Beginnings 2


	Beginnings and Endings Poetry Theme - Page 2 Over 30 poets contributed to this project. Read their varied interpretations and expressions on the theme of beginnings and endings below: On this page: poems by Sarah Wetzel-Fishman, Roger Humes, Eva Eliav, John Daleiden, Diane Frank, Patrick Osada, Yossi Faybish, Sabine Huynh, Bonnie Thomson Enes, Roy Runds Go to Beginnings and Endings Page 1 Go to Beginnings and Endings Page 3 The following works are copyright © 2009. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the authors. Sarah Wetzel-Fishman Sarah Wetzel-Fishman is a poet, essayist, and engineer. She grew up a daughter of the American South, but somehow ended up in the Middle East after job-hopping across the Americas and Europe. Sarah graduated from Georgia Tech in 1989, and in 1997, received a MBA from The University of California, Berkeley—both degrees proving completely useless to her life as a poet. Sarah completed an MFA in Creative Writing from Bennington College in January 2009. Her work has been published in the US and Israel where she currently lives with her husband, four step-children, and one needy dog. This Place, For Now I go where the Yarkon River begins, just thirty kilometers from its end at the sea to a bend where it almost stops. On the banks, crowds of water lilies crawl down, their soft baby heads trembling in the air as if waiting to be born. Twenty years ago, the water so foul, the lilies abandoned the dark river. Last spring, they returned. I suppose all things are provisional. Still I've grown weary of starting over, weary of learning landmarks and language, explaining myself to men whose faces I won't remember. This place marked a crossroad between Egypt and Damascus. On the hill, a fortress built by Sultan Salim falls down on what remains of King Herod's walls. Somewhere near, the Philistines defeated the Jews, took their Ark. I say, good riddance. The lilies nod and beneath an oblivious blue sky, we run with the river toward the sea. Fresh Water Outside, a cicada casts off its shell, its face five inches from mine as it shiveringly separates from its carapace, a creature grown too big for its container. For a while, the cicada freezes, trapped by tentacles of tissue fine as surgical wire. A wound that slowly stretches wide as greedily, the cicada eats the flesh filaments strand by tenuous strand until the carapace splits and the soft body springs free, pale as the inside of my wrist, as keenly vulnerable. I wanted to feel new, to not be stuck, just like the cicada discards its skin, a blackbird flies blind at night lured by the idea of clean water, a woman leaves one man, lies with another. It's what I wanted, isn’t it? I raise my face to the receding sound of an airplane crossing, the one I was supposed to board, the one that an hour later spirals into an anonymous sea. It's what I wanted— not someone to say, that could have been you. A Desire to Fly The cove won't sleep. A restless sea chucks its body against the cliffs, going nowhere, cicadas creak like rows of insomniac doors. The fat clouds keep rolling over. Fidgety world. I hold the emerald cicada large as a man's thumb before the girl child's eyes. His malevolent mask stares straight at her. The hollow body buzzes in the cage of my hand. But the black eyes bulging aren't spiteful. It's only myth cicadas lay their eggs under the skin of children. Such delicate wings— how to quiet them. When the child asks, why do cicadas sing? I tell her they sing at night under full moons. They sing even when under attack. The dry pines on fire, and flying away Roger Humes Roger Humes is a poet, musician, and computer graphic artist. He is the Director of The Other Voices International Project, a cyber-anthology of world poetry that resides at www.othervoicespoetry.org, and the International Poetry Editor for Harvest International, a bi-annual arts and literature magazine produced by the California State Polytechnic University, Pomona. He has released two collections of poetry, There sings no bird and after the visitation. Humes lives in Claremont, California. Scott’s View Scott's View is a viewpoint in the Scottish Borders where, according to tradition, Sir Walter Scott stopped so often on his way home that the horses would halt without command. After his death, when his funeral procession passed that way, the team stopped to allow their master a last look at the Borders landscape. The old horses pulled him home one last time, stopping at the top of the hill more from habit than for the view. While the clouds chased above the winding valley he flicked the reins to catch his breath before moving down the road of passing. Inauguration 2009 Malia is always taking pictures. In her eye the world is captured with no need to worry that history may pass unnoticed. Eva Eliav Eva Eliav grew up in Toronto, Canada and received a degree in English Language and Literature from the University of Toronto. Since 1970 she has been living in Israel. Her work has been published in a number of literary magazines both in Israel and abroad, including Room of One’s Own (Canada), Parchment (Canada), The Voices Anthology (Israel), ARC (Israel), Natural Bridge (U.S.), Quality Women's Fiction (U.S.), and the online literary journal, The Apple Valley Review. Her poems are due to appear in Stand (U.K.). She is presently working on new collections of poetry and prose. Eva is married and has a daughter. beginning the simplicity of things at bottom cut or connected furnishing my garden with familiar species the myth of lilacs sweet pea in one corner under a bush of wild yellow forsythia a mouse lies buried well-provided as a pharoah with a treasure of lettuce and grasses the simplicity of things shape and dissolution one day we’ll wake eyes naked one day life will fit our skins we’ll gather like soldiers in forests of memory preparing for tests of courage snow’s been falling for a generation our feet sink deep as monarchs into purple reach frozen fingers down and pull up wishes pale as crocuses birthday song the day after returns to known pleasures flapping sunshades over tiny tables harmless fancy names for toast and coffee words cooler than glass harsher than flame complicated enemies and friends a ball of feathery seeds I once blew softly white gliders dangling careless wishes invasion spring finds fractures in our hardened winter skins trickles to the tenderness within old hopes old simple stories writhe to life learning to let the forest speak for the child sweetness bleeds from trees the cries of ants roar in the underbrush ferns unfold cool and fluent as a summer wind I learn to let the woman speak for the child ripening heat flesh wakes slick as rocks at the river’s edge somewhere an old engine throbs and stutters hopes thrust from their shells like crocodiles newborn and still tender golden-eyed John Daleiden John Daleiden is a retired high school language arts teacher who lives in Avondale, AZ, a west suburb of Phoenix in the Sonoran Desert. Currently, he is an Editor for Sketchbook: A Journal for Eastern and Western Short Forms. Far from Home A Sijo* Sequence Do you still sleep in this valley, at rest under thriving grass? In these killing fields many died that we might live free in peace. How many times must events repeat before harmony reigns? Do you still sleep in this valley, at rest under thriving grass? At midnight is that your voice I hear wailing, "lay down your arms? I am the grass; I cover all; let me work greening the land." Do you still sleep in this valley, at rest under thriving grass? Once our camp fires burned brightly while we rested in these broad fields. Oh brother, will I know your name on the last day when I die? Do you still sleep in this valley, at rest under thriving grass? I long to return to my home far beyond those black mountains. There daises bloom in meadows beside streams that flow to the seas. We are but dust, a small, dull speck among the stars in the skies. In this far country we seek the end of days and last judgment. At rest under thriving grass does anyone sleep in this valley? Sijo is a Korean poem; sijo means song. This sijo sequence was inspired by Im Che (1549 - 1587), a talented Korean writer whose pen name was Paekho (White Lake). "Do you still sleep in this valley, / at rest under thriving grass?" are lines that appeared in a sijo by Che written "to pay tribute at the grave of the noted kisaeng Hwang Chin'i". Diane Frank Diane Frank is an award-winning poet and author of five books of poems, including Entering the Word Temple and The Winter Life of Shooting Stars. Her friends describe her as a harem of seven women in one very small body. She lives in San Francisco – where she dances, plays cello, and creates her life as an art form. Diane teaches at San Francisco State University, leads workshops for young writers as a Poet in the School, and directs the Blue Light Press On-line Poetry Workshop. She is also a documentary scriptwriter with expertise in Eastern and sacred art. Blackberries in the Dream House, her first novel, was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. Dawn After the Art Walk Line of a train on the north side of town an hour before sunrise. I open the early morning window to snow under the street lamp. In my bedroom, a chill in the walls, a loneliness deeper than my bones. Changing my shoes after the waltz, I walk into the cold air alone. By the door to the Landmark Hotel at exactly the wrong moment, I witness a marriage unraveling. In one evening, in front of me all of the reasons I left this place. Dreams tumble like the paintings I saw – tree frogs splotching a red barn inside an arch of cottonwood branches, a dancer climbing blue star stairs to the Pleiades after midnight. Five years ago, I packed up what was most important to me in my Toyota and drove west across the mountains, in the back seat, my cello, my dance shoes, my favorite books including the one I was writing. Somewhere inside, beyond the snow I knew about you and knew you were not here. Patrick Osada Patrick B. Osada is a retired Headteacher living in Warfield, Berkshire, England. He works as an editor, writes reviews of poetry for magazines and is a member of the Management Team for SOUTH Poetry Magazine. His first collection, Close to the Edge was published in 1996 & won the prestigious ROSEMARY ARTHUR AWARD. His second collection, Short Stories : Suburban Lives and his current volume, Rough Music, have been published in England by BLUECHROME. Patrick’s work has been widely published in magazines, anthologies and on the internet. His poetry has been broadcast on national & local radio. Information about his work can be found at : www.poetry-patrickosada.co.uk Visiting Do ghosts still recognise this town? The layout of the road’s unchanged – but buildings here are roofless now, taverns inhospitable. Tourists with guidebooks jam Pompeii : as busy as that far off day when crowds were toasting Jupiter – surprising that this place remains… Empty buildings, stripped to the bone retain the irremovable : an intricate mosaic floor confirms this was a rich man’s home sign writing marks some old shop fronts and everywhere, on many walls, are colours from those far off days. Paintings of gods, birds, animals – small areas of vivid paint – display their lives : the everyday. Set like a photographic plate, here on this wall, a face stares out with bulging eyes contorted mouth – real terror stares across the years as if the person were transfixed, caught in a moment, turned to stone… by gorgon of the mountainside : come visiting this woman’s home. Ghosts The house is empty now, Depersonalised. Nothing's left that bears your name - Only household ghosts remain, Allowing us to feel in touch. Footprints of furniture Mark out the space of daily life; Shadows left by picture frames And shading, like the faintest bruise, Where fingers searched for switch and light Are all that's left to mark your stay. But outside, where your flowers bloom, The planting brings you back to life : A shadow toiling in the shade, A smiled "goodbye" in fading light. Saying Goodbye (St. Just in Roseland) Deep peace of the Running Wave to you.... The creek is full. Tidal water reflects blue sky. Bright sun gilds tiny waves, Warming worn stone And young shoulders. Deep peace of the Flowing Air to you.....* The lime trees hum with bees, Somewhere a pigeon coos. Waters' soft plash - lapping old hulls, Palm leaves shimmer as the sea exhales - Serenity breathes through this place. Deep peace of the Quiet Earth to you........* A seagull wheels and cries; Hands are held, ashes poured. "Did they love you and you love them?" Child and adult think last thoughts, Two turves are turned. Deep peace of the Shining Stars to you......* Above, a celtic cross; Acanthus leaves unfurl, For a moment all is still, As if a breath is held. The bell chimes as he reads : Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.* *from an ancient Celtic Benediction Yossi Faybish Yossi Faybish was born in Romania, where he spent his childhood absorbing a rich cultural heritage. He finished his higher studies in Israel. Yossi has been writing poetry and short stories most of his life. At present he lives in Belgium and works in the high-tech industry while writing more than ever. He has published one book - "The Life and Death of a HighTech Patriot", and two poetry books - "Sweet Tears, Bitter Tears" and "More Like Sweet, More Like Bitter". His poem - "Creation" - won an international contest on the subject of Love Poetry. The Divine Cacophony ...then she said I love you. She moved to my other piece of flesh, small nibs ending as meat in her mouth and she kissed apologetically the new spot saying again I love you. After the eleventh time in three minutes it was vexing, after the twenty seventh it was mystifying, it was after the fifty sixth in half an hour that it became addicting, enslaving and I stopped counting squirming behind the bandanna covering my eyes not knowing where the next nib will be, knowing what the next words will be I love you... I love you... I love you... At three hundred thirty-four (I know I said I stopped counting, the neighbor did not) we (she) made a pee stop, at five hundred seventy-seven we (she) made another one as I did not dare interrupt the sequence myself, at six hundred and ninety-nine I was squirming so bad... she refused to interrupt the cacophony and pulled me by force joining me there making sure there is no interrupt whatsoever to my immense (double) relief. I love you... I love you... I love you... I think there was a sunrise, sometime, I think there was a sunset, sometime, probably more... many?... I woke up from nirvana, alone, my skin a spotful of... well, spots, the bed sheets smooth around me, the floor shining, the kitchen spotless, I dressed and went to work. “Good morning,” I addressed my young neighbor, wondering at the industrial heavy duty ear-mufflers around her ears. She ran away, screaming wildly (poor girl, she couldn’t hear anything with these mufflers) and I couldn’t help but notice that strand of white hair at the nape of her neck... these youngsters, they’d do anything these days to attract attention. “Hey, I love you too,” I screamed after her, playing the smartass just seconds before she left a dent in that poor bus. I hope she heard me. Et Tu? et tu, amor meus? I stuff the written pages inside shirt, socks, I break the pen sit down, lean against the tree, shivering. broken words drip from the paper freezing before hitting ground tinkle, tinkle, tinkle... lov, oodby, neve... exploding into tinier fragments, until a dog makes up its mind to lift its leg and they melt, a kid on ice-skates passes swiftly by to splatter the stinking puddle then cut the tips of my shoes and toes. God’s... Death’s?... long teeth hang down from gutters, half chewed moths and flies and beetles decorate the glittering insides with kids sucking thirstily the fearful spikes calling them sugarless lollipops if giggling girls or motherless nipples if vulgar boys or perpetuum immobile if irreverent, dying I and my poetry. flake shaped fireflies pinch my bare skin patches, tips of flame drill down to my cheek bones competing with those drilling up from my toes rushing through the solidifying maps of my various circulatory systems who will be the first to reach the heart and hear that one unique beat, the final? was it the mountain’s, that final howl, or yours, my lover once you find my poetry strewn upon the white hugging the eternal green of needles or inside nests waiting for feather or padding the bottom of paw tracks trailing the pack of wolves trekking along their tragedy of hunger and extermination in interminable circles? rainbow, you are not there, in the snow, to define the horizon of expectations. then die, butterfly. Leaf I picked the battered leaf and put it behind your ear. Leaf becomes you, I said. It is the mother of flower, you said. I couldn’t give you a roof, would you settle for a sky? I asked. I would settle for a leaf, you answered. We stopped counting stars, we always lost count after three, or after five, would you rather count the kisses? I asked. If as many as leaves, you answered. I lay my frozen palm upon your breastbone, then upon your breast, you shiver, sorry, I said. I shiver like a leaf with the pleasure of rain, you said. You cuddled inside my shirt, I refused to ask how you fit in there, never ask a poet what a poet can do to a poet, your hand offering me a leaf, you offer me your leaf? I asked. I offer you my fig leaf, you answered. Sabine Huynh Sabine Huynh was born in Saigon in 1972, grew up in Lyon, France, worked and studied in England and the U.S., before moving to Jerusalem with her Israeli husband in 2001. Her home is now in Tel Aviv. She holds a PhD in linguistics from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, where she taught from 2002 to 2008. She was still in primary school when she started writing poetry, and ghostwriting for classmates, in French. She has two as yet unpublished novels in French. Sabine also translates poetry from Hebrew to French: Uri Orlev's Poems from Bergen-Belsen, 1944. Some of her poems and short stories appeared in The Dudley Review, Poetica Magazine and The Jerusalem Post (French edition). A roulette dream I dreamed of a drop of water and thought it was the moon I dreamed of a maple seed that autorotated to the stars I dreamed of a tiny woman who was yelling at the ocean I dreamed of myself in a dinghy travelling to Jupiter round and round we went the woman and me on the flying roundabout in the warm monsoon rain until it stopped turning… and the mother was she and the daughter was I oh let’s keep on drifting I dreamed of a baby boy with very old eyes I dreamed of a bread loaf filled with sticky rice I dreamed of a tired man wearing a sardine necklace I dreamed of myself peering down into the cloudless void up and down they went the baby boy and the tired man on the Russian roller-coaster spinning out their time together until the train stalled… and the father was he and the son was he oh they were not dreaming I awoke to number seven. Over Morning after morning, Up he was at six, In his overalls at six thirty, At seven his shift started. He coughed, spat in the shower. Coffee sputtered in the kitchen. The engine of his Deux Chevaux hissed, Purred along with classic disco. Christmas sent him home his arms full: Freebees bearing the company’s name. Bottle-opener, pen, cap, miniature radio… One year he even brought a windsurf. Every few summers he took a trip To Tunisia with single co-workers. That’s what it took for routine to Become a euphemism for his life. His wife hated travelling until She left him, after half a lifetime Spent together… Alone with his daughter, Deprived of a washing machine. Night after night the girl foot washed The overalls in the hip-bath. Tears tracing question marks on her cheeks, She stamped until she forgot why. One day he staggered to the door, He’d been fired for hitting the foreman. The next evening he handed her Wads of crumpled banknotes. “Pocket money,” he grinned. “Hush money,” she glowered. He’d won it at the town casino, Where vice and work coalesced. She was not taken aback, But when she wrung out His soaked clothes that night, The water was murky. Bonnie Thomson Enes Bonnie Enes of Bloomfield, CT, USA has poetry published in many anthologies and e’zines. She was Connecticut’s first town and South Windsor’s first Poet Laureate, and won first place awards in the The Windham Area Poetry Festival for 1998, 1999, 2000, 2002 and The Maine Poetry Fellowship Award. Her short story, The Hillsboro Garden and Literary Guild, was published and rewritten as a play winning awards in Maine and Connecticut and her flash fiction pieces Why Cassandra Chicken Cross the Road was published in Country and Abroad and Contemporary Love was published in the Rose and Thorn. A former, reporter, art & theater critic, humor columnist and editor, she teaches her poetry course, The Who, What, When, Where, Why and How of Poetry to any group of 3 or more people who will sit still long enough to listen. Hermaphrodite Using my dining table for a stage— you do call attention to yourself. For three days, seductively unfold satin petals which may or may not contain guidelines to attract bees, then Va, Va, Va Voom— a six-sided tangerine star offers up semisweet chocolate stamens. What woman can resist chocolate? It’s all there: her carpel—ovary, ovule and nectary with its stash of sugar; his stamen—filaments and anthers. It takes a fat five minutes to sketch you onto my mind. Three other lilies, protruding from this one stem will unfold, deliver that which has been scripted. Summer as a Steam Train ClicketyClackClicketyClackClicketyClack June got off in Hartford. Her bags filled with graduations, weddings, pool swimming, island hiking, canoeing, garden planting, pink peonies popping, the race of morning glories and clematis up trellises. Thunder bolts stick out of her purse, her dandelion yellow linen sundress and straw hat still damp after violent storms. Clickety Clack Clickety Clack Clickety Clack July, dressed in sleeveless shirt and capris, disembarked in Boston. Left me sweets—bunches of daisies, black-eyed Susans, fireworks, harvested lettuce and beans, baking in the sun days, pool swimming, reading summer novels [I wouldn’t be caught dead reading in the serious months], an island sleep over [and, no, I will never be the same]. Clickety Clack Clickety Clack Clickety Clack Slow moving August, [almost missing her connection] headed for Portland, barely covered in tank top and cut-offs, sun-bleached hair tucked under a baseball cap. She’s horizontal, napping on the bench seat in the back of this train that pants along, slicing through humidity. We greet mornings laaaaater, laaaaater, laaaaater, toss down numerous sweating glasses of ice tea, munch on nightly bowls of fresh vegetables, cottage cheese clams, lobsters, melon wrapped with prosciutto. Our days and nights swolllllen, drippppping. Exhaustion of pulling on a bathing suit, of putting paddle to water. The sun overwhelms and the zucchini the zucchini the zucchini. Clickety Clack Clickety Clack Clickety Clack After White: opposite of black reflection of all rays that produce color chaste spotless clean clinical bib on the cat asleep on the unmade bed tiny lies this page I’m emptying on closed bedroom curtains wicker bedside table with an unwound clock phone that doesn’t ring my rage Black: opposite of white caused by the complete absorption of light rays absence of hope day I knew pitch-black turned-cold coffee in the cup on the table day I knew dress balled up on the ironing board day I knew scorched insides of the pan I tried to make dinner in ever lovin’ day I knew Whitewhiteblackblackwhitewhiteblackblackwhitewhiteblackblackwhite whiteblackblackwhitewhitewhitlackblachhiteblaitewhckbewke Gray Gray: space between moral & immoral imperfect absorption of light rays that produce color smoke above these burning autumn leaves wool socks I wear all winter dark southern humor parade of these last few days my car your car her fuckin’ BM Yuppie W your hair true color of her hair Color: reflecting light of a particular wave length hue form on horizon vivid days of song nights of dancing loving settling in saturation One Way of Looking at Pink Salmon underside of a newborn’s feet fresh out of water. August XI Sun heated wind tongues ocean’s swelling breasts, nuzzles into crevasses of boulders, licks limbs of pine trees slides hand along shore’s thigh, penetrates earth. Roy Runds Roy Runds was born in Perth, Western Australia in 1944; came to Israel in 1972. He has been writing poetry steadily since 1983 and is the author of two books of poetry, with a third in preparation. His poems have been published in Israel, the United States, Australia, New Zealand, and Germany. He works as a free-lance editor and proofreader. Shadow Across Sinai Words cannot voice my wailing soul As tanks displayed in Tel Aviv’s Municipal square And mounted by carefree, laughing children Focus my memory on the face Of a youthful friend Killed by a blow across the chest From the loose gun barrel of A captured tank in Sinai Many years before. Max – Carrot-topped, irreverent, compassionate, Happy, lion-hearted Max, With his enormous appetite for life – One of three valiant volunteers, Loving, devoted comrades Soaring joyously From Melbourne to the Promised Land After those heroic June days Of the nineteen-sixty-seven war. Norman – Blown up by a mine. Colin – Lone survivor. Max – Son of concentration camp victims, Golden Star of David pendant round his heart – Why was he sacrificed At only four-and-twenty years of age? Stroke of fate or act of God? The laughing children, Frolicking in the sun, Will still play their war games. Shattered Dream Time Like a cyclone they raged across the country, Temper more terrifying Than the mighty crocodile, Touch more agonising Than the box jellyfish, Bite more venomous Than the funnelweb spider, Appetite more voracious Than the great white shark, Bound prouder Than the great red kangaroo. They came with ghostly faces, Pale man’s pestilence, Firearms and firewater, Holy hellfire. We were a passing patchwork Plucking, scooping, hunting our meals As we listed into the dream time. Our neighbours were as distant as the stars. We had no great ships, No cannon, No almighty and all-conquering God. They struck Like the great red kangaroo’s massive tail Or a crunching kick from the emu’s foot. They raped our continent and our women, Staked out the land that had belonged to no one; Killed like frenzied taipans, Crushed our spines, Hacked the trees we worshipped, Excreted on our sacred sites, Banished us to the burning wilderness, Flung proud black bodies onto garbage dumps, Where dingoes pissed into our skulls. When we offended them, so they imagined, They locked us into everlasting night. They tore our children from our families To be raised in the ghosts’ exalted ways. The shades of our fathers writhe in fury. Who will weep for us?