14th St Gold - Fall 2003: Writing by Retired Adults from the 14th St Y

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14 Street Gold

NY Writers Coalition Press

Jennifer Tate

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14 Street Gold Writing by Retired Adults from the 14th Street Y Fall 2003

NY Writers Coalition Press

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Copyright © 2003 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor: Deborah Clearman Layout: Aaron Zimmerman 14th Street Gold contains writing by the members of a creative writing workshop for retired adults conducted by NY Writers Coalition Inc. at the Sol Goldman YM-YWHA at 344 East 14th Street.

NY Writers Coalition Inc. is a not-for-profit organization that provides free creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society. For more information about NY Writers Coalition Inc.: NY Writers Coalition Inc. 78 Eighth Avenue, #2E Brooklyn, NY 11215 (718) 783-8088 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org The Educational Alliance, founded in 1889, is a communal institution dedicated to the strength and vigor of the Lower East Side, the Jewish community and all its neighbors. Through its programs and services, the Alliance serves all people regardless of religion, color or national origin—the old and the young, the sick and the poor, the disabled and the homeless—and provides support for the enhancement and continuity of the Jewish community. The Sol Goldman YMYWHA, a vital part of the Educational Alliance, provides Lower Manhattan with a Jewish Community Center that offers programs for the whole community.

The Sol Goldman YM-YWHA 344 East 14th Street New York, NY 10003 (212) 780-0800 www.edalliance.org

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Introduction Everyone whose words are contained in this book has a lot to say. They have lived long and hard.

They have experienced failure and success, joy and loss, and the tallying up of years; they’ve seen it all. They have stories. You can’t shut them up.

Their stories—reminiscences, observations, commentaries, critiques, affirmations—will startle you. These stories and poems address the past and the future with wit, humor, sarcasm, and incredible bravery.

This work comes from weekly writing workshops for retired adults held at the Sol Goldman YMYWHA on 14th Street in partnership with NY Writers Coalition, which offers free and low-cost creative writing workshops to groups whose voices are traditionally not heard in our society. Reading this book you will see how strong, vibrant, and important these voices are. In the workshops the participants have become aware of their talent and their power to express themselves. They’re a lively bunch, and they love the workshop. It’s a great privilege and pleasure to work with them every week, to write alongside them, and to share our work in a supportive environment.

Thanks go to Marilyn Nusbaum, coordinator of senior adult programs at the Y, to Camille Diamond, fitness/arts coordinator at the Y, to Anne Selcoe, first workshop leader of the group, and to 5

Aaron Zimmerman and Shaina Feinberg of NY Writers Coalition for their inspiration, direction, and tireless devotion to this project. Most of all thanks go to this wonderful group of writers who never cease to amaze me.

Deborah Clearman November, 2003

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RAIN MOVES OVER THE GARDEN Muriel Gray Rain moves over the garden as I watch from my terrace.

After living in this wonderful location for over thirty years, perhaps I should be blasĂŠ. Still the pleasures of seeing the magnolias bloom each spring and then the subsequent flowering of all the other plantings fill me with gratitude. Life is so full of responsibilities that all small pleasures begin to seem large and add up to a great beauty. I am astonished to arrive at this point and time and realize that stopping to smell the roses, as it were, has been one way to keep on fulfilling the expectations of those that rely on me.

An old joke—if you want to be happy for a year, get married; if you want to be happy for a lifetime, plant a garden. This particular garden was already here in 1969 when I moved to my present home. I have watched the trees grow larger along with my son and the other children from the building that he played with. My many hopes and dreams for him and his future have been realized, and so I look forward for the first time to the future as the years drift away.

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ANOTHER WORLD Ruth Jacobson What is it that makes New York so ominous?

Is it the smell of death that seems to be all around?

Or the leaves starting to die on the ground?

“Don’t go on that street! It is burning up with death!”

“Mother leaves children alone.”

They die in the flames of a cut electric wire.

I try to smell the clean after a rain.

However, that clean, sharp odor that reminds me of the sea is never around in New York.

On the lower east side, it is like Halloween.

There is terror in Halloween, Ghosts and goblins fly around your head.

It is the symphony of the dead.

I am afraid someone is stealing my soul.

I am afraid someone is stealing my shadow.

The billboards shout their messages of cruel torture.

“Man kills with a hand like a scissors.

Man kills with a knife.”

It is always frightening.

What happened to the jolly, red-cheeked boys and girls who used to stand for Campbell’s Soup?

Where have they gone?

Is there a special internet space for goodness?

Can you picture these bright-eyed children maiming someone?

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This is a world that worships mayhem.

A world where nudity is always an option.

A world where nothing is sacred.

Can we get along without gossip columns, without Baby Loch Ness monsters?

Where people appear in the night like green poison flowers.

Give me back sanity and love.

They seem to be large bushes…

Bushes that smolder in the night…

People who cry and never laugh or sing.

Can’t you bring back another world?

A WRITER’S QUESTION Lorraine Beyer Theordor Given the lemon pieces, everyone was off and running.

Frustratingly, I ask myself, why can’t I do the same, so quickly?

Why is it so difficult at times to reach for the gold?

I’m afraid of the answer Perhaps, I don’t know how to write.

To my surprise, sometimes, something special happens.

When I get it right…Pure joy.

Oh, by the way, lemon does lend a sparkle to everything.

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THE ROSE Betty Ann Schoenfeld Soft and velvety is a rose Until the last rose of summer.

June is the rose season; Sturdier roses linger past, yellowing at the edges.

Rose petals so soft Odd the stems are prickly with thorns.

Don’t touch, just look, smell.

Study the intricate form.

One soft petal, then another Nestled into a tuft of perfection.

The poet sings of roses and love.

Romance and passion are measured with a single rose or a dozen red ones.

Love, is it as beautiful or as perfect as a rose?

Or is a rose is a rose is a rose?

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EAST SIDE OF MANHATTAN Lorraine Beyer Theordor Sitting on an old schoolroom chair downtown, on First Avenue and 8th Street, having a roll and coffee, looking across the street up to the fourth floor, the top of the building, my old heart warmed because I saw some of yesterday. Hanging partly out of the window, trousers and worn shirt, perhaps put out to dry. My mind wandered back to a peaceful time, when our clothes dried with the sweet smell of sunshine.

Strangely enough, now while the whole world could be exploding, yesteryear is still here for some people. The sun shines on this side of the street with Kurowycky Meat Products downstairs.

UNTITLED Lorraine Beyer Theordor I can see the river moving and know the blackbird must be flying like my thoughts, I’m waiting for the blackbird to alight.

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MANHATTAN EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING Lorraine Beyer Theordor This is my home now, in a tall building so much like a hotel, so different from the way it was in Brooklyn.

Strangers coming and going, mostly young men and women dressed in blue, black or gray suits, some carrying briefcases. A quick nod and a quicker smile should you meet in the hallway. In the elevator everyone is standing army erect.

Their eyes staring through metal into space, then like men in uniform, they are dashing out and into the subway or taxi as though ready for combat.

DANGEROUS NEW NURSING HOME FAD: WHEELCHAIR CHICKEN Sherwood Jacobson Captain O’Hara of the 36th Precinct in Queens reported that the wheelchair patients at the “Live It Up After 79” Nursing Home will be given summonses for unsafe driving if they continue the 12

mayhem of “wheelchair chicken.” Occupants of the nursing home in their eighties and nineties have been gathering in the game room and have been upsetting mahjong and bridge games, as well as the famous world class “Live It Up After 79” Scrabble team. Mrs. Lena Sockum and Mrs. Superior Cauliflower, co-captains of the “Live It Up After 79” Wheelchair Chicken team, have announced that, “You ain’t seen nothing yet!”

Plans are in to mount World War II supplies—50 caliber machine guns on the wheel chairs and negotiations with Liberian rebels and North Korea for flamethrowers are reported by a reliable source. Animosity has existed between the “Live It Up After 79” Nursing Home, the Arnold Schwarzenegger Groupies Retirement Community and the St. Trinians Overseas Old Girls Squadron over the barbed-wire forest with land mines separating the yards, since one of the St. Trinian Retirement Community cats lost its tail when the “Live It Up After 79’ers” charged en masse into Linden Boulevard in an effort to take over the neighborhood.

Captain O’Hara is still deeply disturbed by the number of police trousers ripped by the riotous wheelchair operators who had tied carving knives to the periphery of their wheels. The Department of Health is going to make a comprehensive analysis of the lemonade served at these establishments. It is said that on one occasion, “when an anvil was dropped in the punchbowl, it dissolved in a puff of smoke with a smell of brimstone.” The Wicked Witch of the East has

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been seen in the block north.

WISH FULFILLMENT Raye Walker I don’t know why I consider twenty minutes too long a time to write in the workshop. When I’m writing at home, I don’t notice the time.

As far as nightmares are concerned, I can write a book. In fact, I have a whole folder filled with my dreams that I have typed up over a period of years.

I suppose I should look them over.

My surreal dreams occur during the twilight stage when I haven’t quite fallen asleep. My eyes are closed but images slowly file before me as if on a tape from those old reel-to-reel tape recorders.

What’s so fascinating now is the fact that I can enact certain fantasies or daydreams in real life that I would never have dared to before. Is it part of the aging process that gives me the freedom of wish fulfillment? Like just the other day—I ran across the street from the bus stop to buy a newspaper at the corner store, hoping to run back in time to catch the bus to the 14th Street Y. I happened to mess up a few papers in freeing my copy from the stack. There were a bunch of men hanging around, when one of them piped up, “Don’t you have any manners? Look what you did to all those papers.” I ignored him and busied 14

myself with getting the change out of my purse to pay for the paper.

This character kept ranting repeatedly, “What happened to manners these days? Can’t you see what you’ve done?” Quite an audience had collected by this time. Without saying a word, I made my way to the exit, turned and gave him the finger, to an outburst of laughter that followed me all the way across the street.

P.S. I made the bus with seconds to spare.

RECIPES Syd Lazarus A lousy cook—cuts out recipes from magazines and newspapers all her life and saves them promising herself that someday when there is more time she will try one and make something wonderful. She never does. Thank God for the microwave, delivery/take-out, and restaurants.

That is probably a microcosm for her life.

Procrastination. It’s easier to use the phone, push a button on the microwave. And restaurants are so great, especially since someone else is cooking, serving, and cleaning up.

Oh well, she just can’t throw those recipes out.

Maybe one of these days. Now that there is time.

Meanwhile, should it be Chinese or Thai tonight?

Those are the kind of decisions easy to make. Just as easy to save a few delivery menus as recipes and is it not wonderful to be able to blame the

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restaurant and not her cooking if the meal is not enjoyable.

DREAMS Syd Lazarus It is a small apartment in the city and the woman lives alone with two cats. They are her family.

She goes out—but the cats’ lives revolve around her and that apartment. As everyone knows, cats sleep a lot. Thus the word catnap. The woman often watches them sleep and wonders what they dream about. You can tell when they are dreaming—whiskers twitch and paws move as if they were running. She wonders if it is from something or toward something. She is sure they are dreaming of birds, which they have seen through the apartment window. Or maybe mice, which they have never seen. It is said that cats retain the memory of their ancestors in the wild, and they are hunting or stalking prey in jungles— lions and tigers and bears! Oh my. In ancient Egypt cats were worshipped as gods and royalty.

Maybe they dream of those times. That would explain the attitude most felines have. It is probably of something more simple: the plant they had munched on that day, or catnip which they have had once in a while. Cats on catnip are truly funny. They do get stoned.

Hey, maybe they dream of her. Do cats form that kind of attachment to their humans? She doesn’t think so. As for her, she seldom remembers her 16

dreams. Occasionally she does when she first awakens, but then the dream fades. The worst dreams were when she was wearing the patch to stop smoking. They were nightmares, and those she remembers.

MASSAGE GIVEN HERE Betty Ann Schoenfeld “Massage” is listed in every shop that offers beauty services. The Koreans do it one way, the Chinese another, the Russians still another, but the Swedish may have invented the pleasure.

There is a whole body massage, a hand massage— that usually goes with a manicure—and a foot massage which comes under the heading of reflexology. Whichever way, a massage is about the laying of hands on the body, to unknot the knots and kinks, to let the blood flow through its circuits, to relieve the twists that bodies get into when left to the mind’s meandering course.

“Massage” is being offered to the masses. It is as timely as “stress” is a word. That sums up a state of mind before massage.

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ICONOCLAST Raye Walker Like all who have a bone to pick, it’s me Who can’t abide the icons that I see On that eerie old screen So what am I to do?

Use a hatchet Or just fret and stew.

My stew is made from vegan stock, I don’t have to use a bone or two.

Hatchets are not in my utensil box.

I prefer my icons on the wall, They do what I say, not what I do.

A screen belongs in a movie theatre, that’s all.

Old movies on my TV screen’s a treat And my vegan stew tastes better when I eat.

I can even do a dance or two, and then Exercise my old bones for five or ten.

So I can abide the icons now and then.

I’ll hone my hatchet for another fling.

I’m ready to fling the hatchet now Not at the icons but at that TV show.

I can’t abide the sleazy creepy things They stew up garbage just to pay the fare Of bones that don’t even give a care.

So what am I to do.

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So what am I to do?

Buy a hatchet that will cost a few And get a bone to hack away or two While the screen images dance And I stew and prance Abide with me, please do.

Now icons I see where ere I go So what am I to do.

Am I to stew and fret My hatchet to vet On the screen in front of me yet?

I’ll put on a record and Dance around in my bones.

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PUNCH’S LOSS Harry M. Mahn “The child’s spoiled!” shouted Punch with a flourish.

“Soiled, you idiot!...Soiled, not spoiled!” screamed Judy.

“No, spoiled, spoiled, spoiled…spoiled rotten…like a decaying vegetable,” responded Punch.

“Just change the baby’s nappy, you idiot,” muttered Judy.

Tom loved watching his grandkids, Kerry and Samantha, along with all the other kids, rock with laughter at the antics of the puppets going through time-tested routines. Initially, he had felt his daughter had stretched herself too thin by continuing to work in city government. Her lawyer-husband was raking in more money than they could possibly need. Why continue killing herself?

Now, however, he began seeing the advantage to himself in this situation. His daughter’s need to have him take out the kids on occasional Sundays made it possible for him to enjoy some of his best moments with them. If only Joan were still alive.

It was forty-seven years ago—several lifetimes—that Tom, a then recent engineering graduate, took a bus on an autumn evening to a 20

nearby college. The psychology club was having a dance.

That was also the evening that Joan stopped by at the dance. Joan wasn’t a member of the psychology club, but her friend who was, suggested she drop by. She was standing in the shadows, gazing across a dimly lit dance floor, when Tom sighted her. He approached; she turned. They exchanged smiles. He introduced himself, offered some inconsequential remarks, and got her to believe, in a way he never fully understood, that he would be fun to date.

After going out with her for a number of weekends, he decided to take Joan for a drive up along the Palisades. He parked under a tree that screened out the stars. They hugged, and then went into the back seat. They were kissing and stroking and pressing hard, when suddenly she cried out in pain. “Damn you,” she muttered.

She insisted on being taken home.

He was driving back to her place. Despite the chill, he failed to notice that his window was down. “I’m really sorry,” he said.

She said nothing.

Suddenly he noticed his sleeve. “I think I lost a cufflink,” he said.

“Good. Serves you right,” she replied angrily.

They arrived at her house. “I’ll call tomorrow, Okay?” he asked. She went straight to her door and said nothing.

Only later, when he got home, turned on the light, and began getting ready for bed, did he 21

notice her blood on his shorts.

Tom called the next day, and was overjoyed to find she would still speak to him.

They resumed dating. After a movie, they’d go back to her place. Her parents’ house had an enclosed porch with a wicker sofa and some cushioned wicker chairs. They’d sit and talk.

And, then they’d kiss and fondle. There was never any pain—just a slight worry that someone would come down to check the muffled sounds from the porch.

One Thursday, as had become their routine, he phoned her. This time, however, he got Gloria, Joan’s older, married sister.

“She can’t speak to you. She’s got a bad cold,” said Gloria.

“When would it be okay to call?” asked Tom. “She’ll call you,” said Gloria coolly.

Tome waited a week—then called again.

“Hi, Joan?” said Tom. “Hi,” answered Joan.

“I hear you had a bad cold,” said Tom. “I had an abortion,” she replied flatly.

“Oh…….I’m so sorry,” Tom replied.

“Maybe, we should meet and talk.”

“Look, Tom, I’ve got finals coming up. I just don’t have the time.”

“Let’s meet at five tomorrow at the coffee shop. I won’t keep you more than fifteen minutes.

Okay?” asked Tom. “Okay. But just fifteen minutes,” she said.

Tom and Joan continued to see one another 22

in the city. They were in love and soon were married. This is what Joan had wanted—a marriage based on love, not one imposed by her and Tom’s youthful carelessness.

Throughout the years of their marriage, Tom always held down a reasonably good job.

They bought a house, had kids, and managed their lives reasonably well. Still, Tom failed to rise to anything more than a low-level managerial position. It helped that Joan taught school. It helped a lot. She worked throughout their entire marriage with time off, of course, to have their two girls. Hers was a difficult school, but she felt her work had value. The kids loved her. And, the money helped.

Tom and Joan only discussed her abortion once. It was in the early days of the marriage that Joan explained to Tom that her mother’s gynecologist had still been in practice. Her mother had called him to see if he could help. He agreed to do the abortion. But, because of the circumstances under which he had to do the procedure, he used only minimal anesthesia. It made the D and C especially painful. Joan told Tom she had managed her pain by thinking of how she had deserved it for having been such an idiot.

Tom had no idea how he should respond.

It occurred to Tom, on odd occasions, that he might be somewhat lacking in feelings. But, he never dwelled on it at length. He had long ago learned to wear whatever expression seemed appropriate. At funerals, he appeared genuinely sad; at weddings, happy. And, as long as he stayed alert, the right words never failed him.

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Throughout his marriage, the stunted state of his feelings presented no problems. Life was agreeable. He fathered and helped raise their two girls. The girls were now grown and had children of their own.

Joan’s death, however, drove Tom deep within himself. Was the aching he now felt, he wondered, a reflection of his true feelings, or was it simply the pain that comes when a part of one’s self is torn away? Had Joan, he wondered, ever asked herself whether she might not have done better with someone else? Might not her life have been easier? He’d recall the ride along the Palisades and wonder whether Joan had ever thought back to that evening. Did she ever think back to the psychology club dance? And, if so, were her thoughts filled with nostalgia, or with regret?

Tom badly needed someone to tell him to get over it—but there was no one there.

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THE CELEBRATING CAN CONTINUE Marcia Cash Tomorrow is June 19th—Father’s Day. In 1914 you were born on June 19th.

In 1946 we met on June 19th.

In 1953 we married on June 19th.

Thank you darling for hanging on two more days.

In 1985 your deathday was not June 19th.

The celebrating can continue.

THE BLIND DATE Marcia Cash In 1938 during a Christmas Party in our office Irene said, “You know, Marcia, I think I should call my brother’s friend, and arrange for the two of you to get together. I know the two of you would hit it off, because you are both nuts.”

She proceeded to give me his credentials: which schools he attended, his profession, age, etc.

I said, “Okay.”

She called him, but he was not home.

Partying was next on our agenda.

Irene got married. World War II started. I 2 5

went to California and returned in 1943. We continued to keep in touch. Then, in 1946 during one of our telephone conversations, she said, “Marcia, let’s try again to get you and Cy together.”

It was arranged that we meet at my sister’s home on June 19th. Irene arrived with her sister, her brother-in-law, and Cy. I don’t know why her brother was absent. Maybe he didn’t want any part of this. I was already there. One look at him, and I was impressed. He was so good looking.

But then, when he spoke, I didn’t dare look at my sister, because I was sure we would both start giggling. I could not understand one word he was saying. He spoke so rapidly that he may as well have been speaking in Chinese. It was a struggle for me to seem attentive.

When the time came to leave, all of us got into the car and drove along Kings Highway so that I could be dropped off first. While en route, he asked Irene if she would mind if I tried on her big-brimmed black straw hat, and she said okay.

He admired the way I looked in it, and gave her three dollars so that I could keep it, which was agreeable to her. (I have no idea whether that was a fair price in those days.) Just as we reached Flatbush Avenue, one of the tires went flat.

Everybody got out of the car. While brother-inlaw changed the tire, Cy and I walked up and down the block, talking. Once the car was ready to go, he told them that we would walk to my house. Off we went, he holding my hand, and me wearing my big-brimmed, black straw hat.

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Either his speaking slowed down, or I got used to it. He told me all about how he, with his family, had bought a house in the Fort Green section of Brooklyn. He was a real estate lawyer and broker. An office was needed, and this house had a store at ground level and living quarters above. Cy explained all the alterations he himself had done in it. I learned a lot about carpentry and plumbing that night. It was a conversation so different from any I had had with any other date.

No coming on to me, and no conventional chit chat.

He wrote down the necessary information my address, my home and office numbers - and kissed me goodnight. I hoped he would call the next day. But I waited, and waited. One week was such a long time.

If you want, come to my house and look in my guest closet to see the big-brimmed, black straw hat. * * * Sometime after Cy passed on, a very good friend asked if I would give him some of Cy’s clothes. Since it was Dwight who wanted them, and because he adored Cy, I mulled it over, and then agreed. He made three piles: for sure, maybe, and no. After putting everything into the appropriate bags, he took what he wanted. Later, I noticed an old scrap of paper on the floor. I picked it up and read the faded writing on it. I get chills when I remember. That paper had my name, address, home and work telephone numbers on it.

This was such a sentimental thing for him to have 27

done, and so out of character, I thought. Because whatever article of clothing he had put that paper into was long since gone. He must have been transferring it from jacket to jacket over the years.

He, too, kept something from that blind date. Was it done on purpose, so that he could show it to me at the propitious moment?

TWO TOTALLY UNRELATED LIMERICKS Ed Goldsmith One night in the month of October I sat most intense and sober.

I wrote down a bit.

Perhaps it had wit.

What’s a good rhyme for October?

The current leader of Gaul I would like to see take a fall.

He sides with Saddam.

He wishes us harm.

May his hide burn in hell, warts and all.

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MUSINGS Betty Ann Schoenfeld I’m thinking about magnolia blossoms, The big fat blossoms seen in June in Natchez, Mississippi.

Big enough to put your nose right into them.

They smelled delicious.

No way to describe that fragrance, Only magnificent.

It’s not so strange to learn that in China they fry the blossoms and eat them.

Musing on: an exhibition at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C., of Magnolia Paintings by Martin Heade, American artist.

He gave them another life; all sexy and white in oils posed like odalisques, Framed, their detail and whiteness is set forever, Defying season, never to wilt And become a memory.

Winter is coming; the flowers will remain in paintings.

Snowy landscapes will escape their frames and melt right under our feet.

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BLACKBIRDS Muriel Gray The poetic images that arise from the Wallace Stevens poem, “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” are truly exquisite. Many wonderful visual thoughts fly around my inner eye, just like his blackbirds do on paper. Their flights of fancy are everywhere. They remind me of my days as a children’s clothing designer. My everyday work allowed me that mental freedom. This exploration keeps artists of all descriptions moving forward.

Wallace Stevens wanted to convey to us all that is beautiful about blackbirds. In doing so, he moves the reader with utter astonishment at his versatility.

As a poet, he is an artist drawing with the pen, as I did with the colors and forms I worked with for many years. We simply use different media.

Creative work is difficult and stressful, but the outcome often is sweet and leads the artist to envision his next ideas. We see this as the poet paints out his words with pictures of blackbirds in the mountains, in the snow, in the air, in the shadows. Twirling and swirling, they flit about us, almost real even though on paper. Truly evocative, they allow us to leave our outward existence for other realms.

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EXERCISE Ed Goldsmith As an exercise, a certain poem was handed out to the group members, and we were each invited to react to it. I will not mention the poet or the title, but will allude to it vaguely. Why the indirect touch? Why give publicity to some stranger who was foisted upon me in a creative writing group exercise!? And what did this guy ever do for me? Anyway, in this poem there were enumerated thirteen ways of reacting to a certain type of bird. Why write such a thing? Don’t ask me. It wasn’t my fault. It was not me who gave birth to the piece. On later reflection, I did a bit of research, using the tools on my own bookshelf, specifically Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. I found that the poet occupied over three full pages in that book, which is impressive to my mind, as it means that even if I, myself, hold most poets in contempt, the poetry reading public, and I still don’t know how extensive a group that is, numberwise, consider this guy’s stuff worthy.

Thirteen, however, is a peculiar number that gets a lot of attention. In an office building where I rented space at one time in my life, the floor was labeled “14,” but it was really the 13th floor. Superstition!

As for the cursory reading I did on the poem, it was apparent that the poet thought it was worth writing about these birds. He is fortunate in 31

that he did not need my support and approval.

Actually, from my research, I discovered that the piece was written in 1923, before my birth.

Furthermore, the poet died in 1955. There was a suggestion in the group leader’s introduction that, perhaps, we might react to something about the writing of poetry, which is perfectly legitimate.

Perhaps in the future I might consider it! I sympathize because in the past I was very moved by certain poems of Robert Browning. The difference is this: Browning wrote with passion about hatred, murder—the darker side of man.

That resonates for me.

The assigned poem, however, is simply concerned with blackbirds! It doesn’t ring my bell. However, I do recall a cartoon by Don Martin, my favorite cartoonist, a guy who used to draw for Mad Magazine: In this particular sequence of illustrations there’s a guy feeding pigeons off a park bench. I even recall the caption: “Feeding Pigeons in the Park.” So he’s feeding these pigeons, and tons of pigeons keep arriving at his bench, from where he continuously tosses them popcorn. Some nosybody asks him why he does that. He answers, “Because I hate pigeons!” whereupon in the last picture all the birds drop dead, and he turns the box of popcorn around, whereupon we can read, “Arsenic” on the box label. Now I remember that well, probably because I, too, hate the garbage eating, typhoidspreading birds, who live off human refuse. I’ve even been shat on from pigeons on overhead branches in Washington Square Park. Maybe I 32

should write a poem about killing off the pigeons!

A short poem, not one of mine, for I have none, does come to memory. It goes something like this: Dirty birdy in the sky, Why’d you just shit in my eye?

I thank God that cows don’t fly!

Oh yeah, I attended a memorial of a psychoanalyst I used to work with. At the proceedings his adoring daughter waved around an obscure West Coast poetry magazine, one that I had never heard of, as is true of most poetry magazines. She proudly informed us that her father, the shrink, had an interesting, somewhat more private avocation, a hitherto unknown dimension to the public at large, which she would now reveal. A drum roll to build up the suspense at this point might have been appropriate, but there was none on that more solemn occasion. And anyway a drum roll would have transformed the proceedings into a damned circus! Anyway, his secret life was, voilá, cymbal crash,…that of a poet, and she said that his work had been accepted in, and published by, that magazine. Simply put, she, the dutiful daughter, was impressed by her own father. Since I had spent years working with him, I had to track down the stuff and read what he had been so obsessed by. I sent away for the relevant back issues of the magazine, and remember considering his stuff most unimpressive.

Now I can’t even remember what it was that he had written about! Nevertheless, I’m glad I did the research, for at one time, many years prior, I had 33

considered him to be quite an important person in my life, not due to his own merits, for the man lived in the shadows, but due to the fact that his name was originally given to me by the famous, high profile psychoanalyst, Theodor Reik.

NIGHTMARE Deborah Clearman Maxine goes into the building. The empty lobby has an industrial look, but somehow she knows that it’s a hotel, a big one. She finds the elevator—an open platform in a shaft. She has to pull the ropes herself to make the thing go up to the third floor. She goes into the room, but it’s empty too. The family isn’t there, just their suitcases lying around, and a laptop on the coffee table. She opens up “My Documents.” Weird.

Her novel is listed in the files.

She goes to the end of Chapter Six. It’s just as she left it. She inserts a page break and types “Chapter Seven.” Then she stares at the blank page. Nothing. She knew it. She’ll never get past Chapter Six. The door opens and the family walks in.

She knows them from the neighborhood. They’re surprised to see her in their room. “I was passing by, thought I’d stop in,” she explains.

The kid comes up behind her and looks 34

over her shoulder. What’s his name? She can’t remember. Pale hair, pale blue eyes, a nasty kid.

“What are you doing to my computer?” he asks.

“Working on my novel,” she says. “Gosh!

Look how late it is. I have to get home and cook dinner. Sophie’s probably waiting for me.”

She tries to get out of there, but the kid blocks the door and fixes her with those strange eyes. “Write deep,” he says.

“Okay. Gotta go.” She shoves her way past. The whole family is yelling after her.

“Write deep! Write deep!” they scream.

The elevator isn’t there and she runs down a precarious ramp around the outside of the shaft, makes it out the service exit.

Shit! It’s dark already. How did it get so late? Sophie is coming toward her from across the parking lot. The sight of her daughter makes her feel guilty.

Maxine looks up above the bare tree branches and sees clouds in the night sky, lit from below by the city’s lights. The clouds are grey and boiling. Wings are flapping. Hanging from the bottom of the clouds, thick as bats in a cave, are thousands of birds of prey. Big birds; she can’t tell whether they are hawks or owls. They have black and brown striped wings. They are crowded together on the bottoms of the clouds, hanging by their talons.

“Where have you been, Mom? I’m hungry. How about dinner? And I have homework to do.” Sophie doesn’t notice the birds.

She doesn’t see them dropping down from the 35

clouds.

METER MADNESS Raye Walker ‘Tis the night before class And I feel so obtuse Not a meter is stirring Asleep is the muse.

Come Spondee, come Trochee Come Dactyl, I cry.

Not even Iambic deigns to reply.

I throw up my hands, I’m ready to flee; Then out of the blue, I hear “How about me!”

“Oh my savior, redeemer, Preserver,” I sputter.

“Here am I, use me,” Anapest utters.

I spring to the keyboard In fiendish glee, And pound out these lines In Pyrrhic victory.

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POSTCARDS: HOAGIES & COWBOYS Anne Selcoe Why do the images smother, not—too vague. Too vague like rushed good-byes and empty hellos.

Clouds over bent head Peppers billow over toasted roll Alone on the prairie. Beans. Sand and rocks the color of winter chrysanthemums. To sit in silence, grays muting to silence.

A lone cowboy at the firehouse Hoses twined like licorice whips. A lasso.

They’re always men, the stoic ones, wife-less, child-less, befriending horses and spotted dogs.

In this world, there are no women.

In this world of shared language, known whistles, head tiltings, a clicking in the throat take on meanings between the knowing. Only those.

In this world, the women are all soft, bake fresh chocolate chip cookies and blueberry pies to serve hot @ the end of spaghetti suppers.

Make the bed. Scrub the pots.

The women in this world are silent, the carriers, the ones to take on the unspoken fears, the doubts, the ones to project onto all feeling outside the safe distant grays or harsh urgent reds…

Silence.

The whisperings. Lost in the dust of an empty 37

endless plain, trapped in the plastic solitude of a heart boxed in by pride.

I USED TO BE BUT NOW I’M… Anne Selcoe I used to be so many things, so many girls, so many previous women.

I used to be red-headed but now I’m gray.

I used to be— I used to be a sky diving tequila drinker Now I hate all the tail lights on Sunrise Highway Now I hate to commute Now I hate to think too deeply or too long, avoid the news, can watch The Weather Channel for hours at a time Now I’m a suburban housewife Bland words, bland life but I’m happy so can that really be enough though I still dream of my 1965 cherry red mustang gleaming in the San Diego sun I used to be with a sailor, tall, lean muscled, dark haired, eyed & souled I used to wear tan open-toed sandals Now I make sure I’m in sneakers on summer days in the City in case I have to walk thru ash again 38

I used to dream of having children, of mended relationships, used to dream of ways of life just outside my grasp and the reaching was strawberry good, sweet tasting yearning.

I used to dream but now I prepare, Keep tally of how much Kleenex gets used, cat food bought, flower petals dropped….

I used to be willing to walk hard roads, now I look for soft landings, safe keeping, safe sticking to the back of the closet… ..at the back of the closet, the Raggedy Ann doll with one leg how did she lose it, bigger than I was as a child, her flame-red hair and constant smile painted for safety, crushed red pepper smile, hot, sassy as Revlon lipstick, lollipop smile, smile through anything, smile as if you mean it and maybe you will…

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Sol Goldman Y creative writing workshop participants (from left to right): Deborah Clearman (workshop leader), Ruth Jacobson, Sherwood Jacobson, Lorraine Theordor, Harry Mahn, Betty Ann Shoenfeld

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Sol Goldman Y creative writing workshop participants (from left to right): Deborah Clearman, Ed Goldsmith, Muriel Gray, Harry Mahn, Raye Walker, Syd Lazarus

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$5.00

Marcia Cash Deborah Clearman Ed Goldsmith Muriel Gray Syd Lazarus Harry M. Mahn Ruth Jacobson Sherwood Jacobson Betty Ann Schoenfeld Anne Selcoe Lorraine Beyer Theordor Raye Walker

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