'Figurine' and Other Poems, by Fred Pollack
Figurine
One night a civilization
rises. Like all of them,
it begins with nomad thieves,
who luckily have many miles
of waste to speed around in, dust
to raise, agriculturists to spear –
heroes, in short. But something, a bacterium?,
obstructs the formation
of traditions, castes, values; when patriarchs feel
the need to beat a wife or extort
a neighbor, a whining infantile sleepiness
intervenes. Women say
what they want, do what they think, experience
doubt. Among children, proto-bullies
get sick, are let off chores, stay home,
as the culture matures, from school.
Visitors from all over
remark the civility
and peace of that country, the chronic look
of toothache or dyspepsia on its faces.
Art alone
compensates. Statues
of bearded psychotic warriors, not even legend.
Over time these grow
more intimate, stylized –
the line of the horse, the scimitar’s curve
eventually as small as in
my original vision.
Ode
Life-giving Ambiguity, which only
we knowers adore and others
ignore for as long as they can but which then
brings brittle denial and rage, causing breakdown
and tears in dependents; great Scales
that may or may not be of justice but
where power, to its dismay,
is weighed and found wanting; dark
Energy stretching the borders of truth
beyond starlight; convivial Grin
of art, however hostile; estranged
but hopefully reconcilable
sister of hope; our curse, our cloak, our work …
The thick white robe on a hook on the back
of the bathroom door takes on
a living shape: sleeve slightly bent
at the elbow, hem
swept back as if in motion, shoulder
sagged. Who will see it
(though probably not care to
inherit) when I’m gone? And is the mood one
of vanity or terror?
Eighth Seal
The end of days is not the end of nights.
In the sinister mild weather,
streetlamps haloed in mist, all the bars
are open, all human dealings in them.
But not all humans – in large part,
I suspect, they comprise
the packs of dogs and unaccountables
at large in the streets. Not rabid
except with freedom, they bounce haplessly
off legs, their cries
evocative of music I disliked;
perhaps when they calm down they’ll want
to be petted. In the clubs
and joints, extortion graft and fraud
occur in radiance and à haute voix;
the suits, high end or low, involved in it
seem unaware of this or of their growing,
interested crowds. Wife-beaters,
abusers also seek,
helplessly, the spotlight. Out of shape though I am
(one’s status, dead or living, undecidable)
I wipe the floor with them,
then chide those sweethearts who mourn and tend
for other than economic reasons … Having drawn
incurious listeners, I hold forth
against a world of hurt
with, I’m afraid, the same dreary abstractness
as the already ignored, hovering
angels; and since there has to be an end,
accede to being transformed to a stuffed shirt.
Jenna and the Crumbleys
1
Because she’s much older
and rich (private jet
to 1/6), she escapes
the stresses of the wholly public life;
no suicide from fat-shame, “slut”-blame, lack
of Friends or Likes for her.
Broadcasts her eagerness to die for Trump;
in the Capitol touts
her (real-estate) brokerage, V-sign by shattered
window, “best day of my life!”
Accused, a tweet: “Definitely
not going to jail.
Sorry I have blonde hair white skin
a great job a great future and I’m not going
to jail. Sorry to rain
on your hater parade.” Convicted, films herself weighing herself;
protests being jailed for a tweet; says she’ll lose
30 pounds in two months because there’s no food or
meds; will do yoga, work
on (another) self-help book, demands protein shakes.
2
Another Jennifer in real estate,
still certain Trump wants to save
“my MIDDLE CLASS family.” James’s
means of support are unclear, but called to school
both say they must “get back to work,”
dismiss the kid’s “the voices won’t stop,
help me” and online search
in class for ammunition, presumably
for the Sig Sauer James had fondly
bought him, with which,
after they leave, he kills four, wounds seven …
helping one understand
that social media are society,
comradeship, purpose, judgment, love;
a gun is privacy.
Also Thou Knewest It
Stumbling in memory
on a line by Montale:
Anche tu lo sapevi, Luce-in-tenebri! –
and finding myself moved;
almost, as one says, “upset” –
another memory accounts for it:
recalling in part with whom I spoke, not where;
impression of old wood, full shelves,
my taste but not myself belonging there –
accused of believing in nothing;
replying, “You talk about ‘belief’
as if it were praiseworthy in itself.”
Photography by Galina Yarovaya