By Eileen Wingard
LA JOLLA, California — Actress Bryna Weiss’s ‘ credits include The Rose Tatoo on stage with Olympia Dukakis, films such as Slums of Beverly Hills with Alan Arkin, TV appearances in Desperate Housewives, NYPD Blue, Gilmore Girls and others.
Her full, expressive voice and theatrical gestures enhanced the clever, humorous and poignant poetry of her daughter, New York attorney Valerie Weiss, which Bryna read at Tuesday, May 12’s Jewish Poets—Jewish Voices program in the Astor Judaica Library.
Valerie’s works, read by her mother, were the concluding poems of three featured writers.
Opening the evening were the poems by retired attorney, Suzi Finkelstein’s daughter. Jaime Lynn, written when Jaime was a young teenager between the ages of 13 and 15. Suzi read these precocious pieces with pride and sincerity. Jaime Lynn is currently a child counselor in Denver, having survived a traumatic brain injury.
The middle group of featured poems were by Harriet Wingard, my own daughter, who felt so honored to be invited to read in our series, that she took two days off from work and flew down from Portland, Oregon to participate in this program, “From Generation to Generation.”
Her presentation illustrated the title of the evening. She had me, her mother, read one of her poems, her sister, Myla read another, and my granddaughter, Adira Rosen, read two poems by two of Harriet’s students. Harriet teaches 5th grade at the Portland Jewish Academy, specializing in creative writing.
Here are samples of each of the featured poets:
Someone I can talk to by Jaime Lynn Finkelstein
Someone I can talk to
She will keep my secrets safe and sound
Whether there is a monster in the closet,
Or I am crouched in my corner with a grand unattractive frown
Bad dreams, tooth fairies
The movies and the news
She is always prepared
Just to lay with me and snooze
Problems at school
She will fix it in a snap
Through sore throats, pneumonia
Doctor visits too…
There is not much my mother can not do
*
Airborne by Harriet Neya Wingard
The day my father died,
we watched a baby bird stand still on the patio, stunned
presumed dead on its feet, until
its eyes blinked back to life,
its mother arrived with mashed worms,
and it stretched its wings to remember it had them.
The day my father died had two beginnings—
the first when he took his last breath,
the second when we awakened again,
already feeling his absence
like a breath that has taken a breath.
This bird, just beginning,
already trans-gendered and anthropomorphized,
is object of my cheering on, the way we cheered my father,
first to hang on and then, gently, to let go.
You can do this, I whisper; lift your wings and take flight.
This Microphone! by Valerie Weiss
This microphone has its own mind, you know.
While it seems to have a backbone,
it’s constantly genuflecting.
You know. Starts up here, and then
whewwwwwwwwwwww, slinks to the ground.
It’s as if it’s listening, and expecting.
Except, truth be told, inspecting.
Sighs, and falls nimbly
as its steam is lost behind.
It seems sad sometimes.
As if it’s disappointed and simply’
expressing its mind timidly.
But it’s always listening to us.
You know, it sort of has to.
What else can it do?
Playfully, once, it dove into a pair
of breasts and briefly lay there.
The poet turned a shade of red
Grabbed him by the neck and yanked!
With that, his head sank.
This microphone is really quite equipped.
Sees what it wants, and goes for it.
You really need to know your stuff.
If it’s not memorized, then
You hold your poem in
one hand, which is a little tough
while balancing this piece. It’s rough.
Do you think it’s making a point?
Really know your own pieces.
It sort of teases.
And you have to get right on top, anoint-
ing it, while propping up its joint.
Some negotiate it better
than I. Standing by just right.
For me, it’s a fight.
This microphone is an investigator.
I think it’s an instigator.
Should we let it stay do you think?
Having fun with us, I say.
Having its own way.
Makes its judgment of our poems with a wink.
Sometimes telling us that we stink.
It’s got a lot of nerve, this piece.
We should put it in its place.
Not let it disgrace
*
Eileen Wingard, a retired violinist with the San Diego Symphony, is a freelance writer specializing in coverage of the arts. You may comment to her at eileen.wingard@sdjewishworld.com, or post you comment on this website, provided that you observe the rules below.
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