"hillel" poems
like a good poet, I whine and whinny:
the muses are unreliable, get too much paid vacation,
unlimited unpaid, and pretend their cells are out of range,
even when they are in bed with you and you’re near desperate
to cop a feel of inspiration
my problem is a variation on the theme. Everyday I jot down
too many possibilities, a handful of words added to the list of
pound bound childless titles, sad faced orphans, dogs and cats,
squeaking “pick me, pick me,”
our reply a casual
“you on the list” rather than admit they are titled, but bodiless
until cupid smashes a cupcake in my face and the bell rings
there they stand - at a friendless crossroads - direction home,
path unknown, awaiting a poet tour guide to complete them
if this sounds a bit like a bad achy breaky country song,
then you and I, on the same side of where I could be headed
cause at the friendless crossroads, always unsure, left foot first? that first line, first step, could be a false messiah,
or a free-at-last, a free-at-last emancipation
but there are no sidelines in a forest there no sidelines in a poet’s mind; there are the minefields of mindfulness that can explore explode and explain why it is tempting to believe that every gifted one deserves a break today
but you cannot be broken or break off from the community
“Hillel said: Do not separate yourself from the community; and do not trust in yourself until the day of your death. Do not judge your fellow until you are in his place. Do not say something that cannot be understood but will be understood in the end. Say not: When I have time I will study because you may never have the time”
my friend,
substitute writing poetry for study, for study is for us the analysis of everything, that is, everything we say, see and know the need to communicate
so
those who abide in the life of good words will not suffer an abdication (yours)
do not think
there are friendless crossroads,
there are only crossroads that the eye cannot yet see a fellow sojourner coming toward him,
bearing an oversized load of
the inside insight of responsibility
that demands sharing
that is why we call our meetings at
a crossroads,
a cross
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
There are more poems inside me, but I intuit it is longer fair to impose on you by sharing more. The deep seeded infection of my spirit waxes and wanes, and there is no antidote, and unlike the virus itself, there never will be, a future cure, an inexpensive replacement cost for the spirit spent, the time and futures spirited away.
Perhaps you recall I was one mile away from Ground Zero on September 11th. Rarely do I walk there.
The coronavirus poetry inserts itself unaided, never asking permission, a like minded, but a contra-cousin to the coronavirus.
I live in New York City, the epicenter where now, close to 800 die daily.
Normally, about 25 bodies a week are interred on Hart island, mostly for people whose families can't afford a funeral, or who go unclaimed by relatives. In recent days, though, burial operations have increased from one day a week to five days a week, with around 24 burials each day.^^
Each dies with no last words, no Kaddish recited, Last Rites, too late, no Ṣalāt al-Janāzah or Om Namo Narayanaya. Each one, a numbered pine coffin, and each one will have at the very least, a poem of their own, so help me god.
Buried side by side in large trench, room plenty for new arrivals,
I hear the banging, protesting, resisting, this is not the way, I was promised, my ears left pounding! Hillel, the great scholar in this dream, reminds that “the time is short, and the work is great.”
He paraphrases, though, “the bodies many, the poems too few.”
There ain’t no anonymity in heaven, but I’ll reconfirm that with you later.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 10:48 AM UTC
~an artwork beneath our feet, yet invisible to
our eyes, constantly changing ,interlocking
interlinking~
this poem has asked for composition
everytime, I walk upon and past the sculputure
beneath my feet on the Esplanade by The River
(Diatom Lace on the East River - Stacy Levy
www.stacylevy.com › projects › diatom-lace-on-the-east-river) (1)
but as I daily hurry past (for years) and over this pattern form lifted from the
river's flowing,
a daily delaying,
for the words good enough to honor it, the invisible floating floral tentacles,
attaching each water molecule to the next,
do not arise of sufficient quality of wordsmithy,
the Whitman words do not float up from the waters rushing past,
and come to rest in my multi-tasking poetry conceptuals
many months, even years,
have gone by and after every water walk,
the sculpture stabs me guilty,
of procastination,
and an unwillingness to tackle it,
like the other tough stuff that haunts me
so this morning, when I drown in the file laughingly called
100 & One Drafts
a J'accuse (1) finger stabs my eyes and repeats the caveat of the sage
Hillel the Elder: (1)
If not now, when?
and even as I sit and compose,
the words refuse to surrender unto me
for easy transcription
and the chest tight with guilt, from all the
promises I've made and remain
unkempt & unkept,
that stunt and stun my spirit,
with inconsolable sadness
So
I distract myself,
check the sleeping woman<
take my morning meds,<
reheat my "The Gamblers Mug" (Cezanne)(1) of morning coffee,<
and alas, at last, once more surrender to my worst,
and issue an invitation to >you<
come visit me, come walk with me,
perhaps together, a greater good will emerge,
and we will feed each others tongues
with syllables and sounds,
that will trigger,
go figure!
a suitable poem
worthy of a great art work,
the lace of diatoms
in the water,
that our eyes cannot see,
but our hearts
can feel
and with better words,
be so honored,
*by a poem
truly worthy
of this*
miraculous
conception
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 8:31 AM UTC
Qboy dancing with Lee-tal’s cousins
late into the Tel Aviv night,
driving back from the ceremony
to Jerusalem
The jazz club in Tokyo
after the ceremony,
gratefully talking with Rieko and Takahiro
thrilled to soon see Kyoto
Yes, Rabbi Hillel, every bride is beautiful.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC