Poetry Monday: Jeff Friedman

Poetry Monday: Jeff Friedman

 

Jeff Friedman 

POETRY MONDAY
July 7, 2008

If you don’t already know the poetry of Jeff Friedman, you will find his work a delightful discovery.  He is the author of four collections of poems, the most recent of which, Black Threads, was published by Carnegie Mellon University Press in 2007.  His poems and translations have appeared in many literary journals and magazines, including American Poetry Review, Ontario Review and The New Republic.  A contributing editor to Natural Bridge, he is a core faculty member in the M..F.A program in Poetry Writing at New England College.

It’s our pleasure to share three of his poems here.  The first two are from Black Threads, and the third is a new one, appearing here for the first time.

                                                                                    Irene Willis
                                                                                    Poetry Editor
 

Outside

When we brought her outside into the sun
and showed her the crocuses,
the violets opening their mouths
to the light, the twiggy
saplings with white fuzz,
she remembered how the locusts teemed
on the branches above her and the men came
and went like fat birds, how she broke
a heel on the high curb
on Euclid Avenue and fell,
tearing the skin from her knees
and ruining her new outfit.

Then after she praised the “pretty” sycamores,
the smell of cedar, the tart
odors rising from the earth,
she remembered the dust on an eyelid,
the flimsy gown, the frail
body in the mirror, its show
of brittle bones, the white
room where she lay for days,
where her mother leaned
over and pressed a fleshy
palm to her forehead
and breathed into her mouth and nostrils,
and she wanted to wake
from death one more time.

Later, in the sweltering heat,
gnats swarmed over
the pavement and her head sagged
toward her chest as though the body
were a tulip closing in shadows.

From Black Threads
(Carnegie Mellon, 2007)
 

Blessing for the Hats

Say a blessing for the hats
that waltz over the hard floors,
that bob on the ocean of their own

making with their memories intact.
Say a blessing for the sweaters
that gave too much of themselves,

clinging relentlessly, that unraveled
or stretched until their fibers
snapped. Say a blessing

for the fossils humming in your nails
and teeth, for the kisses that remember
your lips. Say a blessing for

the bones that gave in to love,
putting on their bodies and walking out
at daybreak. Say a blessing for the

body with its narrow caves,
for the clattering cups, the noisy
prayers, for the heat of the eyes,

the wild burning, the sweet
smell of flesh, the rain
ripping up the rusty river.

From Black Threads
(Carnegie Mellon, 2007)
 

Wait

     for my sister Karen

Today we lean on air.
The cart clatters down the long corridor.
Microwaves heat up towels.
The nurse leaves us alone in the room.

Today the last exhalation comes,
her wizened face letting
go its wrinkles, lips
soft, tongue swollen
against the palate.

Shadows wake up in the alley,
starlings squawk on the wires,
and striped bees
fling themselves through rays,
gold particles falling
into her room, falling over
silvery rails.

Globes of flame blossom
as the sound of our swallowing rises,
as dust settles on our arms,
as the floaters drift into pink
and the bells chime.

Today we recall how she leaned
toward her plate, lifting
her corned beef sandwich
wrapped in wax paper,
with each bite
praising the taste of fat.