August 01, 2008

Dutch Hunger winter 1944

“Of course I didn't realize that because of my psychiatric illnesses, I would never experience "the translucence of first spring."

By nine o’clock, walking against a Holland sky, reciting poems:
Iron fixed things.
Lord make me a magazine centerfold of a girl guide not the child on the March of Dimes Poster.

But God doesn’t listen to us:
By nine o-clock
Bone defined things.

More radiation
on our faces
Beyond dissolving.

Fasten Ruined cities the most photogenic
Icon of war’s pity.
          Lost railroads, factories, schools, temples, city halls. All.

—Lynn Strongin

Posted by dwaber at 02:42 PM

July 31, 2008

Language the color of war &

It rains
Over & over

We are moving out of the earthquake window where all trembled:
As in
Water. No veto on life.

Under my boy-thin chest
Anjou-shaped pears were forming

When I see cottonwood tree seeds fly and drift in the summer air, I think about a similar thing. They will drift into different places. But once they germinate, they become cottonwood trees.

Walking against an Ireland-colored sky brick colored Anam Cara
When it all began
I found one who was there          the iconic devastation which is the pity of war;

Not all the heather purples of the moor
Could make up for the thinness
From cancer

Not all the recitals of
Due to her psychiatric illness she could never enjoy the translucence of April come.

These others
Because they had no sorrow
They had no joy.

My day began unhappily
Like during war:
This time I’d lost a small piece of paper
A library slip
Thinner than your petticoat or undershirt
Containing my notes for poems from the night before.

Found it.
A cousin recalling my sister’s glee
When I could “sit up in the pool

This island-cold
this crystal-living
and the invention of butterfly. Ars Poetica, poem within jewel-case poem.

The kitchen sink sucking water down.
the planetarium first painted in my skull

Thru the twelve years of my life
Things hung on pegs:
Walking, first steps, last.

Scattered like dancing
Leaping               bounding               hiking mountains.
Love sputtering like a tallow candle.

Guzzling ice water
At the rusty pump I stood tiptoe:
The well.

Good god!
What did I dream
Under the full moon its ledgered schoolroom ruler:

The fuels
Of movement
Ecstatic again?

Moonlight clung to me like a gown I went dancing in
Thru the halls of the mental institution
Where daddy worked

An Ophelia.
Ritual. Exam. Mask.
The girl I love turning back covers searching for the library slip: Mine!

The dumbwaiter on one of our army posts
Which lifted up & down black-brown nothingness.

My sister & I thrilled
with the scare.

This island-cold
this crystal-living
and the invention of butterfly

—Lynn Strongin

Posted by dwaber at 01:43 PM