Barbara F. Lefcowitz
Biography of Barbara F. Lefcowitz
I've published nine poetry collections, listed below, and am now working on a New & Selected collection, which I hope to publish as an e-book. Tentative title is 'Combing the Rain.' Have also published fiction and essays, won writing fellowships and awards from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Rockefeller Foundation, the Maryland Arts Council and individual journals. A native New Yorker, I now live in Bethesda, MD.
Barbara F. Lefcowitz's Works:
A Risk of Green, The Wild Piano, Shadows & Goatbones, The Minarets of Vienna, A Hand of Stars, The Queen of Lost Baggage, The Politics of Snow, Photo Bomb Red Chair,
The Blue Train to America.
Barbara F. Lefcowitz Poems
Summer has arrived too early, before I’ve even set the table. It does not apologize. I offer it a drink,
-for Grzegorz A brick wall, empty benches, sharply angled trees, a stone path
Aunt Lorraine was singing Ramona, slightly off-key but with feeling, as they used to say, and Uncle Jules was playing Gershwin on an old upright,
I need only admire the vivid yellows when I drive past fields of black-eyed susans their stems intertwined to keep each other from falling
It had only a slow and brackish flow. Every Italian town has at least two or three, so my failure to recall the fountain outside the Clio Hotel in Puglia
My Runaway Glasses
I woke to discover that my glasses had escaped. How dare they slip from their case, skip down the stairs on their rims
Beads Of Fire
BEADS OF FIRE In Mandarin and English the Moon Gate Medicinal Spice Shop lures me inside on this bitter
The old man on the Danube embankment wearing a torn sweater and a Yankees cap has forgotten how to dance the czardas what he did in the Wars, the names of the
In the harbor, shining emerald slab, red and plum whorls interlaced, the grooved frequencies of ancient trade routes.
3: 00 a.m. Eastern Daylight Savings Time. My roof is a ballroom, the tempo of its rain-dance ranging from tap to tango to foxtrot to waltz, a slow
The special tonight is homebaked Loneliness Pie. We’ve run out of everything else the waitress says. Sorry. The jukebox is playing Mendelssohn’s Hebrides Overture. B-minor music for a dark and solitary place.
Silver linings have broken away from their clouds. I’m not sure when this separation began, can only note how the linings twist and float, wrap around hailstones, debris tossed
Most of the streamers are yellow some aqua, some candy- apple red The children have hung them
I’m in love with Al Bowlly leaning towards a microphone back when the world was out of money, moving away, arms curved, spread palms
Aunt Lorraine was singing Ramona,
slightly off-key but with feeling,
as they used to say, and Uncle Jules
was playing Gershwin on an old upright,
concentrating so hard his face looked down,
creased as if he were in pain, and the women
kept gossiping, complaining about their
hot flashes, comparing face creams,
the men loudly arguing politics or sports,