Warren Falcon

Gold Star - 4,888 Points (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

For Zukofsky, Alphabet Streets - Beginning & Ending With Lines From Zukofsky, - Poem by Warren Falcon

for Louis Zukofsky


'O framar of
the starry circle'
O what is the name,
lost perhaps, of
he who once sharpened
all our knives,
the old Jew?

THIS OUR LIFE
SOME FEW RETURN
TO HEAR/SEE
EVIDENCE OF
THE NATURE OF
A CITY TO
CONTINUALLY
ERASE ITSELF

*

O Shapener of
the duller blade
turning hammers
sickles for Workers
everywhere, bricks,
straw, verse

The breast naturally
of Woman is bread
before was bread,
the child loaf-swell
in Her arms to farm
and from such
frame a world.

Thus Labor.
Bread, History.

Child's toil unspoiled
forms a culture beast,
crawls forth, makes
bread of soil native
& other, a Mother culture
all & still, everywhere.

*

History before was brunch
ever in the world. Sunday.
Avenue C. Door opens to sun
and saunter/the wanderers
now' arm in arm they goes'

just past every corner where
is found Rosenbergs still
bound, abandoned, run over,
bleeding ink into avenue
black scroll, trial,
knee/kneel, rather,

evoke schtetl horse-drawn
vender runner-about cart
heaving vegetable grief
returned to synagogue
alley dead end where

what is left out of grief
carves into brick with knives
the daylong silver Jew-beard
fills with sparks
and children awe

trace metals trail
splintered steel falls
pushes he of the leaden
cart spokes-handmade
wheels-wooden old tongues'
leather an old seeing
shaping art or 'new it
up' outwith
forth- for hind-
or other-sight
heat lightning
render new sight

some sundering strike
each individual eye/ear
torn/turn toward whatever
century's year may yield
make:


'O framar of
the starry circle'
O what is the name,
lost perhaps, of
he who once sharpened
all our knives,
the old Jew?

THIS OUR LIFE
SOME FEW RETURN
TO HEAR/SEE

EVIDENCE OF
THE NATURE OF
A CITY IS TO
CONTINUALLY
ERASE ITSELF

'...What wer, what be, what
shall bifall..how found knowe
Suche forme..wiche knowes not
shape? As oft the running
stile In sea paper leue,
Some printed lettars..marke haue
none at all..But a
passion..sturs The myndz forse
while body liues, What light
the yees..bit, Or sound
in ear...strike.'** - Louis Zukofsky


*************

** '...What were, what be, what
shall befall..how found know
Such form..which knows not
shape? As oft the running
still In sea paper leave,
Some printed letters..mark have
none at all..But a
passion..stirs The mind's force
while body lives, What light
the eyes..bite, Or sound
in ear...strike.'


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Poem Submitted: Friday, June 14, 2013

Poem Edited: Sunday, August 18, 2013


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