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First, Beulah has no idea where the damn grape is. She just got her manicure and frankly could care less. She does find the cocky Cockney cute. But, so does that glittery Lil and well--- It’s Lil’s Big Show. Lil has blood on her hands, and rubs in the almond scented lotion, while she waits for that peeled grape. Beulah pours a large portion of gin and recalls the Minstrel shows, Bessie Smith, chicken dinners in a picnic basket, and a guy named Roy. He was no prince, but a king of the bedroom rambles. Elsewhere, boots are beating the ground, leaving bloodied feet and untended harvests as glass breaks across the faces of Polish Jews and the Spanish Republicans fight black clad insurgents. More boots, pretty, shiny, well-made boots. “until the war” says Tom in The Glass Menagerie. When America  sits  in a “dark room” and watches “until the war”.  Death’s stench rolls across the Atlantic, a powerful fog.  Meanwhile, The dapper heroes roam landscapes as fake as their stage names and the heroines roll up their stockings or sweat the chorus line But not Miss Lil and the disobedient Beulah, both swaying large hips and rolling brown eyes, generously Awaiting a man’s tongue sucking For Gertrude Howard (1892-1934)

for Leela Samson Spaces in the electric air divide themselves in circular rhythms, as the slender grace of your arms and bell-tied ankles describe a geometric topography, real, cosmic, one that once reverberated continually in a prescribed courtyard of an ancient temple in South India. As your eyelids flit and flirt, and match the subtle abhinaya in a flutter of eye-lashes, the pupils create an unusual focus, a sight only ciliary muscles blessed and cloaked in celestial kaajal could possibly enact. The raw brightness of kanjeevaram silk, of your breath, and the nobility of antique silver adorns you and your dance, reminding us of the treasure chest that is only half-exposed, disclosed just enough, barely — for art in its purest form never reveals all. Even after the arc-lights have long faded, the audience, now invisible, have stayed over. Here, I can still see your pirouettes, frozen as time-lapse exposures, feel the murmuring shadow of an accompanist’s intricate raag in this theatre of darkness, a darkness where oblique memories of my quiet Kalakshetra days filter, matching your very own of another time, where darkness itself is sleeping light, light that merges, reshapes, and ignites, dancing delicately in the half-light. But it is this sacred darkness that endures, melting light with desire, desire that simmers and sparks the radiance of your quiet femininity, as the female dancer now illuminates everything visible: clear, poetic, passionate, and ice-pure.

Mankind, Surrender a fancied dream of birth. Accept science of recent years. To date, Africa marks first form of man; here in dust most recent proof lies. History here emerges bone by bone. Dig—dig—dig. May Africa reward the search if only through eroded bones. Fit them together; date them. Shape the skeleton of earliest man. This is history. Sing another song in vain. In vain contrive a different tune. Dust will prevail. It always does.

My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.

Light bulbs on a birthday cake. What a difference that would make! Plug it in and make a wish, then relax and flip a switch! No more smoke or waxy mess to bother any birthday guests. But Grampa says, “it’s not the same! Where’s the magic? Where’s the flame? To get your wish without a doubt, You need to blow some candles out!”

despite the cost a new gaol has been built it seems the incarceration rates are trebling I only came here in the role of a Deaths In Custody inspector all the cells are stark and spotless blank screens watch from the corner the offices have the highest technology the faces of the staff still look the same when I walk down this wing and peer into this filthy room the door closes behind me the feeling in my heart is changing from a proud strength of duty to fear all the stories I have ever heard stand silent in the space beside me — a coil of rope is being pushed under the door of this cell

Stairs: a rushed flight down thirty-eight; French doors unlocked always. Always: a lie; an argument. Argument: two buck hunters circle a meadow’s edge. Edge: one of us outside bleeding. Bleeding: shards of glass; doors locked. Locked: carpet awash with blood. Blood: lift and drop; a sudden breeze. Breeze: its whistle through bone. Bone: the other was looking at — Bone: cradled to catch drips. Drips: quiet as a meadow fawn. Fawn: faces down each hunter each gun. Gun: again. Again: somebody call someone. Someone: almost always prefers forgetting. Forgetting: an argument; a lie. Lie: a meadow; a casement; a stair.

I kept a letter from my hometown in Lithuania, from one who still holds a dominion somewhere with her youthful charm. In it she placed her sorrow and her affection: A blade of grass from Ponar. This blade of grass with a flickering puff of dying cloud ignited, letter by letter, the faces of the letters. And over letter-faces in murmuring smolder: The blade of grass from Ponar. This blade of grass is now my world, my miniature home, where children play the fiddle in a line on fire. They play the fiddle and legendary is their conductor: The blade of grass from Ponar. I will not separate from my hometown’s blade of grass. My good, longed-for earth will make room for both. And then I will bring a gift to the Lord: The blade of grass from Ponar. Translated from the Yiddish

In my youth I was told that in a certain city every one lived according to the Scriptures. And I said, “I will seek that city and the blessedness thereof.” And it was far.  And I made great provision for my journey.  And after forty days I beheld the city and on the forty-first day I entered into it. And lo! the whole company of the inhabitants had each but a single eye and but one hand.  And I was astonished and said to myself, “Shall they of this so holy city have but one eye and one hand?” Then I saw that they too were astonished, for they were marveling greatly at my two hands and my two eyes.  And as they were speaking together I inquired of them saying, “Is this indeed the Blessed City, where each man lives according to the Scriptures?”  And they said, “Yes, this is that city.” “And what,” said I, “hath befallen you, and where are your right eyes and your right hands?” And all the people were moved.  And they said, “Come thou and see.” And they took me to the temple in the midst of the city.  And in the temple I saw a heap of hands and eyes.  All withered.  Then said I, “Alas! what conqueror hath committed this cruelty upon you?” And there went a murmur amongst them.  And one of their elders stood forth and said, “This doing is of ourselves.  God hath made us conquerors over the evil that was in us.” And he led me to a high altar, and all the people followed.  And he showed me above the altar an inscription graven, and I read: “If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee; for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that the whole body should be cast into hell.  And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee; for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.” Then I understood.  And I turned about to all the people and cried, “Hath no man or woman among you two eyes or two hands?” And they answered me saying, “No, not one.  There is none whole save such as are yet too young to read the Scripture and to understand its commandment.” And when we had come out of the temple, I straightway left that Blessed City; for I was not too young, and I could read the scripture.

Today when persimmons ripen Today when fox-kits come out of their den into snow Today when the spotted egg releases its wren song Today when the maple sets down its red leaves Today when windows keep their promise to open Today when fire keeps its promise to warm Today when someone you love has died or someone you never met has died Today when someone you love has been born or someone you will not meet has been born Today when rain leaps to the waiting of roots in their dryness Today when starlight bends to the roofs of the hungry and tired Today when someone sits long inside his last sorrow Today when someone steps into the heat of her first embrace Today, let this light bless you With these friends let it bless you With snow-scent and lavender bless you Let the vow of this day keep itself wildly and wholly Spoken and silent, surprise you inside your ears Sleeping and waking, unfold itself inside your eyes Let its fierceness and tenderness hold you Let its vastness be undisguised in all your days