Ticklish 3


	Our Ticklish Subjects Theme - Page 3 27 poets contributed to this project. Read their varied interpretations and expressions on the theme of Ticklish Subjects below: On this page: poems by Tom Berman, Jessica Goody, Judy Swanson, Mediha Saliba, Margaret Fieland, Paul Raboff, Roy Runds, Susan Rosenberg Go to Ticklish Subjects Page 1 Go to Ticklish Subjects Page 2 The following works are copyright © 2009. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the authors. Tom Berman Tom Berman has been a member of Kibbutz Amiad in the Upper Galilee, Israel for over 50 years. Born in Czechoslovakia, he grew up in Glasgow, Scotland. He is a scientist whose poetry has been published here and there, now and again. He was Editor in Chief of the annual Voices Israel anthology from 2003 to 2006. Of distant wars Awash in a tidal rage of print and television this month’s war hits the headlines transported by transistor cell-phoned and formulated for a two minute spot the dust and roar of battle echoes into our living rooms where the one-eyed, ever-flickering teli-idol mouths his tidings telling it “how it is” in living color to comatose viewers while well groomed arbiters of history seize a photo-op come dance with me a wheel-chair waltz for legless children before we break for commercials Sic Transit 1952-2005 Summer 1952 Aging Egged* bus packed with a cacophony of immigrants inside warm as a cow’s thigh lurching on narrow roads Destination, upwards, upwards, hopeful to Jerusalem Summer 2005 Double-decker Egged bus filled with the devout, pious and black as the back of beyond gliding smoothly, smugly air-conditioned, to Jerusalem Seems to me, somewhere, we took a wrong turning *Egged is the major intercity bus company in Israel Genesis and the Good Book Medium of myths primeval fooling generations In the beginning…. ….seven days…. …heavens and earth…. …woman from man’s rib… …..a sly serpent…. …..and a Fall Who are you kidding? O little man, alone, bewildered in a velvet night universe of Edens unnumbered What now of other worlds Of other myths Of other Gods? Ode to the squint in my left eye Baleful bugger, who asked you to shame your owner, being askew Why, in your formative youth did no one try to straighten you out. Unruly left eye? Queen Nefritite, I once read renowned of beauty, sculpted her head with tell-tale cast Maybe it’s a fact that it pays as well to squint with tact When said and done, I must rejoice that I am sound of limb and voice and keen of sight If the left didn’t squint the right one might. Jessica Goody Jessica Goody’s work has appeared in New York newspapers, anthologies such as Timepieces, Moonlight Café’s Poetry By Moonlight, and The Sun Magazine. She was a Featured Poetess of SpiralMuse.com. Her work ranges from poetry and song lyrics to short stories and children’s books. She is a dedicated environmentalist, and is interested in publishing a volume of poetry and a mystery novella. Brassai Portraits: I Reclining nude, Supine Charcoal shadows A bare torso Arching taut. The narrow pit Of the navel a cavern, A black hole In the galaxy of your frame. Breasts rolling like eyes, Nipples glaring; Bands of light stretch across your abdomen. Armpits and pelvis lined in black As though streaked with tar. The line bisecting your body From breast bone to uterine point As though a white-gloved Surgeon is standing Out of frame, ready To press down With the silver arrow of his scalpel, Drawing blood darker than any shadow. The portrait of your Sinewy, bare expanse of skin Lying helpless as a suicide risk Strapped to a stretcher, a velvet chaise longue, Stylishly accessorized With leather bands; Not so much a fashion statement As a tool of self-preservation. I can imagine Your silvery skin Peeled back, pinned in place Like a biology-class vivisection, Flesh butterflied And anchored with hypodermic-sharp Nails from Jesus’ cross. Your bones, Pearl-white and gleaming in bas-relief, Like black-light posters In a crack house, Like Limoges Glowing in grandmother’s teak hutch. Not a photograph Or a French postcard a la Bellocq’s cathouse nudes, as an x-ray glowing on a neon screen. Cat Eyes For Lion July 1994-May 5th, 2009 "One For My Baby" Infinite, Those eyes. Green Green as Lepidolite, As apples, bottles, olives: They are Yellow twin Moons Shining wide It is an endlessly Unanswerable question, Like the chicken or the egg-- Are they green or yellow? I am never sure. There are affirmative parties On both sides, Stubbornly finite, unwavering In their belief. It haunts, literally And figuratively, Both the view And the question-- Every time I think I am sure I catch another glimpse, The light has shifted: My certainty has betrayed me. I examine crayon boxes, Paint-color cards, Glass marbles, Anxious as a surgeon Planning an organ transplant To find a match. And I am compelled To search For that elusive shade, Hue, any object as lit And luminous As my cat’s eyes. Landmine Apocalypse No bathing suit beauty queens Flashback: burning, muffled screams A bomb; a broken geyser, fireworks, a hunter’s gunshot You have to grope for descriptions For what has just occurred The truth is hideous and absurd Blackout; smoldering Out walking, the next thing I knew I was airborne The world blew Armageddon, the fall of civilization The world stops spinning My sight is floating Apocalyse beginning My ears are ringing The truth is hideous and absurd. Judy Swanson A retired paralegal, Judy Swanson has been writing music lyrics all her life and performed professionally for more than 15 years. She has been attending the InnerVisions poetry workshop in Windsor, Connecticut since the fall of 2006. Judy is also an artist who is represented by galleries in Bloomfield and Old Lyme, Connecticut and enjoys writing children’s stories. She has been published in the Poet’s Cove section of the Monhegan Island Commons website and in two editions of Poet’s Ink. Additionally, her poetry and artwork were featured in the third issue (February 2009) of Cyclamens and Swords. A Familiar Face I saw her in the supermarket a few weeks ago. She looked like a co-worker from a job I had in another life. Wasn’t sure if I should approach her— say hello. If she recognized me and didn’t come over she probably felt the same. I understand if we didn’t share a friendship then why would it become important now? It’s one of those things you wonder about but not for very long … Grand Dame You can see it in her face when she opens the door … there was a time when she was a Grand Dame, even though her dress is out of fashion, hair pulled back haphazardly into a bun, erect and poised despite the screen door nearly off its hinges. I imagine faded roses, Tarnished silver, the smell of mothballs somewhere in the house as she leads me into the living room reminiscent of another era. She offers tea. Not thirsty, I decline. When our business is done, my eyes go to the mantle over the fireplace filled with pictures. I could stay, show some interest, but I look at my watch and bid goodbye. Matters of the Heart In matters of the heart it seems there’s much disparity. When issues come head to head, it’s time for clarity. Best not to berate and blame, but state in forthright way what seems to be the problem, hold hurtful words at bay. ‘Cause the passion of the moment will soon begin to wane … what’s left is but a bitter taste that anger’s wrath has lain. It takes some kind of wisdom to keep one’s tongue in fetter, but in the long run worth it when the end result is better. Mediha Saliba Mediha F. Saliba was an Associate Editor of the Santa Barbara Review, a literary/art journal from 1994-1998. She has published two non-fiction books, and most recently published her first book of poems, Holding Up the Moon. She has also published poems in Atlantic Pacific Press, Cyclamens and Swords, Aurorean, Sage Trail, Rattlesnake Review, and Main Channel Voices. She now lives in Northern California with her husband, preferring the simple life of a small community, and enjoying the company of grandchildren. Chocolate Guns and Paper Bullets He sits on his knees at the table in the corner of the bakery. His mother creates in the kitchen and his father attends customers, while he enjoys his favorite muffin. Humming in soft, moist tones, each bite explodes his cheeks, scatters crumbs to the plate, lights up his brown eyes. After greedily collecting each spilled chocolate morsel, each stuck crumb, he turns over the muffin wrapper, draws a smiley face, and hands it to his mother. In the whir of her chaotic kitchen, in the mash of sweet and savory, the joy in her son’s face is the tickle of her day, the inspiration of her work, and the ammunition for her life. Choices It’s dusk and the soap root flowers, on tall stalks, are opening their tiny white eyes— a tender glow across the meadow. Such an insignificant plant—a weed to most, yet I can hear them hum as they capture soft moonlight and make me think of fairy worlds; of flowing herbs and gentle song, of dance and laughter, of kindness, and long walks in open space. I know now there are worlds within worlds, and choices made— like the Vietnam Vet who strums his guitar in the park then sleeps under the bridge— Coors for a teddy bear. like the mass of people whose eyes lack expression but can twitter ninety-four symbols per minute about arriving at Starbucks, or their home, about what they are wearing, or where they shop— incessant chatter. like the alternative avant-gardes who trade luxury for sustainability, choose solar over microwave, and work harder for less—find happiness not always understood. When I lived in the city I had a five-bedroom house, swimming pool, Jacuzzi, manicured lawn, street lights blazed so bright they hid the stars, and twenty-four hour services thundered, bounced off tall buildings. One evening, with make-up lights glaring, my mirror reflected seven moons, but nothing in my eyes. I turned out the lights. The choice was mine. Forty Years Sometimes she’s someone else— Lost inside her body she is vacant, a stranger to those who know her. Confused, she wanders with her husband through the supermarket as he loads fruits, cereal, Metamucil into their cart. In the garden, she sits staring at roses, her mind beyond wondering what she used to do, but agitated with the young gardener she used to know. When I pick her up her husband has dressed her. She rarely knows me anymore, but I tell her she’s my bridge partner and that calms her. Seated at the square table the girls look at her—curious. We order manhattans, deal the cards. Violet’s eyes focus. Forty years of bridge tumbles out. “Two spade,” she begins the bidding, and I chuckle, knowing we’ll win. This I Know Winter gray falls over my shoulder, lights the reds, pink green, yellow, blues . . . that slip beneath my fingers while John Denver sings “fly Calypso . . .” and lifts my spirits. Still, news thoughts infiltrate; women and children die in Zimbabwe, hotel explodes in Mumbai, U.S. stock markets plunge, houses are foreclosed and green-house gasses play Russian Roulette with weather. I focus on quilt pieces, choose pale pink beside aggressive red, soft blue against darkest black, different shades of green bordered and connected with happy yellow. This I can do— dream, manifest beauty, dance from humming machine to hot iron, press love and hope into colors, sanity into me. Margaret Fieland Born and raised in New York City, Margaret Fieland is an accomplished flute and piccolo player. An avid science fiction fan, and selected Robert A. Heinlein's “Farmer in the Sky” for her tenth birthday, now long past. She lives in the suburbs west of Boston, MA with her partner and seven dogs. Her poems, articles and stories have appeared in journals and anthologies such as Main Channel Voices, Front Range Review and All Rights Reserved. In spite of making her living as a computer software engineer, she turned to one of her sons to format the initial version of her website, a clear illustration of the computer generation gap. You may visit her website, http://www.margaretfieland.com Birth of the Twos One is the mother of the integers, addition their father. All you need is love and number theory. Selecting Winners in the Essay Contest The first place picks will count for four, the seconds count for three, the third place choices count for two, the fourths for one. Then we will add up all the weighted votes and see which ones have won. But sticking pins into the list would be a lot more fun. Non-commutative An operation is commutative if A op B yields the same result as B op A. Subtraction is non-commutative, which is why when you leave your sweetie it's not the same as if your sweetie leaves you. For Want of a Horse Money was born when Farmer Gray bought Farmer Black's mare and paid for it with a tablet IOU for 8 bushels of wheat. By the time Farmer Gray harvested his crop, the tablet had changed hands six more times and Farmer Gray realized he was onto a good thing. Division by Zero Divide anything by zero, you get by definition a countable infinity, which proves if mathematicians don't know the answer, they'll just make one up. Paul Raboff Paul Raboff began publishing poetry in the nineteen-fifties in various “Beat” journals where Ginsberg, Corso and Snyder appeared. Unlike the Beats, however, it wasn’t enough for him to appropriate mystical language and terminology to leverage his poetry. He actually did have a real and convincing mystical experience that changed his outlook and sent him to Israel where he has lived since. Paul has published in the best journals accepting poetry in English in Israel and later was chosen to be among the English-language poets in Israel represented in Avon Books’ (New York) anthology of modern Jewish Poetry: “Voices in the Ark.” In 1990, a Swiss publisher, Éditions Ouverture (Lausanne) published in French, “Parce que je l’ai desiré”, a selection of his poetry in translation and in 1998, Gefen Books (Jerusalem) published “From Baal to Ashtoreth.” 1. Behold Cerberus on his chair Near the river bank Curled up, licking his cock. Don’t disturb him. You’ve got time to live. Go away, Take a few rounds of pleasure, Ask yourself why you haven’t Served your fellow man. Try and decide between The group and privacy. See, you can’t. Without hate somewhere growing up Ponder why you are alone Being sent to a world Recommending union And why love like a clock Runs down to tedium. Puzzle why you really Can’t find yourself And when you do It’s only a shade. Meanwhile, somehow, You’ve arrived again At the river bank. There’s a bark. 2. Venus, when you came over to embrace me Your arms fell off, leprous. Yes, embrace me, That’s exactly what they were trying to do. I was warned never to begin with strange women. And you, so classically modest, You shamed our teeming world, So ideal that when you entered it You withered, leaving our love Anguishing toward the unobtainable. Now everyone knows It was because of me Beauty became ineffectual. Who will touch me now, Though I purify myself Under all the running waters beneath heaven? I remain contagious. Beauty, sick with perfection Touched me once. 3. I will not raise up A tool on you That I not carve an idol Or mar the naturalness Of your pristine form. But what of the studio Of my memory In which I review All your various poses, Our various poses Where I did raise up a tool And where you certainly Did replace a god? 4. Oh yes, I’d like To undress poetry herself. That’s my unconscious intent. Like when I saw you, my muse, At Frankfurt Airport, Right there, go to the W.C. And begin and come back Without any panties For our big drive. We’ll stop all along the Autobahn And I’ll remove something else. Meanwhile, driving toward The heavenly Alps, Remembering the wonderful And illegal “necking knob”, One hand on the wheel, One hand around you, The landscape going by, A stroke of green, Stripping itself of features As fast as my loss of memory, As fast as you could take it off. There you are in the end; Not a Grecian shift Around you to be seen. I’ll have you in some chalet, Bare as the peaks outside, Your rose-tinted sunset skin And flanks smooth as glaciers. And then you’ll know, my muse, How men have always had to dress you up again In metaphors, similes and tropes, Complex padding, packed and bulging, Altering your simple, lovely shape. I never thought a German could be a woman. She’s a Gothic Mona Lisa And she lets me arrange her smile. Her eyes hide on the back slope of her cheekbones Like two blue lakes And her lips are a skiff and its reflection. Her speech comes out of hiding, a predator, Wary at night not far from its den, Then scurries back alarmed and burrows in silence. Her hair hasn’t made a statement about its color yet; It’s a parliament. Her skin is pale from indecisiveness; It’s democratic. She finishes what she starts, like any German, Which can be the death of love, And she won’t make up her mind How she feels about me Until she learns how to feel. I’m so afraid I’ll wait. She crouches down to love anything helpless So that love becomes defined as a sphinx. 5. I recognize your autonomy But not in someone else’s arms. Your breasts have become hills With strategic numbers now, The contour lines Measured for the rate of slope And progress of reconnaissance trails. It is noted at long distance The new roads being drawn Around them to their peaks, And frequent traffic is observed Like dragging fingers raising dust. The low passage between them Is no obstacle at all, A two-way danger Leading north to your lips Or leading south to your lips. The absolutely clear observation posts, Your eyes, are now clouded By mist from your heart And you have inhaled a kind of hope Which paralyzed your defenses. What has seemed to garble The decoding mechanism for truth in your ears Leaving every secret access to your skin open? Detailed maps are useless to me. Even the normal barbed wire divisions Look like pubic hair from here. Your navel has become a compass For any direction whatsoever, Your backsides perfect emplacements for launching mortars. What were open roads to the rich commerce between us Are blocked by your teeth, Your tongue ponderous As an armed rocket in its stall. Through many fruitless diplomatic conferences I let this happen Where I was represented by my own incompetency And discordant strategies. You were negotiated away From under me Like a family whose fortunes have so ebbed They haven’t the resources to defend Their historical endowments, And words of stealth, plying blandishment, Have won them away. 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. Toppled Pyramid Peacocks preen and squawk piercingly. Eagles soar. Hoot owls stare with searchlight glare. Gluttons strut and seethe in the sun Mount the throne of the gods. Killer hounds howl in the dusk. Frenzied currents froth. Whitened fists grip swords. Volcanoes erupt. Human demons and deities Devastate the earth. The fallen rise from the ruins Hurtle into madcap escapades. They amass flimsy wealth. The balloon bursts! Multitudes become moneyless. Feet jump joyfully into jackboots. Saviours grind granite heels on skulls and spines Toppling again the pyramid – Apex buried in the ground Broad black base pointing heavenward. Crimson snowmen foam – Petrified trees Dangle broken limbs. Cratered, scarred landscapes Smile crookedly with sizzling stumps. Helmets in the mire Gape like dinosaur eggshells. Skeletons stagger and collapse. The birds fly away. Susan Rosenberg Susan Rosenberg, now in her mid-eighties, began writing poetry as a child. Her work was unpublished until a decade ago when she joined Voices Israel. Now, her poems appear regularly in anthologies and journals and she received honorable mentions in two international poetry competitions. 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