Carolyn Stoloff
Manhattan Song
give me a sprig of sassafras
to crush and sniff
or a lemon geranium leaf
pat a drop of nectar
where the third eye hides
to tempt
buzzing possibilities
give me a hand ...
here’s mine come on over
bring words that taste
like gold in the exchange
give me a hug
...laughter until tears
spill from our eyes
and the dusty rug
sprouts crocuses
bring a gust to disperse
my gathering wool
or bunch it into cumuli---
peach and burning yellow
leaving an afterglow at dusk
give me the clarity
to shuck my shells ... files
cartons, racks of stretched
cotton duck ...
to take myself lightly
give me hawk eyes
to spot the weightless
treasures vision buys
to varnish the usual
with surprise printable
Russian Episodes
Peredelkino and elsewhere
Bizarre letters---like signing
with somebody else’s fingers.
No directories. Anywhere.
An oyster sky.
Cukes every meal.
Napkins, tissue-thin triangles, say
eat neatly.
Jasmine’s scent overwhelms
the pines’.
Frail pensioners hunt
in weeds for benign mushrooms.
A lineup of tall
blue spruce, alert in every needle,
guards a cement-block
residence for guests.
Elsewhere, a cluster of domes
gold pates shining
over the high wall.
Nearby, in open stalls,
muddy wet tiles
surround holes
to squat over.
Black-bearded seminarians
in black brimless hats
and slim black robes
step quickly past a bed of red
begonias against a black-
and-white checked refectory.
But how do they kneel?
Inside the cathedral, male
voices soar---the choir
stands.
Later, a brown field with a few
bent-over kerchiefed women
slides by.
More pastorals, more low hills
till eyelids won’t stay open.
A guide talks us through
the Tretchikov, where great
dead Russians hang.
Displeased with lateness
and no-show, lies, rain daily,
the others sneak off,
separately,
buy tickets, pack
complaints and dyspepsia
and fly home, early.
Our driver, late again---
distraught to find himself
abandoned
by all but one,
and no language between us,
settles down,
gives me a necklace of stones
from the Black Sea
in jellybean tones.
I hand him a tape of early jazz
brought from home.
He beams. It seems
the rain we thought
would never cease, has
ceased at last. printable
