Category — Poetry

The River Ganges

When the shock of his death began to peel away
and we stopped leaning on walls to steady ourselves
the family told me to throw out the mattress.
Death is a stain you can’t wash off
it’s best to send it away before it latches onto you.
In my eyes it was a perfectly good mattress.
So it stayed.
The family lit candles and said let them burn to light the way.
I couldn’t sleep.
The roar of the flickering flame consumed me two floors up.
So I blew it out.
When the urn arrived filled with bits and pieces
there were no pictures of him.
So we propped up his driver’s license and
wrapped everything in a yard of gauzy red fabric.
That was our shrine
in the room where the walls smelled of loose tobacco
and Tiger Balm.
Each day on the way to the laundry
I’d find the lamp on in his room.
It’s the kind that turns on with the slightest
brush of a hand.
It was a comfort to know he was still there.
Then the day came for his trip to the Ganges
and the room stood dark.
I did everything wrong and still he left.

Jessica Dubey lives with her family in the Southern Tier of New York, where she writes and studies poetry. She is a graduate of Syracuse University and has written freelance for marketing and healthcare. 

The Blades of the Window Fan

The grill is an amputation of old bedspring coils
that supports the pot of beans which are young sediment
and the bed, knowing of its wholeness
commits to the memory of pink walls
the steady weight, the soft curve of elbow
before the necessity of slow dismemberment
and loss.

 I lie on a bed of cotton sheets
            damp and lined with the old maps of explorers
            trampled on by my father’s small horse,
            the one he traded for a smaller pickup truck.
The coils below squeak out rusty crow feathers
to flame the fires in the pit outside.

The blades of the window fan hypnotize my dirt brown stare,
dry away the sweat and urine of wind laced days without baths
in a bucket of well water.

Outside the window is the neighbor’s dog
that surrenders under the low mesquite branch
in a shallow hole it has dug
and lined with feathers,
black with blue and violet reflections
like the eye of a horse.

The rhythmic hum weighs down the eyelids
and kindles the fire.

The beans begin to boil.

Jose Antonio Rodriguez is winner of the 2010 Allen Ginsberg poetry award. in 2008, he headed  “Writing By Degrees”, an invitational literary program conducted by the graduate department in English at Binghamton University. His poetry has appeared in Paterson Literary Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Connecticut Review and elsewhere.”

For the Bees to Come

We must kiss the Earth for days,
not even feeling bold enough to say
we are sorry. There must be a coughing child
on every hill, his hands wrapped
in something invaluable.
He should wave, convinced he is seen
from afar. An adult must be
next to each child, convincing.

The pregnant women should throw out
all lists of names they had, assign
their children musical notes –
call them for dinner with whistles
and violins. The children will never
answer to different names.

Most of all we need to
hang our houses from trees.
Make somebody else’s life sweet –
why do bees make honey anyway?
We must put chiffon on the necks
of tigers, fake flowers in lakes.
What more could they want?
Even teach animals to sign checks,
put banks in the forest.

After an Argument

I in and out my bike
in the stitch of lane marking,
punctuation for motion, unlike
your language where every sixth word
has birds in it. From here I can see
First Avenue for twenty-three blocks.

I hit the brakes, hoping to erase
some lines with my tires. You and I set
our opinions like flowerpots
on top of a calm sea. No escape
from the ourness of the immediate future.

Someone said we are reborn
a hundred times every second.
We get recycled into ourselves.

How to make what is already
in our mouths more delicious?

The grass crawls onto the backs of ladybugs,
as if it will get somewhere other
than guts but once
you grew irises from rice seeds.
You really did.

Margarita Delcheva is a graduate of the NYU Creative Writing Program. Her poems have been published in CutThroat, Chronogram, Ep;phany, the Meadow and others. She is Associate Faculty at the University of Phoenix and currently resides in New York. Margarita’s first book of poems is coming out this Spring in Sofia, Bulgaria.

The Holy Spirit at the Baptism of Christ

…the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on Him…

                                        Matthew 3:16

More akin
to a falling mirror of
a dove than
the dove itself–
flat as a page
with depth
and that deepness
turning itself in
many dimensions,
somehow expands finitude,
a black hole of light–
this must be where gravity goes.

And this must be
how God answers
His own prayer:
the voice of God
conforms itself to a whisper–
the whisper submits
to the wind, blown
this way, that–
what hovered over
the waters of creation
hovers again
over new waters,
a new creation.

Micah Towery has his MFA from Hunter College. He enjoys making his own yogurt and blogging on http://www.thethepoetry.com.

How the Days Go

(like a sad song or psalm)

 I was a hunter.
 My days were gazelles.

A long time ago, in the winter,
They would come down from a hill,
down from a hill to my open field.

I saw them spring in the winter,
and watched them gambol in their heat.
I came near to the ceremonies of their coupling.

In the spring they came down from a hill.
They came down from a hill with their young.

The open field is now a house and garage.
It is a house and garage, a driveway and a lawn.
I cannot shovel, push or rake any longer.

I use a Deere to mulch the leaves, fling the snow.
To cut the lawn, clear the snow, I use the Deere.

I am a tired hunter.
My days were gazelles.

Myron Ernst was co-owner with his wife Shirley of a Montessori School in Vestal, New York. Retired, he is a frequent contributor to ragazine.cc. His work has appeared in many other publications.

At Grandma Teri’s House

Grandma slowly steps down
the yellow stairs,
her left hand on the banister,
her right twitching to a silent beat.
Her fading red hair matches
the paint on her fingernails—
she is a sunset.

She takes me to the grocery store
where I watch her inspect
a cluster of grapes,
turning them over in her hands
as if they are jewels.

The four of us help her decorate
for Christmas, mounting garlands on
the figures of two white dogs which sit
on opposite sides of the fireplace.  I perch
little angels by the long vases filled with glass
rocks, by the white figurines of ballet dancers,
and by the plastic fruit on the table
I always think is real.

While my parents talk
with her, my sister and I take out
the box of checkers which rattle
with pennies since there are not enough
pieces inside.  As we play,
I hear them laughing.

My sister and I are then hustled downstairs
for bed where I walk past the shelf
of framed photographs and I stop
in front of one of my family and her—
my sister and I in our pajamas,
our hair still wet from the pool—
standing in her front yard, ready for the ride home.

Diari

(Translated by Emanuel Di Pasquale)

I
Prima  notte, seconda notte. Qui le cose hanno sempre meno bisogno della nostra presenza.

Sotto questo tetto, dentro i nostri occhi, oltre i visi ncontratti. Ognuno tiene per sé parti del ricordo.

Solo qualche volta, in qualche stanza, appaiono le cose senza di noi. Grazie alla nostra assenza.

Pare che abbiamo gli occhi chiusi, invece muoviamo lo sguardo e sembriamo lenti in quest’ azione.

L’animale attraversa il prato. Lo si vede correre, come se inseguisse qualcosa. Oppure è solo il nostro inseguire qualcosa.

Come quando erano partiti, senza chiedere indirizzi, credendo di poter vivere con le sole tracce.

Ognuno ora pensa al tono di voce, disperso tra le cose, tra le domande che sono più difficili da fare.

Perché adesso si è come chiusi, seduti alla fine di una frase, insieme ad altri suoni, non uditi.

Journals

I
First  night, second night. Here things need our presence
less and less.

Under this roof, inside our eyes, beyond the contracted faces.
Each holds on to parts of the memory.

Only sometimes, in some room, things appear without
us. Thanks to our absence.

It seems that we have our eyes closed; instead, we shift our look and seem slow doing so.

The beast crosses the field.  One sees it run, as if it were
following something. Perhaps it’s only our following something.

As when they departed, without asking for addresses, believing they could live with traces only.

Each now thinks of the tone of the voice, dispersed among the things, among the questions that are the most difficult to ask.

Because now it is like being closed, sitting at the end of a phrase, together with other sounds, unheard.

Alziamo le braccia, vogliamo qualcosa da fare, ce lo chiediamo a tratti, pronti a credere di averlo trovato.

Gli altri sono già partiti, passati. Hanno superato il confine dove è difficile  crederli  veri.

Ci sono molte ombre qui. Alcune fanno parte del luogo, altre appartengono a noi.

Rumori dalle scale. Allora si pensa agli altri, al loro salire e scendere, a cosa facciano e dove vadano.

Quando apriamo la porta è come se non fossimo mai usciti di qui. O meglio, l’ultima  volta non eravamo le stesse persone.

Cambiare i vestiti, il volto, le parole. Con brevi pause, brevi silenzi, ora siamo quelli che altri  vedranno.

We raise our arms, wanting something to do, suddenly asking
ourselves, ready to believe we’ve found it.

The others have already departed, passed by. They’ve gone beyond the border where it’s difficult to believe they’re real.

Here are many shadows. Some are part of the place, others belong to us.

Noises from the stairs. One thinks of the others then, of their going up and down, of what they might do and where they might go.

When we open the door, it’s as if we had never left
here.  Or better, the last time we were not the same people.

To change clothes, words, face. With brief pauses, brief
silences, now we are those that others will  see.

 _________________

II

E’ meglio non sapere, a volte. Lasciare le cose circolare, lasciare che ci passino accanto e solo dopo pensarle.

Per esempio, ora non sappiamo molto di più di questa stagione. Solo il fatto che muta, imprevedibile, vicino ai laghi.

Siamo estranei alla stagione, noi. Siamo fuori e solo possiamo assorbire il suo comportamento, diverso.

Né vorremmo capirne di più. E’ come avere una certa distanza che ci fa ragionare di essa.

Crea argomenti, discorsi sul clima che comunque non li richiede. Siamo noi che entriamo nella discussione.

II

It’s  best not to know at times. To let things flow, to let them
pass nearby and to think of them only later.

For example, right now we don’t know much about this season.
Only the fact that it changes, unpredictable, near the lakes.

We’re strangers to the season. We’re outside and can only
absorb its different behavior.

Nor would we like to know more about it.  It’s like having a certain distance that makes us think about it.

It creates arguments, discussions on the climate which doesn’t ask for them. It’s we who enter the discussion. 

_________________

III   (Sull’idea  di attendere)

In posizione d’attesa si estendono i pensieri, vanno a creare forme del dire che poi si perdono.

In attesa che qualcosa cominci si guarda all’esterno. E’ il momento in cui un animale appare.

Nei momenti d’attesa, senza vento, ci si rifiuta di credere che altri siano già passati da qui.

Emergono ombre, nell’attendere. Come quelle che ieri sera ci circondavano, sicure di se stesse.

Si cambiano i numeri dei nostri conti, seduti in attesa. La vita li richiede, a volte molto tardi, la sera.

III  (On the idea of waiting)

In  the waiting  attitude, thoughts reach out, create ways
of saying things that then are lost.

Waiting for something to begin one looks out. That’s the
moment in which an animal appears.

In the moments of waiting, windless, one refuses to believe that others have already gone by here.

In the waiting, shadows emerge. Like those that surrounded us
last night, certain of themselves.

As we sit and wait, the numbers of our accounts change.
Life summons them, at times quite late, at night.

______________________

IV   (Dei futuri)

Si potrà dire qui eravamo noi, nella foto, sulla mappa o luogo. Si dirà qui siamo stati, ieri.

Senza un senso non sarà possibile fare prove per riuscire a dire. Per lasciare tracce sull’albero.

Non sarà possibile descrivere questo prato se qualcosa non sarà accaduto, a produrne il ricordo.

La finestra sarà chiusa, qualcosa di simile al congedo di chi parte. Sarà un’altra presenza a dettare il tempo.

La porta sarà chiusa. Non si aspetterà più la chiave per entrare. Sarà già dopo.

Questa è la strada da cui saremo passati, quando lasciata questa zona saremo noi a raccontare d’esserci  stati.

IV (On futures)

We’ll be able to say we were here, in the photo, on the map, or in the place.  We’ll say, here we were, yesterday.

Without a meaning it will not be possible to speak. To leave traces on the tree.

It will not be possible to describe this field unless something has happened, to create a memory of it.

The window will be closed, like the gesture of departure. Another presence will  dictate time.

The door will be closed. The key will no longer be needed. It will already be already.

This is the road. After leaving this
zone we’ll tell the story of our having been here.

Mario Moroni was born in Italy in 1955. He moved to the United States in 1989. He has taught at Yale University, the University of Memphis and Colby College. He currently teaches Italian at  Binghamton University.  Moroni has published seven volumes of poetry and one of poetic prose. In 1989 he was awarded the Lorenzo Montano prize for poetry.

sitting at 14^th and Broadway
staring up at steeple on Grace Church
I often wonder if Pascal smoked
contemplating spires watching smoke

rise like wagering thoughts in white
bursts of heat climbing crockets until
field of vision diminishes to
point of vanishment from earth cross

perched on pyramid sight passes
infinity streaming stratosphere
into nothingness of space and on
and on and on directly to

void of sound, color and reason
uncrossed by paths until it reaches
outer limits of understanding
and intuitively arrives

at same spark in electric thought
that is the origin of our soul

Raymond Hammond is a poet, critic and editor of the New York Quarterly magazine since assuming control after the death of William Packard in 2002.

Brooklyn-1950

The Three Families from Istanbul

 In our neighborhood lived three Sephardi families —
     The Levys, The Hattems, and The Abrevayas —
all cousins, all from Istanbul, who would take their slow
evening strolls in the spring and summertime, all together,
the men in front, shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped
behind their back, with their wives following. Passing by,
they would not to speak to us Eastern European Jews,
but would deign to nod and perhaps half-wave
in our direction as a sign that they had seen us,
and were resigned to our existence. As we sat
in the spring and summertime high on our brick porches,
I watched them pass, and listened to their strange,
distant, medieval Spanish bobbing in their wake,
and I wondered if it was true that they kept under their beds
the iron keys to the gates of their Iberian houses.

Myron Ernst was co-owner with his wife Shirley of a Montessori School in Vestal, New York. Retired, he is a frequent contributor to ragazine.cc. His work has appeared in many other publications.

FLYING BARK 

America, I will sing for you.

Land of self-proclaimed dogmatic regulators. Offenders of the standard

78 degree room temperature. When you roll down the window, you say:

“Serendipitous to think so.” And the officer chuckles. The officer gives

you a handshake. You must reciprocate by throwing an equally ferocious

milkshake, or one of greater grandeur. Depending on the crossing chickens.

If it rains on your lawn do you spray disinfected solution on the branches

of the elks? Should you wipe clean your transmission with a rag made of dust?

Who will compare you to a fine summer’s clay? The fluorescent lights remind you

of Michael Jackson. You have a fever and no one will say: “Contentious grackle.”  

WHEN BEES CRY   

 The thought entered my mind. The thought entered my mind during the middle of the night. In the middle of the night, the thought entered my mind and I cried. When I cried, the thought left my mind. It left my mind, this thought, and I have never thought this thought again. It has been twenty days since the night I thought this thought. I have not thought this thought since. Now I am worried that perhaps this is the nail that shuts the lid or the hammer that claws the nail from the lid. Maybe now I will think this thought again. Now that I’ve realized that I haven’t thought this thought in twenty days. But I do not want to think this thought. And I have not thought the thought. It is lovely, I think, not to think this thought.  

A BIRD BROKE MY WINDOW  

Yesterday morning, a crow flew into my room

and said: “Sell your lawn for Exxon.”

There was nothing else I could do.

I read out loud a few words I was reading.

The bird dropped dead.

Why did this bird have to die in my room?

d on my favorite desk.

Alina Gregorian is a graduate student in the program at the New School. She has created with Bianca Stone a poetry opera recently performed in New York city. Her prose poems have a sense of surrealism and play both comical and startling in theirs juxtapositions. This is her first publication in Ragazine.