For the inner ear, the voice of the vessel of silence is an embrace
felt by an infinite number of scribes.
It is my wish to offer here an oasis of present day poetic
Each month i shall invite new poets to breathe with, and they in
turn will bring guests of their own.
Poetry Corner at TIFERET has evolved out of Donna Stein’s
enthusiasm to nurture the spirit of beauty in all its forms.
May/June 2011 Silent Lotus’ Selected
and his guest James Howard
and his guest David Herrstrom
The Swamp at Congaree
A thousand acres awake
in the chilled light, ushering
the chatter of agents
for an opera in the cypress.
A path trails its iridescence
through past’s segues from
rope to wire, doubloon to chrome,
and candles giving way to filament.
Velcro and khaki cast loose
and wander now through
the twisted root with moss
timing pendulums to storms.
The air-ghosts startle the owls
perched above black water
under canopies as tall
as the years allowed.
I hush, afraid
of killing its secret.
(1 Samuel, Chapter 3)
Eli told Samuel to go back asleep
not just once, but twice that night
when Samuel stood there and said
Eli, I am here.
Again Eli told him,
I didn’t call you. Then Eli
it might be the Lord.
Let him know you are his
he said to Samuel.
Once more in the night the voice
called to Samuel and he woke
but whispered this time,
Here I am, your servant is
On the road ahead, the followers stopped,
trembling at what seemed coiled
in their path with a long spiny tail.
Samuel urged them on,
after dragging aside a bough
fallen from its tree.
Liquids pool on the end
of a glass dropper poised
over the wart on my big toe.
I wait for a fury of bubbles.
These cramps call for spoonfuls
from the dark brown bottles
that keep the sunlight out.
Between changes of bed sheets
I’d reached three-hole status
for a notebook and a curtain
with bright colored fish.
Maybe someone who also
likes to dip their fries in ketchup
will come and sit with me.
|Larry Jordan lives and works in South|
Carolina. His work has appeared in Tifferet, Millers Pond, Pirenes’
Fountain and the Comstock Review.
The Bee in the Lutheran Manuscript
You appear in full sting of colour
like a child’s sudden squashed daisy
or the quiet beginnings of a library fire
licking and leafing through sacrificial pages.
Was it a theory of survival that made
you waltz in through the monastery’s
reducing light and fly your breezy maze
across the monk’s own soaring trajectory?
Did the bee’s hymn drown out the choir’s
attempted harmonies, an atheist buzz
monotonising the full-heavenly score?
Yes, this unwitting soloist caused a fuss,
willed an epic hand to tense and rise
(clutching the inky word of furious God)
and throw down its sacerdotal weight; so died
the dream of honey, forsook in the white flood.
|James Howard is a musician and|
student in London, his pen can be found at PoetryCircle.com and AfterLiterature.org
And I still haven’t found
A fat book to sink into
The house needs painting
Cats nap on porch chairs
While I stare at the trees
Expecting some visitation
But only the afternoon arrives
Smelling of exhaustion and cut grass
After drinks and BBQ
The glow of TV screens
Drowns out the Milky Way
As I lurch across the yard
Another supplicant idling
At the altar of second comings
As I reach the wreck
Of the Ingersoll-Rand
Sunk to the axles in mud
Something impossibly blue
Descends beneath the power lines!
Climbing closer I can only
Think of creatures from other worlds
Some parallel universe teeming with invaders
But at a collapsed rock wall
I can see it’s just a party balloon
Blown in from Witches Hollow Road
Or maybe that’s what it wants me to think
How like some tricky alien intelligence
To hide here disguised as a child’s toy while
Floating malevolently in and out of our ordinary lives
|Wieslaw Czyzewski lives in Roosevelt,|
NJ with his wife & two cats.
A painted half-sun flames on the red barn
On Burnt Tavern. My laptop glows, “Sorry
But you are looking for something that isn’t here.”
Hunched at the piano his hair begets
Hands that beget Bach. Bent, the father sobs
On the box on which he placed his hands as it sunk
Into the grave. Light folds into itself.
No wonder some want to grow up to be a book.
Like the cosmos, we too are largely dark matter.
Han Dynasty nobility were buried
In jade suits to preserve their bodies forever.
Someone stole Witch’s Hollow Road.
Seeing-Brightly heard it from Exclaimed-Wonder
Who heard it from Dark-Obscurity heard it from
Roller-Derby-Champ, Ms. Demolicious.
What line out for a walk knows where it’s going?
Lead us not into chaotic enumeration,
David, but keep us in the hand of chance.
|David Sten Herrstrom grew up in|
northern California. His Jonah’s Disappearance was
published by Ambrosia Press. He has received a Poetry Fellowship
from the NJ State Council on the Arts and been nominated for a
Poetry Corner Monthly Archives
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … April 2011
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … MARCH 2011
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … FEBRUARY 2011
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … JANUARY 2011
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … DECEMBER 2010
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … NOVEMBER 2010
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … OCTOBER 2010
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … SEPTEMBER 2010
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … AUGUST 2010
POETRY CORNER by silent lotus … JUNE 2010
CORNER by silent lotus … MAY 2010
What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
and that of a saint?
The saint knows
That the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God.
And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move
That the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying, “I Surrender!”
Whereas, my dear,
I am afraid you still think
You have a thousand serious moves.
—Daniel Ladinsky (attributed to Hafiz)