vol. 2, No. 1, Spring 1999
Just yesterday Erothanatos (from India) released its issue number 3 of volume 3, a collection of poets from several countries. I was honored to have seven poems appear in this issue and you can find them here:
But if you don’t have the time, one of the included poems was:
In a Prior Life I Was
Reznikoff, casting words to paper
after the last brief was filed,
Aleichem, finding peace
amidst the hordes,
Red Deer Running, watching
as the horse soldiers drew aim,
a child, never understanding
why the old ones only brought death,
a poor Jew, hung on a hill
from the crossed beams, for believing,
a ram, led from the thicket
to the altar, as the boy was freed,
alone in a hotel room
They are dying but
it really doesn’t matter
since the bottom line doesn’t
recognize their plight, and
never mind that we paid
for its invention, for that
is the beauty of this age.
God is no longer
in charge of things, bought
and sold, and now assigned
to watching the corn grow
in central Illinois, and this
wasn’t a good year for crops there
and most everywhere.
Now it is too hot and dry
but since we can’t acknowledge
even the concept of climate change
countless veterans by
of a curable disease because
we need to fund the next war
won’t be able to complete.
There is a great deal left
to be said, and we assume
more than enough time
for the task, but
the ferryman hews
to his own schedule
and our plans, intentions,
desires are beyond
his knowledge or caring.
It is best to say
what you need before
silence is eternal.
You were born 128 years ago,
not a long time in the history of the planet
and a blink in the life of the universe
but two good lifetimes on the day
you came into the world, not knowing
what would become your place in it.
We celebrate you today, as we celebrated you
during your life, a rare feat for it
is usually one or the other, either
reason enough to have lived.
I still recall the great windows,
the larger-than-life paintings
that brought Moses into my age,
and I imagine you recalling the stories
you learned at the feet of your grandfather,
so I practice what I will tell my grandchildren
of the immense passion of the small museum
tucked away on a hill overlooking Nice.
You search without end for a way
to precisely measure life in all of its aspects.
You will not be dissuaded by the fact that you can no more
control its span than you could control your need to breathe.
You say you picked the sperm and egg,
that their union you carefully orchestrated.
You believe all things can be measured,
if you can only identify proper metrics for the task.
You know precisely how tall you are, how much
you have shrunken over the years,
how much your waistline has grown.
You can count your good deeds, have a rating scale
that says your next life will be karmic payback hell.
You are taken with measurements of all sorts,
so much so that you often forget to fully live.
You say that this loss doesn’t matter much,
for living boldly, thoroughly, gives you
far too much more to measure.