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Stalinstan,
Stalinstan,
Who is present and on hand
From the Party,
From the Union?
Who was on his way
Somewhere else today,
When a chain of men caught him
And then brought him
To…
It’s one in the morning. I’m writing this poem
in a train station.
What does poetry have to do with trains?
I came here unexpectedly
traveling the wrong way.
Telling the story is risky:
I was…
Work, tradesmen, shops, the town is there
with old maids polished down by emptiness
on haberdashers’ threshold where the antique sun
brushes off jewels dusty with being looked at.
Dressed up for…
For two minutes we gazed at each other
In curious silence.
When politeness nudged me in the shoulder,
I introduced myself:
A man, the crown of creation.
The grasshopper
Was not overwhelmed.
He kept…
For the first fifteen years of our lives, Danny and I lived within five blocks of each other and neither of us knew of the other’s existence. [ . . . ]
Danny and I probably would never have met—or we…
“Hey, hey, out of my way!” shouted a driver from the seat of his coach as he nearly ran into two women standing in the middle of the busiest street in Glupsk, both carrying…
The Sharon Valley was full of mud. Wherever we looked all we saw was mud. Fields, green trees and little houses, and great expanses of dark mud. The water from the rains which had fallen over the past…
Only three exits are becoming to every woman, big or small. The first is when she exits from the womb, dirtied, as if from a deep swamp. The second is when she exits from her woman’s tent and enters…
Mendele the bookpeddler says: Whenever a Jew comes to a journey’s end, he feels as if his hips are breaking, his back aching, and his knees shaking from being crushed and squeezed…
Once upon a time, in the “good old days”—some ten or twenty years ago, let’s say—the people in Shklov still did not know what newspapers really were like. Their sole source of news was a solitary…