Here - There Spring

photo: ralph murre

Here -There Spring (or Why a Truce)

for the citizens of Sderot

by Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld

Here, where the sky

has stitched two clouds together,

two brown doves have been sitting

on the wall outside my kitchen window,

their heads at forty-five degrees

of separation, tails crossed in an X

which cancels something out.

Do you remember how hopeful

you once were each spring—the world

newly formed and all of it in flower?

Now a fractured sky.  Red dawn.

The shriek of rockets.

Peach trees have donned white robes. 

Acacias have put on their crowns.  

On your sill, Cousin, a white butterfly

puts down, a piece of pale lace fluttering,

impervious to distance.  Even in the desert

there are these butterflies.  The whole

world hatches out, sky cerulean,

just as the world,

sprung into blossom,

breaks.

            ~ previously published in Before There Is Nowhere to Stand.

Tzama*

digitally derived from artwork by W.H. Bartlett

Tzama

by Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld

Beneath the Holy Land,

where even water wars are fought,

the troubled springs run deep.

And water, which has properties

to wear on stone, has split the rock.

                                    Lord . . .

                                                my shepherd.  

           

About suffering, Stefan Grass said,

“Suffering is like salt, bitter in a glass.

Become a lake instead—then sip the water. 

You’ll see how sweet it tastes,

with hardly any hint of bitterness.”

(The Jaffa oranges are sweet

and bigger than grenades. 

We’ve moved our fences farther in.

Our neighbors claim the land we left,

then ours.)

                                     Beside the still waters. . .

Sbarro Pizza,

where a young man opens up his coat,

says to the girl behind the counter,

Know what this is?

so like the exhibitionist

who bares his misused, misplaced

instrument of love

explosively.

                                    He maketh me to lie down . . .

                                    In green pastures

tents of Palestinians

are buffeted by angry winds,

their throats are parched.

The houses of the Palestinians collapse. 

                                     In the house of the Lord,

another scene:  From one side

comes a swarthy man and from the other,

one more swarthy man—

sons of the same father.

They face off, raise their instruments,

and aim.  Which will give ground?

Which strike the other first?

Raging thirst propels them.

Nearby the only lake

that’s fresh and clear

is Lake Tiberius,

called the Sea of Galilee.

It, too, is troubled water.

Further south, the sea is dead 

and full of salt.  How many 

Abrahamic sons must fall?

(Bombs bloom. 

The wolves that used to roam

the Russian Steppes

are here.)

                       Through the valley of the shadow,

a great tree arches over the River Jordan.

It is the tree of the Jewish people.

It is the tree of the Palestinian people.

Its leaves shudder in the wind,

on every leaf a name.

~ first published in MidEastWeb

* Tzama is Hebrew for "thirst"

From the amusement park

artwork: ralph murre

From the amusement park

~ by Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld

each night above the line

where dark has draped its coat

unevenly on trees that huddle close,

the rockets rise.  I hear them

before I see them –

tiny crackles

of resistant thunder.

Once, on the 4^th,

in a younger world,

friends from India shared our park,

Mina and her dark-eyed brood –

Bablu, Laltu, baby Dinku –

family gathered in with us

on gentle grass.  Mina said,

“All of your chilled-ren

are sveet, but Ah-mee is soo,

sooo sveet.”  That July the fireworks

fanned out so big and bright

they stretched the sky

and showered us

with crimson points of light

and golden coins.

Now where stars

are faint through holes

they’ve punched in night:

no glimmer of grace.

I am looking for you

everywhere.  I grab the phone

and I imagine you.  I see your face,

the features change.  Flaming globes

of orange and green shoot up,

a trail of blue, a silver sheen

before the previous

has died.

But far off

in an anarchy

of sky.

You are not there,

the child I tried so hard for,

finally had.

You are not there.

~ previously published in Fringing the Garments

   (Pecan Grove Press)

World like a Button

World like a Button

by Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld

The world

as seen from space

in the God’s-eye view,

shines silver, fastens the seas,

akin to the bright button

on your sailor suit,

clasping two sides

together.

You cried

when the button broke.

But that was easily mended.

Dark frocked, in a group, birds

stand on the shore.  We saw them

facing the sea like supplicants.

World that hangs by a thread,

buttons are cheap.  But

the dear world,

can it hold?

Will the world,

unmended, give,

spilling its silver—seas

casting a blue spell over land?

What of the little sailors then?

What of you?—still

wearing your sailor suit,

proud of its new

button.

~ first published in Nimrod International Journal

Aubade

photo: ralph murre

Aubade

by Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld

                    

The Awakening

Early

your aunt has come.

This is a visit.

We talk of this and that and you.

We sip coffee and are reflective,

looking out this window mirroring

other windows, porches, the packing crates of the newly arrived,

the corrugated metal roofs of carports, and beyond.

This is the second story.

It is possible to take the broad view,

although we are somewhat enclosed.

"He will always love you," she is saying.

(You said that too.)

I am circumspect, thinking of enclosure--

of trees, close-branched and silver; your arms; a forest; and frenzy.

Your aunt is assiduous, saying, " . . . love you."

I hold my mug tightly, the coffee burning hot.

Sweat moustaches my lip.

Dew frosts the forest—light grays its sunken, still lake.

It is morning now, and you wake

blurred, newly born, and damply regard your dawn.

In one corner of your eye (the eye nearest the window)

is a single drop reflecting you, me, your aunt, walls, wife, light, blind--

The trees outside your window stagger, reel, then stand again;

on your pillow you turn to your bride.

You lie . . . reach . . .

Morning.  The forest is littered with light.

I am in my own house, the door barred against tangible intruders.

I hold up in my palm a peach the color of dawn

and bite it.  Its juice is sweet.

Every tooth is alive.  My mouth aches.  My tongue is torn out.

You lie . . .

I think you are someone I made up in a moment between sleep and waking.

It is morning.  I don't believe you anymore.

~ Previously published in Travois:  An Anthology of Texas Poetry (Contemporary Arts Museum, Houston)

David Hominidae

sculpture: michelangelo     photoart: sharon auberle

David Hominidae

after Michelangelo

by Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld

For stone that breaks the giant hold, for strength

I love you not, but love the languid length

Where right the slack and narrow arm now takes

A certain fortitude that weakness makes.

Then, after turbulence, I love your grace

At end, when grace is grace in rest.  Of rock

Your softness; yet no hardihood let mock

Your maleness, closed and petalled in its place.

I love for life, for so short days, for bud

Laid out on block, for chiselled pallor, blood--

More than the upward rising of the lines,

The deep dependence downward that defines

A homily to God by mortal strain,

The manly droop of marble

                                          And its vein.

            ~ first published in Southwest Review