gershon hepner Poems

The novelist’s art can compel our beliefs,
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Are You There?


Lovers wish to make it known
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Who is the puzzled, turbaned man who gazes
into the distance from a canvas on the wall?
He’s Rembrandt, and it seems that it amazes
the artist to be taken for St. Paul.
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Come quick, baby, and remind me
where I once began and show me
places where you think you find me,
for it’s very clear you know me
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Good Catholics used to eat the dish
on Fridays and when they thought that God
said Fridays they must all eat fish,
the fish they chose to eat was cod.
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I remember gentle Brent,
where detergents used to float
on a river that was meant
Wembley-wards to reach. No boat
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Ere the leviathan can swim a league
let us in idleness for love find room,
and when we have to stop because fatigue
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Common sense, has died, I’m sad to say,
preceded by the death of parents, Truth and Trust;
his wife Discretion also passed away,
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When a man is greeted by
his dog he feels he is a mensch,
obedient, the dog will try
to please his master like a wench
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Deliberately we break the glass
which like a virgin’s hymen shatters,
a ritual where, as in a mass,
it’s wine recalling blood that splatters,
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