Slow on the Update

Even when there's not very much to do, there's not time to do everything... So here are two more poems that I've neglected to put up until now, even though they were both written last week. I promise I have not forgotten about the short story either- it should be up soon.

The first poem was created out of our class's need to slow things down. He said our poetry was like skipping stones, we just wanted to hit the water and run to the next jump. We needed to suspend the rock in the air for a while. His assignment was either to blow out or last poem, or take just a part an blow it out. I was so inspired by the idea of skipping stones, that I decided to blow that out instead.

The second poem is a revision of the earlier poem "Without End." In this poem we were supposed to "turn up the heat" and just take the cold, lifeless, or dull parts out. So here's the new (and hopefully, you'll find it improved) version.

Skipping Stones

My eyes peruse the ground,

Moving in lines first horizontally

Then vertically,

Searching the crossword puzzle for the right word.

It must be round and so worn

by the river that I can feel the water

Lapping at its edges.

I bend my knees into a crouch

closer to the bank dotted

With small wild flowers and daisies,

which are related to the thistle.

It’s chilly here, the wind alternates between cold

and freezing. How can the

River still have running water?

I clutch myself in own arms,

participating in an

I-love-myself exercise.

The wind’s fingers find their way into each

Space left by the knit of fabric in my sweater.

My great grandmother used to knit

And crochet, but my hands never followed in her footsteps.

The knee high grass that itches my legs

When I walk through it, waves in the wind,

Sways in tune to a concert that I didn’t buy a ticket to.

If only I could find a vendor.

The oak trees are also attending,

But they aren’t as enthusiastic

As the wind, some of their branches move,

But they stand at the edge,

Merely tapping their feet in rhythm.

A bird flies overhead. I don’t know

What kind it is and I don’t know where it’s going.

I wonder if birds ever

Stop to ask for directions, and if they do,

Is it the male or female bird that does so?

Some of the rocks are spotted.

These must be the adolescents

Who haven’t grown out of their acne.

Some of them have deep pores, they must

Not wash their faces every day.

I’m looking for one with perfect skin.

Well, I’d settle for one with a very minor blemish.

If one catches my fancy,

I advance carefully. I casually inch towards it,

And then retreat as though unsure.

I’m afraid if I crane my neck any further

That I’ll topple over, falling like

A roller skater that is confused as to what to do with his feet.

My arms will flail out

In the hope that at this last desperate moment

I’ll discover the possibility of

Unaided human flight.

I rock backwards on my heels, catching myself more

Gracefully than I had anticipated.

My arm reaches out as though it is unattached

To my body, it moves of its own free will.

It picks up a rock.

The rock seems satisfactory.

It’s probably granite, but its true color and

Personality will only be gleaned by spitting on it.

So I spit, not like a man who sounds

As though doing so is a good excuse to clear out

Anything else, but like a lazy girl who can’t

Walk three feet to the river’s edge.

Delicately I well up liquid in my mouth

By thinking of lemons, which my brother

Loves to suck on. One day he’ll have no

Enamel left, but in the meantime the citrus is

An easy craving to satisfy.

I purse my lips to draw the liquid out,

And I hold the rock up to my mouth like

I’m telling it a secret.

I rub the moisture into the stone vigorously,

So it understands my intentions.

The rock is too grey, just another

Day waiting for the rain that is playing coy.

I set it back down gently, a mother

Putting her child to bed, rocking the baby

To sleep and then, though exhausted,

She watches to ensure that the kid’s chest

Continues to rise and fall- that it has lived through

Another breath.

Losing patience, I gather up the six closest stones

And hold out the bottom edge of my sweater

like women used to hold their aprons.

The rocks clunk around in their makeshift carrier

And carefully I stand up,

My knees threatening to creak under the strain

Of moving so deliberately. When I reach my full height,

I look around expecting applause. Everything is silent.

My steps echo across the weathered rocks,

Gossiping old women telling their stories in any

Willing ear. The clunk of pavement is not here,

The whisper of sand is not here,

It’s just the rattle of the rocks.

I plunk myself down on a now mangled

Pussytoes flower, which my mother always

Called cat’s paw. I sit heavily, sighing from

All the exertion. I examine the rocks,

Holding them up to light that is indifferent

To me, its light is much too weak.

The first rock is not the right shape,

Someone must have broken off an edge,

It’s jagged like a saw on one side.

The second rock shows more promise,

But it is not the right kind of smooth,

It is not creamy like butter,

So it gets tossed back.

The third rock has too many speckles,

So many that I can’t tell what the original

Rock color is.

The fourth rock is smooth, but it’s rather

Bulky and lumpy, a sack of potatoes, or

An old woman under her housedress.

The fifth rock was perfect, as though it had

Taken careful notes on the flaws of the others

And had resolved to not be found wanting.

I didn’t even look at the sixth stone, instead I threw

It carelessly over my shoulder.

I couldn’t wait another moment to be rid of it.

Nothing immediately happened.

I held the perfect stone in my hand possessively,

Daring someone to steal it. I held it hard so that

My skin was glued to the contours.

The light grew even more dim, a flashlight on its

Last legs, only emitting those feeble rays of

Yellow light.

I had to do it quickly now, and yet I fought

Against the inevitable arc and ripple.

I stood up again, this time with no attempt

To stay balanced. I moved from criss cross applesauce

To knighthood and then I pushed myself off the ground.

I brought my toes, clad in crappy tennis shoes I bought at

Goodwill so that I wouldn’t feel guilty about getting them dirty-

They make my feet wide at the toes like ducks- to the line

Past which there was no darkened soil that indicated

The river’s presence.

My arms stretched to the sky,

And I popped my neck to the east and west.

I wound up my left arm like a pitcher.

How funny it would be if after all this work,

The stone merely sunk with a loud plop,

Like a body with cement shoes that the mob

Throws over a bridge, except that seems like

More of a splash to me.

I take careful aim and bring my arm back,

Then I swing it back and forth, rolling the dice

In order to yell Yahtzee or whatever game we’re playing.

My arm drifts back again, but this time my

Muscles are tense like a loaded spring on a

Pinball machine, and I have to get the high score

Because everyone’s watching.

My arm comes forward and I release the perfect rock,

Watch it soar over the water like Icarus flying too near the sun,

He thinks he can fly, but it’s just too high up and the sun is too hot,

And he must come down to the water.

The rock bounces like a pogo stick on the

Surface of the water and skitters like a startled cat,

Darting to a new place, but it finds fault with that one

Too, merely resting for an instant, a friend who sits

Down with you to a lovely meal and continuously

Glances at their watch, waiting for the moment to run.

I’m sure it will sink soon. It cannot remain suspended in the air

Like the flying gallop pose of the bull in Minoan art.

Soon it will need to sink into the river and find new brothers

Among the rocks that cover the surface where humans

Rarely penetrate. I don’t want to watch it sink, and I pivot

On my heel and cover my ears so that I can disguise the sound

That distinguishes what was meant to be.

Ripples, the consequence of my action, move outward

Until they dissolve back into still and silence.

Aside from the inadvertently damaged Pussytoe,

Nothing says I’ve been here.

Without End

The Torah is rolled out completely,

Everyone present is supporting the sacred text,

Their fingers whispering against the edges.

It must be read from the end

To the beginning without pause.

I don’t want to sit in temple

And pray in a language I only know a dozen words of.

I sit in the pew, looking up, but all I can see is the ceiling.

And I am not called to explain, only to express.

And I sing fairly well,

But I could never coach my voice to hear G-d.

The cantor has, and every syllable moves from her lips

To G-d’s ears.

The great searchlights

Never sweep over my skin.

I have lit the Channukah candles,

I have said Kaddish at funerals,

I have sipped the wine enthusiastically at Passover,

Cracked the matzo and hid it from my Grandfather who never found it,

Read the transliterations to prayers I don’t understand in English,

Given another voice to the song that drips with honey,

Thrown breadcrumbs in the river,

To throw away sin and feed the ducks simultaneously,

And never understood.

I am a twig caught in the eddies of tradition,

Moving in circles,

Never going anywhere, but going on

Forever.

Baruch atah Adonai…

There is a great

Chasm between the words

And their meanings.

I fear falling into the abyss.