"horowitz" poems
Anny Horowitz
pressed her nose
against the glass
window pane
of Nero’s coffee bar
where you sat drinking
coke in ice in a glass
her ghostly
blue eyes
peered at you
a smile lingered
her small hands
were palm flat
on the pane
so that her lifeline
and headline were visible
where she pressed
you beckoned
with a nod
of your head
for her to come in
and she came in
and sat in the seat
beside you
her phantom
1940s clothes
seemed neat and clean
and her blonde hair
was ribboned
and looked fresh washed
Anny’s hand touched
the back of your chair
her eyes searched
about her
the fingers
of her other hand
toyed
with an empty glass
on the small
round table
she talked
in her soft voice
and asked about
the drink in the glass
and you told her
and she smiled
and was fascinated
by the bubbles rising
around the ice cubes
a couple came in
and a took a seat nearby
he went off
to order drinks
and she sat
and looked at you
then away again
not seeing Anny
sitting there
Mozart music
playing
in the background
Anny sat listening
her head
swaying slowly
to the music
she said
she remembered
the music
her feet
in black shoes
swung back and forth
under the chair
she said
at Auschwitz
they played music
but it made her sad
to remember
you took out
your mobile phone
and spoke into it
did they play Wagner
at Auschwitz?
you asked
she said she thought so
the woman nearby
looked at you
wondering who
you were talking to
then looked away
what is that?
Anny asked
my mobile phone
you said
phone?
she said
it’s like the telephones
in telephone boxes
years ago
but smaller
and you can go around
with them
in your hand
Anny nodded
but the woman frowned
giving you a stare
you sipped your coke
nice and cold
refreshing
against heat
coming through
the coffee bar window
Anny gazed
at the woman
then put out
her hand
and touched yours
and it was cool
and soft like silk
as if a breeze
had blown
against your skin
you gazed
at her ribboned hair
her blue eyes
then she faded
and was gone
just the nosey woman
giving you a stare
not knowing
your little Jewish friend
had come and gone
and was no longer there.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
Anny Horowitz doesn’t run down
the shopping aisles
as your grandchildren do,
she holds the trolley,
steadying it with her hand,
your ghostly friend,
your little Jew.
None sees her form,
her bright blue eyes,
her blonde hair
tied with ribbon,
her rosy complexion.
She ghostly moves,
amazed by the Aladdin’s cave
of goods upon the shelves,
the packets and boxes,
the loud advertisements
hanging from the air
here and there,
everywhere you
and she stare.
Neither Strasbourg
nor Bordeaux
nor Tours
nor Auschwitz
was like this,
no overpowering display
of commodities on show
of this she tells you
and to a degree you know,
and what was on show
at Auschwitz is still there
in memories or records
or photographs
with staring faces
and deep set eyes.
Anny waits and watches
as the conveyor belt
moves the goods
to the woman
at the till
who pushes buttons
or scans bar codes
and pushes by
to the paid for end
and your son
and grandchildren
pack all away.
Anny gazes on the process,
then at you, smiles,
your little friend,
your ghostly Jew.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
*Just when I thought there wasn’t room enough
for another thought or poetry in my head,*
Up came this documentary poem
The Wednesday of May 24 was the day
President Trump meets with the pope Francis
at the Vatican: smiles and pleasantries aside
Who’s coming up with these lies?
Who have ties
with Russia and Putin?
We the outsiders are still unclear
about another golden buzzer:
But under a crystalline blue sky is where
Pope Francis and the President meet
Here I tipped my pen to
MARK LANDLER and JASON HOROWITZ
Reporting….
The fraught silence in political history
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 8:03 AM UTC
The shoes are still there
At Auschwitz; the shoes
Of children; piled high,
Relics of a sea of hate and
A death and a burning.
Maybe my shoes are
There, Anny Horowitz
Says, leaning over your
Broad shoulder gazing at
The screen of images on
The PC; the colours, the
Shapes and sizes, visible
As if yesterday’s capture.
You turn slightly as her
Blue eyes gaze, her long
Blonde hair ghostly against
Your cheek, her words soft
As if breathed out, not uttered.
The small fingers of her left
Hand trace the images slowly
Across the screen, drawing
The outlines, filling in pretend
Colours. You want to utter
Words, to catch thoughts,
To hold her image in mind,
Her words, the blue eyes,
The spirit thing that never dies.
But she’s gone again; the screen
Flickers, the shoes become blurred;
Tears can do that like a drowning.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC
Ohh I'm proud of this one
look what he's become
waving guns and leaving mums
bloodied in the sun
run little rabbits
don't let him catch your legs
he'll cut them at the tendons
and keep your brothers head
so young to be so vicious
he's got fire in his eyes
and venom in his gums
and he smiles when he cries
little Adolph Horowitz is a troubled little boy
don't let him in your home unless you wish to be his toy
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 5:28 PM UTC
keeping my toes warm
even my shins
the rain never hits me
thanks high socks
cool and stylish
i look Cher Horowitz fancy
from heels to knees
thanks high socks
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 4:49 PM UTC