"bloch" poems
Duck/Rabbit
BY CHANA BLOCH
What do you remember? When I looked at
his streaky glasses, I wanted
to leave him. And before that? He stole those . . .
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
One can almost hear the operatic chorus
Cry out in emotion,
As they ascend the marbled stairs,
Hands shaking so in excitement,
That the ornate metal railing cannot be felt beneath them.
Down a hall, feet gliding on the polished floors,
Around the corner,
And there it is,
On the wall like an altar,
Mountain range of colors,
Geometric patterns,
Like gilded windows into other worlds,
And a resting place of alabaster skin,
The calm prairie
Amidst a festival of shimmering lights,
Celebrating with vigor
The peace
The eye of the storm
In her expression,
The Woman in Gold.
Her figure rising from the extravagance
Like the simple and graceful tendrils of steam
From a cup of tea.
Amiable and tender,
In the middle of a bustling cafe.
At once, you are spun onto a dancefloor,
Crafted by Midas,
Twirling and dipping and dancing,
With explosions of royal sunlight,
Before the gentle partner takes you by the hand,
And leads you into a steady, yet balletic waltz.
Say her name,
This secret woman,
She deserves more than anonimity,
Say her name,
In a whisper as quiet as her poised hands,
Or in a glorious cry of admiration,
As cacophonous as the color of the robes
She is swathed in.
Say her name,
Like a prayer,
Or a pledge,
Or a dutiful anthem,
With your hand to your heart,
Say her name,
And never let the memory of the sound slipping off of your tongue.
Say her name,
Like you survived the war in her honor,
Say her name,
She is not just a woman,
Say her name,
No matter her religion,
Say her name,
Because she was forgotten,
But no longer,
Never again,
For you, we’ll remember,
Adele.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
My heart was full of joy that night; I’d just received good news:
I’d learned that my request for flight training had been approved.
That night was warm and the sweet scent of flowers filled the air.
As we sat in the Bloch arena, Navy bands for battle did prepare.
Bands from the Tennessee, the Pennsylvania and the Argonne played.
and no one in that audience gave a thought to an air raid.
Pearl Harbor was too shallow for torpedo planes to strike.
Or so we had been told and did believe till morning’s light
I’d had an ice cold beer (or two) to celebrate my good news.
My shipmates from Arizona sat beside me in the pews.
Our ship’s band was believed to be the finest in the fleet.
The surviving band tonight would be the foe they had to beat.
The golden sun had long since set in the Pacific sea.
Perhaps that was a harbinger of what was yet to be.
In just a few short hours hence did hell on earth arrive.
Though I was thrown from the burning deck, no band members survived.
The Arizona sank so fast; Eleven hundred died.
I watched from the oil-slicked water as their second wave arrived.
This was the day of infamy that entered into lore.
The last sweet strains of peace had been played the night before.
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 10:57 AM UTC
PRIDE
Even rocks crack, I'm telling you,
and not on account of age.
For years they lie on their backs
in the heat and the cold,
so many years,
it almost creates the illusion of calm.
They don't move, so the cracks stay hidden.
A kind of pride.
Years pass over them as they wait.
Whoever is going to shatter them
hasn't come yet.
And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed
whips around,
the sea bursts forth and rolls back --
and still they seem motionless.
Till a little seal comes to rub up against the rocks,
comes and goes.
And suddenly the rock has an open wound.
I told you, when rocks crack, it comes as a surprise.
All the more so, people.
© Translation: 1989, Chana Bloch and Ariel Bloch
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 2:39 PM UTC