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Kathryn Levy: Three Poems
The New Rules
Whatever you searched for
will never be found. Whatever
memories hidden in the
chest in the attic mustn’t be taken
out anymore. Those pins you stuck
in the doll you hated
have no more power. Or
not that doll—you were after the men
who sat at the consoles
planning a future no one could bear,
laughing over lunch as another
baby was buried, as her
mother cried Why? to a roomful of starers
and the funeral processions kept
winding through streets that
once were filled with skipping and laughing.
Whatever the joke was, the final
punchline is this: A husband begs
his wife for an answer—do you want
Jello tonight? Or peas or the dust
gathered for decades
on the dining room table? The
remains of her eyes almost
meet his old eyes,
but all she can says is Whatever . . .
~~~
The Meadow
for Sheila and Craig Pleasants
Rip up the stories, change your old name,
go skipping in the meadow when
no one is watching. And when they are?
Curl with a lover in the ship of disaster—
you are sailing slowly, but can’t
forget where you’re headed. And the towers
that burned, the desperate people who plunged
again last night, when you tried
simply for sleep? Give up on simply—that
was always a fiction. Turn off the news:
The president says—and the president does—.
Vote all the newsmen out of their office
—they keep shouting the facts and ignoring the meadow.
You claim you feel free? Don’t
claim that too loudly. A man at a console
is planning your future, which has
already begun—a clouded eye, another
tear in your hip. Write a new story: My
Escape to the Meadow, knowing that every
word will be wrong. And your new name?
Your old name? They belong
to the men at the consoles, crossing out
all you have been and all you will be.
But the meadow and the morning and
the unwritten words? Skip lightly—they still
are you.
~~~
Epilogue
A potion for breakfast:
How to Keep Going.
I swallow it down with
dust and some water.
A story of dying: You can’t
know how to do it
—till the doctor arrives
with nothing—no answers—.
The relatives running
around with possessions—
I’ll take the dolls, and here,
you get the notebooks.
A petition to the god
who never existed: Please
stop all this dying and finally
show us alive. The final
TV program: The Real
Way to Keep Living,
though the screen turns blank
—no pushing of the buttons,
screaming in the dark,
nothing will revive it.
But that cherished
day in the meadow—
skipping and laughing and
falling in the tall grass.
My lover entered and I
soared for a moment.
Soared? The wild birds
laugh at that word
—or they would, if they knew
or they cared.
—–
Kathryn Levy is the author of two poetry collections: Losing the Moon (Canio’s Editions, 2006) and Reports (New Rivers Press, 2013). Levy was founding director of The Poetry Exchange and the New York City Ballet Poetry Project, two poets-in-the-schools organizations focused on underserved students in the New York City public schools. She lives in Sag Harbor, NY and is active on peace and justice issues.
Copyright 2024 Kathryn Levy
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16 comments on “Kathryn Levy: Three Poems”
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This entry was posted on December 11, 2024 by Vox Populi in Health and Nutrition, Most Popular, Opinion Leaders, Social Justice, spirituality, War and Peace and tagged death, depression, dolls, Epilogue, Gaza, Identity, Kathryn Levy, The Meadow, The New Rules.Shortlink
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The rule is: Always keep up a brave front. But poems, if authentic, will allow us to tell the truth only. These force me to ignore that “brave front” rule.
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exactly
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“Turn off the news:
The president says—and the president does—.
Vote all the newsmen out of their office
—they keep shouting the facts and ignoring the meadow.”
Truth.
LikeLiked by 2 people
I admire how the darkness in these poems seems to keep catching me by surprise. Bravo!
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The poems, in their darkness, remind me of male indigo buntings, sumptuous and bright, but their feathers are really black; but the black is refracted through their structure into brilliant indigo, and that’s how we see them.
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Interesting image, Jim.
>
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brave work’, Kathryn…and so many haunting images…
the remains of her eyes almost meet his old eyes…
curl with a lover in the ship of disaster
and the image of the console, futuristic even as the poems assess our frightening present.
deep deep sighs.
xxx’ margo
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It’s ten above zero and dropping, as the wind whips up a maelstrom of memories: some dire, some thawing by the fire.
But the shoveling is done, and I plan to take these three poems by Kathryn Levy to use as springboards for some leaping poetry of my own.
Even as the meadows ice up, and the consoles are occupied by androids, there are still places to curl up with a poem or a friend or a sundog or two.
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Thanks, Jim. It’s 26degreesF here, and I have to go out on an errand. It will feel good to settle in with my dog this evening. Kathryn’s poems are dark, but appropriately so… it’s a dark season and a dark era…
>
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Wonderful poems, full of emotionally rich imagery and tonally, so sophisticated and nuanced. I am both moved and intellectually intrigued by all three of these poems. Thank you for writing them., Katheryn Levy.
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“(…) go skipping in the meadow when
no one is watching.”
That’s my plan for the day…
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For me, it’s a spiritual meadow today because the meadow of Pittsburgh is buried under snow. You remember snow, don’t you, Laure-Anne, so far away on the west coast?
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Starting with the first line, I kept saying “yes.”
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Yes, “the men at the consoles” are everywhere. Turn off the news.
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She never diappoints.
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Nice poem.
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