By Eileen Wingard
LA JOLLA — The poetry of Adam Deutsch, from his newly published book, Every Transmission, opened the January 16 program of Jewish Poets/Jewish Voices. The youthful looking Grossmont College faculty member had arrived at the JCC using the trolley and his bike. His well-received selections were followed by translations from Yiddish and Ukrainian and original poems by Amelia Glaser, UCSD chair of Judaic Studies. The concluding portion of the first hour of featured poets was the poetry of Herb Brin, read by his son, David Brin, the award-winning science fiction writer. Herb Brin was an investigative reporter, world-renowned poet and founder of the San Diego Jewish Press Heritage, later taken over by Don Harrison, and succeeded by the online newspaper, San Diego Jewish World.
And we have too many books,
shelved, boxed up, writings
about writers’ writings, earlier
editions. They become animals
aging in stacked crates
among the garage machines.
They’re out of sight beasts,
ideas quietly cleaning their hides,
preening feathers in dark nests
near cans of touch-up paint,
lids we pounded down
with rubber mallets
so colors last. They live beside
a leaking thing we never drive
and scrap wood in the rafters
we’ll burn or reclaim to build
a tiny house for a life’s rest.
Maybe we’ll bring them in
as pets, cozy on couches,
stroke their spines. We’ll
clean up after their messes.
*
GREAT AUNT, WINTER AND SUN by Adam Deutsch
for Marilyn Adler
Each of us lifts a full shovel
and sends the earth down,
stabbing the tool
deep in a mound. The rite
is that we’re to bury
our own dead and hear
the hollow low thud on the box
at the bottom. Mostly echo.
She was a small woman,
frail woven, sharp-angled.
Everyone drops their scoop—
cousin Frank forgets, is too moved,
must eliminate the void
until a sweat brings him back.
Still, the we never really fill
the hole. There are men
paid just for that, who pull
levers on a machine,
doze with louder cries
and bigger teeth
than most blood can harbor.
*
FROM THE DEEP by Amelia Glaser
then rising to another blue,
to gulls shrieking, “Safe! Safe!”
From a murky-cool peace
I’ll hold my breath like hope
in a season of death.
buoy me, fire-fish,
summon me, daughters of air,
to that lattice
of seaweed and sun,
twilight before dawn.
the membrane splitting sea and sky,
the sanctity of reed and turtle,
the sweetness of drawing breath again.
*
I INVENTED TIME by Herb Brin
Hold back your clocks
Damn it, no requiem for me!
I’ll rust those gears
With the fire spray of seas
That sweep my autumn years.
Crusts of age clog my knees
But I’ll get along
At a lesser pace
At a lesser pace.
And softer my sighs
Gentler, more gentle
And as suns descend
I’ll get along
It’s moonlight saving time
For me.
I’ve many a mountain yet to climb
And the hot breath of lips on mine
And the touch of tender hips.
Are there promises to keep?
Don’t count my ways
Don’t count my ways.
The brook, the stream, the massive sea
Hold many mysteries for me
And books unread
And paths untrod
Primeval forests beckon me.
Don’t speed my way to dreams undreamed
I’ve cantatas to create
I’ve heady lilacs yet to sense
And little foxes to divine.
Take back your clocks
Hold back your clocks
With searing breath of lips
On mine
I invented time.
*
There was the time in occupied France when a powerful nation hunted down Jewish children. One was Odette.
I cup my hands
I blow dandelions to the wind
Oh, a tender-touching wind
That fans the face
Like wisps of eyelid upon the cheek
A butterfly kiss.
And away, away they fly
Puffs of dandelion to the sky
High
To the sun
And try as I sigh to shade
The eye
My vision blurs.
Odette,
For you this happy song
Of sunshine and dandelion
And a fleckless sky
And Alpine waters tracing
Rivulets
To a child’s Riviera of dream.
I must not tell
I must not tell
To take the magic
From this happy song
And blur my eyes with fires
Of memory.
For eyes burn
And tears reveal a hunted child
Oh, hunted, hunted, hunted
Child.
Where to hide the night
Where to hide the day
Where to hide the end of false papers
And false names
And real hungers
And imagined beauties?
Are there not beauties
In the fields of France
Even the German France?
Find a magic meadow
There must be one
I have it on faith there must be one
And gather your dandelions
In your cupped hands
And if the wind forsakes
Blow them with your breath
And they will fly away
And they will fly away
Gossamer to the innocence
Of sky
High, to the sun.
Sing, Odette
Sing, Odette
And run!
*
Eileen Wingard is a freelance writer specializing in coverage of the arts. She may be contacted via eileen.wingard@sdjewishworld.com