Four Poems by Anne Frydman

 

 

Awakening from a nightmare, alone

 

Awakening from a nightmare, alone

Only the cats, hearing me groan

Lift their heads

 

Of men I have known I remember

Nothing:  only as to the bed

Where the light shone

 

 

 

Peredelkino

 

Round cupolas and pieces of plowed earth

thick as black glass.

New dogs sleep by old gates,

sun on their paws, shadows

leave no mark.

One passing leaves no path.

 

Cupolas over a cemetery field.

A green hedge shines, a spring

spills over rocks,

turns clear, turns

aquamarine.

Wind shakes the pines to creaking.

 

Why does it take me longer

to believe what has begun.

 

A crow flies low and caws.

Let what can, grow.

 

 

 

Holding On

 

 

Time is going so fast

the sun's decline,

short and longer days,

shrugged like loose silk;

soon it will be spring,

I can discover squirrel damage

to garden bulbs.

What else?  Earth and sky.

The return of birds.  Holding on.

 

 

 

Wind

 

 

I have died, but you're still living.

And the wind, grieving and complaining,

Rocks the forest and the cottage.

Not by itself each lonely pine

But in entirety, all the trees

with all of the infinite distance;

Rocks, like the hulls of sailboats

Upon smooth waters.    

All this the wind does, and not from wildness,

Nor rage, nor aimless fury,

But in order to fashion a lullaby

Out of its anguish, for you.

 

 

 

 

2005-2009 Per Contra: The International Journal of the Arts, Literature and Ideas

 
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Anne Frydman