Tuesday, February 15, 2022

written feb '12

 Hands

By Neil Fleischmann
We speak with our hands
beseech with our hands
reach out with out hands
receive with our hands
keep with our hands
When we sleep
impurity rests
on our hands
and in prayer
our hands
breach heaven

 

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I want to write a poem, but for now prose, or a prose poem, or what the late great poet Aaron Bulman dubbed a proem may have to do- or a rough draft, or a soft breeze.
This is not coming easily, thoughts are swirling about the world of poetry and how once you enter it you can't turn back- like a Harry Potter book that I'd never take on, and yet I not only took on the poetry book, I entered the poetry world, which like most people I never believed in. Until I did.
In this fantasy world adults respect Dr. Seuss, and G-d as great poets. In this world people are willing to work hard on getting Paradise Lost.
In this world grown men sit with their little boy selves at three AM write a poem side by side by themselves.
And the timing and the rhyming and the miming of the poem poem poem rings inside their soul like the ringing of a raven for ever and ever. And as the child and his son the man, sit criss cross apple sauce and wonder if a soul is a someone who loves you, and you loving someone.
Cliche's become unspeakable as time stands still, waits for no man, and heals all wounds.
And the poet ponders sleep without sleeping, and wonder if one can ponder life without living opr kindness without giving.
And sleep starts to feel less like a dream as he counts the Torah he's learned and the art he's made and the poems he's absorbed today.
And the poet wonders whether or not Eve got a raw deal, and whether the snake only spoke in her head.
And responsibilities feel threatened by imminent early morning dreams.
And the poet says good and the poet says night and the poet wonders why and when I started referring to myself in third person.
And I wonder if these words will touch someone. And I wonder if writing exists if it is not read. And I wonder if poems are ever finished.
And I wonder if it will seem like it's coming out of no-where when I say that at this moment, 3:37 AM- February 16, 2014, sitting on the floor outside the bathroom of room 455 in the Stamford Hilton, in the dim light, so I don't wake my Limmud NY roommate, I am feeling grateful to G-d for me and my life.

Sunday, February 6, 2022

I am grateful
for friends like
Billy and Emily
and for my dear
poetic soul mate
Zelda of Jerusalem.
I sit in the West and
my soul is in the East,
glowing with holy Zelda.


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