During the pandemic, I’m making the best of extended time at home with online creative writing courses from Gotham Writers Workshop. Here are some poems resulting from those classes, primarily their excellent 10-week poetry workshop.
Ode to My Fucking Mask
Your unwelcome sweaty embrace
chafes ears, stifles breath,
fogs glasses, muffles speech.
Grudging addition to the mantra:
Keys, check. Phone, check. Wallet, check.
Small sacrifice against the unseen
enemy, hidden, like my face.
Freedom from forced smiles,
small talk: Your gift to introverts.
This is about the skin hunger many of us feel during the pandemic, deprived of the casual hugs and handshakes we once took for granted.
Hunger
Hollow ache in the chest
unsated by phone calls and Zoom.
Deprived, we fuss and fret,
skin starved for lost hugs, handshakes.
Each contact a little electric charge;
our batteries dying.
On my solitary walk, horses amble
to the fence, delicately sniffing my fingers.
Silky brown coats beckon.
For one illicit moment, my hand rests
on warm quivering flesh.
A villanelle is a highly structured verse form consisting of five tercets followed by a quatrain, with two repeating rhymes and two refrains.
The fixed rhyme scheme is challenging: A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2.
Groundhog Day Villanelle
Every day’s the same,
staring at a screen.
The virus is to blame.
Zoom, text, videogame;
reruns of home cuisine.
Every day’s the same.
Cabin-fevered brain;
damn Covid-19.
The virus is to blame.
Birthdays become lame,
stuck in quarantine.
Every day’s the same.
No hugs, haircuts, planes;
no gym or Halloween.
The virus is to blame.
What of life remains?
Awaiting a vaccine.
Every day’s the same;
the virus is to blame.
This persona poem expresses the voice of Oskar Gröning, the unassuming SS corporal known as the bookkeeper of Auschwitz. I mostly used direct and paraphrased interview quotes translated from German to conserve his voice.
Late in life, Gröning acknowledged his moral guilt and asked forgiveness for his role at Auschwitz. There is an interesting Netflix documentary about him.
The Bookkeeper of Auschwitz
I’m a desk person, a small cog
in the machine. I never gave anyone
so much as a slap in the face.
An abandoned baby wrapped in rags
cried like a sick chicken. A guard
slammed its head against a truck
until it was silent. I asked for a transfer.
But orders are to fight the Reich’s enemies
here at the camp. Befehl ist Befehl.
My father and the SS taught me that.
I sort and count the notes plucked
from ownerless suitcases. One day,
Polish zlotys; the next, Dutch guilders;
another, Czech korunas. And the liquor:
French cognac, Greek ouzo, Italian sambuca.
We’re always happy when a transport arrives
from Russia—They have a lovely vodka.
We drink a lot of vodka.
I enjoy hearing from fellow poetry aficionados! Please share your comments below.
Featured photo: Williamsburg, Brooklyn street art I spotted in 2008
Poetry is 4 bums
U da brain dead
everyday man!
W says No1 readz
poetry anymore
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