Samuel Menashe (1925-2011)
[The following poems are reprinted from Talisman #38/39/40. They are among the last poems Samuel Menashe wrote.]
Every death before mine,
Absorbed, builds the bone
Of a skeleton, my own,
Flesh shall not confine
Long enough to suit me --
I wish I had the time
Of a redwood tree
SELF PORTRAIT
Wrinkles spread
From my eyes like rays
Of the setting sun
Wrinkles wreck my face
And yet, these gold flecks
Inside each eye --
In the green iris --
Are as they were
When the sun rose
They do not blur
Nor does my nose
DEMONSTRATION
Beads of blood trail
His fingernail
As he scratches
The back of his hand
Enacting the verb
To scrutinize --
To flay, to skin alive --
Its letters are knives
ABED
Ankles lock legs
Abed to escape
Rain that makes mud
Of the god they love
For his clay feet --
He himself knows
He’s all of a piece
From head to toe
Elbows to knees
MARCH
February’s iron
Has lost its starch
And now becomes
The mud of March
Puddles mire
Shoe and tire
But do not speck
What they reflect
The sky looms higher
WARM IN WOOL
Warm in wool, not a wolf
In sheep’s clothing
(Whom would I deceive
When I feel as good
As Red Riding Hood)
I praise sheep shorn
To keep me warm
WIDOW
She wove the veil
Of her widowhood
With thread from his shroud
Every death before mine,
Absorbed, builds the bone
Of a skeleton, my own,
Flesh shall not confine
Long enough to suit me --
I wish I had the time
Of a redwood tree
SELF PORTRAIT
Wrinkles spread
From my eyes like rays
Of the setting sun
Wrinkles wreck my face
And yet, these gold flecks
Inside each eye --
In the green iris --
Are as they were
When the sun rose
They do not blur
Nor does my nose
DEMONSTRATION
Beads of blood trail
His fingernail
As he scratches
The back of his hand
Enacting the verb
To scrutinize --
To flay, to skin alive --
Its letters are knives
ABED
Ankles lock legs
Abed to escape
Rain that makes mud
Of the god they love
For his clay feet --
He himself knows
He’s all of a piece
From head to toe
Elbows to knees
MARCH
February’s iron
Has lost its starch
And now becomes
The mud of March
Puddles mire
Shoe and tire
But do not speck
What they reflect
The sky looms higher
WARM IN WOOL
Warm in wool, not a wolf
In sheep’s clothing
(Whom would I deceive
When I feel as good
As Red Riding Hood)
I praise sheep shorn
To keep me warm
WIDOW
She wove the veil
Of her widowhood
With thread from his shroud