Poetry:
works from Fishman In the Woods, 1951 I remember how the light pawed down through densely tangled branches and how the narrow creek jangled over its scatter of burnished stones worn to a smoothness in the cold churn of water. The day began when school ended and our feet sank into fern banks and leaf-mulch or squelched in bog-holes of aromatic muck. We leapt over moss- crushed oaks white-barked paper birches climbed wind-sheared hickories and beeches and, in the green drench of summer, swam naked in our garden. In that clear water that granted every pardon, we gashed our hearts and came up gasping, the afternoon sun encircling our foreheads with tendrils of molten gold. We heard drums in the leaf-tops that spoke of endings, yet we lived as if time was not our master, as if we were kings of the forest and not its slowly drowning sons. First appeared in Liberty Hill Poetry Review
Learning to Dance, 1956 It was the 50s, and all of us were kids, but you were older— almost a woman—and you would teach me to dance. You were the dark-haired child in a family of blondes, slightly exotic, wilder, my best friend's sister. In your father's basement, you took my hand and showed me how to hold you—how to hold a woman. I was fourteen and knew already how to be awkward. You knew I was falling into shadows. When I breathed your hair, I was no longer in the forest but had broken through to a clearing where tall grasses whispered and swayed, where white-petalled daisies and violet clover blossomed. You moved me deeper into the music and made a meadow spring up around me. Your body showed me that I had strength to change the moment, if only the quiet power of a summer breeze . . . When you said I would be a good dancer, that I had rhythm that I could swing , I held you close: some day, I would find the one who would pull me near to her in love, not mercy; I would dance with her and learn her secret names. First appeared in The Pedestal Magazine
My Father Greets the Day Each morning he wakens he praises God Another day has dawned in him and he is grateful He is too old now to make love but not to remember My mother's picture waits near his bed and he lifts the frame to his mouth and kisses her His loneliness is too deep —he cannot think the sentences— but his lips find the glass and his heart opens Each day is a miracle that begins in the region of sorrow yet the sun finds him: he will live this day fully stunned each moment that she is not with him. First appeared in Kota Press Poetry Journal
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