Written by
Susan Rich |
Each night he stands before
the kitchen island, begins again
from scratch: chocolate, cinnamon, nutmeg,
he beats, he folds;
keeps faith in what happens
when you combine known quantities,
bake twelve minutes at a certain heat.
The other rabbis, the scholars,
teenagers idling by the beach,
they receive his offerings,
in the early hours, share his grief.
It’s enough now, they say.
Each day more baked goods to friends,
and friends of friends, even
the neighborhood cops.
He can’t stop,
holds on to the rhythmic opening
and closing of the oven,
the timer’s expectant ring.
I was just baking, he says if
someone comes by.
Again and again,
evenings winter into spring,
he creates the most fragile
of confections: madelines
and pinwheels, pomegranate crisps
and blue florentines;
each crumb to reincarnate
a woman – a savoring
of what the living once could bring.
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Written by
Barry Tebb |
Arriving for a reading an hour too early:
Ruefully, the general manager stopped putting out the chairs.
“You don’t get any help these days.
I have
To sort out everything from furniture to faxes.
Why not wander round the park? There are ducks
And benches where you can sit and watch.
”
I realized it was going to be a hungry evening
With not even a packet of crisps in sight.
I parked my friend on a bench and wandered
Down Highgate Hill, realising where I was
From the Waterlow Unit and the Whittington’s A&E.
Some say they know their way by the pubs
But I find psychiatric units more useful.
At a reading like this you never know just who
Might have a do and need some Haldol fast.
(Especially if the poet hovering round sanity’s border
Should chance upon the critic who thinks his Word
Is law and order - the first’s a devotee of a Krishna cult
For rich retirees; the second wrote a good book once
On early Hughes, but goes off if you don’t share his
‘Thought through views’).
In the event the only happening was a turbanned Sikh
Having a go at an Arts Council guru leaning in a stick.
I remembered Martin Bell’s story of how Scannell the boxer
Broke - was it Redgrove’s brolly? - over his head and had
To hide in the Gents till time was called.
James Simmons boasted of how the pint he threw
At Anthony Thwaite hit Geoffrey Hill instead.
O, for the company of the missing and the dead
Martin Bell, Wendy Oliver, Iris and Ted.
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Written by
Gerard Manley Hopkins |
On ear and ear two noises too old to end
Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore;
With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar,
Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend.
Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend,
His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd score
In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour
And pelt music, till none 's to spill nor spend.
How these two shame this shallow and frail town!
How ring right out our sordid turbid time,
Being pure! We, life's pride and cared-for crown,
Have lost that cheer and charm of earth's past prime:
Our make and making break, are breaking, down
To man's last dust, drain fast towards man's first slime.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
In Wall Street once a potent power,
And now a multi-millionaire
Alone within a shady bower
In clothes his valet would not wear,
He watches bird wings bright the air.
The man who mighty mergers planned,
And oil and coal kinglike controlled,
With field-glasses in failing hand
Spies downy nestlings five days old,
With joy he could not buy for gold.
Aye, even childlike is his glee;
But how he crisps with hate and dread
And shakes a clawlike fist to see
A kestrel hover overhead:
Though he would never shoot it dead.
Although his cook afar doth forage
For food to woo his appetite,
The old man lives on milk and porridge
And now it is his last delight
At eve if one lone linnet lingers
To pick crushed almonds from his fingers.
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