6 Poems by Richard Fein<\/p>\n
SEEKING A UNIVERSALLY ACCEPTED PRAYER FOR PUBLIC SCHOOLS<\/strong><\/p>\n What is the divine name? We focus on holy visions through shattered glasses. The universal prayer should be silence, WINTER SUNSET RESCUE<\/strong><\/p>\n So tangled Now my muscles relax. TUNDRA DREAM<\/strong><\/p>\n I dream of tundra. Droning sounds, the snow scraping against itself. This is the paradise I have dreamed of, here But under the Borealis above, the snowdrifts below.<\/p>\n 204 SOPHISMS<\/strong><\/p>\n “The moral issues,” he said, “are clear. Black and white, plainly contrasted like squares on a chessboard.<\/p>\n There’s nothing further to discuss.”<\/p>\n Then I simply asked how many squares are there on a chessboard.<\/p>\n “Ah, sixty-four,” he pontificated.<\/p>\n His arms folded, his face straining to give the thinnest grin. “Now let’s get back to the point.”<\/p>\n What about the board as a whole?<\/p>\n “O.K. sixty-five, now let’s get on with it, back to the main points.”<\/p>\n I said that we were discussing squares not points.<\/p>\n “The issues are clear, right is right, wrong is wrong.”<\/p>\n What about the smaller squares within the big gameboard, the two, three, four, five, six, seven, sided squares all nested within the eight-square? How many squares of black and white are right before your eyes?<\/p>\n “Your point,” he scolded, “is to confuse and distract.”<\/p>\n Suddenly I was alone. LOVER’S BRIDGE<\/strong><\/p>\n My eyes Like some bridge too rigidly built, Snap! SILVERFISH<\/strong><\/p>\n Not sweet like the bees 6 Poems by Richard Fein SEEKING A UNIVERSALLY ACCEPTED PRAYER FOR PUBLIC SCHOOLS What is the divine name? What is the comforting noun to invoke, when worshipers can’t even agree on number or gender? Call to an amorphous entity— one that is a unity with rocks, water, trees, and human souls— then where is the … <\/p>\n
\nWhat is the comforting noun to invoke,
\nwhen worshipers can’t even agree on number or gender? Call to an amorphous entity—
\none that is a unity with rocks, water, trees, and human souls— then where is the loving friend who listens? Call to that friend and who is called,
\nhe, she, them?
\nIn what direction does one call—
\nup to distant heaven, down to the roots in the intimate earth? Face the East and you turn away from the West. Look to the North and ignore the South.
\nWhat is the proper posture for prayer,
\nstanding, sitting, kneeling, prostrate?
\nShould one be still, or dance with arms high? Should organs solemnly play or drums wildly beat? What are the standard vestments worn in the presence of a deity— Silk robes, rags,
\nor proper business attire
\n(especially when pleading for worldly success)? Should heads be covered or uncovered?
\nWhen seeking the almighty presence
\nshould one be drafted into the company of the indifferent or gather strength through the clasped hands of true believers?<\/p>\n
\nwhile seeking the common comprehension gleaned from daily, boring lessons.<\/p>\n
\nthe leafless briar branches
\nthat what is beyond the swamp is seen only in fragments:
\npieces of open field,
\nthe evening sun glaring through twisted stems.
\n“Come hold me, hold me,” the plea.
\nWith rope secured around the trunk
\nand vapor steaming from my mouth, I
\nhurl:
\nupwards curves the rope,
\nthen down, down
\nsplat into the mire that embraces her.
\nThe quicksand gurgles,
\nher arms flail, again the plea,
\n“Come hold me, hold me.”
\nBut the rope remains untouched.
\nI brace for the tension that would tighten the rope;
\nthe sign that she was struggling to survive,
\nto at least grab the rope,
\nbut the lifeline remains untouched.
\nI hear again the panicky plea,
\n“Come hold me, hold me.”
\nCalves, knees, thighs, breasts,
\nall in turn are muddied.
\nHer hands, her hands,
\nnot an inch toward the rope.<\/p>\n
\nThe rope lies limp across the mud,
\none end descends into the murk
\naround bubbles, the dying effervescence.
\nI release my grip, my palms striped with rope burns.
\nI wet my hands; the cold water dampens the throbbing.
\nA distant bird calls,
\nan owl hooting, a crow cawing?
\nI don’t know.
\nI know only this:
\nI couldn’t jump in and hold her.
\nShe didn’t grab for the rope.
\nIt’s dark.
\nIt’s becoming too silent.
\nIt’s becoming too cold
\nI must go on.<\/p>\n
\nAurora Borealis lighting storm clouds.
\nSnowdrifts shield dwarf willows:
\nsome branches still beyond snow
\nare flayed by winds,
\nsoon they vanish,
\nlike a drowning man’s hands.<\/p>\n
\nA screech, a lynx toys with a lemming
\nBut from above an owl descends.
\nTalons hug the lynx’s back, neck, belly. The ascension, lynx and owl;
\nthe fall, the owl drops its prey.
\nBut no resurrection, instead another embrace,
\nas the owl recovers what is lost and rises,
\nthe lynx streaming from its claws.
\nBelow the lemming–
\nheadless, already cold, still, lifeless, has become its own tombstone.
\nA caribou plops steaming dung, turns
\nto devour its own droppings before they freeze.<\/p>\n
\nwhere fingers turn white then blue,
\nand tingling subsides to numbness.
\nAnd then I become warm;
\nthe snow, a blanket
\nthe ice-hard ground, a bed.
\nLimbs vanish from my body, sleepy, sleepy,
\nand around me always the wind hums.<\/p>\n
\nshe shoves aside the powdery shroud,
\nhauls, yanks, pulls me toward the igloo,
\nlabors me through the opening.
\nInside moisture, warmth,
\nand darkness.
\nDarkness until a blubber lamp is lit.
\nWarm tallow rubbed on my face; sweet pain rekindled. The pleasure.
\nJet black hair, breasts bared, dark eyes, trickling milk.
\nShe did not let me lie down<\/p>\n
\nSo I studied the board slowly and carefully, with the barest comprehension. The number of points where the different colored squares touch remains the same no matter how you frame the squares.<\/p>\n
\nsaw not behind surfaces;
\nmy ears
\nheard only the oscillations of atoms in air. What tone
\nof sound, of light
\nroused my sleeping perceptions?
\nNone.
\nTo me
\nher eyes were always wide and loving,
\nher voice
\nalways soft and soothing.
\nThe rupture came suddenly.<\/p>\n
\nimpervious to gales, never moving an inch,
\nwith tension testing its tensile strength,
\nits inner stress unnoticed unless
\nan ear would have touched the cold metal frame to hear
\nthe whining made by the metallic bonds twisting, but no ear heard.<\/p>\n
\nIt’s over.
\nWe are both alone
\non opposite sides.<\/p>\n
\nnor itchy like the mosquitoes
\nnor “ah” inspiring like the butterflies
\nnor so blasted everywhere like the ants;
\nneither do they spoil a meal by
\ncrawling in it. We call them primitive,
\nand to us they’re invisible,especially to those who don’t read.
\nLittle is written about them in books
\nthough in books they certainly are.
\nThe Koran, Bhagavid-gita, Talmud,
\nthey’re catholic in their tastes.
\nThey’ll unbind any tome in time.
\nTo them it’s all thought for food.
\nThe last grand supper will come eventually.
\nThey’ll leave our bodies to the worms.
\nIt’s our immortality they hunger for.
\nThe final period will be their droppings.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"