some poems recently published

[Chuck Levenstein]

Charles Levenstein




Draft Farewell Speech
Written on Back of an Envelope
First Thing in the Morning

1. Difficult to imagine how tired I am /he is:
Important for you to understand, perhaps
to excuse. Never before have his bones ached
like cast iron radiator pipes drained of their
steam, never has he failed to clank or hiss,
failed to warm with radiant energy.

2. Another fading son of Fannie Leibman:
One lies semiconscious in an ICU in Bridgeport,
one is blind and deaf on Long Island,
the third is strong enough to call and rejoice
that his asthma has abated and he may be able
to leave the house again; and the baby,
this belated poet, can barely keep his eyes open.

3. J. said that if you can name it, it’s over.
He was a philosopher and a sociopath,
ostensibly a friend, really a murderous
manipulator masquerading as left intellectual.
Another time. Power was his main interest,
trading in power.

4. Just as the sun is eclipsed and we shudder
at this warning of a deep cold coming,
we hoard coal, stock up on canned goods,
just as we notice what we have taken
for granted, it is slipping away,
our breathless naps last longer and longer.

5. Oh my inner teacher, I am so frightened
as my molecules detach and join
their gracious, continuous community,
I wish I had etched this ego in granite,
I would like eyes of obsidian,
I am getting old, slow, petrified.

6. The final chapter of a Hollywood poem
should be optimistic, we burst into
song as a new dawn rises. This, of course,
is up to you: the world must be shaken
before drinking the next dose



April

Why avoid whispers
that promise relief?
The inner teacher is not the grave,
nor blind autonomic beast.

Leaps from bed before the sun. Washes
in cold dew and fog, listens
to morning birds twitter rumors,
silly scandals of April. Knows
there’s work to do and rubs his eyes,
but gossip is another name for poetry
and sparrows know so much! They eavesdrop,
perhaps they fabricate while building nests;
the tiny eggs they lay and guard are secret wishes
gleaned from dreams or longing looks
only birds and lovers see.

Sips coffee and hears
the solid chunk of New York Times,
signal around the world to go to work.
Starved mice search for grain,
peckish cats for mice. Only sparrows
have time for April song.

Why avoid whispers
of whimsy or beauty?
The inner teacher:
attention, not duty.



Homeless

The morning light is filtered gray
through icy air, the scent of snow
excites the early travelers who rush
to join the subway crowds and crush
their hats against a sallow fellow,
suddenly halted along the way.

His stooped form has stopped the flow,
his dreamy eyes, his face gone flush,
he seems to kneel as though to pray
and bows his head, starts to sway
before a burning bush, the sign
one hopes in vain to see, although

as awed commuter voices hush,
the myst’ry fades, the graying freight
of knowledge starts to grow:
We do not see God’s grace aglow
but first casualty of the winter day,
a ragged neighbor felled in morning’s blush.

Warm and fed, we work and play
at great designs; the cold wind blows --
leaves us with a homeless wish.



Love in the Forest

I.

Sometime in the distant past
predators drove woodpeckers up a tree
where they lunched on beetles and birch beer.
Yet nameless fear endures and after each bite,
she swivels her head quickly about:
counts the bugs and categorizes them.
counts the branches, leaves,
assesses the breeze,
measures humidity,
eschews subjectivity,
seeks objectivity and association,
if not causal relations.

Of course she loves him, but keeps
a mate in spare; her feathers
never touch him in public. Still,
the forest whispers.

II.

He knows the right questions to ask,
not where, or what, or even when,
but who! And the forest sighs,
appreciating his wisdom. So for thirty
years or so, Owl repeated his query
first from the lower branches;
seniority alone would have raised him,
but the intensity of his quest,
the aura surrounding investigations
of human agency, social class,
dialectical relationships,
diabolical stewardships,
slave holders and sailing ships,
and some skill at owl-ish politics.
When he finally retired
from his lofty perch, almost
forgotten the original question:
Who, who is she?

III.

Mid the doves is a runaway,
escaped the city rooftops,
tries to make a life in the bush.
He misses the ruckus of his friends,
the traffic, the lights, bagels at the deli
at any hour of the night, the theatre.
She calls him her Walter Pigeon
and for that he abandoned it all.