Three Horrible Poems

Riot, Pogrom and Razzia

You stare at me and what you see is horrible,

A thing shrivelled and covered with black layers of pain,

Ageless and not really alive, you are not even sure

I am animal or vegetable, maybe a stone shaped by time;

But when I look at you, my eyes are those of an infant,

Perhaps a foetus not fully born, something hidden

Before the first breath of humanity.

I was placed here out of fear, from the very beginning,

Told to be silent, not to wriggle, and to wait

Until we come for you. Then the second time,

They pushed my shadow aside, and said sh-sh, my love.

Outside the loud noises, the shuddering when the door

Was kicked, then the smack of a whip, the thud

Of bodies dragged down  the steps. Each season I crept

Further into myself, swallowed my fears and my hunger,

Adding layer on layer of apprehension, cold

In winter, hot in summer, year after year.

Now finally someone slides the panel, shines

A light into my face, but I cannot blink

Or move a finger, none of the many names

I once had animates my memory.

I am too afraid to recognize a voice that does not shout.

Weariness and Satiety

Long ago when life was less wearisome

My dreams always disappeared with a healthy

Awakening, all I could remember was I dreamed

And the day spread out with tasks and chores, as on

A menu, leaving many choices, some

Accepted, others disregarded, with stealthy

Options suddenly arising, as when sunshine beamed

Athwart the cloudy barrier to the unseen horizon.

My old-fashioned sentences and archaic hopes

Looped me through the months and years until

One illness and another tangled the trajectory,

And I came tumbling down the ragged slopes

Of time, injured and coldly humiliated.

There is nothing now to look forward to, yet still

After a dreadful sleepless night, I  begin to see

The plum tree laden with sparrows—for hours they’ve waited

For breakfast on the grass—now all are sated.

Nightmare

Are we to believe in succubae and sex

with lizards, demon foetuses and sips

of Lysol to be safe and happy, from mex-

ican rapists and vile viruses, whips

and  lashes from our guardians? No checks

and balances in the halls of power, no lips

to speak the truth. No little grey cells or flecks

of rationality, but only pips

of uncontrolled narcissism? Lex-

icons of incoherent badinage, like rips

in the holy veil across the altar of truth, or pecks

by hysterical parrots screeching news as fake,

or talons on the surface of a dark malignant lake.