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POEMS
by
Carolyn
Raphael
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ARCHIVES Carolyn Raphael EPO Poems Prior to 2023
WAITING
FOR THE
OPEN AIR
IN A
TIME OF
COVID
O welche Lust, in freier
Luft
Den Atem leicht zu heben!
Oh what joy, in the open air
Freely to breathe again!
—The Prisoners' Chorus from Beethoven's Opera Fidelio
Let out from cells as
sunless as the grave,
political prisoners shuffle toward the light.
Brief respite, but the famished souls behave
like wingless birds still contemplating flight.
The beauty of the music
underscores
the fragile gift of freedom. (I always cry.)
One voice sings hope and faith in God, ignores
the fact that they are watched with ear and eye.
Though self-imposed, our
prison has its bars—
if only made of linen or of lace—
on windows that divide us from the stars
and frame a grandchild's disappointed face.
As hostages to loneliness,
we need
to hear the harmony of being freed.
____________________________
A
CALENDAR
OF TREES
1. American Holly
The whole tree
shakes, alive with gorging,
as catbirds seize the ripe red berries.
It lasts for hours, each December.
I gaze through my window—entranced, unnerved
by this hibernal sacrifice.
A final shudder, berries are gone,
and stillness returns to spiny leaves
that yield, with evergreen grit, to winter.
2. Japanese Maple
All winter,
leafless branches bend
like dancers arcing to the floor;
their weeping only makes me smile.
Buds swell, then leaflets rise in spring,
slowly unfurl their lacy leaves
until they form a crimson dome.
I look down from an upstairs window
to see the tree nymph wake and stretch.
3. White Pine
Nature’s
Christmas tree off-season
is out of place in this stifling air.
An outsized guest in my small back yard—
the British kings used them for masts.
When needles yellow then turn to brown
and fall each fall, I think it’s dying;
but it’s only pruning the old and weak,
making way for the newly green.
4. American Sweetgum
Each fall I
curse this lofty tree
as I turn my ankle on the seed pods.
Fierce as a medieval mace,
big as golfballs and prickly sharp
until leaf blowers blast them away.
But then the leaves—five-pointed stars—
turn yellow, purple, red against
an azure sky, and I forgive.
THE
WHOLE
TRUTH
“truth consists
in some form of correspondence
between belief and fact.”
-Bertrand Russell, “Truth and Falsehood”
in Problems of Philosophy
Since when is
wish as gold as fact?
Conviction true if never tried?
Opinion sound if never backed
by data that are verified?
WALTZING
WITH WENDY
On October 18, 2014, two renowned New York City Ballet
dancers, Jacques d’Amboise and Wendy Whelan, briefly waltzed together on
the stage after her farewell performance. (She had lived with his family
when a student at the School of American Ballet.)
A slow run to
meet him, a loving embrace.
He gives her a rose then they walk to the place
where flowers are piled in tribute. (His gait
is measured and cautious—we worry and wait.)
The applause turns to shouts as she donates his rose.
Another embrace—he whispers—she knows.
They waltz—here’s the infinite grace I recall
from the king of the leap and the lift (and so tall).
He changes direction—crescendo of cheers.
He twirls her, a last hug, and we are in tears.
____________________________
AN
UNRECORDED
LIFE
We breathe in smoke when
Pepys describes the fire
of London, wince when Plath bites Hughes’s cheek
at their intense encounter. As sirens shriek
to celebrate the dying of the war,
Virginia Woolf’s transcription draws us there.
The journal is a compass that can take
coordinates of any day’s location,
then point the poet to a vein of ore.
But my days lodge on
unmarked streets, at home
to travelers in my work. The ordered saving
of every hour’s chatter, doubt, and crumb
would stamp the faded silk that memories weave.
Though heresy, I find there is no room
to chronicle a life too busy living.
Iambs & Trochees, fall/winter 2006
THE
BATTERED
WIFE
At least my hair will hide
the purple bruise
below my ear. I'm best in winter, time
for turtlenecks, long-sleeves, and woolen scarves.
I'll say I tripped on the hallway rug again;
another bathtub accident won't do.
Did Johnny hear me scream when the dishes crashed?
Is Katie in the closet with her bear?
We'll go to Helen’s house; she understands.
He used to be so gentle, almost boyish,
stroking my hair, calling me little girl.
The children came, and I kept gaining weight
(mustn't forget the vitamins and toys).
Mom says that marriage is a bramble bush
with berries for the picking (learn to live
with scratches). These are more than scratches—still,
the fruit is irresistible (and sweet).
I’ll stay at Helen’s while we all calm down.
Then he’ll call, crying, promise me the world,
but I'll be firm—hold off for one more day.
It will be different this time. I feel sure.
CAT-TALE
Crouched beneath an orange
moon,
a cat—unclean and thin—
was rescued by a gentle girl,
who gladly took her in.
The savior was Melissa Kay,
in need of an ally
to listen to her discontents
and give a soft reply.
Melissa urged the cat to
mew
with milk and cans of tuna;
she even sent a feline prayer
up to the goddess Luna.
The goddess granted her
request,
and when the new moon rose,
the cat awakened from her nap,
striking a haughty pose.
Catbird, she said,
catwalk, catarrh,
catnip, and catalog.
Melissa seized her new smartphone
to post this on her blog.
Catcall, the orator
declaimed,
cat house and caterwaul.
That's quite enough, Melissa said;
there’s a shelter at the mall.
Next time you're walking
past the stores,
for exercise or shopping,
beware of any cat you see—
and don't consider stopping.
A
NOTE FROM
MRS B,
MY SON'S
FIRST-GRADE
TEACHER
Daniel had a bad day today.
He couldn’t stay seated
or keep his hands to himself.
I know your many students
clamor for
your eyes, your ears, your time (in short supply),
but did you ask our son what troubled him,
what goaded him to lose his self control?
When I told him I would have to write to you,
he told me that he hoped I would hurt myself.
I wish that you had chosen to call or write
to us directly, not to tell our son
that you would have to write to us. He must
have felt attacked and used his weapon: words.
I was bewildered by your stationery
that shows a smiling teacher holding a big
red apple! And printed in boldface on the top:
An apple from your teacher.
I’ll call the office so
that we can meet.
We’ll bring our listening ears—but not an apple.
____________________________
THE
PERFECT GENTLEMAN*
In 1515, Raphael
finished an oil portrait of Count Baldassare Castiglione,
the author of The Courtier
(1528), when Castiglione was 37.
Among Raphael’s most famous portraits, it hangs in the Louvre.
How every inch the courtier
is this count,
Who wrote the book on protocol. His clothes
And poised demeanor are impeccable:
Black doublet wrapped in fine gray fur, the bloused,
White pleated shirt beneath. And on his head,
Which to his shame was bald, good taste confirmed:
Black turban topped by a grand black notched beret.
A courtier to nobles first, he rose
To be ambassador to Rome, unmatched
As tightrope walker of diplomacy.
And yet the viewer cannot help but note
A weary melancholy in his eyes.
Perhaps because the painter was his friend,
The count allowed a glint of truth to show—
The cost of knowing, after twenty years
Of service, what a courtier must do.
*portrait at Louvre Web site;
hit back arrow on browser to return
TELLING THE
GRANDKIDS
ABOUT WORLD
WAR
II*
For my grandsons and granddaughter
There was a war—no, not with action heroes
like Captain America but real ones, men
who had a single superpower: courage.
Grandpa Larry was three when war was declared.
His father was too old to be a soldier,
but he grew a Victory Garden in his yard—
tomatoes, strawberries, string beans, cucumbers, squash—
his family ate the vegetables he grew
so most of the canned ones could be sent to soldiers.
When 20 million people planted gardens,
on rooftops and in empty lots, it helped
to keep us fed, and we were helping too.
The rationing of food began when I
was one-year-old in 1942.
This meant that everyone in a family
received a ration book with colored stamps
to buy a certain amount of food each week.
(There were three of us before my sister was born.)
Come look inside this woven pouch. These are
our ration books from 1943.
One says: If you don’t need it, DON’T BUY IT.
My mother signs her age as 27,
My father, 35, and I am 2.
My ration book says Occupation: child.
These blue stamps were for vegetables, soup, and fruit,
(frozen, canned, or dried) and baby food.
Each person was allowed 48 points
a week: canned pears cost 21 points, canned corn,
14, but soup cost only 6. My mother
had to choose wisely. The red stamps are almost gone;
they were for meat and butter, fats and oils.
People recycled fats, rubber, and steel
but also paper and cans, as we do now.
Speaking of now, as you eat your Cheerios,
tonight when you are hungry after dinner
before you go to bed, think of the days
when your great-grandmother counted points and planned
meals carefully to make sure that the food
would last her little family for the week.
I heard we always had enough to eat.
*from Grandma Poems—Not Too Sweet
Kelsay Books, 2017
HUMMING*
When I pick
him up at nursery school,
near the geraniums,
he sees my face through the open door
and hums.
When he
attacks my apple cake,
then licks up all the crumbs
from the plate and then the tabletop,
he hums.
When his
jigsaw puzzle’s almost done,
and the final piece succumbs,
his eyes ignite, his smile spreads wide,
and he hums.
What is this
sound that captivates,
this pleasure note that comes
from deep inside a happy heart
and hums, and hums, and hums?
*from Grandma Poems—Not Too Sweet
Kelsay Books, 2017
THE
TOOTH
FAIRY
Our big boy’s
lost a tooth, the family sings.
At night, he buries it beneath his pillow.
He sleeps and wakes, trying to peek at wings,
then finds, at morning sun, a dollar bill.
I, too, have
lost a tooth, but no one sings.
I’ll need an implant or a bridge. My pillow
declines the ivory bribe—no fairy brings
me cash to help me pay the dentist’s bill.
*from Grandma Poems—Not Too Sweet
Kelsay Books, 2017
At the
Retreat
I sleep in a nun’s
bed—reflection begins.
I gaze at the Bible, the sunlight, the sea;
then I put on my makeup and ponder my sins.
First, Gluttony leads me to
gorge on Rice Thins,
which I eat without guilt since they’re now gluten-free.
I sleep in a nun’s bed—reflection begins.
An arrow from Eros (I yield
as he grins),
but Sloth neuters Lust; I am saved temporarily.
Still, I put on my makeup and ponder my sins.
When Envy and Greed vie, I
hear violins
that solemnly practice my soul’s threnody.
I sleep in a nun’s bed—reflection begins.
Engaged in a battle where
nobody wins—
I rail against Wrath (to a modest degree)
while putting on makeup, pondering sins.
I stare in the mirror at
Lucifer’s twins:
the dragon of Pride and his servant called Vanity.
I sleep in a nun’s bed—reflection begins
as I pile on makeup and ponder my sins.
Thank You
for Coming*
Please say your name—I have
been ill;
the thunderclouds are with me still.
But now that you are here, I thrive,
a gracious gift to be alive.
I vowed to conquer, and I will.
You bring me warm regards
from Bill—
I can’t recall …I feel a chill….
Yet I’m determined to survive.
Please say your name.
Reposing in my chair I fill
my hours with reveries until
the happy moment you arrive,
and then I manage to revive.
Who is this handing me a pill?
Please say your name.
* originally published in Blue Unicorn,
2016;
also appeared in Dancing with Bare Feet, White Violet, 2016
Translation of this poem into Italian will
appear in Journal of Italian Translation
later this year. Luigi Bonaffini is the editor, and Michael Palma is an
associate editor.
Traveling While
Old*
Where are the days of
serendipity,
when plans were flexible, and so were we?
When one of us could climb up Giotto’s Tower—
when both, like Holland’s tulips, were in flower.
Now all is measured by our drops and pills
(for wayward heartbeats and digestive ills).
We know the nearest hospital address
and where to go in case of tooth distress.
We locate bathrooms in hotel or bar,
park benches when our destination’s far.
Our hearing is good except for when it’s not;
we can’t remember what we just forgot.
We smile at each new day and hope that chance will
(we have insurance if we need to cancel).
Before You
Leave*
Before you leave for baseball, soccer, girls—
may I interest you in armor at the Met?
(May I run fingers through your wayward curls
before you leave for baseball, soccer, girls?)
And how about Rossini, whose
Barber
whirls
as fast as hockey players near the net?
Before you leave for baseball, soccer, girls—
may I interest you in armor at the Met?
*Originally appeared in First Literary Review: East,
and in the collection Grandma Poems--Not Too Sweet
Kelsay Books,
2017
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