Hyam Plutzik Poems
|2.||Because the Red Osier Dogwood||12/4/2017|
|3.||On Hearing That My Poems Were Being Studied in a Distant Place||12/4/2017|
|4.||The Airman Who Flew Over Shakespeare's England||12/4/2017|
|5.||The Last Fisherman||12/4/2017|
|7.||For T.S.E. Only||12/4/2017|
|9.||To My Daughter||12/4/2017|
|10.||I Have Read in the Book of the Butcher Boy (In Time of War)||12/4/2017|
|11.||If Causality is Impossible, Genesis is Recurrent||12/4/2017|
|12.||A New Explanation of the Quietude and Talkativeness of Trees||12/5/2017|
|14.||AFTER LOOKING INTO A BOOK BELONGING TO MY GREAT-GRANDFATHER, ELI ELIAKIM PLUTZIK||12/5/2017|
|15.||Cancer and Nova||12/5/2017|
|19.||The Old War||12/5/2017|
|20.||Sprig Of Lilac||12/27/2014|
Comments about Hyam Plutzik
Sprig Of Lilac
Their heads grown weary under the weight of Time—
These few hours on the hither side of silence—
The lilac sprigs bend on the bough to perish.
Though each for its own sake is beautiful,
In each is the greater, the remembered beauty.
Each is exemplar of its ancestors.
Within the flower of the present, uneasy in the wind,
Are the forms of those of the years behind the door.
Their faint aroma touches the edge of the mind.
And the living and the past give to one another.
There is no door between them. They pass freely
Out of themselves; becoming one ...
Now the swift rot of the flesh is over.
Now only the slow rot of the bones in the Northern damp.
Even the bones of that tiny foot that brought her doom.
Imagine a land where there is no rain as we know rain.
Not the quick dashing of water to the expectant face,
But the weary ooze of spent drops in the earth.
Imagine the little skeleton lying there—