October 2018
NOTE: I first submitted poems to Verse-Virtual in September 2015. My friend Sarah White had sent me a poem of hers that had been published in V-V and she told me about the strange and wonderful idea of V-V as community. I wanted to take part so badly I even joined Facebook, which had previously been against my religion. As is his very admirable habit, Firestone got back to me almost immediately and told me that the poems I sent him weren't a fit for V-V. He asked if I could send him other poems without all the existential dread, with "a much less dire cast," he said.
Before I could send him any of my non-existent lighter verse, Fire stumbled on a poem I had sent in the original batch along with a picture of my mother. He emailed me immediately: "When I just looked at the attachment I saw the picture of your mom. I can't resist it. Don't send me any more poems. I am going to publish that one -- the picture undoes the direness."
It turned out that was a pure Firestone moment; I've been lucky enough to have many more since. Here are two poems from that first submission, the one about my mother—redux—another with a more dire cast. This October marks my third anniversary appearing in Verse-Virtual.
I couldn't be happier to be part of this community.
Thanks, Fire.
Editor's note: You're very welcome. Knowing you is a pleasure. Not dire at all.
Before I could send him any of my non-existent lighter verse, Fire stumbled on a poem I had sent in the original batch along with a picture of my mother. He emailed me immediately: "When I just looked at the attachment I saw the picture of your mom. I can't resist it. Don't send me any more poems. I am going to publish that one -- the picture undoes the direness."
It turned out that was a pure Firestone moment; I've been lucky enough to have many more since. Here are two poems from that first submission, the one about my mother—redux—another with a more dire cast. This October marks my third anniversary appearing in Verse-Virtual.
I couldn't be happier to be part of this community.
Thanks, Fire.
Editor's note: You're very welcome. Knowing you is a pleasure. Not dire at all.
My mother wears a mask for Mardi Gras,
the purple feathers barely part for her eyes
then circle like fingers moving outward
as if to wring the wrinkles out
and hide the dark rings
that, even unmasked, make them
hard to see and be seen.
Though she says, for the thousandth time,
she has no use for nonsense,
her lips curl into a weary,
Whatever, which could be the truth disguised:
There is nowhere to be but here,
time hanging like a heavy cloak.
The photo is snapped so the present
becomes permanent, even if a lie.
We might be heard to remark someday
this was what happiness looked like.
Brian Greene says
The real question is whether all your pondering and analyses will
convince you that life is worth living. That's what it all comes down to.
--Brian Greene, The Fabric of the Cosmos: Space,Time and the Texture of Reality
the universe is more random
than we thought—
those times the school bus came on time
and dinner wasn’t served with a weary sigh.
Entropy is swallowing us from behind
and the arrow of time can’t help
but point to a future
we’ll never get to inhabit.
We were born too soon
and soon we’ll get all the reports
of blood and piss
and their harsh portents.
Then we’ll hear from our young,
in indecipherable syllables,
as from a universe light years away,
that they’re fully prepared
to go on without us,
drink our booze,
wear our clothes as if it were the fashion,
and move into our bed
that pretends to neatly circle the sun,
but is actually falling apart
atom by atom
as we lie elsewhere watching,
helpless to do anything about it.
Brian Greene says
The real question is whether all your pondering and analyses will
convince you that life is worth living. That's what it all comes down to.
--Brian Greene, The Fabric of the Cosmos: Space,Time and the Texture of Reality
the universe is more random
than we thought—
those times the school bus came on time
and dinner wasn’t served with a weary sigh.
Entropy is swallowing us from behind
and the arrow of time can’t help
but point to a future
we’ll never get to inhabit.
We were born too soon
and soon we’ll get all the reports
of blood and piss
and their harsh portents.
Then we’ll hear from our young,
in indecipherable syllables,
as from a universe light years away,
that they’re fully prepared
to go on without us,
drink our booze,
wear our clothes as if it were the fashion,
and move into our bed
that pretends to neatly circle the sun,
but is actually falling apart
atom by atom
as we lie elsewhere watching,
helpless to do anything about it.
© 2018 Alan Walowitz
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF