Going up I watch them coming down.
Going down I watch them from behind.
An angel am I, always on the move,
and since my Master sends me, I must be
mercurial, and rationally blind.
Yet in their eyes I see the vacant stare,
and they don’t notice my inquiring gaze,
as if I have no role in private lives
and can’t inspire or warn them of their ways;
my silver heart quakes not from heat but fear
that fear that freezes deep below the ice
where rain’s unknown and snow’s too cold to fall,
a glimpse of frozen planets where we stand
like statues, where the Master never moves,
staring ahead, foreknowing, into time.
But here between the escalators to
the dream above, the world below, I fly
watching and hoping, unseen, unknown, yet
suspected to exist, and therefore know
I must go up, go down, and catch Your eye.
LRH
12.17.08
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Do Not Fear
Do not fear, my darling, have no fear,
stand tall and see beyond, beyond ahead --
that sudden terror will be there, so be prepared;
do not let grimness hold you in its grip.
It’s certain they will come, the wicked ones.
The evil that they blast will blind your eyes,
with suddenness their plan, since lacking sense
except for burning and annihilation
they are determined to wreak ruin.
Do not fear, my nation, no have no fear.
Tell them:
Plot your plans, devices, they will fail;
whisper lies and they will come to naught,
for God is with us and these are his words:
Until your old age, when you’re bent and grey,
I’ll bear you on my shoulders, in my heart;
I was the one who made you, I will carry you
until the end and I will rescue you
from evil.
Do not fear, beloved, no,
no, do not fear.
LRH
November 17, 2009
Adapted from:
Al tirah mi pachad pitom umishoat roshaim ki tavo
utzo eitza vtufar
davru davar vlo yachum
ki imanu el, v'ad siknah ani hu,
v'ad sevah ani esbol
ani asati, v'ani eisa v'ani esbol v'amaleit.
Proverbs 3, Isaiah 8, 46 ; Siddur: end of Mussaf service.
stand tall and see beyond, beyond ahead --
that sudden terror will be there, so be prepared;
do not let grimness hold you in its grip.
It’s certain they will come, the wicked ones.
The evil that they blast will blind your eyes,
with suddenness their plan, since lacking sense
except for burning and annihilation
they are determined to wreak ruin.
Do not fear, my nation, no have no fear.
Tell them:
Plot your plans, devices, they will fail;
whisper lies and they will come to naught,
for God is with us and these are his words:
Until your old age, when you’re bent and grey,
I’ll bear you on my shoulders, in my heart;
I was the one who made you, I will carry you
until the end and I will rescue you
from evil.
Do not fear, beloved, no,
no, do not fear.
LRH
November 17, 2009
Adapted from:
Al tirah mi pachad pitom umishoat roshaim ki tavo
utzo eitza vtufar
davru davar vlo yachum
ki imanu el, v'ad siknah ani hu,
v'ad sevah ani esbol
ani asati, v'ani eisa v'ani esbol v'amaleit.
Proverbs 3, Isaiah 8, 46 ; Siddur: end of Mussaf service.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Between the Lines
“That’s not how it looks to me,”
she said, flinging a plate,
imaginary,
across the room.
It smashed into the wall
and split into a thousand fragments –
one was ice and plunged into his eye
yet lo, it melted just in time.
“But that is how it is,”
he said, wiping his eye
(imaginary tear)
that trickled down his cheek
onto his lips, his licking tongue
flickering in and out, a thousand forks with
newts and blindworms coming near.
Her heart is bloody, full, succulent to asps,
brimming with visions
(imaginary) of what her brain, busy, crowded, verbiage–ridden,
supplies. Each organ feeds the other.
And so, another plate,
whirling, hurling from hand to cabinet
where sets of Wedgwood, Spode and Rosenthal
in tribes of twelve sit snugly
declaring marriage, Friday nights and festivals,
children, (chipped off the old block), in dinner, salad, Limoges bowls for fruit,
tall coffee jugs, flowery teapots.
All smash to smithereens.
But just before they smash, an arm emerges from her raging sea,
dropping its sword and deftly catching
saucers that fly, plates that destroy,
cups that cut, soup bowls that spin,
teapots that tumble.
“That’s not how it is,” insisting.
And so the story spills in different ways:
half full, half empty,
white with murky indigo,
indigo with white,
half in, half out of shadows,
while in the silent stillness of the conversation
the sitting sets of plates in twelves
know
they will rarely be washed clean again.
LRH
8.25.06
she said, flinging a plate,
imaginary,
across the room.
It smashed into the wall
and split into a thousand fragments –
one was ice and plunged into his eye
yet lo, it melted just in time.
“But that is how it is,”
he said, wiping his eye
(imaginary tear)
that trickled down his cheek
onto his lips, his licking tongue
flickering in and out, a thousand forks with
newts and blindworms coming near.
Her heart is bloody, full, succulent to asps,
brimming with visions
(imaginary) of what her brain, busy, crowded, verbiage–ridden,
supplies. Each organ feeds the other.
And so, another plate,
whirling, hurling from hand to cabinet
where sets of Wedgwood, Spode and Rosenthal
in tribes of twelve sit snugly
declaring marriage, Friday nights and festivals,
children, (chipped off the old block), in dinner, salad, Limoges bowls for fruit,
tall coffee jugs, flowery teapots.
All smash to smithereens.
But just before they smash, an arm emerges from her raging sea,
dropping its sword and deftly catching
saucers that fly, plates that destroy,
cups that cut, soup bowls that spin,
teapots that tumble.
“That’s not how it is,” insisting.
And so the story spills in different ways:
half full, half empty,
white with murky indigo,
indigo with white,
half in, half out of shadows,
while in the silent stillness of the conversation
the sitting sets of plates in twelves
know
they will rarely be washed clean again.
LRH
8.25.06
Al Tirah
Al tirah me pachad pitom umishoat roshaim ki tavo
utzo eitza vtufar
davru davar vlo yachum
ki imanu el, v'ad siknah ani hu,
v'ad sevah ani esbol
ani asati, v'ani eisa v'ani esbol v'amaleit.
From siddur, 11.16.09
utzo eitza vtufar
davru davar vlo yachum
ki imanu el, v'ad siknah ani hu,
v'ad sevah ani esbol
ani asati, v'ani eisa v'ani esbol v'amaleit.
From siddur, 11.16.09
Apple, Oak
In the garden of my childhood stood six apple trees,
remnant elders of an ancient orchard,
pride of parents in the spring when blossom bees
busied themselves with tulips planted round our courtyard
and one I named but now forget his name
who daily visited a stately glad
nobly ignoring me who’d give him fame
back then armed with my sketching pad.
Those years were sweet and few and yet they feel solid enough,
spreading boughs and branches where a swing
held a child happy in the photograph
streaked with light like childhood on the sudden wing,
no static attic vase, but breathing then
as now beneath my southern pomegranate,
a recreation of that childhood when
a minute was an hour and garden, planet.
Five of the apple trees were short and gnarled, the apples tart,
dropping amongst the grasses in the shade,
good for chutneys, sauces, wild tastes that smart,
spicing the pies and ciders that my mother made;
but in the sun, the centre of the lawn,
stood tall and sturdy that old apple tree
supporting children climbing, swinging, torn
between the watchful window and the free
world of imagination. Up above, the clouds could stop
and in them we would float to pirate land
until the game was over, then a voice would crop
our freedom, but beneath we’d later understand
that sweetness can be stored in taste and mind
when biting in the big tree’s juicy flesh,
which brings a lifetime search - the perfect kind
of apple to keep past in present fresh.
But strange, the tree was not like any apple ever seen;
rather it’s mate was in the park behind,
an ancient oak, immense, and noble, wide and green,
acorns like apples to red squirrels who would find
happiness for ever in its solid trunk
imposing gravitas upon my eyes:
from family, tradition I have drunk
enchanted juice, the spell, the bind that ties.
LRH
For Susan
7.23.08
remnant elders of an ancient orchard,
pride of parents in the spring when blossom bees
busied themselves with tulips planted round our courtyard
and one I named but now forget his name
who daily visited a stately glad
nobly ignoring me who’d give him fame
back then armed with my sketching pad.
Those years were sweet and few and yet they feel solid enough,
spreading boughs and branches where a swing
held a child happy in the photograph
streaked with light like childhood on the sudden wing,
no static attic vase, but breathing then
as now beneath my southern pomegranate,
a recreation of that childhood when
a minute was an hour and garden, planet.
Five of the apple trees were short and gnarled, the apples tart,
dropping amongst the grasses in the shade,
good for chutneys, sauces, wild tastes that smart,
spicing the pies and ciders that my mother made;
but in the sun, the centre of the lawn,
stood tall and sturdy that old apple tree
supporting children climbing, swinging, torn
between the watchful window and the free
world of imagination. Up above, the clouds could stop
and in them we would float to pirate land
until the game was over, then a voice would crop
our freedom, but beneath we’d later understand
that sweetness can be stored in taste and mind
when biting in the big tree’s juicy flesh,
which brings a lifetime search - the perfect kind
of apple to keep past in present fresh.
But strange, the tree was not like any apple ever seen;
rather it’s mate was in the park behind,
an ancient oak, immense, and noble, wide and green,
acorns like apples to red squirrels who would find
happiness for ever in its solid trunk
imposing gravitas upon my eyes:
from family, tradition I have drunk
enchanted juice, the spell, the bind that ties.
LRH
For Susan
7.23.08
Daniella at the Checkout Counter in the Art Store
Nectarine balloon, pearlescent blouse,
Her massive arms as strokable as silk, billowing,
Her olive oil breast barely constrained
And gaudy lace the only texture
For the eyes of Pablo, salivating
As he buys too many colored pens.
Linda Hepner
June 5, 2007
Her massive arms as strokable as silk, billowing,
Her olive oil breast barely constrained
And gaudy lace the only texture
For the eyes of Pablo, salivating
As he buys too many colored pens.
Linda Hepner
June 5, 2007
Artistic License
Painting naked women makes them nude,
And I do long to see two painters feud
Over my full size portrait, wielding brushes
And colorizing my impromptu blushes.
There was a painter once whose eagle eyes
Pierced through my skin like penetrating spies
And saw tomorrow in my outstretched hand,
Wielding a baton, leading the home band.
Alas the prophet’s dead, but not his sight,
Which carried me through deepest, darkest night.
LRH
In memory of Henry Koerner
5.5.06
And I do long to see two painters feud
Over my full size portrait, wielding brushes
And colorizing my impromptu blushes.
There was a painter once whose eagle eyes
Pierced through my skin like penetrating spies
And saw tomorrow in my outstretched hand,
Wielding a baton, leading the home band.
Alas the prophet’s dead, but not his sight,
Which carried me through deepest, darkest night.
LRH
In memory of Henry Koerner
5.5.06
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