The Poetry of Rock n' Roll: "The Queen Is Dead"

In honor of National Poetry Month, each week I am featuring poetic lyrics of rock or pop songs.

This week, let's read the work of Steven Patrick Morrissey, songwriter and vocalist for the legendary British group The Smiths. Morrissey's lyrics have always naturally had a literary bent to them since his interests lie in the literary world. Marked by references to writers and poets as much as film and pop stars, Morrissey's lyrics often feature clever turns of phrase, black humor, and a deeply psychological confessional-style narrative.

Here is "The Queen Is Dead" from the 1986 album of the same name. I am deliberately not including the actual song in this post because I want the focus to be on the words.

The Queen Is Dead
by The Smiths

Through this land's cheerless marshes
Hemmed in like a boar between arches
Her very Lowness with her head in a sling
I'm truly sorry - but it sounds like a wonderful thing

I say Charles, don't you ever crave
To appear on the front of the Daily Mail
Dressed in your Mother's bridal veil ?

And so, I checked all the registered historical facts
And I was shocked into shame to discover
How I'm the 18th pale descendant
Of some old queen or other

Oh, has the world changed, or have I changed ?
Oh has the world changed, or have I changed ?
Some 9-year old tough who peddles drugs
I swear to God,
I swear : I never even knew what drugs were

So, I broke into the palace
With a sponge and a rusty spanner
She said : "Eh, I know you, and you cannot sing"
I said : "That's nothing - you should hear me play piano"

We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
But when you're tied to your Mother's apron
No-one talks about castration

We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
Like love and law and poverty
Oh, these are the things that kill me

We can go for a walk where it's quiet and dry
And talk about precious things
But the rain that flattens my hair ...
Oh, these are the things that kill me

Past the Pub who saps your body
And the church who'll snatch your money
The Queen is dead, boys
And it's so lonely on a limb
Past the Pub that wrecks your body
And the church - all they want is your money
The Queen is dead, boys
And it's so lonely on a limb

Life is very long, when you're lonely…

http://www.itsmorrisseysworld.com/
There is no official website for The Smiths.

"Blind"

In honor of National Poetry Month, here is "Blind."


Blind
by JEF

If I make this light,
clear the box while it’s green,
it will be a good day.

If I win this hand of solitaire,
my blood test will be negative.

I’ll live to be 82
like a Ouija board told me
when I was a child.

If there’s a rainbow after this storm,
my dad will pull through, heal, live.

If we don’t belong in the future,
the revelation will come not too late
but whenever it arrives.

We are all blind,
feeling our way,
groping for signs,
divining what we can.
We can’t see it all
coming at us.

This is what we do now.
We wait here
besieged by the future.
Let it come.

Let it come.

©JEF 2013

Poem In Your Pocket Day

April is National Poetry Month and today, April 18th, 2013 is Poem In Your Pocket Day. According to the Academy of American Poets, "The idea is simple: select a poem you love during National Poetry Month then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends. You can also share your poem selection on Twitter by using the hashtag #pocketpoem.

Poems from pockets will be unfolded throughout the day with events in parks, libraries, schools, workplaces, and bookstores. Create your own Poem in Your Pocket Day event using ideas below or let us know your plans, projects, and suggestions for Poem in Your Pocket Day by emailing npm@poets.org.

Along with your library, bookstore, or shelf at home, you can find the perfect poem for your pocket by browsing Poets.org, or by signing up to receive a poem from new spring poetry titles each day during April."



In honor of Poem In Your Pocket Day during National Poetry Month, here is the poem I will be carrying in my pocket today. I chose something short for practical reasons; it is a two-line poem called "Evening Chess" by Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Charles Simic. Simply amazing how two lines can tell such a complicated, loaded story:

Evening Chess
by Charles Simic

The Black Queen raised high
In my father's angry hand.



http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41
http://www.poets.org/

The Poetry of Rock n' Roll: Rickie Lee Jones

In honor of National Poetry Month, each week I am featuring poetic lyrics of rock or pop songs.

And is there any artist who exemplifies a poetic sense in their work more than Rickie Lee Jones? She has written a mountain of majestic, awe-inspiring lyrics (and prose!) over the course of her (thankfully) long career. I had a hard time choosing one poem (song) to present, so I give you three. I am deliberately not including the actual songs in this post because I want the focus to be on the words.

Gravity
by Rickie Lee Jones

There are wounds that stir up the force of gravity
A cold that will wipe the hope from your eyes
Young girl standing underneath the "L" train
Standing there, watching the trains go by ...
You think that nobody knows where you are, girl
You think that nobody knows how this feels
Alone, in a world of your own
There you are girl
The small things float
To the top of gravity
Gravity
I'm telling you where it is
Gravity

We walk in easy snakes
Through the roulette rattling of the ethyl
And now the arson smell of moon
Polishes a newsstand
They empty the gas can
They watch the fire
If there are three girls running
There are three girls running nowhere
From remedies
That you call random
We call by name
And ask them to explain why

Oh, no I heard somebody
Hush up
Don't say nothing
I thought I heard someone
Well we walk when we want to go
Nobody's gonna be there
Seen somebody, somebody
Be quiet
Nobody's there ...
Nobody

I could not say no to the light of my desire
I'm not asking so much
But you roll-call the passion
His lips ?
No
His back ?
No
His face?
No, no, no
I'm not asking so much!

I try to imagine another planet, another sun
Where I don't look like me
And everything I do matters
Where you are, girl
In your green paint
With a pin to pull
At the fingertips of gravity
Gravity
I'm telling you where it is
Gravity

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

We Belong Together
by Rickie Lee Jones

I say this was no game of chicken
You were aiming your best friend
That you wear like a switchblade on a chain around your neck
I think you picked this up in Mexico from your dad
Now it's daddy on the booze
And Brando on the ice
Now it's Dean in the doorway
With one more way he can't play this scene twice
So you drug her down every drag of this forbidden fit of love
And you told her to stand tall when you kissed her
But that's not where you were thinking...
How could a Natalie Wood not get sucked into a scene so custom tucked?
But now look who shows up
In the same place
In this case
I think it's better
To face it ---
We belong together
We belong together

Once Johnny the King made a spit ring
And all the skid kids saw a very, very proud man
And he entwine her in his finger
And she lay there like a baby in his hand
Climb upon the rooftop docks lookin' out on the crosstown seas
And he wraps his jacket across her shoulders
And he falls and hugs and holds her on his knees
But a sailor just takes a broad down to the dark end of the fair
To turn her into a tattoo
That will whisper into the back of Johnny's black hair
And now Johnny the King walks these streets without her in the rain
Lookin' for a leather jacket
And a girl who wrote her name forever
A promise that ---
We belong together
We belong together

Shall we weigh along these streets
Young lions on the lam?
Are the signs you hid deep in your heart
All left on neon for them?
Who are foolish
Who are victim
Of the sailors and the ducky boys who would
Move into your eyes and lips and every tear
That falls down on the neighborhood now
I said "Bird, we just gotta tell them"
And they turn and ignore us
And the only heroes we got left
Are written right before us
And the only angel who sees us now
Watches through each other's eyes
And I can hear him
In every footstep's passing sigh
He goes crazy these nights
Watching heartbeats go by...
And they whisper ---
We belong together
We belong together

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Last Chance Texaco
by Rickie Lee Jones

A long stretch of headlights
Bends into I-9
Tiptoe into truck stops
And sleepy diesel eyes
Volcanoes rumble in the taxi
And glow in the dark
Camels in the driver's seat
A slow, easy mark

But you ran out of gas
Down the road a piece
Then the battery went dead
And now the cable won't reach...

It's your last chance
To check under the hood
Last chance
She ain't soundin' too good,
Your last chance
To trust the man with the star
You've found the last chance Texaco

Well, he tried to be Standard
He tries to be Mobil
He tried living in a World
And in a Shell
There was this block-busted blonde
He loved her - free parts and labor
But she broke down and died
And she threw all the rods he gave her

But this one ain't fuel-injected
Her plug's disconnected
She gets scared and she stalls
She just needs a man, that's all

It's her last chance
Her timing's all wrong
Her last chance
She can't idle this long
Her last chance
Turn her over and go
Pullin' out of the last chance Texaco
The last chance

http://rickieleejones.com/

"Surus"

In honor of National Poetry Month, here is "Surus."

Surus*
by JEF

What is this cold and what is this white
that numbs my feet, he thinks.
He doesn’t belong here, far from grass, leaves, trees.
He watches his friends stumble on boulders and
fall to their knees while snarling humans
poke them with spears, furious humans
shriek into their earflaps to make them get up, move.
Our hide is thick, he thinks, but not enough to resist
these blades, as the blood of his kin stains
the white ground. Why are they doing this to us, he wonders.
Forced toward other human tribes who rush
to hack off the trunks of his mother, father,
he is pierced with a spear: he must leave them behind.
His family watch him driven on, fade away white.
He mourns.
I am the only one of my kind left in the world,
he thinks, and this tiny fool drapes me in red,
stands on a platform on my back,
his manic shouts ricocheting off sharp peaks of ice.

*Surus was the last surviving elephant, out of the 37 elephants Hannibal took with him when he crossed the Alps in 218 B.C.E.

©JEF 2013

The Poetry of Rock n' Roll: "Mercy Street"

In honor of National Poetry Month, each week I am featuring poetic lyrics of rock or pop songs.

The enormously talented musician and gifted songwriter Peter Gabriel has written a slew of amazingly poetic songs, but I felt that this particular song was perfect for its subject matter. Written for poet Anne Sexton, who tragically killed herself at the young age of 45, the title of this song refers to one of her poems, "45 Mercy Street," the address of her childhood home. I am deliberately not including the actual song in this post because I want the focus to be on the words.

Mercy Street
by Peter Gabriel

Looking down on empty streets, all she can see
Are the dreams all made solid
Are the dreams all made real

All of the buildings, all of those cars
Were once just a dream
In somebody's head

She pictures the broken glass, she pictures the steam
She pictures a soul
With no leak at the seam

Lets take the boat out
Wait until darkness
Let's take the boat out
Wait until darkness comes

Nowhere in the corridors of pale green and grey
Nowhere in the suburbs
In the cold light of day
There in the midst of it so alive and alone
Words support like bone

Dreaming of Mercy St.
Wear your inside out
Dreaming of mercy
In your daddy's arms again
Dreaming of Mercy St.
'swear they moved that sign
Dreaming of mercy
In your daddy's arms

Pulling out the papers from the drawers that slide smooth
Tugging at the darkness, word upon word
Confessing all the secret things in the warm velvet box
To the priest--he's the doctor
He can handle the shocks

Dreaming of the tenderness, the tremble in the hips
Of kissing Mary's lips

Dreaming of Mercy St.
Wear your insides out
Dreaming of mercy
In your daddy's arms again
Dreaming of mercy st.
'swear they moved that sign
Looking for mercy
In your daddy's arms

Mercy, mercy, looking for mercy
Mercy, mercy, looking for mercy

Anne, with her father is out in the boat
Riding the water
Riding the waves on the sea

http://petergabriel.com/

"Langauge Lessons"

In honor of National Poetry Month, here is "Language Lessons."


Language Lessons
by JEF


Latin is an incantation, a spell.

French is poetry, in an endless circle.

German is a seizure, controlled contempt.

Italian is a festival with fireworks.

Spanish is a pot of boiling water.

Japanese is softly falling snow.

Russian is a stack of large wooden blocks.

English is empty promises to children.

©JEF 2013

The Poetry of Rock n' Roll: "Hejira"

To observe National Poetry Month, once a week I will be featuring lyrics of rock n' roll or pop songs that also double as exquisite poetry.

To begin with, I am featuring the work of one of the greatest poets in contemporary music, the legendary Joni Mitchell. This song, "Hejira" is from her 1976 album of the same name. It touches upon some of the great, large ideas that I often talk about here in things such as my review of "The Tree of Life." She manages to convey these large ideas by using smaller concrete specifics. The result is meaningful, moving, and profound. "I know - no one's going to show me everything/ We all come and go unknown/ Each so deep and superficial/ Between the forceps and the stone." Between the forceps that pull us into life and the gravestone that marks our burial spot... between life and death. It's all right there in that brief line. I mean, really, does it get any more poignant or beautiful than that? The song is full of breathtaking imagery too, like the wax of candles rolling "down like tears," snow gathering "like bolts of lace," and the one that makes me absolutely swoon: "white flags of winter chimneys." *sigh*

Hejira
by Joni Mitchell

I'm traveling in some vehicle
I'm sitting in some cafe
A defector from the petty wars
That shell shock love away
There's comfort in melancholy
When there's no need to explain
It's just as natural as the weather
In this moody sky today
In our possessive coupling
So much could not be expressed
So now I'm returning to myself
These things that you and I suppressed
I see something of myself in everyone
Just at this moment of the world
As snow gathers like bolts of lace
Waltzing on a ballroom girl

You know it never has been easy
Whether you do or you do not resign
Whether you travel the breadth of extremities
Or stick to some straighter line
Now here's a man and a woman sitting on a rock
They're either going to thaw out or freeze
Listen...
Strains of Benny Goodman
Coming thru' the snow and the pinewood trees
I'm porous with travel fever
But you know I'm so glad to be on my own
Still somehow the slightest touch of a stranger
Can set up trembling in my bones
I know - no one's going to show me everything
We all come and go unknown
Each so deep and superficial
Between the forceps and the stone

Well I looked at the granite markers
Those tributes to finality - to eternity
And then I looked at myself here
Chicken scratching for my immortality
In the church they light the candles
And the wax rolls down like tears
There's the hope and the hopelessness
I've witnessed thirty years
We're only particles of change I know, I know
Orbiting around the sun
But how can I have that point of view
When I'm always bound and tied to someone
White flags of winter chimneys
Wave truce against the moon
In the mirrors of a modern bank
From the window of a hotel room

I'm traveling in some vehicle
I'm sitting in some cafe
A defector from the petty wars
Until love sucks me back that way

 I am deliberately not including the actual song in this post because I want the focus to be on the words.

On the 23rd of this month (April, 2013), Mitchell will release GATHERED LIGHT: THE POETRY OF JONI MITCHELL'S SONGS featuring essays about her work from those who know her and specially edited lyrics by Joni specifically for this book. Visit her website for more info.

http://jonimitchell.com/

April is National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month! Sponsored by the Academy of American Poets.

Read your favorite poet again.
Read some new poetry. Find a new favorite poet.
Write some poetry.
Leave poems for people to find in public places.
Read poetry out loud to family and friends.
Dream a poem.

And April 18th, 2013 is Poem In Your Pocket Day. According to the Academy of American Poets, "The idea is simple: select a poem you love during National Poetry Month then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends. You can also share your poem selection on Twitter by using the hashtag #pocketpoem.

Poems from pockets will be unfolded throughout the day with events in parks, libraries, schools, workplaces, and bookstores. Create your own Poem in Your Pocket Day event using ideas below or let us know your plans, projects, and suggestions for Poem in Your Pocket Day by emailing npm@poets.org.

Along with your library, bookstore, or shelf at home, you can find the perfect poem for your pocket by browsing Poets.org, or by signing up to receive a poem from new spring poetry titles each day during April."



In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be posting poems by me once a week. I posted this piece on the blog already, but in light of national Poetry Month, it seems apropos. Here is "How To Write A Poem."

How To Write A Poem
by JEF

1. Be born.

2. Sit quietly, with your eyes closed and feel your heart beating against the inside of your body, as if it is knocking to get out.

3. Look through a magnifying glass, draw a map, paint a picture of what you want to say.

4. If you don’t know what you want to say, study the thin place where the sky meets the earth. Think about everything that line contains.

5. Use your eyes, your fingers, your hips, to carve out a shape.

6. If it is airtight, light a candle below it, fill it with hot air, and let it rise. If it is not, let it roam where it wants.

7. Tell it it is beautiful before it goes.

©JEF 2012


http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41
http://www.poets.org/

Unprecedented

“You are so busy being you that you have no idea how utterly unprecedented you are.”
--John Green, from THE FAULT IN OUR STARS

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.”
--poem by Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott

How To Write A Poem

How To Write A Poem

1. Be born.

2. Sit quietly, with your eyes closed and feel your heart beating against the inside of your body, as if it is knocking to get out.

3. Look through a magnifying glass, draw a map, paint a picture of what you want to say.

4. If you don’t know what you want to say, study the thin place where the sky meets the earth. Think about everything that line contains.

5. Use your eyes, your fingers, your hips, to carve out a shape.

6. If it is airtight, light a candle below it, fill it with hot air, and let it rise. If it is not, let it roam where it wants.

7. Tell it it is beautiful before it goes.

© JEF 2012

Snap

Snap

It’s a specialty, a trick I like to do.
I stand with a relative, a friend, a pet,
bend the camera lens back,
point it in our direction,
center the unseen frame around us and
push the button.
Snap.
Moments recorded—a laugh, a guffaw,
tenderness. The picture may stop but
we go on.

2001: I stand next to my father on top of
an impossibly thin tower, twenty stories high.
From it we can see the relentless expanse of
the central Florida lake country.
“Dad, come here…”
“Huh?” he replies. He has been losing
his hearing at an alarming rate lately.
His hands shake too.
“Come here, to the edge, I want to take a picture of us.”
“Oh, okay.”
The wind blows our hair and we can
see for miles, even the house he will
live in, the house he will take his life in.
I am 38.
Snap.

2002: I kneel down next to my mom in
her favorite peach wingback chair.
Chemo and radiation have left her bald and thin.
The regret, the resignation, the despair,
the quiet fear is omnipresent in her eyes.
I point the camera at us—and something else,
nameless… not my father’s ghost but
something far worse: the empty space he left us.
I am 39.
Snap.

2003: I stand in the half-light by the glass doors.
I have had a tooth removed but the area
is not healing. I have what dentists call “dry socket”—
and it hurts. My face, puffy and distended on
one whole side gazes into the lens.
Today is my birthday.
All around me is empty space, shimmering, swollen.
I am an orphan, alone. They will never get
to see me turn 40.
Snap.

© JEF 2006

Ten years ago today...

1941 - 2002

I Am My Mother’s Keeper

In the end, she lives in all our former homes at once.
My father is gone, destroyed by his own hand,
it ripples backward and forward, like
he was never there. He was never anywhere.
It’s just me and her.

In New York, she has cancer, tumors everywhere.
They grow on her back, strangle her spine,
kill nerves, paralyze. She can’t walk. She is in her bedroom,
upstairs. Mine is next door, with my toy box.
I bring her crackers, water, tea.
There’s not much I can do to help.

In Miami, she sleeps a lot. In the bed
with the purple velvet bedspread, the
curtains are drawn. Her dresser holds her clothes,
her jewelry sits on top, next to pictures of
her and my father. Her things.
In the same building, in the same unit:
#313. Just me and her. It always was.

In California, chemo, radiation make her sick.
She is in her bedroom at the back of the house.
She cries, I try to comfort her. Her head hurts.
She is wearing a fuzzy white robe that smells like
her perfume.

In central Florida, her wheelchair is next to the bed.
She wakes crying, asking for my father.
I have to sort her meds, give her these pills:
Tegretol
Elavil
Megace
Lasix
Colace
Paxil
Zofran
Reglan
Compazine
Ativan
Dilaudid
Fentanyl.

©JEF 2007

...

My Parents, Who Are Crying

They drive across a vast, empty plane
that tilts back and forth
like a carnival ride.
They are driving while
all around them
shrieks and reels
the wide open universe,
the horrible, unending universe,
screaming, roaring,
so much empty space,
shimmering,
indifferent,
numbing.
They are small and
vulnerable like china dolls
as the maroon car
speeds on, buffeted by
wind and the terrain,
stalked by danger,
easy victims.
I only see them from the back.
Their bodies rock,
knocked about inside the cab,
their heads loll left to right,
right to left.
My father’s hands
frozen to the wheel,
mistrusting, hating no one
more than himself,
pretending not to
regret all the things
he never did;
my mother, immobile, resolute,
so full of bitterness and
rage that, if she could
pull herself apart, if she could
slice herself open with her
own fingernails, if she could
reach in and wrench her
heart out, beating, dripping,
she would:
they are crying about it all.
Where is the end?
Ssssshh. Keep driving.
Just look ahead.
Everything is going to be all right.

JEF 1993

Eleven years ago today...

1939 - 2001

The Night My Father Left His Life

The fifteen-foot walk to the shed took hours,
hiking alone with his back to the house,
to his cats he fed for the last time,
to me driving through the mountains
three thousand miles away,
to my mother behind him,
next to him, asleep inside him.
The air was cool. It was night.
Stars were shining silver-white,
the ground sighed as his feet sunk
into the soft wet cushion of green grass.
He did not see colors.
He turned the handle, did not hear
the click or the whoosh of the door.
This is the night he destroyed himself.
He removed his glasses, set them down carefully,
took his place on the floor and
fumbled in the dark with the gun.
His final walk, his glasses,
his breath coming short and scared,
his finger, the ripping sound
tearing through the still darkness—
all of this, his final gift to me
as I, from a cold beach,
watched meteors streak
through the sky.

©JEF 2005

The Hitchhiker

In an alternate universe,
the hitchhiker has a gun to my head
while I go down on him.
I remember something like this before but
the door closes like it always does.

Before I left, Mama and Leslie said,
“Please don’t pick up hitchhikers, OK?” but
here we are again, his knife pressed
to my throat. It’s funny, he’s
going to and I’m running from.

In this universe, I think I have an oil leak and I see
the “I Love Baseball” bumper sticker on
the van ahead as I drive. He’s young, clean,
and we talk: he’s saving money
to move to Portland with his girlfriend,
his truck is in the shop so
he needs a ride to the next town
for a job interview at his buddy’s
father’s construction company and all I see
in the seat beside me is a figure with red hair.
Maybe he’ll kill me this time, maybe he won’t.
He says "Thank you," closes the door
and I watch him on the dirt road in
the rear view mirror.

He owns the world,
him and his kind.

And I drive
through it all.

©JEF 1998

After Mama's Funeral

After Mama's Funeral

Walking through
falling snow and falling petals,
the dead bird floats down
like a feather
landing at your feet.
You pick it up and say,
“This is just what she said would happen.”

But I continue to walk toward
Mama’s closet. The doors open,
her clothes dance into new shapes
for us. Our faces and hands turn
frostbitten.

Disappearing between silk and cotton,
squeezing through the membrane,
we emerge in a bedroom
years from here
and Mama,
standing in the corner
with her back to us, whispers,
“Don’t be scared.”
“Mama, are we dreaming?” we ask.
She says,
“Yes
and
No.”

©JEF 1989

The Ride Back

The Ride Back

“The ride back is never
as torturous as
the ride up” you say,
as I watch the frightening color
of the twilight sky
reflected on the chrome.
Through your grace
or a small realization,
I’m finally interested in something
I know nothing about.

Seconds, minutes, hours--
time! I need it,
the grinding of the hands
as old and purposeful
as churning butter.
I don’t need more or less,
I just need it--
not to see inside the watch
but to see inside time
like seeing inside the wind.

I now know
the word for “love”
is “empty”
and I whisper
to myself
while the dark blue car
speeds on.

©JEF 1989

Introduction to Fairy Tales (FT 101)

Introduction to Fairy Tales (FT 101)

Once upon a time in a very hot and humid land where palm leaves the size of elephant ears grew close to the ground and candy-pink and lime green coleus sprouted everywhere like fireworks against the wet, green velvet, lived a young boy who shinnied up coconut trees for the milk. He was called Mowgli... and if he wasn’t called Mowgli, then he was called something that sounded very much like Mowgli. He had seen "Jungle Book" once when he was very little in a terribly cold and bitter land and halfway through the film, he fell asleep on his uncle’s lap.

But this young boy grew up mostly in this very hot and humid land where tiny chameleons clung to screen windows and strong dark vines dripped from banyans. And this boy had a wonderful, magical pair of shoes and on each of these shoes was a buckle and both of these buckles were tiny, circular zodiacs.

Aries: likes soft drinks, clumps of grass and antiques--usually busy people--hyperactive--attention focused on eyes

Taurus: likes gold, wears excessive amounts of jewelry--compulsive people--prone to circulatory problems

Gemini: scatterbrained, witty, defenseless--likes picnics and dancing--powerful spirit--doesn’t belong on this planet

Cancer: these people are generous and humane by nature but feel that no one and nothing deserves such attention--likes hot & spicy foods, sunburns--attention focused on legs

Leo: able to stand on own two feet--will fight only if provoked--night time people--extremely sexual, attention focused on groin

Virgo: born travelers, loves trains, boats, planes, anything that moves--interested in the sky and outer space--prone to irritability

Libra: calm, peaceful--likes classic art, music, literature--loves birds--morning people--health problems with hands

Scorpio: restless and undirected, usually in trouble with the law--afraid of fire and snakes--loves money--prefers to write with pencil

Sagittarius: likes soft things to touch, needs stable atmosphere--easily influenced--very dogmatic--prone to mental illness

Capricorn: winter people, likes ice, snow, ice cream--frequents parties--a “do-er”, excitable but tires quickly

Aquarius: health conscious, eats right, exercises, likes to swim--very good with numbers--extremely logical, often to the point of being illogical

Pisces: has an aversion to water--depends heavily on olfactory sense--musical, usually plays an instrument--likes circuses, card tricks, forests--attention focused on lungs and heart

One night after the boy went to sleep, Albert Einstein appeared in the boy’s room and stood by an open window. He blew into his palm and closed his fingers, saying, “Put the past in your hand... and blow it into the future”. Raising his hand to the window, Einstein opened his hand and blew the past across his fingers, as though blowing a kiss.

Now the boy is older. His hair is very long and dark. He is on a bus at night reading fairy tales. He is traveling across America... and if he’s not traveling across America, he’s traveling across someplace very much like America. And he’s wearing the zodiac buckles on a chain around his neck.

©JEF 1985 - 2012

You Came Not To Forgive

You Came Not To Forgive

When you went back to
your childhood home and
walked from room to room
in the darkness,
around furniture that
used to be there,
down the blue hall,
and into what was
your parents’
bedroom--
when you approached the
window with drawn
velvet drapes
and the arms came out
from behind them
and gave you gifts:
the sword which you
drew across your chest
like a horsehair bow
across a violin,
leaving a thin red line
and the iron glove
that slipped itself
onto your left hand--
when you accepted them,
you knew you could
leave that place
without looking back
and you knew what
you had to do.

©JEF 1992