January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Old Memories
Between wake and sleep in the hour
Of silent noise of dust and clocks filled space
There are old memories both brittle and tender
Like the fingers of a palm leaf and the shade it spins
On our sunburnt faces, so we bury our cheek on the beach sand
Into another half dream sunk up to our knobby knees
Deep and wet in the riverbed where we collected things
That took shape of arrowheads, or marbles crystallizing planetary nebulas
And sometimes atop the feather-grass knoll we sat cross-legged
To hear the thunder, a sound of steamroll shot from a pistol
Then we’d hear it taper off into the low tides of a cove
Barely whispering into our ears like blown leaves mingling in autumn red
When the day darkened the hour deader than sullen, outside on the curb
The dull warmth of the suburbs, in our throats hummed a Sunday proverb
Imprinting my brain with silent lips
Imprinting my brain with silent lips was only a woman
We casually met in the metropolis
We were together of the nontraditional sense
She was shapely and wan and from her mother’s bath of birth
She was born out of wooded flesh and metal bone
As we strolled along the museum pretending to loiter in profound thoughts
She’d read the veins from leaves of grass pressing a finger against the leaf
It had a pulse and it told her its life story how it lived in the divine soil
The same divine soil grew the pine and oak, the lemon and fig,
The sugar and rice, the white potato and the sweet potato,
The orange orchards where we picked the fruit, and drank its delirious juice
Running from the left corner of her lip, tracing the curve of her bottom lip
Then down, dripping off her pointed chin, and to the moist ground
Her head tilted to the side. Her long neck exposed, darkened by the shadow
She wiped the sweat with a veiny pale hand
The honey odor she radiated surrounded us in a golden and pastoral aureole
Close beside me she clung to me one minute a lasting hour
Stepping over the doorway’s threshold we separated again
Insomnia Cured
When my mother takes her sleeping pills
She thinks she’s drunk
Then like a spinning top ending its spin
Leans over like the tower of Pisa
And topples over me and my brother
Landing on us like we were pillows
Our soft bellies stuffed with feathers and cotton-balls
And stitched up with a gold thread
In her sleep she’s also walking, staring
Talking, stumbling, fumbling
Waking up into a stupor to the infomercials or static of the T.V.
But at 9pm she remembers to go to work from 10pm to 7am
And at 9am, like a shot of liquor, she drinks up the sleeping pills
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Umbilicus
“What cha doin’, kid”,
Your living voice spirals over telephone wires.
“Nothing, what choo doin’?”
“Nothing.”
You sound as thin and reedy as a child.
Cancer is rocking you backward, backward,
Undoing you
Soon you will be an infant
Suckling at your mother’s breasts
But they were dry, as I
Am dry, a dry sea bed,
Replenishing my waters by
Drowning in a vat of Brandy while your bones,
Ghastly in hospital whites, are
Busily being devoured.
Faithful to your science god you fear
This is all there is-
That we go clod-like back into the stupid dirt,
Our life force snipped off like some dead rose
Beheaded not by an vengeful God
But by hollow eyed evolution
And the betrayal of your own cells gone amok
I do not want to follow you into the grave;
We do not belong to some ancient tribe
That buries its living wives as
Tribute to their fallen dead.
You’d like to take me with you, I think,
Into the fire that purifies
Not for you the grave with her dark secrets
The moldering body,
The worms that fatten on the scent of putrefaction,
The dissolution of the eye, with its illusion of control
No, you go into the fire,
As you have burned all your life,
Burned brightly, brightly
As if aware you had but a short time
To do all that needed to be done.
As you frantically filled your hours
With the accoutrements of modern life,
Afraid of silence, afraid of stillness, afraid of absence.
During the day, the hospital takes my oxygen,
Squeezes my lungs dry and arid as a desert.
There, I am merely a bit player,
Held together with tenuous wires of tendon and silent screams,
Breaking apart in a high carnivorous wind.
Sinner I am that I cannot bear the dark with you
For it swallows me up in nightmares
Like the nightmares that ate me as a child
Though at the end I will suffer them
As a woman suffers rape
Twenty minutes and a million light years distant
As Andromeda whirls and wheels in my backyard
The umbilical cord between us quivers
And I shiver.
So here I am alone,
As you are alone in your hospital whites,
Each silently telegraphing fathomless need
Over indifferent wires
Our voices a flickering filament of light
In the steepening night
Look Before You Leap
Grandpa’s barn was for the corn
That fed the chickens.
It was dark and musty with
Rolls of yellow piled up to the ceiling
Our job was to shell it, cob by cob,
Young arms would crank
Until they fell off,
Little white sticks
Mute testament to labor
Grains would slide into the bucket
Hissing like snakes
To then be poured,
Sweet and dry and dusty,
Where the golden mound would
Rise throughout winter
Until at last, there was corn enough
To dive into, like seals
On some gold rimed beach
Silvery dust motes flying
In the slatted sunshine
There were rats and snakes
And one year, an errant pitchfork
My sister launched out from the rope
Icarus spiraling down into the sun,
Missing the shiny prongs by a breath
Teaching me anew
All that glitters is not gold and
Look before you leap
Advice that ill suits poets
Who must often leap blind
Into radiance
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
A man came to my door
claiming witness to atrocities
committed on my behalf, but
in places I had never been.
He said I was duty bound
as a citizen beneficiary–
whether on hillsides of poppies
bodies explode, or not–
to stand behind our rightful leaders.
He offered digital images for sale,
un-enhanced, if I preferred.
If I preferred, guilty charges
made first in ancient texts
illustrated by monks, could be had–
actually his biggest seller–all certified.
I sent him away.
I alerted friends to his scam.
But, I checked local news in case;
published articles did appear,
but made no local accusations.
In fact I inferred implicit guilt.
Amazed,
I could not disprove any atrocities
on any dates cited
by any surrogates
killing thousands in my name.
Confused, I went to the mountains.
Heavy snow fell, drew me in,
quietly deep. I shook, although relieved.
The National Geographic
reports deprivations in deep
snow abet atrocities.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
i
Past
images of vulnerability dance
naked eyes blink, shut out
ageless tormenter
held captive on stomach
a small child begs for help
big room no adults
sadist rages human victim
soul broken bones intact
held down sat upon
“I’ll tell Mom” you laugh
my cries unheard despair
When will he finish?
worse when he leaves
unwanted by anyone
even the tormenter.
ii
Today
gentle words embrace
compassion flows as
I face my younger self
Hi, you don’t know me but
I am you all grown up,
we survived.
Eyes wide you whisper
I knew one day you
would awaken.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
I
When the breeze[br] from the gentle side of town[br] strays off[br] into the poor parts of town,[br] it becomes scared,[br] blindly whirling down the street,[br] only to rush back out[br] to the gentle part,[br] to blow as much dust[br] into the eyes of the world,[br] as justice mostly does[br] into the eyes of the lay people…[br] or his honor, the judge,[br] as one of its most reliable[br] representatives.[br]
II
In that unpleasant repository of dust,[br] I am standing[br] and watching the city,[br] along which the echo of the poor[br] reverberates all around,[br] and the boy is silent…[br] the wind makes him even more so[br] – as if whispering to him[br] about his thousand years[br] of silence[br] and solitude.[br] In that dusky hour,[br] it scrutinizes all the world’s secrets[br] he knows,[br] in the secrets tied to the orphanage,[br] on which the night is falling[br] in the capital,[br] and the barren and locked-up homes[br] in the capital.[br] Maybe he’s thinking[br] of a poor, duped fellow,[br] a child of the same kind and faith,[br] who lived the same life[br] as he did[br] until his death.[br]
III
And death,[br] like a motherly shadow,[br] in a night gown,[br] is following the boy.[br] And since that moment, wherever he may go,[br] another shadow shall follow him,[br] equally faithful,[br] equally silent,[br] just like a shadow of death.[br] With an unspeakable dignity, that shadow[br] endures the motherly shadow of death.[br] That shadow[br] is showing twofold value:[br] without a doubt,[br] it is showing the value of the noble side,[br] which is to be served,[br] and the value of the chaste side,[br] which serves.[br] And then the shadow shall certainly say[br] to the human society:[br] “Now, in wintertime, without a coat,[br] and on such a cold day!”[br] My heart is so coldly beating[br] in my chest.[br] I am hungry.[br] Would you be so kind[br] as to give me a spoon[br] and feed me?”[br] And that society,[br] generally careful[br] to distribute all the spoons[br] claims[br] that there are no spoons left for him,[br] because he has been invisible[br] and branded with poverty since his birth,[br] and, as such, not interesting to the papers[br] and television,[br] and where there are no stages,[br] there are no spoons.[br]
IV
The night is gloomy,[br] and the insensitivity of the world[br] penetrates his bones,[br] like cold moisture[br] of a winter’s night.[br] It is a good night to die,[br] and it provides the statistician of death cases[br] with an extraordinary task.[br] Whatever…[br] the boy,[br] whom the world[br] never remembered by name,[br] but rather by his shadow,[br] feels very weak,[br] and death spreads its[br] dark dress,[br] receiving the boy[br] with so much sensibility,[br] as if it was his mother,[br] while the other shadow[br] disappears forever,[br] to the shame of human society.[br] [br] © Walter William Safar[br]
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958. He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including “Leaden fog”, “Chastity on sale”, “In the falmes of passion”, “The price of life”, “Above the clouds”, “The infernal circle”, “The scream”, “The negotiator”, “Queen Elizabeth II”, as well as a book of poems, titled “The angel and the demon”.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Homeward
I’ve been staring at the life-size crucifix[br]
Since midnight; but light has illuminated[br]
His immovable, heavenwards gaze.[br]
Strangely, it dawns on me how man seems[br]
So alone-as if fear has become embodied[br]
In words expressed in tense silence,[br]
“Why have you forsaken me?”[br]
[br]
How have I arrived here?[br]
[br]
This moment of sudden clarity[br]
Makes me realize how-in places that seem open[br]
To my restlessness-far away I’ve strayed[br]
From I believe to be the circular route[br]
That justifies my leave-taking.[br]
[br]
But shouldn’t one be lost to discover[br]
(Jiddu Krishnamurti)? Discover what?[br]
That it isn’t good for man to be alone[br]
(Genesis 2:18 NIV)? Is it why I have this fear,[br]
As I sit still wanting to keep[br]
My shadow from vanishing?[br]
[br]
But there have been these moments[br]
When I enjoyed the expertise of God’s[br]
“Helpers” suitable for me. But if they[br]
Gravitated gratis from God’s good graces,[br]
If feigned, why would I have to spend[br]
For those short times? Is there a price[br]
For all dualities that, in my case, seem[br]
Unable to bring anything to closure?[br]
Is nothing for free[br]
But God’s unforced companionship?[br]
[br]
What for, then, has God created the first Eden,[br]
Whose ideal seems the inadequate artwork[br]
Concealed in obsessions[br]
To replicate, replicate and replicate,[br]
Till a preconceived perfection is reached?[br]
Since it all began have hands been crafting[br]
Copies of Paradise for feet to find “rest”-[br]
Which instead finds its suitable “helper”[br]
In “Lady Lessness,” so that it becomes[br]
The dreaded cycle allover again.[br]
[br]
Lingering in God’s dwelling[br]
Now soaked in light, I realize[br]
I’ve seen everything I need to see,[br]
And that there’s nothing left[br]
I haven’t tasted.[br]
As the most famous Florentine would have said,[br]
I am “midway in our life’s journey.”[br]
[br]
Should I thus be grateful[br]
That I’ve found myself in His house this early?[br]
Have I went down Augustine’s path,[br]
That I should be finding the apogee of my climb?[br]
[br]
If so, I’m glad I’m on my way home.[br]
Returning to Zen
No sooner could raindrops kiss its[br]
Lanceolate leaves than the sun[br]
Making water look like golden beads.[br]
Eternity as if enclosed in each glob[br]
Falling pianissimo like fruit[br]
Ripe for picking. Nectar seeps the[br]
Wind’s threads, attracting droning wings[br]
As abuzz each pierce through spaces[br]
Like canopied eyes, as though to follow[br]
Some scents bursting silently from its heart[br]
Where the beat is the ancient echo of stillness.[br]
[br]
From where I sit,[br]
The bark seems burnished, as though it glows.[br]
Or is it a trick of light, or shadows-[br]
After moments of stillness[br]
Till the only sound is breathing,[br]
The Mind’s Lotus blooming-[br]
Like a new eye uncovering the camouflaged-[br]
And seeing quite clearly[br]
The insatiable colony,[br]
Colored like honey,[br]
Inching upwards on the bark[br]
Like tireless workers or armies[br]
Swarming towards the rotten,[br]
Aware of rainy days to come.[br]
