(Editor: From now on we are going to ask our featured poets to let us post a set of their previously-published poems in advance of their readings. Most good poems, to be experienced fully, need to be read more than once, something that isn't done at poetry readings. Posting some here will allow interested people to get a really good taste of at least some of the poets' work in advance of their readings. ...Stan)
1. Sabbath Bride
1. Sabbath Bride
I strike the match
bring flame to candlewick
sigh the blessing
ushering in retreat
looking up
engulfed
your eyes
make me blush
tingle
even as the children
clamour around us
I suppose trading
a not so satisfying childhood
for a future
where holidays note the seasons
is worth the ambivalence
Better to be loved
for what one has become
And I am cherished
in the glow of Yom Tov candles
and on Shabbos afternoons
your body is an oasis,
your mouth a well brimming
with sweet water
in turning the house upside-down
searching for chommetz,
your hand is a feather
brushing against mine
we take care not to kindle fire
in the whisper of Friday night
when all is still
your hand reaches to me
beneath the blankets
spontaneous combustion
burns everything else to ash.
© D’vorah Elias 1991
Parchment Number One 1992
2. Algonquin Park
Race the sun,
it's as easy as
putting down
your foot ...
... ah, the non-believers.
North and eastward --
into twilight.
No money,
little gas in the tank.
Who says man can't fly?
Just drive, only drive.
Look at the map and just drive
myself crazy.
It's terrible to feel so alone
when all you want to do
is crawl inside another person's skin.
Trees fuller than most people's memories.
Pine needles crunch... …snap, crackle...
pop into reality now and then.
Telephoning coordinates --
s.o.s. calls.
The wire snaps.
Camera shutter
captures —a face
a famous picture...A little girl running
beside a ditch flowing with human wreckage,
her skin dripping
from her bones.
Names carved into history on picnic tables
like weather-worn faces.
People long gone
who probably left no mark
in the world but here.
I add my own initials.
This body is
one
large empty place,
always burning.
Where's a forest ranger
when you need one?
Running
and no matter where you go
there you are.
There, there
you are.
I see you
hiding in dark places
where you think
no one can see you.
Where you think
no one can find you.
Under the bed
under the covers
under the anger.
Running so god-damned fast
but never
fast enough.
and, so there you are
always just where you started.
Racing the sun
flying with wings
carved from granite
but with striations
like feathers.
It's no wonder you crash so hard.
© D’vorah Elias 1982
Communion At One O’Clock
Smashwords.com
3. Ani
I am
some woman’s cast off
abandoned in a garden
on a cold January morning
in Seoul, Korea.
I am Jung-Ran Lee
who flourished
in a French orphanage,
nurtured by many mothers
who was chosen from the rest
by parents
half a world away.
I am Lee Ann Kobata
who learned her catechism without fault,
who knelt before the alter
every Sunday morning
but could not swallow the dogma
as easily as the bread,
and who felt like a cannibal
for drinking Christ’s blood and
eating his flesh.
I am Lee An Elias
who lights six candles every Friday eve,
and who walks to shul on Shabbos
with four children by my side.
I am D’vorah
Who fries latkes every Chanukah,
Who dreads the ritual cleansing of Pesach,
who shivers in the succah,
who wears white on Rosh Hashannah
and never makes it
through the fast
on Yom Kippur.
Ani D’vorah
who rejected the Trinity
and kowtowing before graven images
but who, ten years later
still longs for mistletoe and holly
glass globes that shine
on fresh pine boughs
and on soaring pagodas.
© D’ovrah Elias 1991
Parchment Number One 1992
4. Conversion
No longer Mary Magdelene
playing dress-up in a headscarf
I have been made
in the image of Ruth
Only our children’s eye
remind me of who
my people really are
My spirituality
dictated through guilt
gilds my Shabbat offerings
with resentment
Naomi, return me to my birthplace
I long to hear Korean thunder
smell freshly-washed Asian pines
walk barefoot to the well
my mothers knew.
© D’vorah Elias 1993
Ani 2010
5. Fireflies In A Jar
This summer I captured fireflies in a jar
for the first time
since I was eight years old.
Sitting on the deck with my very own
environmentally friendly night light
as heat lightening
crawled across Orion’s belt.
And it seemed to me
that only gods
and children
know how to befriend magic.
Somewhere a mountain erupts;
sparks arc above the caldera’s rill,
turn trees into ghoulish silhouettes,
then flutter back to earth.
Ashes seal secrets into pumice
and liquid fire eats it way
to the sea.
I press my firsts into my face,
sparks dance beneath my eyelids…
fireflies for the gods.
© D’vorah Elias 1993
Canadian Author
Summer 1993
6. Mistress of the Night
do not touch me
when I am sleeping.
Watching is permitted
but only if you’re quiet.
You may whisper your secrets,
the ones that bring me dreams.
Tell me,
why does the night pass so
quickly?
It used to be that you were a
fairy queen.
glowing, radiant
with a scepter full of
fairy tale dust.
These days you are more a
grandmother
becoming arthritic and
cantankerous in your old age;
a little inhibiting
with your advice;
still smiling
but sometimes
letting your fangs show.
© Lee Ann D’vorah Elias 1983
Pierian Spring Winter 1983
7. Rhapsody
I weave a melody
pleasant to hear
from a distance
From where you stand
there is always timpani thunder
rolling at you
until it crashed into you
like a fist
Our carefully timed crescendos
are out of sync
Rage creates dissonance with your complacency
strings fight brassy bitchiness for control
climax builds
trombones blurt
A stage full of noise
distracts the audience from the blood
dripping from broken batons
But somewhere
beneath the refrains and repeats
innocence’s counter melody echoes
pianissimo
I am waiting
for the final closing
of the door
when silence
shall finally envelop me
When only I shall know
the orchestrations
encoded in the unfinished symphony
I created.
© D’vorah Elias 2006
Ani 2010
For a short bio and our review: http://www.londonpoetryopenmic.com/upcoming-readings.html
bring flame to candlewick
sigh the blessing
ushering in retreat
looking up
engulfed
your eyes
make me blush
tingle
even as the children
clamour around us
I suppose trading
a not so satisfying childhood
for a future
where holidays note the seasons
is worth the ambivalence
Better to be loved
for what one has become
And I am cherished
in the glow of Yom Tov candles
and on Shabbos afternoons
your body is an oasis,
your mouth a well brimming
with sweet water
in turning the house upside-down
searching for chommetz,
your hand is a feather
brushing against mine
we take care not to kindle fire
in the whisper of Friday night
when all is still
your hand reaches to me
beneath the blankets
spontaneous combustion
burns everything else to ash.
© D’vorah Elias 1991
Parchment Number One 1992
2. Algonquin Park
Race the sun,
it's as easy as
putting down
your foot ...
... ah, the non-believers.
North and eastward --
into twilight.
No money,
little gas in the tank.
Who says man can't fly?
Just drive, only drive.
Look at the map and just drive
myself crazy.
It's terrible to feel so alone
when all you want to do
is crawl inside another person's skin.
Trees fuller than most people's memories.
Pine needles crunch... …snap, crackle...
pop into reality now and then.
Telephoning coordinates --
s.o.s. calls.
The wire snaps.
Camera shutter
captures —a face
a famous picture...A little girl running
beside a ditch flowing with human wreckage,
her skin dripping
from her bones.
Names carved into history on picnic tables
like weather-worn faces.
People long gone
who probably left no mark
in the world but here.
I add my own initials.
This body is
one
large empty place,
always burning.
Where's a forest ranger
when you need one?
Running
and no matter where you go
there you are.
There, there
you are.
I see you
hiding in dark places
where you think
no one can see you.
Where you think
no one can find you.
Under the bed
under the covers
under the anger.
Running so god-damned fast
but never
fast enough.
and, so there you are
always just where you started.
Racing the sun
flying with wings
carved from granite
but with striations
like feathers.
It's no wonder you crash so hard.
© D’vorah Elias 1982
Communion At One O’Clock
Smashwords.com
3. Ani
I am
some woman’s cast off
abandoned in a garden
on a cold January morning
in Seoul, Korea.
I am Jung-Ran Lee
who flourished
in a French orphanage,
nurtured by many mothers
who was chosen from the rest
by parents
half a world away.
I am Lee Ann Kobata
who learned her catechism without fault,
who knelt before the alter
every Sunday morning
but could not swallow the dogma
as easily as the bread,
and who felt like a cannibal
for drinking Christ’s blood and
eating his flesh.
I am Lee An Elias
who lights six candles every Friday eve,
and who walks to shul on Shabbos
with four children by my side.
I am D’vorah
Who fries latkes every Chanukah,
Who dreads the ritual cleansing of Pesach,
who shivers in the succah,
who wears white on Rosh Hashannah
and never makes it
through the fast
on Yom Kippur.
Ani D’vorah
who rejected the Trinity
and kowtowing before graven images
but who, ten years later
still longs for mistletoe and holly
glass globes that shine
on fresh pine boughs
and on soaring pagodas.
© D’ovrah Elias 1991
Parchment Number One 1992
4. Conversion
No longer Mary Magdelene
playing dress-up in a headscarf
I have been made
in the image of Ruth
Only our children’s eye
remind me of who
my people really are
My spirituality
dictated through guilt
gilds my Shabbat offerings
with resentment
Naomi, return me to my birthplace
I long to hear Korean thunder
smell freshly-washed Asian pines
walk barefoot to the well
my mothers knew.
© D’vorah Elias 1993
Ani 2010
5. Fireflies In A Jar
This summer I captured fireflies in a jar
for the first time
since I was eight years old.
Sitting on the deck with my very own
environmentally friendly night light
as heat lightening
crawled across Orion’s belt.
And it seemed to me
that only gods
and children
know how to befriend magic.
Somewhere a mountain erupts;
sparks arc above the caldera’s rill,
turn trees into ghoulish silhouettes,
then flutter back to earth.
Ashes seal secrets into pumice
and liquid fire eats it way
to the sea.
I press my firsts into my face,
sparks dance beneath my eyelids…
fireflies for the gods.
© D’vorah Elias 1993
Canadian Author
Summer 1993
6. Mistress of the Night
do not touch me
when I am sleeping.
Watching is permitted
but only if you’re quiet.
You may whisper your secrets,
the ones that bring me dreams.
Tell me,
why does the night pass so
quickly?
It used to be that you were a
fairy queen.
glowing, radiant
with a scepter full of
fairy tale dust.
These days you are more a
grandmother
becoming arthritic and
cantankerous in your old age;
a little inhibiting
with your advice;
still smiling
but sometimes
letting your fangs show.
© Lee Ann D’vorah Elias 1983
Pierian Spring Winter 1983
7. Rhapsody
I weave a melody
pleasant to hear
from a distance
From where you stand
there is always timpani thunder
rolling at you
until it crashed into you
like a fist
Our carefully timed crescendos
are out of sync
Rage creates dissonance with your complacency
strings fight brassy bitchiness for control
climax builds
trombones blurt
A stage full of noise
distracts the audience from the blood
dripping from broken batons
But somewhere
beneath the refrains and repeats
innocence’s counter melody echoes
pianissimo
I am waiting
for the final closing
of the door
when silence
shall finally envelop me
When only I shall know
the orchestrations
encoded in the unfinished symphony
I created.
© D’vorah Elias 2006
Ani 2010
For a short bio and our review: http://www.londonpoetryopenmic.com/upcoming-readings.html
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