Feb26
Category Archives: Poems
Mar12
Springtime in the Desert
It has been long and ruthless this winter of 2014. The winds blasting frigid temperatures into the air, hurricanes devastating entire areas of land and the snow relentless and silent, throwing blankets of ice over the world. While underneath hurrying footsteps nature is sleeping, patiently nurturing seeds and the promise of new life.
This much anticipated event called the Vernal Equinox is due March 20, a date announcing the grand celebration about to take place. Spring is here and the world will once again be painted in exuberant colors
In March of 1976 I was living in Shiraz, Iran with my partner Ed. We had been teaching at the University and were anticipating the closing of schools to celebrate the Iranian New Year or Now-Ruz, welcoming the year 2537. We planned to visit several cities, most particularly the village of Mahan and the shrine of Shah Nematollah Vali, the 14th century Iranian mystic and poet.
We left Shiraz and headed east towards the desert cities of Kerman, Bam, Yazd and Mahan. Kerman was some 800 kilometers and 12 hours away from Shiraz, quite an undertaking for our little car, our Jyane, an Iranian version of the French 2CV Citroen. But lured by the history of these ancient cities we set out on the adventure accompanied by the hum of our mighty vehicle dashing into the enormous stretches of beige ripples of the Dashte-Lut desert. Then as if a magic wand had tapped into the horizon, villages appeared surrounded by mud walls crowned with blossoms and branches sparkling with tender new leaves. After a while I began recognizing almond trees, orange groves, wild pistachios with lavender heart shaped blossoms. I wondered how people survived here the rest of the year when everything is given up to the heat of a brutal sun. But this was springtime in the desert and all of nature was singing. Here and there villagers appeared and women carrying earthen jars to collect water from a well. They walked about in striking dresses, their tinseled shawls fired by the noonday sun as they sat by some stream washing their aluminum pots and pans with earth then dipping them into the stream to rinse them out.
We stopped for lunch next to a pistachio tree in bloom, their lavender hearts circled by white petals. We were overlooking a valley, above us a clear sky, and the stillness filled with echoes of the earth breathing.
The following poem was written in remembrance of Now-Ruz, 2537 in the Dashte-Lut desert, Iran.
My mind wanders Over her photographs A sequence of stories Recorded on the road Of time In a land where I gleaned Mental jewels And treasures In a country Once called Persia I remember A breath Whispering Spring is here I remember Pistachio trees Dressed In lavender veils Flapping their colors In the air I remember Almonds buds Transformed Into bridal embroidery Tumbling bouquets Against crumbling walls Cascades of flowers Covering the sand And branches Beginning to dance I remember faces,faces Silently watching The transformation Silent gazes Watching Springtime Painting the desert In Iran
Feb14
Isfahan – My Valentine
Thirty-five years ago seems like the distant past but not when memories linger, not only in the mind but the heart. At certain times of the year, especially around the celebration of Valentine’s Day I am reminded of a great love I left behind in the legendary city of Isfahan when I lived in Iran.
Isfahan, the very name conjures up the Arabian Nights and the greatness of the ancient Persian Empire. Rulers and dynasties left their imprint on old stones transforming them into palaces, mosques, minarets, madrasehs (schools), gardens and bazaars with names that evoke the grandeur of the East and Shah Abbas one of its greatest rulers.
Names like the Maidan-i-Shah (the Royal Place), Masjid-i-Jam (the Friday Mosque), Chihil Sutun (Pavilion of Forty Columns), Bagh-i-Bolbol ( The Garden of the Nightingdale), and Ali Qapu, the glorious gate once the portal of the Shah’s palace, bewilder the imagination.I only stayed a few days to visit a friend. But that changed when I was introduced to a man I would never forget. The French have an exquisite expression that captures that moment: “le coup de foudre” lightning striking. I knew that when his green-gray eyes met mine the world shifted its axis.
We talked until the wee hours of the morning that first night and when the dawn began to clear the sky he asked if I would like to take a walk along the Zayandeh Rud, the river that could be seen a short distance from his house. We stopped on the way in a “ash-paz-khâneh”, a soup kitchen that opens up in the early morning hours for men going to work. It was still winter and the fragrance and warmth that emanated from the kitchen felt like some wondrous gift. When we reached the riverbank we took off our shoes and walked barefoot in the snow. I didn’t feel the cold, only the warmth of his being, the magic of the moment.
I left Isfahan not knowing that it would be for the last time. Although we met some time later, fate had other plans for us. He would remain the road not taken. Yet that moment in Isfahan seemed written in the stars.
For R…
Isfahan
…There was The Friday Mosque The Maidan-i-Shah Square Twisted lanes leading Into the old city Domed structures and façades Dressed in jeweled mosaics …There was a madrasah Nearby at the east end of the mosque And behind the West Iwan A winter hall …There also was The old bazaar filled with Fragrant spices The sound of hammers Against the copper pans The colors and flashes Of the Arabian Nights …There was The Maidan-i-Shah And the palace of Shah Abbas Where under the arches Rivulets of golden stalactites Were always in bloom …There were Curves and arabesques Bursting into space Chihil Sutun, Ali Qapu Wonders of the past Adorning the present …And then There was you And I One morning In Isfahan Walking along the river On the icy lace of the mist Clothing the cracked face Of the earth …And then There was you And the touch of your breath Against mine That eternal moment In time When your arms Wrapped me into The warmth of Your beating heart Before the rising dawn In Isfahan
Jan20
Rocks and Stones
Rocks and stones have been part of our existence for more than 2 million years. They are responsible for the development of the human race and we are still fascinated by their beauty, their endurance and the mystery of their formation. We travel far and wide to gaze at the magnificence of canyons; we meet the earth and its rocky crust when our heels beat the ground as we hike trails strewn with stones. We take rocks as mementos of our wanderings, knowing that they will faithfully remind us of cherished journeys. We wear them as magnificent jewelry and a whole generation turned them into “pet rocks” secretly wishing that they were imbued with magic powers. Perhaps it is so, as in certain parts of the world it is believed that mountains and rocky slopes are where the gods dwell.
Stones are the keepers of time and history. They have been used by ancient generations to record stories and practice religious rites. We know that as long ago as 7,000 years, enormous stone slabs called “dolmen” were erected for such purposes. More recent ones can be found in England (Stonehenge), France (Carnac) and many other parts of the world including Spain, 
Portugal, Ireland, the Netherlands and as far away as Korea and India.
I encountered these mysterious stone tables while visiting the little town of Rahier while on vacation in Belgium. It is a quaint village where every house is bedecked with flowers as if expecting some fabulous celebration. The region is known for its stone quarries supplying the material for the construction of these sturdy homes. Another type of stone called schist is also available. It is a remarkable stone that sparkles when the light strikes its mica chips releasing what feels like a magic aura. These stones are easily fabricated into specific shapes and sizes. And what an amazing sight it was to see slabs of these hoisted along the road, like glistening posters upon which were engraved poems dedicated to the trees, the insects, the rain, the old school, furrows where once stood old houses, the cemetery, a 600 year old tree, the church, a gate and a bench where lovers meet. It is like walking through a written ode glorifying the village and the soul that lives there.
These poems are the creation of an elderly couple of former teachers who live in a house that dates back to the 17th century. They live simply and imbue their surroundings with the immense love they have for nature and the world we live in. These poems engraved on stones imbues the onlooker with wonder and awe. It is as if some ancient scriptures from a long ago past have returned to remind us to pause and inhale our moments of beauty.
A few miles down the road are fields where ancient dolmens remind us that long ago the druids practiced their rites under mistletoe hanging from branches of oak trees. Their spirit seems to linger, whispering ancient thoughts into the countryside captured in poems floating on slabs of schist.
Là au creux du vallon
Le village semble aux aguets
Comme une frêle embarcation
Sous l’énorme vague des fôrets
Un ciel de plomb impose
Ses gris, ses noirs moroses
Il pleut
Que surgisse le soleil
Dans le bleu si bleu du ciel
Et les verts éclatent en mille tons
Et le vent entame sa chanson
Il est midi
Mais déjà l’astre est au couchant
Il met le feu à l’horizon, jetant
Ses rouges, ses jaunes, ses oranges
Le ciel deviant symphonie étrange
Voici la nuit
Suzanne et Marcel Mosuy
…To be continued with more poems from Rahier with translations
May30
On Nostalgia and Inspiration
On Nostalgia and Inspiration: The Month of May 2013
Road to Yasouj
Perhaps it’s this time of the year that fills me with an overwhelming longing for the past. I feel the evanescent beauty of spring settling into a memory. Yet this melancholia stirring sadness inside me also inspires an awareness of feelings that transcend time. Everything changes, moves on as we must. There is no destination but the journey we are on and the heart is filled with desires that light the way. The beauty of this month of May, the fragile joy of once barren trees now adorned in emerald, and flowers painting the lawns with color will soon be torched with summer heat. And as I place this scenery into my mind, images of other spring times appear.
I am traveling in Iran where I lived for two years. We were heading, my partner and I, for Yasouj a city in the Zagros Mountains. I was falling asleep, dulled by the humming of the car engine when the most unusual sight appeared out of nowhere. Tribal women were squatting in the river that glistened along the fields stretching below the mountains. They were washing their clothes and rugs in the stream dotted with snow that had barely melted. We stopped the car to take in the breathtaking moment that I recorded in the following poem.
Desert in Iran
The Road to Yasouj
The cold breath
of the distant mountains
has melted
The tribal women
are washing
their clothes
in the icicle spotted
stream
just formed
around
their squatting shapes
cajoled by the froth
hitting the stones
they are touching
Silently their hands
are parting
the icy sheet
The brocade cloths
they have shed
colors the water
into exploding prisms
splintering
the winter face
of the river
into a smile
And I
passing by
must stay
awhile
to see
the magic garments
drying
in the arms
of trees
transformed
into
a tribal tapestry
© Mariette Bermowitz 2013
Tribal women in Yasouj
Tribal women in Iran
And when nostalgia captures my being again, I welcome it for it takes me back to places and moments that have filled my life with meaning. With summer approaching I am inspired to travel once more, to continue the journey, and welcome adventures where I can discover myself all over again.
Spring in Yasouj
Flowers in the desert
Flowers in the desert
Sometimes we don’t have to travel very far to be inspired as with this poem I read while riding on the F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.
Voyager
I have become an orchid
Washed in on the salt white beach.
Memory
What can I make of it now
that might please you —
This life, already wasted
And still strewn with miracles?
—Mary Ruefle (1952), Poetry in Motion
Apr4
Yom Hashoah: Holocaust Remembrance Day
Yom Hashoah – Holocaust Remembrance Day
All wars are brutal but World War II resulted in suffering and atrocities of such magnitude that the loss of 50 to 75 million casualties is still beyond belief. The worst of these atrocities was inflicted on innocent people, most notably the Holocaust where 6 million Jews and countless others who confronted Nazi brutality were slaughtered. The Germans surrendered unconditionally in May of 1945. Then the atom bomb was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 and on Nagasaki August 9, 1945 ending the war on all fronts. But did it?
We are left with images that will haunt mankind forever, the living cadavers in the concentration camps liberated by the American army, the naked child running alone on a road after the atomic blast that obliterated her history.
There are many, still alive today to tell the stories, and those who have known, like myself, human beings who had the courage and the willingness to stand up against evil. I was saved by being hidden in a Catholic convent, then placed with a loving family in the Belgian countryside. My father survived but my mother, baby sister, two older sisters and a brother did not.
This Sunday April 7,2013 is Holocaust Remembrance Day, a day of remembrance for those who do not know. A day like any other day for those of us who carry the loss and memory forever sealed in our hearts.
I dedicate this poem and this day to the memory of all THAT, to my loving “aunts” who saved my life and to my father who suffered silently the loss of his beloved wife and children.
A Poem for Abele – my father
Oh poppa, poppa
In the morning
Especially in the morning
When the hour tells me
Time is rushing
On its way
I see ancient thoughts
Silently appearing
Etching your face
In graven solitude
Oh poppa, poppa
Every morning
Especially at that appointed hour
When you and I sat
Facing each other’s soul
Over a cup of coffee
I mutter your name
Poppa, poppa
Only to hear an echo
Striking the empty chair
That hyphenated space
Molding your absence
Oh poppa, oh poppa
It is all too quickly gone
But for the spaces
Filled with lingering
Gestures that remain
And sometimes
The depth of a memory
Striking back at me
When in the mirror
I see
Not me
But the reflection of
That desperate flame
And those endless questions
Filling your eyes
In the morning
When you and I sat
Before a cup of coffee
Reviewing
Our sanity
Poppa, poppa
I mutter your name in vain
Poppa, poppa, poppa
I want to know so much more…
Tell me about
Esther
Was she beautiful?
And Rebecca
Did she look like me?
And Frieda too?
But you couldn’t tell
She was only a baby
And Zelik, my brother
Where did he disappear?
Was it called
Auschwitz,Treblinka
Birkenau, Sobibor, Majdanek…
Poppa
Was Zyzla my mother
As sweet as her name?
Poppa, poppa
All those biblical sounds
Echoing in my mind
Are striking against
your empty chair
Oh poppa, poppa
It is all too quickly gone
Yet, I remain…
To explain
To whom?
For what?
Spaces once filled
With gestures
Laughter that bore names
Faces with loving eyes
Caresses sealed in the depth
Of memory
Now looking back at me
When in the mirror I see
Not me, not you
But the family
Whose reflection
Filled your eyes
In the morning when
You and I sat in silence
Before a cup of coffee
© Mariette Bermowitz 2013
To accompany this poem is a pencil drawing by Edith Newman, a student of Mariette’s, who was 15 at the time.
Edith Newman – A Poem for Abele
I would like to thank the artist Vebjørn Sand whose gallery I discovered while walking on West 4th Street in Greenwich Village. His paintings of scenes from the Second World War are deeply moving and question every man’s responsibility when confronted by the challenges of evil.
I am grateful that such paintings will remain as a reminder that “there are human beings that accepted the responsibility to think for themselves and had the courage to stand up against a violent dictatorship.”
Mariette Bermowitz is the author of “Mindele’s Journey: Memoir of a Hidden Child of the Holocaust”, available on Amazon. Her story is a testament to a guiding force instilled in her by the nuns who sheltered her during the war. “I know what it’s like to give up hope, but something always drove me on.” says Bermowitz.
Nov16
In Remembrance
Images of the devastation Sandy leaves behind is a searing reminder of how vulnerable we are before nature. It is beyond belief and through it all we are learning that we as people care for each other. Yet I still find it hard to forget Katrina.
I still see that oil rig that blew up in the Gulf of Mexico and the destruction of a habitat filled with wild life that is gone forever.
Our world is so wounded. I wonder what it will take to heal. I wonder.
In Remembrance
The sea fans out
iridescent
tear drops
across the beach
where birds
try in vain
to wash the stains
that glisten on their wings
They are
dying
lying on the sand
Their feathers
stretched out
like hands
begging
to be set free
… But their bodies
lie limp
in a pool of tar
Dying birds
who once soared
to the stars
© Mariette 2012
