Helen Bar-Lev, IL
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Free Verse
A Bulbul
Miracle
In the veranda,
glass enclosed,
on a table
lies a feathered figure,
on its back,
feet upwards
in a gesture of death
familiar in its yellow,
black and brown garb,
it is a bulbul
squeamish as usual,
I rush out of the room,
summon my partner,
hapless disposer of rodents,
birds and other creatures
the cats have killed
but to our surprise, it’s alive,
and outside, resurrects,
flies up into the willow
and we wonder
if it would have awakened
from its coma, and if so,
flown around the room
until it dropped of exhaustion
or until caught again by the cats
and we wonder also,
at the benevolent spirits
who took pity on this bird
and prompted me
to walk into the veranda
at that moment
to admire the fuchsias
Earthquake
It is 1971
in Southern California
the clock shows six am
the babies, one and two
dream in the adjacent room
And then the house begins to rumble
first gently,
a gradual getting used to the thought
Now very strong
the closet door in the bedroom
opens-shuts-opens-shuts
in violent protest
while the light bulb inside
offers a frantic on-off-on-off,
like a light-house in distress
and then the power is cut
It is all so eerie
a terrifying mystery
Bookcases crash
dishes smash
the floor shakes
like a horror movie
like waves in the sea
so that I hold the walls
and fall on the floor
trying to reach my babies
The elder awakes terrified
the younger sleeps through it all
the shaking subsides
the city is paralyzed
the aftershocks
continue around the clock
That night I scream in my dreams
and my screams awaken me
I did not realize
it was possible to be so terrified
The ultimate of horrors,
no warning, no control
whatsoever
Two years later
I leave Los Angeles
forever
Remembering
Maybe someone forgot
to turn them on
or perhaps it is a central power failure
but the street lamps are out
the moon has deserted the earth
and viewed through their veil of clouds,
stars are many, sharp and shining
Black is a blanket
that covers the village,
on our street not a building can be seen,
as though it has not been constructed yet
and we are in the midst of wilderness;
the steps down to our house fade into nothingness,
the house itself has disappeared inside the blackness,
while the little black dog is simply invisible
It is all
reminiscent of past periods
when we blacked out windows,
taped them so they wouldn't explode
when a missile hit us, or worse.
When street lamps
are out
the stars are exquisite
and we remember war
This poem won an
honourable mention in the Poetica 2008 Annual Contest.
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