Category Archives: Poems

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Springtime in the Desert

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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

01desert-loot-kalot-shahdad-10-88-01In 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.

01death_valleyWe 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.

01springflower3We 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

Isfahan – My Valentine

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Isfahan 1 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.

Isfahan2We 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

Rocks and Stones

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IMG_3817 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, IMG_3788Portugal, 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.

IMG_3835These 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

IMG_3822…To be continued with more poems from Rahier with translations

On Nostalgia and Inspiration

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On Nostalgia and Inspiration: The Month of May 2013

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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.

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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

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Tribal women in Yasouj

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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.

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Spring in Yasouj

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Flowers in the desert

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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

Yom Hashoah: Holocaust Remembrance Day

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Yom Hashoah – Holocaust Remembrance Day

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

In Remembrance

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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