Poet
by Neeli Cherkovski
1
When you talk I listen
And when the world spins I drop
To my knees When the spirit sings
I grow weary
Though not weary enough
When you talk of yourself
I am quiet the tree behind you pauses
And imaginary birds come out of hiding
so you may sound
Evermore sure of yourself
When the world knocks I close my ears
Because it seems the proper thing to
Thousands of concerts I did not atten
Innumerable celebrities II abandoned
One afternoon at the Dead Sea
You talk of money
And I fight to stay alive my physicians
Are like statues on the Grand Concourse
2
I am a language poet a rude awkeming
a confessional poet and a latter– day Beat
I wanted to be a Russian writer
but they sent me
Overseas
American Native is what I am
Born on the first of July
Not as black as ice
But a dreamer
Of leaves
And stone
During a Time of War
by Neeli Cherkovski
Were you malicious or sweet?
It is difficult to remember
I suppose you might have been both
over time you are neither
I imagine we are in a difficult place
Unsure of ourselves, we name the birds
Right when night falls, shopkeepers
Close their shops, laborers go home
Friends drop in despite the war, or
Maybe because of it, some chain smoke
While others talk of themselves
Into the late hours, body bags pile up
On the tarmac, only foolish men
Rush to war, a thunderstorm rises,
One couple argues, no shame,
Come on and drink a cold one
The troops are snapdragons, earthen
Pots line the walkway, one day
Melodious clouds pass overhead,
Open your eyes, the war never happened
Pass peace around, look outside, an
Old librarian beats on a car hood, will
Someone call the cops? tell them
To get moving, try to relax, be somber
Soon midnight, we need another case,
Helicopters fly upside–down, I built
An elegy of geraniums and gardenias
In order to keep free from your care
Work
by Paul Vangelisti
Panoply of leaves, shadow of scant melody.
Rime of a certain kind in uncertain light.
Lost, of course, how else might such a house breathe.
With a little luck to beggar the question.
Scanter, notwithstanding this graceless time.
O memory of garbage trucks rolling downhill.
High in a tender sky some years ago.
See the eye continue to rhyme regardless.
And what’s left but an alibi for dreaming.
Half the hours you keep snowing in sleep.
Rhyming the dark this far and no further.
The the at the most sudden heart of things.
Those tears and tears in the savage firmament.
As long as your willful green’s in the picture.
Do Nothing
by Paul Vangelisti
Do Nothing
for Richard Milazzo
Do nothing till you hear from me,
be it a common case of romance
or the jitters of nostalgia.
Don’t try considering our chances
to embrace a string of token hearts
after all the dizzy times undone.
Forget the words you’ve heard of others
displacing years of shuffle and neglect
with more extravagant pleasures.
Do nothing till you hear from me
replacing any traces in advance
of a passion for poverty.
Someplace a perfect stranger might mischance
impressing with entrancing harmonies
and anything else unsung.
Do nothing especially confessing
to an age too old for facing
the taking of toast and tea.