Poetry in Motion: A Strange Beautiful Woman, by Marilyn Nelson

This is more recent, from just last year, and since the 2017 posters haven't been unveiled, you can likely spot these on the subways currently:

A Strange Beautiful Woman by Marilyn Nelson

A strange beautiful woman
met me in the mirror
the other night.
Hey,
I said,
What you doing here?
She asked me
the same thing.

~ ~ ~

Visit the MTA Poetry in Motion page here.

Bios of the poet and the artist whose work in the subway that serves as the backdrop for the poem above, which was one of four released in 2013, appears on the site here. You can also click on the Poetry in Motion tag at the bottom of the post to see prior BillyBlog posts about the series.

The Tattooed Poets Project, Day 8: Kat Zemmel

Today's Poem is by Kat Zemmel:

Dushanbe: Return After Exodus

When I asked my father to
tell me his story, he could
only express it in third person.

Arriving in the city, he noted
difference of air—pressure
smell, viscosity, how air poured
into lungs, filled body, thoughts,
the very rhythm of life. He was
unsure if the air was more humid,
or dust-filled—too solid for 500
meters above sea level.
Sounds easily reflected from buildings
and asphalt cracked from heat.

Three years after exodus, he returned
to obtain passports for our family,
compulsory tickets to safety.

*

Lucretius believed in free-will
swerve of atoms as they fall,
fortuitous impact of the unseen;
he thought that contact
coerced everything into being.
Atom, with its nucleus
inciting motion; human heart
signaling mind, mind—limbs,
limbs moving in air, and air
adjusting to movement—maybe
then, then it was that much easier
to breathe, not when despair
subsumed my father, thrust him into
the tides of air from a derelict city.

He spoke of breathing: back and forth
of being filled and empty;
the city crouched in his mind
like a peach-stone in pocket—
grooved token of sweetness.
Our former home, a twelve-story
sarcophagus. He saw the pissed-in elevator,
smashed stairs, familiar floor-plan:
room facing east where daily
I had woken to dust-swirls,
sturdy sunlight, when I opened curtains
to squint at a new day.

***************************************************

Kat Zemmel was born in Tajikistan, which her family had to flee in 1990 due to increasing civil unrest. After failing to receive permission to live in Belarus, they were helped by missionaries, and moved to the United States.

Her writing attempts to reconcile the political, temporal, and geographical divides between her childhood and present residence. She is currently a graduate student at the University of Tennessee, working to attain a master's degree in literature with a focus in creative writing.

I thank her sincerely for participating in the Tattooed Poets Project project. See one of Kat's tattoos and read about it over on Tattoosday.

The Tattooed Poets Project, Day 2: Kim Addonizio

Kim Addonizio was at the top of everyone's list when I inquired about tattooed poets. It helps when your tattoo is visible in your author photo. Kim was early to sign on to the project, and the first poet to send me a picture. Her tie to tattoos is enhanced by the fact that she co-edited a book called Dorothy Parker's Elbow: Tattoos on Writers, Writers on Tattoos. A National Book Award finalist, she graciously allowed me permission to run the following poem:

First Poem for You

I like to touch your tattoos in complete

darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of

where they are, know by heart the neat

lines of lightning pulsing just above

your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue

swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent

twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you

to me, taking you until we’re spent

and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss

the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until

you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists

or turns to pain between us, they will still

be there. Such permanence is terrifying.

So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.

Kim Addonizio, “First Poem For You” from The Philosopher’s Club. Copyright © 1994 by Kim Addonizio. Used by permission from the author.

Read her bio here (and then explore her site).

And check out one of Kim's tattoos over on Tattoosday.

There is a Sound (and She is Eleven)

Last year on this date I posted about aging, and how a daughter turning ten made me feel old. Older than turning 39 or 40 or whatever. Well, today she is 11.

Eleven.

A decade and a year.

Egads.

Last year's post (here) included a poem I had written for Jolee when she was born. Here's another I may or may not have shared before:

THERE IS A SOUND

You that come to birth and bring the mysteries,

Your voice-thunder makes us very happy.

-Jelaluddin Rumi

There is a sound

at 2 a.m.

and it rings of need.

There is hunger, there is urgency,

there is the definition

of hope.

One voice announces

"I am here"

and there is no denying

she is the one

with my heart

firmly in her

hands.

©1996 William Dickenson Cohen

Happy Birthday Jolee!

Sy Brenner Celebrates 85 Years

Over the weekend, Sy Brenner, a WWII vet, former P.O.W., and genuine hero, celebrated his 85th birthday with family and friends in San Diego.

Family members were asked to contribute a memory, a snippet of words, an anecdote for the occasion.

Dear Old Dad (aka The Ancient One, Blessed Be He) was in attendance and recounted the event here. My contribution was not going to be Billyblog'ged, but the Ancient One prompted me in his post, so I shall share. It's a personal, prosey poem, and most likely means most to those who know and love Sy Brenner, as a friend, husband, father, and grandfather (or, in this case, as a zaidi). The poem follows the photo, taken in January 11, 2007, in San Diego, with Sy and Resa, his wife of 58 years (and my bubbi, as well).

“Instant Zaidi” for Sy Brenner, on his 85^th birthday

Instant Zaidi: just add water
(Or get your dad to marry a zaidi's daughter).

When I met you, you were
Already family.
Step-uncle-in-law.
(I think. It was complicated)
When Donna married Leon,
you were promoted to Zaidi.

I became the first grandchild
at the age of 13.
You missed the cute baby phase,
the terrible twos
and all those other fun cute
adorable years.

I was a step-grandson but you
never treated me like anything
but a "full-blooded" family member.

Your kindness makes me smile.
Your jokes reminded me of
my Florida grandfather.
But I could talk about baseball
with you.
I loved coming to your house,
Hanging out, watching baseball on a big TV,

throwing a soggy tennis ball
with Mickey, listening to your stories.

Time passed, other grandchildren
entered the world. I still felt that bond,
I was the first one to call you Zaidi;
you were the first one to let me.

I never met my namesake,
Instant Zaidi, you were a worthy replacement.

I wasn't a Dodger fan when we met, Instant Zaidi,
I was a Tigers fan.
For a Padres fan, I'm sure that made me
a bit more lovable. (And you still liked
me after the '84 World Series).

As I grew into a full-fledged teenager,
you were still my Zaidi, although
trying to explain to kids in Hawaii
what a bubbi and zaidi were
proved challenging.

Coming to college in Southern California
meant I saw you even more.
So much so that I don't really remember
any Passovers from 1986 to 1997
when I wasn't at a seder with you. Thanksgivings too.

Melanie remembers
her first Thanksgiving
in the Brenner home.
A Thanksgiving food fight.
No, that’s not the right word,
Food skirmish,

Ronnie covering your head
With whipped cream
Then holding Sadie the dog up
So she could lick it off.
We rolled in the aisles.

I always remember laughter
whenever we came to visit.

Ten years ago we headed East,
And I took away
Your first great grandchildren.

To Jolee and Shayna
You have always been Zaidi
(so you were instant Zaidi
the moment they were born).

When last I saw you and Bubbi just back in January,
I was in town for some unpleasant work:
a surprise closing of an office.
But Seth drove down, picked me up
And we drove out to see you,
Popped in and surprised you.

That twinkle in your eyes
When you saw us and smiled,
canceled out the earlier events of the day.
Instantly.

We stayed and chatted for a bit
Before heading back to L.A.
I still can’t get over
How happy you were to see us:
How wonderful I felt
Knowing that the detour to see you
Was well worth the trip.
Your smile and embrace
transporting me North,
and remaining with me
on the flight home to New York.

You started off as an Instant Zaidi,
But you became just Zaidi,
Have epitomized zaidi-ness
for thirty-six years
and now you are Always Zaidi,
will always be Zaidi,
today, tomrrow
and forever.