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Nat Lipstadt Apr 2020
~one more, for Pradip~

you write me a simple irony
of steely truth

love to know how you do that thing you do...

every time you notate upon a scribble I discard,
you manage to extract the kernel, the original seeded sin,
and in a single sentence, summarize so much better
than all my itinerant beggar-thy-peer essaying.

and it’s 3:49am here in the epicenter and
only
335 anonymous-to-me died yesterday,
they died unmedaled,
(does that include the ER doc who committed suicide?)
a fact to be sadly celebrated and sadly commemorated
only in charts and graphic
graphs,

but I distract myself.

for what needs saying is this:

my sense of what you wrote, modest old poet,
the title of this very poem
is best internally directed, attached,
as an appliqué yellow star, proudly worn, when sewn upon the chest
of the man who authored it...


<>
4:03am Wed April 29
in the epicenter middle
nyc
<>
^Pradip comments on
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3809276/its-700pm-do-you-hear-where-my-ny-city-is/

“ The most medalled men have no medals to show.”

<|>
another commission fulfilled,
but sleep still doesn’t come for in these pandemic days,
the notion of a time to rest
is a casualty too
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2020
“but you Nat,
are a grown *** Hebrew man
so I shall not attempt 
to advise you to do otherwise.”

<>
been notified, identified, blessed and cursed, alotta of different ways,
but late at night, arrives a new coronation forthright,
about my all grownup ageist stay-tus & my ancient birthright

and I’m-athinking that as compliments go, that’s quite a
right-on complementary to my actuality, so not bad, tho
all-I’d-add is maybe, old school fool too, & do appreciate

that this observation comes with added cherry on top,
I’m finally old enough to make it ok to make mistakes,
and a hardy thanks that the words hard and lard din’t appear

when mentioning my cheekiest feature...

10:28pm nyc
in downtown lockdown
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2020
perfect summary, of pre-times, the ex-diurnal regularly raggedy,
lyric line, of lunar linear days, wave to it hi/bye crooked jaggedly

foretelling, of a first time, when world was self-imprisoned, wondering,   a sin of commission, an omission from a shut-up confession

guilty of laxity, no perspicacity, our fortune telling, loved our ignorance,
lazy greediness let sickness rule, everyone pointing no, not me, fooled

heroes dying in saving, rich in New Zealand hiding, while poets
march in punctilious timing, mourning lost freedom to be unafraid

all thinking, now disbelieving, we’ve lived so well so long,
but the fault-lines cracking showing all of us were emperors naked

from now on, we’ll live so long, not so well, suspecting each other,
the masks we will wear forevermore, dual purposed, protect and

hide our ashamed faces, gowned to disguise, finger pointing
not my fault, but the curve of life and death, proclaiming good bye:

so long so well, so long glass houses, so long, age of so swell, we too, sophisticates, above the fray, impervious innocence, so well we dead

gutless guiltless


<>
_________________
^ ”And I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
or driven to its knees
But it's all right, it's all right

We've lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road
we're traveling on
I wonder what went wrong
I can't help it, I wonder what went wrong



“American Tune” by Paul Simon
Sat April 25 twenty twenty
5:06am fifty thousand dead
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2020
”What shall I give you, my lord, my lover?
The gift that breaks the heart in me:
I bid you awake at dawn and discover
I have gone my way and left you free.”


Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933. *The Gift


<>

Oh Sara, freedom comes not by departure,
when you parted away with so many whole bits of me,
this “gift” more marked by what you’ve left,
freedom redefined by achey absence, holes & gaps,
the long division remainders that are missing,
the homeless jigsaw pieces of final solution

one hundred years I’ve worshipped at your altar
of writ words carved in my oaken skin,
this a freedom true & stolid,
your blond letters etched, poems silken, each an earring,
a cascading dangling chandelier pairing in my internals,
alas, you loved me last not as a lord~lover, but as
savior~soldier

what conjuring wooled your eyes, woven disguise fooling
anyone, the dawn breaks, gone is my way by your away,
you are the gift that created my heart, you are the are,
this then return what
you are taken even in love wrapped,
return to me for
you are the gift that I cannot without live

<>
Sara Teasdale was born in St. Louis, Missouri to a wealthy family. As a young woman she traveled to Chicago and grew acquainted with Harriet Monroe and the literary circle around Poetry. Teasdale wrote seven books of poetry in her lifetime and received public admiration for her well-crafted lyrical poetry which centered on a woman’s changing perspectives on beauty, love, and death. Many of Teasdale’s poems chart developments in her own life, from her experiences as a sheltered young woman in St. Louis, to those as a successful yet increasingly uneasy writer in New York City, to a depressed and disillusioned person who would commit suicide in 1933. Although later critics and scholars have marginalized or excluded Teasdale from canons of early 20th century American verse, she was popular in her lifetime with both the public and critics. She won the first Columbia Poetry Prize in 1918, a prize that would later be renamed the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
in these days of sheltering on the isle-of-isolactation,
a place amazingly located just ‘bout everywhere,
staying occupado is muy importanto

taught myself Latvian, can identify a thousand Avian,
can vacuum the house in ten minutes flat,
can count my steps mentally walking from the bed
to the kitchen and on the way back again, detour via the den

when I get really bored, sneak away to grab the laundry
from the dryer, I’m on fire, desirous of my sanity, fold them twice,
so they’ll be enough nice to meet her exacting standards,
going directly into her highest level, Type A,  storage drawers

but hit a snag, on certain articles of activewear, not to mention
you know, the unmentionables, which don’t present corners or angles
to lend novice folders directional cues, cannot even determine
which is inside out, or outside out, with too many bedeviling straps

too proud to ask for directions, after all I am a grown man,
checked youtube buddy, they had no clue, unless it was a tutorial
on how to remove them bodices from them body, which I will,
study later...but I winged it except for those couple of items

which I hid under her too many bed pillows!
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2020
~for yocum~
<>

the quality of commitment is not
restrained by quantity, nor by size,
impressed by nylon sheerest volume,
avoirdupois grams, Imperial weight,
steeled feathers, immeasurable, one ton
tips no true scale into red lined sincerity

the necessary respectful silences it requires,
the social nearness of geo-distancing,
all need prodigal acceptance,
like a long lost son, welcomed without questioning

we flawed, banded by many weaknesses, poorly confessed,
yet, no excuses tendered, to it, long ago surrendered,
but understand this, constancy is  not judged
by the frequency of our waves, but by the fervor of an

undertow of unwavering constancy

one that unceasingly rages, beneath superficial, steady waves,
and through the thickened, roughed old skin separating atmospheres,
I have grasped your heartened essence man,
found its depths, blessed it with words, you’ve never fathomed

surely you will growl at this, claiming obfuscation,
excuses not in your vocabulary, nor should it be,
though you require the steady reassurance of frequent brevity

so and yet, but and still,

I deny your claims, what you think, incorrect,
cause I know my heart, and well it kens what lays in thine,
what’s in yours is in mine, deep planted, a full nut grove flowering,
your complaints, mine as well, all part parceled, with grace accepted

for what is friendship but the path
through parted seas, joining two borders,
the best part of that is the landed connectivity,
leading to where we two ends,
meet in laughing two-gether
old fools, younger-then-than-now,
committed, grumpy men.
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