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Upon Finding A Book Of John Berryman Poems On A Street Corner Manhattan Lower East - A Shabbos Poem

for Gerald & Shirah Kober Zeller

'Lord, lord...why are our finest always dead? ' - Louis Zukovsky

from traffic onto street corner
2nd Ave and St. Marks now here
Berryman is lifted up from a corner
not yet 'spiffied' the works gummed
up literally spit out for years
countless Chicklets spat
2-per-box-a-nickle a lover's
quarrel with the shoe-and-should
what good come of the chewing
masses hurrying home or to ferry
over river/bay to old brick
even the convent on the hill
just up from the undocking
crowd is dark for want of mercy

two Hassids young bring candles for
Shabbas only a few hours till inflamed
prayer begins as strong sun sinks to night

prayer is oil the dead come home to

perhaps even in this cafe they
watch the books gather on the familiar
corner where shopkeepers' decades pass
hurry home before dark with candles
and cares, the wares of religion, the
Book & dream, a distant land made close
by old songs kindled, 'finest ones'
still kindred made the stronger by
fire and voices-one mingled with
Mendelssohn and the later oranges

this East Village once brined
now lost savor/salt an altogether
godless waste spreading over
once-was-more-temple than what
is now mere shopping-mall hype

ramparts lift by Chambers above
African graves, the slaves of
South Ferry, or near, sentinel
silently, they are so still

ferries toil as lower Manhattan lights
a menorah towering despite what is now
worshiped there knowing that home,
the one sought(even now) more resides
in words aflame reciting the Name, One
alone, then of patriarchs/saints the
bearded whole lot of them who murmur still
for all our want and next year next year
shall be different for we will no longer
be here but in Holy City finally gathered

cabs blur yellow/gypsy
in angular winter light
now dazzle before Spring
when raises dead bulbs to jonquils
potted pretty in windows, on stoops
and, wild, strayed in parks

do not, O, pass us by or over
for all our patient harping

come morrows under willows yet
we shall hang up our loves again

get back to work
honest scrub and
clean beside 2nd avenue
stand recalling willows
never seen

and grieve still an old yet present
eviction in the cities of men

poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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