The Moving Pen
Writing from the Creative Center 1
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The Moving Pen Writing from the Creative Center Summer 2009
NY Writers Coalition Press
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Copyright Š 2009 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor/Layout: Deborah Clearman Cover Art: Frances Buschke The Moving Pen contains writing by the members of creative writing workshops for women conducted by NY Writers Coalition Inc. at The Creative Center. 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. 80 Hanson Place #603 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org The Creative Center: Arts in Healthcare is a community of patients and survivors, artists, trustees, donors, and friends who are dedicated to bringing creative arts to people living with cancer and other chronic illnesses. Through offering free-of-charge workshops at workshop space and through a bedside art program in hospitals and hospices throughout the New York area, The Creative Center brings the world of art to more than 15,000 participants each year. The Creative Center: Arts in Healthcare 273 Bowery (corner of Bowery & Houston) New York, NY 10009 (646) 465-5313 www.thecreativecenter.org rglazer@thecreativecenter.org
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The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. Omar Khayyam
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INTRODUCTION On any given day the difference between living to write and writing to live is quite obvious. Yet, when amongst the groups of women we have collectively come to call The Moving Pen Workshops at The Creative Center, that difference becomes less discernable and soon, immersed in their prose the soul of the person and the soul of the writing are one. In our Monday meetings, stories and thoughts spill from their minds and out onto their papers in surprising, uncensored cascades. We listen to their words and hear jazz, swaying light and bright smiles, loves lost and found, the complications, memories and histories of lives well lived. Hearing their unbound words makes this much clear: this act of putting pen to paper is somehow what we are all here to do. Listening to these women share their own words tells us of the freedom they have gained by writing in an environment that does not whisper or cast glances, a community that listens and sees who they are without judgment, a community that honors the vast creativity in all of us. They often speak of this liberation as if the pen is filled with the ink of their life and through this art of writing they live. They do live. Fully, expressively, vigorously, they live. And write. Clarissa Cummings and Beth Friedland Workshop Leaders June, 2009
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Nancy Beck’s Teapot by Frances Buschke
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THE COAT IN THE CLOSET NANCY BECK The place I picked out is in a very sturdy building, not too tall, about 18 stories, with wide stairwells. I took one of the three apartments on the fifth floor. When the electricity goes out it’s not too high to climb and the wide stairwells means it’s easy to set out candles on the landings and light the way. Tomorrow I will do all sorts of things, but tonight, my first night here, I’m just going from room to room, to sit in each for a while. Feel it all out. Right now I’m sitting on the floor in front of the entryway closet. The closet door is open and I am staring at the only item of clothing to be found in the whole apartment—a man’s khaki trench coat, size 42 long. I stare at it and try to imagine how it came to be here. Had the owner deliberately left it there, intending to come back for it? Come back to this very splendidly appointed set of rooms, perhaps to live here? And what would he say when he finds me here? Or did he leave it here, intending to pick it up on his way out of the city, on the exodus with the others, to a safer, better place to live. In other times, this would be an ideal place for anyone to live. Beautifully decorated, with thick lush 8
carpeting in the living room, dining room and bedrooms. Polished tile in the kitchen and bathrooms, gleaming stainless steel appliances. There are linens here—fluffy towels, crisp sheets, soft blankets for the beds. Lovely furniture throughout. But it doesn’t look like anyone has ever lived here. That’s why I took it for my own. I don’t want any ghosts around me. That trench coat in the closet is bothersome. It, like everything else in the apartment, seems fresh and new. But unlike everything else in the apartment, it is clearly tied to a person. There are no toiletries in the bathroom. Not even toothpaste. This place has never been lived in. So why is that trench coat hanging around waiting for its owner to come back? I like living alone. I like being the only resident in the entire building. I like that there’s probably fewer than seven thousand people still living in Manhattan. It took me a long time to get used to it, and now I like it. I found the perfect place to live and now this trench coat shows up. Why didn’t I notice it before? I want to take that coat and throw it out the window, let it land in an alley somewhere and be a home for the rats. But I won’t do that. I’ll leave it right where it is, and let it stay all alone in the closet. In case someone comes looking for it. 9
AT THE FUNERAL HOME GLORIA BLETTER My aunt, how cold her cheek from death, from coolhouse, her hair, still abundant whiteness. No repeated questions now— how old am I? do I have to stay here? No agreeing, again, that she would stay. No more prompting her to re-tell her own stories, like when her older brother (my father), took her skating and dining, spending the day on one dollar only! No more showing me her socks, soft and fuzzy, a snug fit on swollen feet and legs, the only round part of her concave body; 10
both of us on intimate terms with socks worn in bed. Some months before she died, my aunt asked me to lie down next to her on the nursing home bed, reminding me of my own story: my mother's owning our Friday night's cleansing, having me, still a child, on her bed, wrapped in terry-cloth at her back, both of us prone, steaming and wrinkled after a long hot bath together— a short-lived hearth. That warmth I had sought, at my aunt's nursing home bed Now drifts upwards.
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DADDY’S FEET FRANCES BUSCHKE I am now shrinking to when I was 10 or so, pretending I am six. Mom and Daddy are away somewhere, so I am on edge. Esther is my sister and she is taking care of me, of James and me. And where is my brother Herman, whom I adore? Oma is sick and Esther won’t let me into the bedroom, my bedroom, which I share with Oma, have for 5 or 6 years, have for a long time. It is scary, black and yellow colors swirl around me in the big old house. Esther acts calm and responsible, but really she is hysterical. Oma has never been sick. She is in pain, Esther says, and can’t get out of bed. I am not allowed in the room, but I peek when I can, and it is like something from another world. All gray. Oma a hump, a lump, on the bed, the windows are silent. Daddy comes home. Oma is somewhere else now. I think they tell me she is in the hospital, Krankenhaus, where Daddy works. So that is good. Daddy will take good care of her—she is his mother, brought from Germany, all in black. We call her a 4-foot butterball behind her back. At night she takes her teeth out and they stare at me in their glass of water. She lights a candle for 12
my dead grandfather, who looks ferocious to me in his pictures, all stiff and stern, with his bushy black mustache dripping down to his chin. The candle flame flickers and keeps me awake. She reads, her Aufbau, the German-Jewish newspaper we make fun of too. But not to her face. Her light keeps me awake and I complain. Daddy comes home and he is strange, removed. In a hoarse voice he says we must all go to the hospital tonight. Oma told him she would die tonight, on the anniversary of her husband’s death in Tieresenstadt, a concentration camp they were in. Daddy’s feet, after a long long time, I can hear them come walking down an empty silent hall, all yellow, a strange brown yellow, and I know something is different. They sound different. He looms up out of the shadows and yellow and he goes to my mother and kisses her on the cheek. “It’s over.”
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THE GRAVE OF A WAR VETERAN BETTE CLARK The tombstone of Señor Maldonado Valdez did not tell the truth. Yes, the dates were correct and the statement, loosely translated, "Herein lies a brave and honorable soul who battled dragons to save the Saints" was not altogether a lie. It was the name that hid the life that lay beneath. If only those who came to stare could instead have watched the transformation from despised Jew fishmonger to beloved Christian farmer who grew sun-blessed crops, from mother of Shmuel and Jakov, to father of Pedro and José, from baker of eight-plaited Challah to sword-yielding slayer of pig-eaters. It all began the night Pedro returned home with his hair chopped short, clothes shredded, left eye shuttered with dried blood. "Oh mamma," he whispered when she greeted him at the door. "They say you are a pagan and that you eat little children and I should be a man and kill you." This was the beginning of her journey to become Señor Maldonado Valdez, dragon-slayer. She chopped her hair and blackened it with coal, and fashioned her skirts into trousers. Then she told her sons to announce that their mother had died and her brother had come from Sevilla to raise his young nephews. 14
THE WISDOM OF ILLNESS BETTE CLARK Illness lived underground most of the time like a mole. He was tended to by a very old and wizened gardener who felt sorry for him because sunlight never reached his home, but also a bit envious because Illness had more opportunities than he did to find the truffles that infused his nether world. Every morning the gardener dug up new soft earth so that he could descend into the tunnel Illness carefully carved out and refilled each evening. As much as Illness preferred solitude to companionship, he had come to look forward to the visits from the gardener, who thankfully did not expect much in the way of interaction but seemed content just to deliver the supplies Illness requested of him on a weekly basis. These were outlined on a yellow pad in bold black ink and the lists included items such as: a large thimble, maple sugar, a rubber band, and two handkerchiefs. The gardener could never quite know what these were to be used for because they disappeared into an even deeper earthen tunnel that he dared not enter. But one day Illness asked for three unusual things: a brown serge suit, leather shoes, and a wristwatch. Since the gardener knew him to be as naked as the worms that were his daily fare, he became very curious. On greeting him the next morning, speaking very gently, 15
not wanting to alarm or offend him, he asked: "Illness, I will be glad to get these three items for you, but would you mind very much telling me what you will do with a brown suit?" Illness, sitting in a large clump of earth, slowly brushed some patches of dirt from his mouth and spoke, his voice very soft and a bit raspy, as if it had not been used in a very long time. "It's time," said Illness, "to get some wisdom, and for that, I must go above for a short while."
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THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED, WE SAY TOGETHER ANN CRAIG After the initial diagnosis, we prepared for the experience ahead as if called to our own executions. Very possibly the end of our lives awaited us. And if not that, then certainly the end of our lives as we’d known them. What everyone fears had singled us out, and we grimly awaited our assignments. The blade of the guillotine was poised above us, and we walked up the steps to learn our fates. Separately, we followed the instructions we were given and endured the methods used to test and treat us. Gradually, we realized that our time hadn’t actually come yet, that we still had our core selves after all, and that we would have to integrate the experience into the overall narrative of our lives. To our surprise, there were still real pleasures to be had, still issues to resolve, still amazing things to explore. We began to live anew, each of our new lives cradled in the arms of the old. And part of our new lives was a writing class, which we joined separately, none of us knowing what to expect. And so we began our weekly writing sessions. For some, it was a wholly new endeavor; for others, the 17
continuation of a lifetime’s steady practice. For one, it was a chance to reawaken old skills; for another, a place to experiment with brand-new forms. The same week our writing could range from goofy humor to breathtaking revelation. The same prompt could inspire one writer to look at a haunting past experience and another to explore an urgent current crisis. For each of us, it was a door opening into unexpected possibilities within ourselves. And that door was opened for us by another writer who, week after week, sparked our imaginations and then led our discussions with a keen ear and a generous heart. Though she wrote alongside us each week, she often didn’t read her pieces aloud, preferring to encourage us instead. She was like sunshine, and we grew quickly in the space she lit. At the same time, we came to know and trust each other. It happened as if by accident, through work that spoke in different modes and voices, in everything from scenes, memories, and fantasies, to poetry, dialogue, and musings. Whether we wrote fact or fiction didn’t matter. All that counted was each writer’s joy in shaping words and being truly heard. As we wrote, shared, and listened, we came alive all over again—not just as survivors, but as singers of our own music. And the pleasures we found in using those voices came not only from what we found 18
within ourselves. It came from what we found in each other—appreciation, encouragement, and above all, recognition. What we were doing, bit by bit, was sharing our autobiographies, our inner selves. And what we got in exchange was validation, both immediate and profound. Forget what brought us here. We’re burning bright as winter bonfires, and we’ve done it—separately and together—with a part of ourselves that not only survived, but thrived. “This is what happened,” we can say together. “This—this!—is what we did.”
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LAST WORDS CLARISSA CUMMINGS I. Your bite of teeth, sharper than the pick we use to break your hard skin when Patsy says she’s had enough of slipping and sliding. Your smell. Crisp and clean like a freshly unwrapped bar of castile soap. Before you arrive, bold and bullish and only after the trees have shook themselves naked, Patsy feels you in her knotted knees, points to the frigid blue sky and says, “It’s gonna be a long one.” II. Looking in the mirror she purses her lips and gives herself bedroom eyes. She purrs, “Call me Aliza, with a z,” then tosses the red wig and patent leather pumps into her purse, blows her sleeping husband a kiss before softly closing the door behind her.
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CONFESSION LAUREN DOHR She hopes no one saw her. She prays no one saw her do it. But she thinks someone did. She thinks that the wife of the new couple across the hall may have seen her. She is kind of sure that the wife saw her. But she doesn’t know if she should say something. She thinks that if the wife did see her, then she should say something. She should at least bring it up. But then the wife would know even if she hadn’t seen her. She wonders if the wife would say something if she didn’t bring it up. She doesn’t think the wife would say something. But what if the wife did say something? She hopes the wife wouldn’t say anything to the husband. She doesn’t know the husband well. But what if the wife did say something to the husband? She doesn’t know how the husband would take it. She wonders if the husband would say something to her. 21
But then she would know that the wife knew and that the wife said something. She doesn’t want the wife to say anything. She doesn’t want the husband to know anything at all. But maybe the wife and the husband are talking about it right now.
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TODAY I WILL LAUREN DOHR Today I will pack up your old letters. Every time I tried to read a bundle of them, I couldn’t get past the first few paragraphs of its first letter. I’d get confused about when they were sent or what came first and I’d look for some clue, maybe in the one on blue stationery—was it airmail?—when you were traveling alone in Portugal. Or was it the one on heavy cotton stock written with that luscious pen that got left on the train to Montreal when we woke up and jumped off with just our weekender bags? The pen—was that from the trip to Paris when we stayed at your cousin’s place just above the bakery and we were awakened by the smell of the first loaves? Because didn’t we get the pen in Florence and wasn’t the Florence trip after Paris and wasn’t it where you were too taken by that girl at the party? And then there were all of her letters to you. And your letters to me trying to explain why you couldn’t return to the States just yet. Those letters. And then the notes you left me everyday 23
when you got back, trying to explain. I barely read those first few but I put each unread one in chronological order in the bamboo box. You wrote one everyday til you just gave up, but I missed them. I missed that you wanted to tell me so much. I looked forward to seeing them and looked forward to you starting to write them again. And then that last letter, I’ve still never been able to read all the way through that one. I got what you were saying in the first paragraph. I didn’t need to read further, I don’t know why you wasted that archival rice paper. Today I will burn your letters.
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BALANCE ZOE EIFFEL No, perhaps balance is not always best. Perhaps it is entirely important to find oneself out of balance to regain or gain anew that precious sense of stability even if it's in mid-air that ineffable almost mysterious perfection we recognize as balance.
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OF THE FOUR ELEMENTS ZOE EIFFEL I choose water—that most luscious environment. I have always wished I were a fish. The buoyancy, the ease of movement, the absence of that tugging gravity pulling me down and back. And then, too, the brilliant shapes and colors, a la Matisse. Water for me is complete satisfaction. It tastes great. It feels good. It provides nourishment. It gives comfort, support and therapy, when necessary. I can relax in it without effort or end. I breathe the water. It fills me with life. It is where I have come from and it is a comfort to have a sentient home on this confused planet.
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Q-TRAIN MORNING BETH FRIEDLAND People wearing mean, keep-your-distance masks on their faces reflect my expression back to me. New York City malcontents riding the Q-train to our daily responsibilities. The announcement informs us, “This train will be making local stops.� An extra tall woman sucks her teeth in disappointment; her shoulders curve inward, making it seem as if she is folding in half. Several pole holders switch hands to indicate the inconvenience of this unanticipated delay. A man wearing sunglasses is staring at me; his eyes burn holes into the side of my neck. He dons dark shades even though it is raining today, even though we are deep underground. The people look saddened by the burden of the subway, the rain, New York City and the routines of their lives. When the doors open a small cellophane candy wrapper attempts an escape but gets trapped under the heel of a green sneaker. The air is seething as if a fight is about to break out. At Union Square, I look up and notice the man in sunglasses is still watching me. His scuffed brown shoes clash with his black pants but they match his scowl. A little boy practices his seven times tables 27
without noticing the straps of his orange backpack slowly slithering off his shoulders. He calls out numbers in notso-random order disturbing both the suited man standing over him reading a newspaper and the girl sitting to his left blasting heavy music through her headphones. The metallic din of the music annoys me so I look away. “Seven times five is thirty-six.” I want to correct the kid but choose instead to remain silent; so does his mother. While attempting to drink coffee from a paper cup, a woman drips rainwater from her sleeve onto her neighbor’s book. I lose sight of Sunglasses Man in the sea of scrambled bodies and notice I am strangely disappointed, though his attention had felt creepy and unsettling. Baby blue eyelids on a heeled buxom lady blink at a handsome man sporting a goatee. “Thank God it’s Friday,” he tells her. “Finally,” she answers flashing a flirty smile, “I’ve been waiting all week for this day!” There are eight hands grasping onto the same silver pole. Hers are the fingers with yellow flames painted onto the nails. “Daisy” is tattooed in script letters on the top of his right hand. At Herald Square hoards of people exit through the train doors and shuffle along the platform; I spy Sunglasses Man among them. 28
A woman with extra large hips squeezes into a middle seat. The guy on her left moves over to give her the necessary extra room. The guy on her right does not; refusing to be edged over by her fleshy wide bottom he pretends instead to ignore her appearance while narrowing his eyes in a disapproving sideways glance. I take a deep breath and remember, last night I held a newborn baby in my arms and truly believed everything was just fine.
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WINGS BARBARA BLANCHARD HOHENBERG Upon hearing of a story by Gabriel Garcia Marquez with the title: Old man with very enormous wings He needs those enormous wings, although the man I’m thinking of is not old, in point of fact he is, or was, young. Only 36 years old. His spirit was, or is, so enormous that the wings must needs be enormous too. He hovers over us all, and we feel his warmth and his joy of having lived, as well as his grief at having died. We feel his spirit hovering so strongly that we still cannot believe his breath has been snuffed out.
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On a still night, in the still warm garden, those wings fan my cheeks and my tears.
BALM BARBARA BLANCHARD HOHENBERG Bring me the sunset in a cup Sprinkle it with clouds Let the emerging stars Mirror their sparkle to sweeten it For my heart is heavy still It needs to sip a brew Of palms silhouetted Against magenta fire And that strange green flash The one that appears so seldom
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RING OUT THE OLD BARBARA BLANCHARD HOHENBERG 2 thousand and 8 virgins waiting for them.. But wait.. He no longer believes in virgins nor in waiting for them He wants to live it all right now.. The flashy diamonds one on each of his 2 pinkies.. The luscious blonds one on each arm.. as he strolls through the Glory and the Brilliance of Times Square at midnight on New Year’s Eve.
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TOASTING MYSELF BARBARA BLANCHARD HOHENBERG A glass is sometimes full, sometimes half-full, sometimes half-empty. Sipping from a glass depletes it. Sip enough, you have an empty glass. I now have sipped my full allotment of three score and ten. Now the glass is empty. How full it is, I do not know. Or rather, it is full again. Day by day I sip and sip. It is a heady brew.
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CAROUSEL ROSIE MICHELLE MALAVET Round and round did Rosie go She held on tight and never let go One day she met a fine lookin' man He asked if he could have her hand She offered the left, held on with her right When she split in two it was an awful sight
CONSTANTLY CONSTANCE MICHELLE MALAVET Constance never got in trouble and never broke the law. She said her prayers triple and double and ate her snap peas raw. Her neighbors gathered in a huddle in disbelief and awe— her husband's head, a bloody puddle. Constance confessed to using a saw.
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MARY. MARY. MARY. MICHELLE MALAVET Mary complained about the weather. Mary complained about her weight. Mary complained about the traffic and about always having to wait. On Monday Mary wanted ham, and all they served was fish. She complained about the menu as she ate her second dish. On Tuesday Mary got the gout. She complained about that too. Mary never got her way and for Mary, this was nothing new. On Friday Mary ate more fish and died a bitter death. On her way out she complained about everything, until her last breath.
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ONE DAY, SOMEDAY MICHELLE MALAVET Kate hoped that one day, someday her life would be great. Kate repeated that one day, someday will come, just wait. Kate died and one day, someday was just too late.
SALLY SUE MICHELLE MALAVET Sally Sue spent a lot of time hoping– hoping things would get better hoping things could be different hoping things would change Sally Sue hoped her life away.
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SPIC N’ SPAN MICHELLE MALAVET On Monday Joanie vacuumed the stairs. On Tuesday her husband complained. On Wednesday Joanie scrubbed the stairs. On Thursday her husband complained. On Friday Joanie waxed the stairs. On Saturday her husband broke his neck.
THE END #44 MICHELLE MALAVET There once was a woman who was rather sad. In order to be happy, she'd buy a new silver charm for her bracelet. One day her arm fell off. The end.
THE END #66 MICHELLE MALAVET There once was a woman who worked in a gray cubicle. She couldn't remember the last time she was happy, but was sure it would happen someday. When she died, they buried her in a gray box. The end. 37
MARCH THE 16TH E. RENAE PLUMMER Grandma Jo turned 90 today. It was her first thought when she opened her eyes that morning. While she herself experienced a twinge of excitement about this milestone she wondered what her grandmother really thought and felt about having lived for 90 years. Jo, as she was known by family and a few friends, would completely revel in all of the attention surrounding her today, but what was it like for her on the inside? For the past ninety years she had gone about her life as simply as her life began. She was delivered by a midwife, on a small farm in a small town in South Carolina—the last of eleven children, to two sharecroppers named Ben and Evelena. According to her eldest sibling, Aunt Carrie, even as child Grandma Jo was always sassy, humorous, vain and a bit sensitive, but never nice. Further, Grandma Jo couldn’t be described as necessarily secretive or reticent and certainly not quiet, soft-spoken, and least of all tactful. Instead she was simply a product of her generation. After completing third grade in a one-room local colored schoolhouse, Grandma Jo joined her family in the fields. By 1940 she had gathered enough money to pay for bus tickets her herself and her two daughters to 38
come to New York City. And, like most everyone else from her corner of the world, she moved to Bedford Stuyvesant, learned how to take the Long Island railroad to certain places, and became a domestic. She supplemented her income through selling baked goods and her social life began and ended at church, starting with The First Baptist Church of Brooklyn on Herkimer Street. After arriving in Brooklyn Grandma Jo would marry two more times, give birth to a son and participate in the rearing of almost all of the grandchildren. Moreover, she has never described her life as hard or difficult—it was simply what God gave her, and her job was to make the most of it. She could cook and keep house well, so that is how she made her living. Grandma Jo has treated everything simply, from living under Jim Crow laws to learning how to use a television remote. More personally, given her tempermental nature she made friends and she made enemies. But more importantly she banished those who brought harm to her in even the slightest of ways to the land of forgotten memories. The woman at the church who insinuated someone else made a better tasting sweet potato pies was no longer of any value. Grandma Jo refused to sell her any food and, when forced, only barely acknowledged the woman’s existence at church with a terse “Praise the Lord.” So today at 90 she is still sassy—“I’m still looking for another husband; three wasn’t enough,” vain— 39
“I’m not wearing no old people shoes, I need a heel under my feet,” humorous—“Did you see that ugly seed headed baby over there?,” and a bit sensitive. “Only thirteen of my fourteen grandchildren called me today.”
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BASED ON THIS PREMISE DEV ROGERS Based on this premise, you know the one I mean, that we are all equally responsible members of this work force in this kibbutz. We must call a meeting tomorrow promptly at nine AM so each can confess personal shortcomings in our work in this home we share. As your temporary leader—I know I will be voted out in two months—I feel we must meet in the spirit of personal honesty, so that our work together can develop in such a way that our living quarters can be cleaner and more orderly, and our work sites pass inspections, each week, of course, with the highest rating. We are in competition with the kibbutz two miles away, and should we pass with the highest rating, we will all be rewarded with an extra week’s vacation at the seaside resort of one’s choice. So, remember, nine AM in the main dining room. Are we all agreed? A shot rang out. The leader fell. It was mayhem then, with shouting and running, as a female voice said, “Don’t look further. I did it.”
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ELEMENTARY SCHOOL DEV ROGERS Every year there was a special session just before Christmas, in the elementary school auditorium. A woman, probably close to fifty, stood on the stage, grey hair cut short around her ears, a solid silk dress, belted, on a stocky figure, and led us all in Christmas carols. These had been practiced in our classes the previous week, with a pianist, so we supposedly knew the tunes and words to the songs. She announced the name of the song, nodded to the pianist, raised her right hand to signal we should begin. The stronger voices came from the eighth-graders, and there was indeed some unity in the singing, with notes and words quite well connected. My third grade class was in the middle section, about halfway up from the stage. Our teacher sat at the right end of our row, and raised her hand exactly in time with the lead teacher on the stage. I knew these songs, alright. So often repeated as to be impossible not to recognize. But I was a Jewish girl in this American land, this Christian country, so my lips were sealed all through the forty minute session. I did not look at anyone in my row, to see whether I was not indeed alone. Nor did I look at our teacher, probably fearful she would recognize that I 42
did not join in with our class, and there would be an expression censuring me for what could have been judged as a state of disobedience. I had considerable pride in my silence. I was the daughter of immigrant Jews from Easter Europe. That’s who I was.
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HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN ME? MICKY SHORR Your sister may have forgotten the details of you, but it's clear how much she misses the comfort of your presence. Even when it seemed you two completely ignored the other, spent most of your time in separate rooms, coming together only for meals, I realize now with your absence, with only me to offer what she considers a meager amount of what she craves, Myssie’s become dependent, whiny, endlessly hungry. For me, on the other hand, most days pass without a thought of you, no longer in my immediate memory until, unexpectedly I am gripped with sadness, this wanting you. I remember how it was to stroke you, how you felt, relaxed on the couch, me underneath the rhythm of your contented purr, how you knew there had to be proper behavior, no digging your claws in passionate pleasure or be right away chastised and removed. I keep in my heart a vision of you, black even to your whiskers almost unseen in the growing darkness of a room, watching me I suspect. And when I finally notice and say hi, instantly you flop onto your back, 44
turn it seamlessly into a sensuous stretch, adoration in your yellow eyes, so I’m bathed in delight with the sweetness of your being. I see you shiny in the flower bed, amidst the black-eyed susan and the echinacea, recall how you also knew that the outside world had different rules, and in the backyard, if I call you to come, you gleefully run with all your might in the other direction.
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KEYHOLE MICKY SHORR keyhole means a key exists key to health, wealth, happiness like the aha! instant when it makes some sense I walked today with my conviction that this life can be a hard one; I know for certain it is not my flaw sometimes I am happy, just not exactly right now now is nearly unbearable. hot and ugly smelly, noisy, I can often hardly stand it here keyhole and key opener clue
answer
snapdragons from the country farm he asks what do you do with them? I say they’re to look at, they’re to die for. something so exquisite, like that cardinal flitting by in front along the rail trail I need beauty all around me. 46
PINK POETRY MICKY SHORR if the baby is a girl she is dressed in pink such a pretty little thing, they coo if the cancer is of breast, wear pink ribbons but do not be fooled that woman power surprises her quiet strength might be unseen like air moving the ocean a peaceful breeze enhanced by fierce determination to protect loved ones and principles
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NIGHTBIRDS IT’S ALWAYS NIGHTTIME SOMEWHERE SISTER
MICHELLE SLATER There must be trillions of us with the same inclination to wake wandering through the night mulling over events, making plans, thinking, panning for gold within the special silence of cities that never truly sleep only keep on a different rhythm than the daytime pace Long lines of refugees seeking safety this wide world round, soldiers shouldering their assignments, whole armies of cleaners cleaning, watchers watching, service workers servicing, doctors and nurses toiling at their tasks saving what is broken, taxi drivers on regular fourteen hour shifts shifting aching bones, train and bus personnel taking us where we want to be, truckers hauling all the things we think we need back and forth crossing every land route. Look. Pilots are soaring above us. Ships plod through the waters that surround us. 48
Listen. Can you hear the electrical hum as energy transfers from factories doing twenty-four-seven just to keep from sinking in tidal floods of economic collapse? The ice is melting— both a warning and a gift depending upon where you stand. Still we find the energy for poetry and art, for dance, for play, For nonsense and drifting. This has been so for all recorded time, people caring for one another, responding to beauty, loving their lives. Life wants to live. Doesn't it take your breath away? Doesn't it send shivers right through you? Isn't it almost unbearable to let it all in, make room for everything and everyone. Leave space in between, for what we can not see is so vast 'infinity' is insufficiently descriptive. Here is where silence is a useful practice, surrender becomes skillful means, and happiness the habit that might be chosen.
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REINCARNATION MICHELLE SLATER Days evaporate like rain water. Most sink, some rise up into the ether. Clouds drift, changing shape with each random wind. You tread on shifting ground from here to there. What’s tangible and material today, becomes a pulsing wave tomorrow. Everything that ever was, still is. Nothing that ever existed is lost.
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CONFESSION MARY ELLEN SULLIVAN “Bless Me Father For I Have Sinned.� The First Friday of every month we would be escorted out of our classroom and down two flights of industrial strength stairs. Exiting the school, we, the double-lined procession of silent children, would make our way past the convent to the church. Sister Sean Michael would lead us up the marble staircase and open the large elaborately carved wooden doors. Entering the church, the smell of incense and burnt wax would permeate the air, while the stained glass windows illuminated light into the darkness. With the altar in view, the procession would continue down the long terracotta aisle until we were instructed to enter a pew; pausing to genuflect while making the sign of the cross. Words were never spoken, only gestures made. Girls in their green plaid uniforms to sit on one side of the aisle, boys in starched white shirts with navy blue cop-on ties on the other. Now, kneeling we would say our prayers and wait our turn to confess. The confessional, a wooden structure built into the wall, with a door in the middle which would allow the priest to enter and exit. On either side were compartments, covered with cloth, where in soli51
tude, we would enter to confess our sins. It was now my turn, I pulled back the heavy crimson red velvet cloth and knelt, waiting for the sound of the wood panel being slid open, revealing itself to a piece of latticework through which I would speak. “Bless Me Father, I Am a Child.�
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WE HEALED MARY ELLEN SULLIVAN We healed, we mourned, we laughed, we cried..... Never meeting, we were all initiated to the same fraternity at different times and in different ways. It was not of our choosing. There was no pledging, no endowment needed to be accepted nor would the worst behavior lead to our release. Each in our own way worked hard, was resilient and made our way. Perfect strangers we were when we met in a new fraternity, this one, of our choosing. We were introduced to each other, also, introduced to someone who volunteered their time to help us make our way through this journey. We were encouraged to be vulnerable, honest and creative. We were also assured that this time and place was safe, it felt good to be safe. Week after week in a small noisy room we became more comfortable with our situations or creating situations and most of all, comfortable with each other. Weeks became months and we all became aware this time and space had become special. This is how it happened, this—this! is what we did. We healed, we mourned, we laughed, we cried, we grew‌.. 53
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Nancy Beck Gloria Bletter Frances Buschke Bette Clark Ann Craig Clarissa Cummings Lauren Dohr Zoe Eiffel Beth Friedland Barbara Blanchard Hohenberg Michelle Malavet E. Renae Plummer Dev Rogers Micky Shorr Michelle Slater Mary Ellen Sullivan
NY Writers Coalition Press 56
$5.00