Morbidity - Eileen Rosensteel

Morbidity   

Eileen Rosensteel

It’s not the weight

it’s the hate that will kill you in the end.

Carrying the fat around

may strain your knees and feet

but the shame eats away

at your heart and soul.

Cholesterol in your arteries

hardens the walls

while discrimination

shreds self esteem and respect.

And prejudice stops a life

faster than obesity ever did.

Night Sky

Until you learn about Chanukah
and the lamp that burned
for eight days,
you look at the colors
of lights and wish.

Then you learn
of the Winter Solstice
and DiWali
and other days
other names
that flip the tongue
as the calendar
turns, grows

And then every flame
in the dark
by any other knowing
starts to glow, aligns -
a planet now born
to guide you.

Facebook Fail - Try Again

Facebook Fail - Try Again

Frannie Zellman


My Dear Sir,

From my profile
you see
that I have written two novels
on the way to a third.
Have edited, poeted, blogged,
politicked, folksonged,
spent numerous words
on matters great and small
and of insubstantial consequence.

Yet the very first thing
you tell me
as a Facebook Friend
is that I would look great
in suspenders?

Winter Solstice II

Winter Solstice II

Frannie Zellman


Winter Solstice II


Longest night of the year.

We stand near waves.

Meeting for the last time,
we summon up morsels
of courage.

"I understand"
is not what I say.
But my icy left hand
meets your gloved right
as if to acknowledge
what worked.

Clouds scud
over rocks
and find themselves
over land.
The hours pass
in wishing,
as if one right word
could absolve.
I scream silently.
"Have you forgotten?"
But my un-sounds
 arch over the Sound
and fall in.
Your face shuts off,
determined not to relive
or grant leniency.

The cold sinks in.
All around us,
air closes,
pulls night deeper.
Once upon a time
you pulled me back
from a sure fall.

Have you forgotten?

Winter Solstice

Winter Solstice

Frannie Zellman


Winter Solstice

Everything plods

toward the new moon.

When you get up at one PM,

there are only three hours

of light left.

Better to make hot things,

burrow into the house

like a sleeping squirrel

hiding its stash.

If you make a fire,

it burns low 

 sparks will

not catch,

but drift toward flakes,

then ash.

Early Winter Sunset

Early Winter Sunset


Grey day, warm.
We didn't see the sun.
Yet around 4:15 PM
pink strips flanked clouds
then swirled into nuclear light.
The clouds grew thick and dark
above the heart of many colors
each egging on the other
as if red had decided to break
into bright that it hurt to name.

Long after the sky drew to black
You could detonate the light
underneath.

Flying

Frannie Zellman

Flying

In those days before the flight

I dreamed the plane crashed 

because I weighed so much.

Yet when I finally boarded 

I felt wings.

I forgot weight, height, breadth,

volume,

time, day, month, year.

In sleep, radiance, now become aroma,

suffused what was once my body

and stole over the hidden stars

like the milky breath

of flowers.

On waking, dark.

Suddenly on one side

the plane exploded into sun.

And I, the flyer,

straddled the edge

of night and day

as if I'd been born

to stalk heaven.

Big Fat Bitch

Big Fat Bitch   (From Fat Poets Speak:  Voices of the Fat Poets' Society)


Frannie Zellman


I am not a nice or good fat woman.

I do not have a friendly bone in my body.

I do not cook. I hate playing with babies.

I am not eager to do kindnesses.


I do not pretend sweetness.

I do not give easily or happily of my time or ideas.

I like to shut the windows, bar the door and grab a book.

I do not exercise.  I do not eat healthy foods,
       whatever those are.

I do not have large soft breasts.

I don't have a fluffy yielding belly or round cheeks.

I do not bring home baked bread to gatherings.

I don't do merry.

I walk fast and frown and make angry faces
       at people in my way.

I tend to order in and eat the rest of the pizza for breakfast-
       cold.

I elbow my way into subways and push thinner passengers
       aside.

I do not apologize in any way shape or form
        for what or who I am.

I am fat and likely to remain so, which poses absolutely
        no problem for me.

I am a bitch and likely to remain so, which also poses
        absolutely no problem for me.

Eat shit, world. And down the rest of your assumptions with it.

I leave no room for you.

Lesleigh Owen - Blue

Lesleigh Owen

Blue

Beautiful, bountiful, bright blue

Blossom,

Following the sun with your

Gentle head.

In the salty nighttime,

Jupiter smirks a

path through the sunroof

while Van Gogh comets

swirl

in chunks of blue.

I remember the night,

stuffed with cottony fog,

when the moon

exploded from behind

indigo mountains,

a UFO intent on domination

and anal probes. We

laughed and

wondered when we could kiss.

And then we did and awakened in

a train station with

hot, blue-gray steam,

padded seats,

and destinations

beautiful in their fairy tale

familiarity.

I wanted.

I wanted to give you

the least carnationy

flower in the world.

I wanted to polish others’ eyes

into gleaming

mirrors that reflect the rolling roundness

of your wavy ocean belly.

I wanted to sip your azure thoughts

and

eat each fragrant breath.

The moon stains my arm –

blue, with hints of magenta.

The ocean is a sea

of bright blue tears

and I

learned to swim with fat mermaids.

Snow Flurry

Snow Flurry

Not predicted,

each flake first

hit the air

like a cat's kiss:

singular, milky, 

needling.

Even when a few more

nosed their way down,

they slipped

instead of eddying,

too slow for grace,

too pointed for cold.

Not even half a minute.

The grass called their bluff

and didn't even 

spin to wet.

December Full Cold Moon

December Full Cold Moon

The rain stops.

Pulsing over grey clouds,

silver circle flits,

streaks to the top 

of the bowl.

You have to work your head

all the way back.

It hurts, knowing

that rogue month

somewhere sleeping in this bad year

held someone's

last step.

.Another Unarmed Young Black Man Shot In A Country Held Hostage to the 19th Century

Another Unarmed Young Black Man Shot In A Country Held Hostage to the 19th Century


How many sirens does it take?

Ignore the voices at your peril.

Late Bloomer

Late Bloomer

In October

when the neighbors' trees

flame to russet

it remains green.

We always wonder

if it will stay this way,

its leaves carrying

last spring

like a song that left.

The trees in other yards

flaunt all shades

of autumn,

then toss in the wind,

losing each last bright streak.

Third week in November:

and they've flown. 

But suddenly 

when we've almost given up

the holdout  tree

starts to melt from

green

 to soft butter

opens blanket yellow

as clouds stall

then

Every year

right around Thanksgiving

when the low autumn sun hits,

it fires to unceasing

and uncompromising

yellow gold.

keeping well

into December.

its own 

uncanny 

but welcome 

late harvest.

It never fails

to astound

and we always feel guilty

at exactly the same time

as if our doubt

could have stopped it

from glowing.

Sixty

Sixty


Yep.
Red hat.
Green jacket.
Grey shoes.
Make up when
I like.
No make up when
I don't.
Music I choose.
Food I delight in.
People I crave.

Long monologues
on the weather
politics
seduction
cats.

Not changing
my figure now,
nope, sorry.

I don't have to.

Got a problem with that?

Ferguson

Ferguson

Smoke flies over

streets, the hospital

the cameras

anger

denied

finally 

out in flames

This is what 

justice

looks like

sounds like

No one moving

except police

Signs, singing

finally

but too few

Comeuppance: Dad at 89

Comeuppance:  Dad at 89

He finished most of the crossword,

left two rows.

After he left

I corrected "i" to "e."

He came back in two hours,

completed the puzzle.

Eighty nine, and he finished

the sudoku, too,

which I cannot begin to see.

My knowledge fills one or two spaces.

His spans words, numbers

and sciences

I will never retrieve.

Deer

Deer



When the deer came.

The sky was arched with pink streaks

and there was a mist over or between 

grass and leaves.

It was as if crystalline air blew them

into this life,

then wafted them into the hedges.

Confused, they stared at me

as I pushed the door aside

and walked onto the patio.

Two more seconds,

and I wouldn't have seen them.

Now,when twilight begins,

I look for them to crash

through the lines,

but the sky and sun stay

calm and free of magic.

 

I keep staring.

I have forgotten how to hope.

Thinking About Rain

Thinking About Rain

At night we

Chose the lake.

Waves churned

Scuttlebutt breezes,

Made us restless,

As if they knew

About the rain.

Then the sky dried up

And curls of mist

Rose, creating quiet cold

And my need

To touch your hand

Without speaking.

Thinking About Raining

Thinking About Raining

Not color to color
or line to line
but stone to
not quite drops
the slowness
of breath
like water



Thinking About Raining

Almost tired.
Trees go still.
Sound stops.
Easy to imagine
that grey
will slink
into sighs

Mr. Cardinal Hides

Mr. Cardinal Hides

The cardinal hid today.

A year ago

He came to the patio door

When I was standing just inside

And proceeded to dance

And display

As if I were a female cardinal.

But today I heard his chirrup

In one of the neighbor’s trees.

I could not see him.

When I fixed on the tree

He was in

With my ears,

I saw, amid shades of paler

And orange red,

A deep uncompromising red

Which in a month’s time

Would be a leaf

But which now, shocking

The reds around it,

Didn’t move with the wind.

Then I knew him,

But didn’t move or smile

Or call.

He was after all in hiding

And probably thought

By the stillness in which

He sat,

That nothing could see him.

I was not about to shatter

His illusions

Of camouflage.

I just hope that

Some other fauna,

Less charmed than this human,

Didn’t try to take a bite or nip

At the one leaf

That didn’t move

With the wind.

Mosquitoes

Mosquitoes

I don’t know if there are seasons

When the flesh of a tall heavy

Dark haired woman of 60

Is more delectable.

Usually the mosquitoes menace

In summer,

Stick tiny stingers.

Soft thigh flesh bitten

Sings of a meal

Well taken.

This time, however,

Not until October

Did my friends

Choose to feast.

Perhaps they are going

For the vampire look –

Teeth raised, incisors poised,

Victim alluringly terrified.

The only problem is

That they are mosquitoes,

Not bats,

And thus their ability to stun

Is limited.

They can only generate pink

Buds

Not blood lines of fear,

And their most evil looks

Are lost on bigger life forms.

But remember, would-be beasties,

The thrill of your mosquito lifetimes

Begins and ends well south

Of the throat

And itches its target

So much more successfully.

Try again next summer,

When you don’t have to live up

To movie clichés of fear

And need not imitate their drama.

Don’t laze until autumn.

Burnish those points.

Bare your weapons.

I, your meal, will be waiting.

To Charlotte Bronte

To Charlotte Bronte

You wrote my favorite book.

But would you have liked me -

tall, heavy, dark-haired

Like the painting of Cleopatra

That you scorned,

With eyes dark as coals

And something of a temper?

I would have loved to write

In tiny letters, as you did:

Spare, carefully inked in.

But my handwriting, when legible,

Tends to flourish-ridden and grand.

I visited both Haworth and Brussels,

Your home and your nemesis.

The wind screamed wonderfully

In Haworth, and shivered

Through less-than-heated rooms.

But I had a wonderful cream tea

In  town.

In Brussels

The plaque with your name

Had been removed,

But the map still showed

The school.

Now a film center,

It still bore the marks

Of the garden,

The forbidden alley

And the spy casement.

As I stood there,

The school swam

Like a bottled genie

Into the terrace

And vanquished the film center.

I could hear whispers and laughter

In French and Flemish

And see you as you wrote

In loneliness, pride and longing

To the brilliant, cynical professeur

Who broke your heart.

Rain flew down in gusts.

One hundred fifty years

hence, and the park

was still wide-pathed

and quiet.

The church you prayed in

Still echoed your words:

“Mon pere, je suis Protestante.”

I, a Jew, repeated them

As if to summon you.

What would you have thought?

Would the exchange

Have ended in friendship?

Or would you have looked,

Sneered and walked on?

A tall man with a sign

Sat on the steps.

He needed money.

I palmed a five-franc bill

Into his hat,

And wondered

If you would have done

The same.

Pressed Flower

Pressed Flower                Frannie Zellman  

To the memory of my mother, Millicent Eunice Kant (1928-2014)

A paper cut out

Of gold in your hair,

With a white sash

And white silk scarf.

At six, you are a daisy.

You dance around the pole

And sing.

You forget the eye condition

They can’t cure.

When you are thirteen,

You skim the stage

In toe shoes, smiling magic

Into the hall.

You forget

That you're not dancer-thin.

When you are sixteen,

Your voice floats an aria

Onto the record.

Even Italian cannot capture

its fluid sweetness.

You sing and play by ear.

When you are twenty,

Fifteen men ask you out.

You smile and toss out

Words to amuse.

Instead you captivate -

More interesting than

Dewey and Russell.

You are a bouquet of flowers,

The sound of swift laughter,

Sun on the parkway.

But they tell you

the next performance schedule:

marriage, children.

Why couldn’t they have just let you play?

How to Undress a Fat Woman

Kathy Barron is surely one of the mistresses/masters of fat erotic poetry, so I can only follow quietly in her footsteps :)



If your eyes
know how to undress a fat woman
how to  love the  flesh
that ripples under her arms
and slips over her belly
how to play under her pants
and grab hold of the rounded hips,
how to limn the hair like small feathers,
how to tease
in thought
the soft moistness
and oh so satisfying wet curves
that glisten when your mouth sweeps them,

then you are allowed
to let your fingers
follow
your stare

A Wish

During the last two weeks before she slipped into semi-consciousness, my mom voiced the desire to go outside. Because she could not sit, I was afraid that she might -we might- hurt her, even badly. At least my rational side kept telling me that it was impossible.

Another side kept arguing that it just might be within the realm of possibility...

And I have reproached myself every day since she passed on.


A Wish


I thought
if we wrapped you up
in sheets and blankets
as you sailed down
in the chair,
you would hardly
feel you were sitting
at all

you would simply
greet the motion
of the oiled wheels
as part of what you'd
known hundreds of times
before your body
refused to flex

And some inner magic
would lead you
not to feel pain
as we propelled you
into the second chair
and wheeled you
first onto the porch
then into the backyard

where your always-friends
the cardinals
would hail you
with their dry chirrup
and the blue jays
would grind out
the harsh croak
that signalled their presence.

But before we could ease you out,
you flew to another place
inside the bedroom
and prepared
to seek another sky

now you arrive
every time i walk
in the yard
as I know all too well
what I could not bring you
before you left

Forgive me
if you can.
Be with me

The Terminally Fashionable Ms. I

Ms. I
thin as a fashionable rail
not a hair out of place
not a button loose
not a thread frayed
not a heel worn
reels back on her feet
when confronted
with the ineffable sight
and sound and touch
of a fat student
who wishes to hug her
in thanks.

Ms. I
looks down her nose
almost wrinkles it
almost gapes
almost blanches
not quite believing
her oh so trim limbs
and fashionably spectacled
eyes.

Ms. I
takes one fashionably small
step back
to let the student know
the full extent
of her oh so fashionable
disapproval.

Ms. I
takes one fashionably short
breath
because breathing longer and louder
would be hopelessly uncouth.

Ms. I
lets her fashionably spectacled
eyes
glaze over just  slightly
as her pursed mouth yields
a wordless reproach
and her skin crawls
just a smidgen.

How did I ever let her in my class again?
her adeptly fashionable mind rages,
but not too far.

To meet one's anger and show it
is so so uncouth
that it stands the risk
of exposing the owner
as terminally
irredeemably
unrescuably

unfashionable

Last of the Line

What I will probably do is launch a separate blog to write about my mom and our family. Meanwhile..

Last of the Line

I only understood

Long after they’d left

Long after I could have

Asked them the questions

That would have joined the stories.

They ask to be told, but I can only write

And thread them inexpertly,

Like a reluctant tailor’s apprentice:

Great grandma in May Day parades,

Great grandpa making Prohibition wine,

Grandpa at HUAC (House UnAmerican Activities Committee)

 not naming names,

Grandma helping the evicted

back inside.

Will a city embrace them

like some kind friend

or recite them,

Like Kaddish,

And score them with voice

Into hereafter,

Dreams written

Into memory

By the last of the line?

Opera

Opera     (To the Memory of My Mother)



You left your body
before you died.
I could feel you,
a slight coolness
softness in the ether.

I was so glad
that you could fly up
and poise yourself
above your thin
tired little arms.

First you swam
past lights
then to the window.
You stopped
near the closet,
then turned
and floated
the wall.

Before you left,
you came back
one more time
and glued your eyes
into mine
to say, "Always."

As you passed,

your voice,
now released,
ranged into trees,
wheeled
into the night-borne
dark blue sky
and climbed free


over early autumn stars,
singing.

Limbo

Limbo


She sleeps
stops sleeping,

she belongs to me
belongs to all

she is
was
will have been

Fullness

Fullness

When they blossom

Into full flower,

Roses flow in circle

Harmony

Like notes of two full chords

Played together, then separately

Then together again

By sections of an orchestra

That sing off one by one

Until the solo flute

Tosses off

three hurtfully

Perfect high notes

Bright as petals

In rain.

Talking Fire

Talking Fire

If I just touched it, he said,

No one would get hurt.

I told him he had best go

To the Combat Zone.

He said he didn’t have the money.

Surely, I told him, he could find

More expert handling.

I talked till we reached a busy street.

He said, “There are too many people

Here. Good bye.”

When I reached what was then home,

I sprawled face down

In my clothes.

Too tired to cry, I blessed my strength

And talking fire.

Too glad and angry to sleep,

I tried not to feel sorry

For the life form

That did not succeed

In shaming me.

Tease

Today the cardinal teased.
Mrs. Cardinal heard him.
She sat on a lower branch
and responded in measure.
His metallic chups echoed
from the highest tree.
Not seeing him, I sent my eyes
around and past and yon.
At times he verged on descent,
but found another high branch.
I stood another minute,
then went back in.
As I shut the door, he dipped down.
I felt his chup swooping
and knew he had perched
on the lower branch.
His red flew past
blurred as dreams,
bright as closure.

Cardinal Rule

Cardinal Rule                    Frannie Zellman


The male cardinal played tag with me today.
He sang in one tree, then another.
Then he flew away, only to fly back
And pose a question in sound flight.
How can a short chirp appear
to change trees in mid-voice?

The female cardinal flew over,
then settled in a lower tree.
I saw her sitting, waiting,
not overly upset or unwound
by my presence.
Perhaps she knew
what her spouse needed to learn:
That one human on the ground
Is worth several in a tree.

At the Kolomey Station

At the Kolomey Station - Translation by Martha Birnbaum. Original in Yiddish, by Itsik Manger: Oyf der stantsye Kolomey

Every time I walk on or near Pelham Parkway Station in the Bronx, I think of this poem, even though I knew my grandparents well for more than 30 years. But when I walk there, I cannot rid myself of the thought that somehow, they are there to greet me.

Frannie

At the Kolomey Station (translated by Martha Birnbaum)
oyf der stantsye Kolomey tsvishn a gantser eyde, shteyen gehoykert shotns tsvey, mayn bobe un mayn zeyde. zogt der zeyde: «Sheyndl, du herst – un zayne oygn brenen – undzer eynikl kumt tsu gast, vi azoy veln mir im derkenen? vayl ven Khave hot zayn vig gevigt zenen mir shoyn beyde gelegn unter di grozn, untern vint oyf yener zayt fun di vegn.» shmeykhlt di bobe, in ire hent tsitert a bintl blumen – brumt der zeyde: «beheyme, tsu vos hostu dos mitgenumen?» zogt di bobe: «kh'hob, Itsik kroyn, di blumen in feld opgerisn, s'iz a mode bay hayntike layt azoy a gast tsu bagrisn.» zey shvaygn. s'shrayt a lokomotiv «tsi kumt er? tsi vet er kumen?» un in der bobes dare hent tsitert dos bintl blumen. «dos eynikl, zogt men, iz–u-va! a vazhner knaker in gramen, in zayne gramen tsitert un veynt di neshome fun zayn mamen.» di bobe dreyt avek dem kop mit epes ibergenumen. di bobe veynt, in ire hent tsitert dos bintl blumen...	At the Kolomey station in a large gathering, stand two stooped shadows my grandma and my grandpa. Grandpa speaks: “Sheyndl, - you hear - - and his eyes are burning - our grandson is coming to visit, how will we ever recognize him? When Chava rocked his cradle both of us were already lying under the earth, under the wind on the other side of the road.” Grandma smiled, in her hand trembled a bouquet of flowers – Grumbles grandpa: “You ox, why did you bring those along?” Grandma says: “Itsik, my treasure, I plucked the flowers in the field, It’s a custom in today’s world to greet a guest like this.” They were silent. The train cries “Is it coming? Will it come?” And in grandma’s thin hand the bouquet of flowers trembled. “Our grandson, they say, is –a splendid boy! a  wonderful poet, in his poems trembles and cries the soul of his mother.” Grandma turns her head overcome by some emotion. She cries, in her hands trembles the little bouquet…	אױף דער סטאַנציע קאָלאָמײ צװישן אַ גאַנצער עדה, שטײען געהױקערט שאָטנס צװײ, מײַן באָבע און מײַן זײדע. זאָגט דער זײדע: «שײנדל, דו הערסט – און זײַנע אױגן ברענען – אונדזער אײניקל קומט צו גאַסט, װי אַזױ װעלן מיר אים דערקענען? װײַל װען כאַװע האָט זײַן װיג געװיגט זענען מיר שױן בײדע געלעגן אונטער די גראָזן, אונטערן װינט אױף יענער זײַט פֿון די װעגן.» שמײכלט די באָבע, אין אירע הענט ציטערט אַ בינטל בלומען – ברומט דער זײדע: «בהמה, צו װאָס האָסטו דאָס מיטגענומען?» זאָגט די באָבע: «כ'האָב, איציק קרױן, די בלומען אין פֿעלד אָפּגעריסן, ס'איז אַ מאָדע בײַ הײַנטיקע לײַט אַזױ אַ גאַסט צו באַגריסן.» זײ שװײַגן. ס'שרײַט אַ לאָקאָמאָטיװ «צי קומט ער? צי װעט ער קומען?» און אין דער באָבעס דאַרע הענט ציטערט דאָס בינטל בלומען. «דאָס אײניקל, זאָגט מען, איז – או־װאַ! אַ װאַזשנער קנאַקער אין גראַמען, אין זײַנע גראַמען ציטערט און װײנט די נשמה פֿון זײַן מאַמען.» די באָבע דרײט אַװעק דעם קאָפּ מיט עפּעס איבערגענומען. די באָבע װײנט, אין אירע הענט ציטערט דאָס בינטל בלומען...

Song to Sky - Eileen Rosensteel

Eileen Rosensteel

Song to Sky (from Fat Poets Speak 2:  Living and Loving Fatly, Pearlsong Press, 2014)

Eileen Rosensteel

Song to Sky

Let me be the mountain to your sky.

I will ground you, hold you steady.

Blow where you need,

I will be here.

Massive, unmovable

You who are the holder of

          sun and moon

          steady and shifting.

I am the earth

          fertile and rocky

          stretching up to meet you.

The sky may never know the depths of me.

The way down roots of rock.

As I will not fly the forever arch of atmosphere.

But where we meet,

in the juicy middle

there will be life.