By Bert Meyers
Pitzer university, Claremont, California, is the positioning of the historical Grove residence in-built 1902 and moved to the college's campus within the Nineteen Seventies. inside of Grove home is the Bert Meyers Poetry Room, named in honor of the writer of this assortment and previous instructor at Pitzer.Bert Meyers wrote those poems among 1947 and 1979. sooner than his dying on the age of fifty-one, Meyers decided what he thought of his top paintings; following his dying Meyers's widow and son additional to the gathering, all of which now seems in In a Dybbuk's Raincoat, introducing a brand new new release to Bert Meyers's poetry and songs.Morten Marcus, pal of Bert Meyers, used to be requested via Meyers's widow to paintings together with her and Meyers's son, Daniel, to get In a Dybbuk's Raincoat into print."There are really good issues right here: prose items fullyyt new to me, smelly paragraphs approximately Paris, energetic reviews on poetry, and several other naughty phrases approximately Yeats. on occasion, one encounters previous classics, comparable to 'Picture Framing.' it is excellent that Morton Marcus and Bert's son, Daniel, have introduced out this book."--Robert Bly, writer of My Sentence was once 1000 Years of JoyL.A.The world's biggest ash-tray,the most recent in concrete,capital of the absurd;one large studiowhere humans drivefrom set to set and everyone'sfrom a unique planet.For miles, the palm trees,exotic janitors,sweep out the sky at dusk.The gray air molds.Geraniums warmth the alleys.Jasmine and gasolineundress the night.This is the desertthat misplaced its mind,the position that boredom built.Freeways, condominiums, malls,where the cartons of trash and diamondsand ideologiesare opened, used, dumped into the sea.Pencil SharpenerIt has no palms or legs, this tiny nude; but grip it by means of the waist, then stir its hips: a dry leaf multiplies, a chilly motor starts off within the wood.Revived, nonetheless shivering, the pencil sheds itself-- and there is a butterfly, enamel, the fragments of a crown.They Who Waste MeWhen I ask for a hand,they supply me a shovel.If I bitch, they say,Worms are needles at workto dress a corpse for spring.I sigh. Whoever breatheshas inhaled a neighbor.
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Additional resources for In a Dybbuk's Raincoat: Collected Poems
There’s so much blood the warm sun walks like Christ upon it. A needle’s eye in his tattered head is losing his life’s essential thread; the crowd kneels down. A siren blows. The man tries to straighten out his body, like a suit of clothes. We see the tailor in his chest And we thank the heart, and nothing else, that patched his head, that he smiles at us and isn’t dead. ■ 13 14 ■ From Early Rain On a Summer Night On a golden boulevard I watch the women: so many ﬂow past me. And their hips rock like little ships that need a mast to go to sea.
Now, the rain, the iron rain, with its little keys is closing all the doors . . and I think we’re all dead. See how the sky sits like a tombstone on the roofs. 20 ■ From Early Rain At My Window Across the street nine boys in the weeds scream, hurling rocks. Blackbirds are headlines overhead. One boy looks at the sun. And I look back at how I stood, under a tree, my hands hot with stones. A squirrel, tail up and balanced on a bough, faced me like a question I couldn’t answer. Here, on this jewel of earth, time tears at the green edge.
But porcupines: they’re very mean to have such spines. ■ 9 10 ■ From Early Rain Once, in Autumn Once, in autumn, I saw the sun pause in the wrinkles of a tree like passion on an old man’s face. My father, armed with shears, came out and trimmed the little shrubs to death. And always, in a wild backyard my father stepped upon his ﬂesh (those blind galoshes struck the earth) and tough as trucks, his hands ran loose killing the plants they couldn’t name. A lawn—or passion—if ignored may rise around a house like ﬁre.