Three Poems by Rodger Kamenetz

The Real

The word “real”– completely vexed foreign word we use every day– “get real man”– “reality tv” oxymoron– not to be confused with the real in real estate which comes from royal meaning the king owns the land– no this real means either the material concrete nubby substantial toe stubbing, bullet piercing, ass hurting, scar tissue forming, sidewalk scraping, hot flashing hardware– or else the highest deepest broadest truest hidden arrangement of light behind thought behind body behind deed- the holy of holy of holies in the high priest’s brain when the Ein Sof shouts down its lightning and breaks open the heart of the universe and time stops in its gears to unwind another year’s folly– and all the people outside bow down muttering and kiss the ground– their lips in the dust– but a minute later they wipe them off brush off their clothes, stand up, start up that cycle of what’s real man, what’s really really real & don’t you know they get back to their business in a God damned minute?

Seder of theWicked Sun

–…halilah hazeh– maror

Never until now and again feeling Passover Lonely man on the roof, lonely man with correct spelling and noon in the moon, the roof with moon flowers of shadows only, light on the gravel, you wait for the full moon to pass over. And no one will rescue you, Lonely. No one will speak with you. The moon’s head is out of voice. And you will not fly off the roof, blood smeared on the lintel means death has passed you by. Until the sun raises another day you pray at the moon. Teeth set on edge. The dog will bark, Lonely the dog will say its name in the dark, Lonely, you will call the dog but the dog will not call you, Lonely. Spell it any way you can with or without the I.

They came in a group, left in a group, with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, her grandmother arm with fat shaking gelatin his hand bony and veined, the old children, the young old men singing in the dark in fire-darkened Egypt, clouds of fire crowds of smoke, dogs barking up and down the Nile river full of blood, frogs and lice, black snakes curled in the trees. Never until now and again feeling passed over with or without the I. Had you been there, you would not have been there, for you boils and plague, said the wise son for you matzah meal and eggs, said the wise son and the simple son, What is this?

Had you been there you would not have been there Last year he was slave, this year he is free last night we were slaves, tonight we are free a minute ago I was slave, in a minute will be free The wicked son bites the wise son The wise son strangles the simple son The silent son praises the wise son who does not know

Alone on the gravel roof, the sound of barking forced sounds struggle in the throat of a dog, Lonely music dispel it any way you can, had you been there you would not have been saved tonight or any night passed over for you bile and plague, for you murdered rain for you dam, for you ersatz, for you ten drops of blood in the plate, spattered trail, morse code dits and dats the angels laughing, my children are dying and you are laughing angels on the rooftop laughing and angels muffled in earth and for the son who does not know how to ask, weeping we tell the whole story: How the fire burnt the stick, how the cat burned the lamb how the butcher slew the butcher’s wife, how the angel of death loved them all, how the holy one blessed the death how the stick beat the stick, how the angel beat the angel how the burned burned the fire, how the fire quenched the thirst how the water bathed the angel, how the lamb slew the butcher how the lion loves the lion and the lamb loves the lamb how one kid one kid one kid father bought and lost

The dog barks in itself. The day circles in night night bears out the day. Noon in the moon and dawn in the dusk The lonely dog barks for no reason, like music. But to hear it from here it sounds like someone joking in his voice. Lonely, the dog will not call you. Lonely, the lamb will not bark Lonely the gnats will fly out of a river of blood, hover over the brimming cup undrunk by Elijah, spill it any way you can: ten drops on the plate subtracted from the weeping, four brothers at the table subtracted from the father who cries out to the angels for the one who does not know, who cannot ask why are you laughing, my children are dying and you bark and bark, a lion choking in your throat lamb bone smeared lintel, burnt egg on the plate parsley tuftsgreen, bitter herbs sweetened with stained apples you lift a cup for the promise, lonely on the roof invisible cup, cup of nothing, invisible Elijah.

A Street in Manhattan , A Hut in Kabul

The dead lie in their furrows side by side. Their feet are horn, their bones, clay. They lie with their mouths open, covered with webs. An itinerant spider works. An army of mites crawls over their eyes and into their nostrils.

I am sorry for the dead there inside my hut. The hut I have built out of words and slight music. I stand over them and sprinkle them with icing of dust. My pity is another shovel in their ditch.

Rodger Kamenetz will be doing a live reading at the Zeek event, Praise, Grumble, Schmooze, Lament on 31 January 2008 at the 92nd Street Y.