Again and again we’ve risen and run Our rain wept lips against the same whisper, Against another haggard weather in The high hush of praise we’ve given over And over and held out, our every hand A still refrain, a hand woven in two; And our windy hearts vaults broken into Answers and hope beckoning…
For Shirley Kaufman The day never ends. Somewhere it is beginning to waken all but the dead.
Philip Levine, the Jewish poet who died on February 14 at age 87, was a feisty writer inspired by working class roots and a family tradition of bubbe-meises (grandmother’s fables). In “Jewish American Poetry: Poems, Commentary, and Reflections” (2000) Levine analysed his poem “The Old Testament”: “My twin brother swears that at age thirteen I’d…
Poet laureate Philip Levine died of pancreatic cancer on Saturday morning at the age of 87. Dan Friedman, writing for the Forward on August 9, 2011, characterized the poet as a working-class Jewish hero of words: Levine was one of the oldest poets laureate and his work was certainly the most humble in tone from…
On the cusp of the new morning, it’s still dark as a cat’s heart.
If God paid rent, someone would be looking out for His comings and goings.
God hid but forgot to tell us there is no more hide and seek.
The Place de la République’s outdoor cafe, white wine in a glass so thin it blurs realms with the greenery, and with a statue patina-ed bronze, its plaque too far to read, dull-lettered, pigeon-marked, possibly a thesis on history. Yet the student lesson for today was the bomb at Boulevard St. Michel, and the tourist’s…
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