February 2019
I am a Southern transplant living in New York City, the author of six poetry collections, and a novel. I am pleased to be appearing again in Verse-Virtual again. “The Ancient World” was inspired by a Bible course.
MY GRANDMOTHER LISTENS TO PAUL ROBESON RECITE ‘OTHELLO’
In the dark depths of the war
that split the century in two,
Grandma came to New York
to care for Anne, her ailing sister.
Anne made Thanksgiving dinner
and went into the hospital.
Each day she got a little worse.
In Anne’s leafless garden
Grandma sat, all forlorn.
One cold evening, as stars
pricked the black sky,
she heard a most sonorous voice
borne by the wind down
the backyards of Bank Street
reciting verses she knew by heart:
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
and I loved her that she did pity them.
A basso profundo rich in experience,
resonant with dignity.
Listening, Grandma shivered
in her wool coat, and tears
streamed down her cheeks.
There is nobility in humanity,
the voice seemed to say, and she felt
a shred of hope, not for Anne,
who was dying of cancer,
nor for the oppressed
and uprooted peoples of the earth
doomed in worldwide struggle,
her own people murdered
in Europe in this season of death.
The hope was not attached
to anything in particular,
but present in the air around her,
as if the beautiful sound floating to her
on the wind was the voice of God,
offering her protection as in days of old.
FRIDAY NIGHT
“The meaning of my search is that I search.”
-Francis Picabia
Between one appointment
and the next, my therapist died
suddenly. Afterwards, I longed
to tell him what he’d meant to me,
all I was too shy to say while I still could.
I revisit the familiar path through the park
I followed for years en route
to our Friday night devotions.
Evenings part confession, part prayer,
if prayer is the hope for change.
Mulling over the old injustices,
the lingering traumas
cannot alter what happened,
only our reaction.
THE ANCIENT WORLD
“To imagine the sounds and smells of the ancient world
is to bring that world to life.”
-Robert Koehl
The ancients believed that demons
haunted thresholds.
The bells sewed to the hem
of the High Priest’s knee-length ephod
announced his entrances and exits
into the Tabernacle.
He made his presence known
so he might not die.
Alternating with the bells
were pomegranate-shaped tassels
of blue, purple, and crimson yarn.
Outside the Tabernacle
was the altar anointed with the blood
of animals offered in sacrifice.
The fires, the meat smoke rising
from the altar pleased the Lord,
fat and flesh consumed in smoke.
Over his fine garments
of gold, blue, purple, and scarlet yarns
held by a woven waistband,
the High Priest wore the breastplate
of Urim and Thummin,
used to obtain God’s decision
on important questions
where human judgment
was found inadequate.
As the High Priest moved,
the bells tinkled softly,
and the smell of the meat smoke
and wheat cakes
mixed with frankincense
rose in the air.
MY GRANDMOTHER LISTENS TO PAUL ROBESON RECITE ‘OTHELLO’
In the dark depths of the war
that split the century in two,
Grandma came to New York
to care for Anne, her ailing sister.
Anne made Thanksgiving dinner
and went into the hospital.
Each day she got a little worse.
In Anne’s leafless garden
Grandma sat, all forlorn.
One cold evening, as stars
pricked the black sky,
she heard a most sonorous voice
borne by the wind down
the backyards of Bank Street
reciting verses she knew by heart:
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
and I loved her that she did pity them.
A basso profundo rich in experience,
resonant with dignity.
Listening, Grandma shivered
in her wool coat, and tears
streamed down her cheeks.
There is nobility in humanity,
the voice seemed to say, and she felt
a shred of hope, not for Anne,
who was dying of cancer,
nor for the oppressed
and uprooted peoples of the earth
doomed in worldwide struggle,
her own people murdered
in Europe in this season of death.
The hope was not attached
to anything in particular,
but present in the air around her,
as if the beautiful sound floating to her
on the wind was the voice of God,
offering her protection as in days of old.
FRIDAY NIGHT
“The meaning of my search is that I search.”
-Francis Picabia
Between one appointment
and the next, my therapist died
suddenly. Afterwards, I longed
to tell him what he’d meant to me,
all I was too shy to say while I still could.
I revisit the familiar path through the park
I followed for years en route
to our Friday night devotions.
Evenings part confession, part prayer,
if prayer is the hope for change.
Mulling over the old injustices,
the lingering traumas
cannot alter what happened,
only our reaction.
THE ANCIENT WORLD
“To imagine the sounds and smells of the ancient world
is to bring that world to life.”
-Robert Koehl
The ancients believed that demons
haunted thresholds.
The bells sewed to the hem
of the High Priest’s knee-length ephod
announced his entrances and exits
into the Tabernacle.
He made his presence known
so he might not die.
Alternating with the bells
were pomegranate-shaped tassels
of blue, purple, and crimson yarn.
Outside the Tabernacle
was the altar anointed with the blood
of animals offered in sacrifice.
The fires, the meat smoke rising
from the altar pleased the Lord,
fat and flesh consumed in smoke.
Over his fine garments
of gold, blue, purple, and scarlet yarns
held by a woven waistband,
the High Priest wore the breastplate
of Urim and Thummin,
used to obtain God’s decision
on important questions
where human judgment
was found inadequate.
As the High Priest moved,
the bells tinkled softly,
and the smell of the meat smoke
and wheat cakes
mixed with frankincense
rose in the air.
© 2019 Anne Whitehouse
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