Bob Schwartz

Category: Poetry

Triage and Detritus

Triage and Detritus

What you watch
Tells you
What not to see
What you listen to
Tells you
What not to hear
What you keep
Tells you
What to discard

Note: There is as much in the title as in the poem.

Triage is from the French trier, to sort. It is best known as a medical term, the sorting of casualties according to severity of injuries. This is how it was used in the Napoleonic wars, later in World War I, and to this day in emergency medicine. But it has for centuries had non-medical uses, as in the sorting of wool, coffee beans, and even recently in discussing which endangered species to try to save first. So in general, triage is an assessment and sorting according to quality.

Detritus is also from the French. It is the disintegrated material and debris that remains after wearing away, from rocks or from organisms. It is related to the word detriment.

The context, particularly of the last lines (What you keep/Tells you/What to discard), is a review of stuff to be kept or let go. If you look at a thing, you may have all sorts of thoughts—arguments with yourself—about what to keep. But if you look at what is in the absolutely-must-have box, those things that require no thought, that tells you something, maybe everything, about the rest. The essential speaks for itself, but you do have to shut up and listen.

Infinite Jugglers

Infinite Jugglers

Juggle balls and knives
Fruits and vegetables
Jewels and poison
Planets and stars
Three to infinity.
It is a skill and a trick
Admired and applauded
When the circle stops
Objects laid on the ground
What is performance
Who is the audience
Who is the performer?

Wisdom House

Wisdom House

I see those
Who visited the house
Some knocked
Stopped for a chat or meal
Stayed for a weekend or season
Or never left.
There is no guest book
But some signed it anyway.
One left a note:
You know
This isn’t your house.

 

Recite

Recite

Morning
After dreams
These are the words
That wake:
Hear
Listen
Light
One
Heavens
Earth
Beings
Delusions
Chaos
Desolation
Formless
Void
All is
Hevel.

Note: The word hevel is Hebrew, found in the famous first words of Ecclesiastes. “Hevel hevelim, amar Koheleth, hevel hevelim, kol hevel” is best known in English as something like “Vanity, vanity,  says the Teacher, all is vanity.” But as with so much mysterious biblical Hebrew, translators still work on English approximations, of which “vanity” is only one attempt. You will also find hevel translated as air, vapor, breath, mist, smoke, futility, meaningless, pointless, useless. This can put the supposed pessimism of Ecclesiastes in a different light. How can breath be useless?

Sigh

Sigh

Stop your sighing
You will scare away
The birds

Wisdom Is Where You Find It

Wisdom Is Where You Find It

Wisdom is here
Where you find it
Collect everything
Discard everything
Still everything remains
One thousand and one sages
Advise you
Then disappear
Leaving you with empty shelves
And the world

Night Bird Still Awake

Night Bird Still Awake

Opening the window an inch
It is as if
That bird alone is
Bringing the night
Into the dark room
Or has the solo song
Taken me out?

Born Mothers

Born Mothers

For K, the MOAM

Those born
With a boundless heart
Give and suffer
Even as they sleep
Or don’t sleep
Vowing to make good better
Cruel less cruel
Children or none
All within reach
And the sound of her voice
Are hers.

© Bob Schwartz 2017

Barely Audible

Barely Audible

קוֹל דְּמָמָה דַקָּה

A still small voice
1 Kings 19:12

Hurricanes earthquakes
Fires in the brain
Awed but unable
To follow a thought
Or lose one.
Hear O hear
Minute stillness
Soft murmuring
Gentle whisper
Still small.

Note: “God will reveal himself not in storm or fire or the shaking of the mountain but in a small, barely audible sound. On Mount Carmel, God spoke through fire; here at Horeb, he speaks [to Elijah] in a more subtle language, for the deity is by no means limited to seismic manifestations.”
Ancient Israel: The Former Prophets, translation with commentary by Robert Alter

© Bob Schwartz 2017

Quilts

Quilts

Those who sew
The finer clothes
Worn and admired
For life lifting
Form and function
Honored for their hard won skill
Using needle and precious cloth.
My works are barely fashioned
From scraps sitting on a dusty shelf
Stuffed in an almost forgotten box.
Crude quilts not meant to do much
Or mean much
But nagging to be made.

© Bob Schwartz 2017