A Sail To Great Island <part>

[guangdian 0]

Two Poems:A MemoirI?d like to write memoiristically, but my interest in myselfkeeps getting in the way. Not to mention my foggymemory. The miracle is you could describe your bedroomat the corner of State Street. The low ceiling. The largewindows with their clear glass. And suddenly a placerubs into focus, brighter than anything real,and more lasting. Why brighter? Because in the presentwe could be distracted by the camouflage patternof daily worry, gnawing at us like a hunger,but in memory everything is bright and thought-aboutlike a painting with a frame that protects itthe way a wall protects a city. The cityof the past. I could write: My mothernever shopped. Except to sit down at her narrow deskand call the grocer, then the butcher, every morningwith her musical voice, as though she had to charm theminto delivering. This is a sentence of memoirand I am visible in every word of it, the overtoneof condemnation in the first, short declarative remarkand the jealousy of the final simile. My heartis with the boy standing beside her, waiting for attention.Oh, if I could only step outside, she could live againand so could I. Forever, perhaps. That self-forgetfulness,that turning oneself into a lens. That generous devotion.I was the life my mother was planning to havein her next life, I must have convinced myself.And when I get into arguments, I find myself shoutingthe way my grandfather would have. Shoutingat board meetings was his amusement, rather than golf.Is that memoiristic? No, that shows my insane convictionthat the family dead return to life in me. for Miriam LevineA Visit from My Sister (c. 1982)She gets off the bus in my mother?s old mink coatand dungarees. Carrying a flight bag. She?s made a quickcircle around the country. Has even seen our remotefather in Florida. Two of her friends are widows.We?re getting older and older. Luckily. I don?tfeel like lecturing her about her unfinished dissertation.I accept everything. Even her ice cream dinners. I won?tback my father when he accuses her of procrastinationand worries how she?ll collect social security in Istanbul.Are you happy? is all I ask her when we talk.?Mmm, yes . . .? she says, considering. Her eyes full.She shows me a photo of the view from her balcony. A short walkalong the Bosporus brings her to the ferry that goesto Asia. It?s sunny. The wind ruffles her clothing.Alan FeldmanA Sail to Great IslandFelix Pollak Prize in PoetrySelected by Carl DennisThe University of Wisconsin Press

[biscuitrat 0]

Two Poems:

A Memoir

Id like to write memoiristically, but my interest in myself

keeps getting in the way. Not to mention my foggy

memory. The miracle is you could describe your bedroom

at the corner of State Street. The low ceiling. The large

windows with their clear glass. And suddenly a place

rubs into focus, brighter than anything real,

and more lasting. Why brighter? Because in the present

we could be distracted by the camouflage pattern

of daily worry, gnawing at us like a hunger,

but in memory everything is bright and thought-about

like a painting with a frame that protects it

the way a wall protects a city. The city

of the past. I could write: My mother

never shopped. Except to sit down at her narrow desk

and call the grocer, then the butcher, every morning

with her musical voice, as though she had to charm them

into delivering. This is a sentence of memoir

and I am visible in every word of it, the overtone

of condemnation in the first, short declarative remark

and the jealousy of the final simile. My heart

is with the boy standing beside her, waiting for attention.

Oh, if I could only step outside, she could live again

and so could I. Forever, perhaps. That self-forgetfulness,

that turning oneself into a lens. That generous devotion.

I was the life my mother was planning to have

in her next life, I must have convinced myself.

And when I get into arguments, I find myself shouting

the way my grandfather would have. Shouting

at board meetings was his amusement, rather than golf.

Is that memoiristic? No, that shows my insane conviction

that the family dead return to life in me.

 

                                                                              for Miriam Levine

A Visit from My Sister (c. 1982)

She gets off the bus in my mothers old mink coat

and dungarees. Carrying a flight bag. Shes made a quick

circle around the country. Has even seen our remote

father in Florida. Two of her friends are widows.

Were getting older and older. Luckily. I dont

feel like lecturing her about her unfinished dissertation.

I accept everything. Even her ice cream dinners. I wont

back my father when he accuses her of procrastination

and worries how shell collect social security in Istanbul.

Are you happy? is all I ask her when we talk.

Mmm, yes . . . she says, considering. Her eyes full.

She shows me a photo of the view from her balcony. A short walk

along the Bosporus brings her to the ferry that goes

to Asia. Its sunny. The wind ruffles her clothing.

Alan Feldman

A Sail to Great Island

Felix Pollak Prize in Poetry

Selected by Carl Dennis

The University of Wisconsin Press

46120[/snapback]

I would edit it and make sure it isn't in such a small column and all of that.