poetry – Judith Dorian

Sundays at the Brauchs

on those Gemütlich Sundays at the Brauchs—
refugees from Vienna living in Inwood
close to Fort Tryon Park—
we ride the small elevator to the fourth floor

the door opens onto a time warp of pre-war Vienna
Biedermeier furniture, an upright piano
paintings by their daughter Gerda (who would die
in Majorca)
walls lined with books in German, French, and English

on one of those Sundays, a student of Eduard Steuermann—
a mere boy—performs The Well-Tempered Clavier
when he is well into Bach's 24th Prelude
the aroma of coffee bubbling in the percolator
reminds us it’s time for jause

as we file into the dining room for coffee and hazelnut torte
from the bakery on Bennett Avenue
my cousin Robert—whose wild auburn hair
and basso profundo spark my fantasies
and whose music is performed by world class orchestras—
engages the prodigy in conversation

on another Sunday, after the Brauchs move
to New Jersey, "to a garden with a house attached,"
Clara stands next to their Steinway and sings
Die schöne Müllerin

years later, gradually, so gradually it hardly seems to occur
the Brauchs vanish—first Clara, then Arthur, eventually their children
other members of our family follow
one at a time
as though we're standing in the dining room
in the building across from Fort Tryon Park
waiting our turn for a second slice of torte.

Seven Short Pieces For A Friday At Dusk

evening bells—
the sun flaunts its crimson estrus
drops soundlessly into the Sea of Marmara
while the church, violet-hued against the sky
slips into the shadows

* * * *

hands entwined, we fly
above the village of Vitebsk
above the wooden house
where a fiddler plays a tune
that cannot still the pulse
of Cossacks galloping
through snow

* * * *

along the cobbled road
paved with a fresh melt of snow
a scattering of houses—
citron yellow, clay red, and powder blue—
shimmer in watery reflections
and seem to walk on air

* * * *

above a narrow staircase
children and old folks sicken
in this dengue infested isle

* * * *

outside my window
the maple aged overnight
its branches frailed
beneath the flutter
of yellow leaves
and caps of early snow

* * * *

across the way
houses roost on houses
lean into the hills
collapse into the distance

* * * *

dark branches
heavy with wet
bow to the drenched grass
tickle the tree’s roots
flirt with its trunk
the enraptured leaves
quiver, drop to the ground.

* * * *

the moon is about to fall on Craig Street
Pierrot catches it by the tail, bounces it on the sidewalk—
and releases it to float over Schenley Park.

Factory Farm

ammonia stench burns, mottles walls
screams hide beneath the rotted stalls
fly like a dragonfly above the trees
fly to anywhere you please
grazing on the wattled clouds
trotting on the pocked horizon

the grass below
green grow the rushes o
blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly
blow the wind south where's the bonnie blue sea
unwattled is the meadow grass
beneath it the pale skull of earth
give cream to drink with apple tart

no need for pens, or fences o
no evening drums—or bugles no
tattoos no more, no none at all
red hot the branding iron waits
red hot the branding iron waits
to brand your raw young tender hide
with numbers that tell who you are
tattoos burned onto living flesh
on hides and arms, in pens & camps
with numbers that can’t be undone
the stench of flesh of burnt flesh o
the stench of flesh, of history

blown by all the winds that pass
wild nights of reckless wooing o
wild nights of crooning, courting, mooing
crouch beneath the cold milk moon
or gallop to the Milky Way
high above the tainted air
flee from slaughter everywhere
below the butcher wields his knife
below, the butcher wields his knife
upon the scorpion century.

Man of the Twelve Misty Mountains (after Bob Dylan)

The gold tufted man of the Twelve Misty Mountains
achooed—the sound echoing widely for eons
black branches of jujube trees started to bleed
and the dead plastic oceans sprang back into being—

waves twenty feet high formed a salty wet wall
alarming the people in the village of Why?

They ran when they saw the waves coming their way
and looked round for shelter—a safe place to stay.
They ran till they came to the Splenetic Forest
the Seventh irascible one on the land
huddling closely together beneath its long shadow
found safety by burying their heads in the sand.

Their plight reached their neighbors from the town of Why Not?
whose chief, Little Thunder, declaimed beating his chest
“we who are safe must hold onto our power
help our neighbors of Why? then we shall be blessed.

Let’s appoint honest judges and march West in protest
for beneath the harsh watch of an indifferent sun
the oceans are rising and we are in danger
our fair bright-eyed children could be taken by strangers
and our fine bulbous noses bent well out of shape
our healing traditions and tales could be stolen
and our tired, huddled masses I’m afraid won’t escape.”

He then threw himself down on the sharp pebbled ground
determined to make the most hair-raising sound
intoned as he whacked on his goat skin round drum
till all gathered around him, slapping and thrumming
chanting and ranting—their cries rose to the sky
for all knew they must help their good neighbors from Why?

They clapped then for aid from the eternal divine
and joined rough gnarly hands in a long snaking line
suppressing all biblical thoughts of deluge
and prayed that the good folks would find safe refuge.
They danced seven miles down the Six Crooked Highways
avoiding main routes, they snaked down the byways
danced sorrowful sarabandes, tarantellas of terror
and begged for forgiveness for all their past errors.

For those hounded and bound to the sacrifice-stone
they promised their friendship, they would not be alone
and they prayed day and night for retreat of the water
to avoid an ungodly and unearthly slaughter

The gold tufted man of the Twelve Misty Mountains
huffing and puffing, blew on his trumpet
then distributing crumbs to the people below
he claimed to be loved, this drainer of swamps
as he jumped on the stone in the spirit of romp
and promised to make their land great once again
ordaining that no one could ever complain

A rumble began among all of the people
but the gold tufted man heard nary a sound.
they mumbled and grumbled in protest of their lot
as he raised a small fist and skipped into the fog.

“I ain’t no sit-down man”

he says
his spine bent
beneath anthracite years

he works silently
without pause
intuits potential
in scavenged objects
push-pull

he hauls metal scraps―
sharp edged wire, mattress coils
bicycle parts, paint cans

to his 60-watt shed
gathers lighter scraps―
twigs, bird feathers, acorns
splayed leaves

brittle with death
boils coffee in a tin pot
crumbles, smears an earth cake on wood

textures violet wall hangings
with house paint bought on sale
the afternoon light fades
as decay's vintage heaps up around him

a shape emerges beneath
scarred fingers that wield a welding iron
that tame violent remnants into art.

Matawan

six stairs down
from the house on Graham Street
evening light dulls
the flamboyance of trees
a thick green hose stretches
helter skelter,
divides
branches
in two directions

one length coils in arabesques
and treble clefs towards the shed
the other slithers through an open metal gate
follows the brick wall
and stops at the spigot

years ago, in Matawan, after breakfast
after his car had left for the day
I would lift my face to a reluctant summer sun
wriggle my toes in the dew damp grass
and unwind the hose
from its serpentine nest

no harbinger
that before the first frost
our marriage would spring
loose from its strictures
uncoil and splinter
in two.

Bereft

on Bristoria Road, fourteen
miles west of Waynesburg
nothing for tourists

among low slung hills
an occasional farmhouse
trees rooted long before
roads were hacked
out of the mineral rich soil

at the picnic table
a small black umbrella
against rain that lashes
the mile long pond, the grass
and the low slung hills

six warm eggs inside the open
window of the little blue
hen house invite theft
as hands reach for the eggs—
the bereft chickens furiously clacket

chickens and roosters—about seventy
in all—brown, red throated, black
and white—strut down the road
past fingerstaining blackberries
that in summer heat proliferate
along with poison ivy

after one hundred yards or so
the chickens stop, turn around
and return to the farm
to seek shade and scratch in the dirt

a mining company, indifferent
to pleas of the landowners
has begun to drill and scar the hillsides
bulldoze new roads, fell ancient trees
and contaminate the clear well water.

Four Short Pieces For A Thursday Afternoon

just outside my range of vision
a presence holds me back
throttles certainty with doubts

gets stuck in my throat
like the wish bone that choked me
yet didn’t grant my wish

clever and fast-moving I steal my shadow which,
angered by the trick
leaps up onto the ledge and meows

* * * *

there is something—
neither snail nor rodent, snake nor salamander—
that should leave its habitat
why? you ask
why not?
I coax it, plead, threaten it
to no avail
it shrinks back, darts glances this way and that
shunts from one rotten log to another
and sinks down onto the overgrown forest floor

high up in the Sitka Spruce
above the decay
a Spotted Owl hoots

* * * *

last week I dreamt a melody
whose gorgeous shapes and colors
made the angels whoop
in the morning I only could recall threads of it
and so the next night I slept with one eye open
when the song again appeared in my dream
I leaped out of bed, scooped up the notes
tucked them into my piano
shut the lid for safekeeping
and returned to bed
while I slept, the notes flatted themselves
and seeped out from beneath the top
two or three stragglers stayed behind

* * * *

I bought two shares of a goat today
a nanny goat
who had strict orders
to supply milk to a family in Malawi

some of which will become yogurt and cheese
and her manure will fertilize their garden
it seems to me that’s asking a lot of a goat

I don’t know exactly which part I bought—
the legs, udders, eyes, or hind quarters—
moreover, how many shares does a goat have
and what will become of the rest?

I wonder: can I buy two shares
of a man the same way—not for milk, of course—
but for love? And which two shares?
His arms, brain, or other body parts?

the bank refused payment over the phone
and so I had to walk there
and argue with the manager
which cost me five shares
of time and three of frustration.

Le Boeuf Sur le Toit

the Great War is over
Pierre, a survivor
seeking distraction from night terrors
of artillery bombardment

begins to frequent Le Boeuf
the new cabaret at 28 rue Boissy d’anglas
already the center of Paris cabaret society

fifteen minutes from his apartment—
not an easy walk
for a shattered leg
that never healed properly

at the boîte
Pierre sits in a corner
speaks only to his waiter—
who brings him a glass of house wine

stays long into the night listening to jazz
Cole Porter at the piano
Cocteau at the drums
and Vance Lowry on the saxophone

Darius Milhaud, whose Brazilian showpiece
gives the cabaret its name, takes a turn at the piano
every night a happening

who are all these people? Pierre asks the waiter
who are they?
who aren’t they?
Cocteau and Chanel at the next table

and those paintings on the wall behind you—
they’re by Picasso
and below them two pieces of Fernand Léger
I haven’t seen either artist tonight, but it’s still early…

and who is that man with the dark eyebrows
and no hair talking to the attractive woman?

you mean standing in the corner monsieur? that’s André Gide and Misia Sert. And the
portly man walking over towards them is Diaghilev

Look around sir, look around—
and you’ll spot Ravel and Satie
Maurice Chevalier and Mistinguette….

for you monsieur, a refill—on the house

Thank you. Very kind. I heard that Arthur Rubinstein is a regular
Please point him out to me

He hasn’t arrived yet. he usually comes late, after his concert is over

If we’re lucky, he’ll play a six hands arrangement of “Le Boeuf sur le toit” with Milhaud
and one of the other pianists….

hmmm…..I saw the Prince of Wales a little while ago. where did he disappear to?
perhaps he went to the chambre des hommes….

ah monsieur—you see all those men in a heated discussion? I believe they’re
Roumanian novelists

And that woman in green silk—a feather in her hat—wearing long
pearls, surrounded by several young men?

An American of course….the place is packed with rich Americans
oh monsieur, the list goes on……who knows who else will come tonight?

jazz rocks Le Boeuf, pours out into the street
stifling memories of trench foot and cholera
of hand grenades and the never ending screams of soldiers

Pierre has no idea, nor has the crowd . . . .
that another war is just around the corner

decades after the Japanese surrender
and World War II ends
Parisians buy binoculars
try on modish sunglasses
in a shop at 28 rue Boissy d’Anglas.

Jack’s House

This is the house that Jack built.
This is the nail that lay in the wall of the little red house that Jack built.
This is the tetanus caused by the nail that lay in the
wall of the wood and brick house that Jack built.
This is the fear the tetanus spread as it seeped through the rooms of the
gingerbread house that Jack built.
This is the spore that locked the jaw of the green beret man in the house
made of sand that Jack built.
This is the person, stiff as a claw, who could breathe no more lying miffed
and sore in the Summerside cottage that Jack built.
These are the children, they’re all forlorn, hugging their father tattered
and torn who would soon be a corpse but now lay on the bed in the
tiny blue house that Jack built.
This is the dirge that clearly emerged in the hard concrete yard near the
nail causing tetanus drilled in the wall of the broad expanse of the
grey fieldstone manse that Jack built.
These two strange men who climb over the fence are approaching the
bench near the nail causing tetanus drilled in the wall of the home on
the grange that Jack built.
These are the guns the men slung and then flung towards the wall with the
nail causing tetanus lodged—you know where—in the white stucco
house that Jack built.
These are the children asleep in their beds
while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads
with nary an inkling they’d all soon be dead
and buried instead ‘neath the treacherous wall
that held in its thrall the nail causing tetanus
which brought on the fall of the chimney and all of the once standing
house that Jack built.

Babi Yar

the scent of burnt flesh
lingers in the fruit I eat
the wine I drink

ashes shroud the land
with pelts of grey
a gentle drum of terror
seals the leaves of trees
and makes a red fox shriek
a barn own scream

I have no secret closet
no place to hide
fear slams one door
then another
the hunt is on

dark splotches
rorshach clothes
spill down the stairs
and weep onto
the trampled grass

fleeing to the hills
I trail grief’s memories—
burnt at the stake
buried alive
stoned—
my arm an abacus
its numbers the math of slaughter

on a ravishing September day in Kiev
the ravine waits.

On A Moon Fragrant Night

the ear, a cauliflower
hearkens to the cries
of the street singer
hearkens to the swish
of his modish rags
that shimmer
‘neath the torn curtain of sky

parched thieves
crouch near the pond
thick with lily pads
they sneak into the poet’s garden
to steal lilacs—
white, purple, lavender—

whose gnarled branches
curl and twist
block the crooks’ egress
banish them to the anguish
of unresolved chords

may you never know
the shock of the chop block
or suffer branding of your skin
never be felled by the moon’s scimitar
or deafened by the cymbals’ crash
and your youth—never waste your youth
riding camelback through the Hindu Kush

such trials are not for you
mon petit chou-fleur
instead, sit beside me
let us listen to the song
on the far side of the moon

then pick up
each wind-scattered seed
that lies beyond the horizon
and scoop up the dreams
that perch on our window sills
dreams that bloom
beyond the scrim of sleep
dreams swift as the flying fish of Barbados.

Of Worms and Velvet Harmonies

in the landscape of the soul
shy Pierrot climbs to the top of a silken ladder

head in the clouds, eyes half closed
and pantaloons billowing round
plucks a melancholy love song on his lute

the theme twists and weaves
among stars spattered across the sky
and serenades the slivered moon

in the garden below, tulle-costumed dancers
dart in and out among the lengthening shadows
frolic among marble statues and trillium trails
here…there…fireflies ignite a patch of dark
inflame a thousand whitewashed roses

roused to a frenzy, hoary hoofed fleet footed creatures
thicken the perfumed air with hoarse cries
awaken birds asleep beneath the milk of tree-stenciled skies
dissolve their dreams of worms and velvet harmonies

the brook bubbles and spits, eddies round rough stones
presses up against them, chortling, insistent
licks them smooth

strapping the lute to his back
Pierrot descends the ladder
lands in a strawberry patch
nibbles at the ripe fruit
while plucking pallid moonlight blossoms from his jacket
plucking and plucking til dawn.

Third Ear

“Kalingan love begins with touching, stroking, and kissing the ear, not with a kiss on the
mouth.” The Third Ear, by Joachim- Ernst Berendt

if only I had stroked his ears―
would our love have been more harmonious?
would he have been kinder? less inclined to anger?
the expression of his eyes gentler?

I might love him still despite the reek of garlic
the stench of cigarettes on his breath
or those horrid mints

his sharp teeth might excite me
perhaps even his dentures—
and I would play at braiding
and unbraiding the thicket
of his hairy chest

if I had fondled his ears
that duo of comical, protruding organs
that retain the echo of that ancient past
he might not have rejected its music
nor let it moulder in the recesses of his heart

if I had simply kissed his ears
I might have cracked open that vault―
found the combination by licking
rubbing or squeezing the cartilage
tickling the pendulant lobes
chewing on their adipose tissues—
whispering words of passion.

Kristallnacht

stars fall from the sky
splinter onto the shop
where the Jewess sits
on a three legged stool
designing hats with snippets
of velvet, gemstones
and silken ribbons she twists
and weaves this way

and that, black hair
snaking down her back
cursing her, a passerby
throws a rock at the window

shards of glass, ribbons of red
pour onto the cobblestones
causing pedestrians to dodge
into alleyways, to run
past block upon block
of millinery shops, past

brick walls whose windows
contain the darkening sky
and fleeting clouds
a second rock is thrown
then a third until the crystal
in the old city fractures, dispersing
shards and sound in all directions

soldiers arriving with batons and rifles
their knapsacks weighted down with rocks
take aim

heaven, shattered by the devastation
rains glass for 40 days and 40 nights.

Words Without Song

my little one, where did they take you when they took you away?

your sweet arms stretched towards me
fingers clutched at the stars
your laughter has stilled to a wrenching lament
where did they take you when they took you away?

where do you tread now with unsteady steps—
your pockets deep lined with stories and songs?
is your jacket well zippered? the scarf warm round your neck?
your bed soft and downy? are you healthy and strong?

little one, where did they take you when they took you away?
the train has departed for a land I don’t know
there were twelve wooden box cars—a shtetl on wheels
your mother’s heart breaks—now it’s her turn to go.

Third Day March

a suitcase with photos
and a change of clothes

few items
heavy
with the weight
of memories

my home gone
I join others shuffling west
towards the blood red sun

a blister on my heel
filthy stockings torn
inside thin soled shoes
hands and face unwashed
since I left
my family three days ago
snug in body bags
safe against whistling bombs
and machine guns' rat tat tat

three days since I left
them stiff in body bags
gripped the railing
of the narrow staircase
and fled our building
through the open door
half unhinged

our building eyeless
where three days ago
glass panes and lace curtains
signaled home

now exposed
the oak table—
that my brother Boris made—
days-old bread and country butter
cabbage soup grown cold
and apples waiting to be sliced

on the upright, still intact
the Eighth String Quartet of Shostakovich
subtitled "To the victims of fascism and war.”

Raptor’s Gaze

I die slowly
as vibrant colors fade
to muted shades of grey
habit, the familiar, comforts me
shuts out the troubling echo
of my thistle days

I die slowly
my heart stumbles
with uncertainty
avoiding risk,
suppressing dreams
for the beneficence
of a cup of tea

I die softly
to the rhythm
of a langorous gavotte
or lyric throbbing
of a soaring song
that flutters eastward
from a distant boîte

It is raining in my heart
the steady pelt of memories
a mound of stone
from long and thinning years
their piercings sound a sharp
yet stale familiar drone

the hawk’s now visible
above the clouds
collecting stones
I mark my passing
no pebble is too angular
no flint too round.

Baobab

8 x 12, my mahogany box
overflows with slips of paper—
a jumble of words
written on parchment in purple ink

lagniappe, Putumayo, limerence, Humptulips,
Botswana, petrichor, Mozambique, abyssopelagic,
syzygy, quadrivium, Zimbabwe, Dumfries,
snollygoster, slubberdegullion, Beeswing

words that make me want to dance
or roar with laughter
words that suggest the djembe
the rattle, the oud or the didgeridoo
words that summon simple tunes
as well as music
complex and polyrhythmic
fugues and passacaglias
songs in the phrygian or mixolydian mode

I google Madagascar, another favorite
and “baobab” leaps out at me
baobab—I add it to my box
it’s not that this tree grows to 100 feet
not that it can live up to 3,000 years
nor that its thick trunk stores water
not even that it appears to be growing upside down

no! it’s the sound and look of the word
with its heartwarming three b’s
the adorable “o”—squashed between the “a’s,” and final “b’s’
that “o” baffles, tickles me, makes me want to hug—even squeeze it
“baobab” — I roll it around my mouth
it insists that I drop my jaw
like a snake about to swallow its prey

the b’s, the a’s, and yes, sometimes the o’s
remind me of baba au rum, bobolink
Babar the elephant, baba ghanoush, and baba yaga
words that compete, climb over one another
push and shove to gain a place inside my mahogany box.

Catching Yawns

from one another
like nests of wattled whorling song
caught and tossed one to the other
with no intent at all to harm

catching yawns from one another
iridescent golden threads
spiral out upon the thin air
leave faint traces where they shed

I tossed a silver yawn to you
a bagatelle of shimmering light
you caught it with your mouth wide open
laughing, swallowing with delight

your mouth stretched wide, then wider still
the yawn massaging every cell
delicious trembling through your body
expanding like an ocean swell

your mouth stretched wide, then twice as wide
you caught a yawn--a thunderous roar
of laughter meant to cover pain
from all the grief that went before

you threw an awesome yawn to me
a smoldering ball for me to catch
it burst into a thousand flames
I kept my distance while I watched

catching yawns from one another
beneath badinage a mournful song
we toss and toss one to the other
throughout the night till tinseled dawn.