CRUEL APRIL

by Judy Kronenfeld





                          after the Boston Marathon, and after seeing
                                the documentary, “Syria behind the Lines”


Crystalline cool days—bougainvillea
spills from our walls like rivulets
outdoing one another, like lavish
manes of brilliant, curly scarlet
tossed flirtatiously by the wind—
and in our yard, exploding galaxies
of snow-in-summer; popped up orange liqueur
poppy cups; torches of white iris…

Exploding fire, and the red ochre of blood

spattered over Boylston Street, as if a dark perversion

of Holi came frenzied through—no playful

faces splashed marigold, indigo,

saffron praising spring—leaving behind shreds

of clothes, glass, flesh…

And in Syria, somewhere, again
and again, convulsed young faces
buried in the chests of older men,
whose hands pull the faces in to blot out
what they’re seeing and their screaming,
so the fighting can go on.

Still in Syria somewhere—opulence
of nets of oranges and grapefruits
hanging above the fruit-juice stands piled
with lemons, carrots, melons? Is there hope
for cool sweetness in the throat—intensities
of blended watermelon, strawberry,
banana, milk, honey, mint—families strolling
in the cooling midnight streets, old men
playing chess on 2 A.M. sidewalks…?
             
On a talk show two broadcasters

argue almost raucously over

whether a newspaper was right

to cut off at the knees a photo

of a man’s legs blasted off below

the knees, in Boston…

And, somewhere, in Syria, again,
and again, a dreamy, peaceful
sweetness sweeps over the bearded face
of a very young man, many times wounded,
many times returned to the rebel lines—
who has already or will join al-Nusra—as he speaks
of his hope to become a martyr.

Here, at home, in California,
where the bougainvillea bursts
in a frenzy of bloom, two friends—a relative,
a poet—dead in the ordinary old way,
of early cancer, of old age.


Judy Kronenfeld’s most recent collections of poetry are Shimmer (WordTech Editions, 2012) and the second edition of  Light Lowering in Diminished Sevenths, winner of The Litchfield Review Poetry Book Prize for 2007 (Antrim House, 2012). Recent anthology appearances include Before There Is Nowhere to Stand: Palestine/Israel: Poets Respond to the Struggle (Lost Horse Press, 2012) and Love over 60: An Anthology of Women's Poems (Mayapple Press, 2010). Her poems have appeared in many print and online journals such as Calyx, Cimarron Review, The American Poetry Journal, Fox Chase Review,  Foundling Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Hiram Poetry Review, Natural Bridge, New Verse News, The Pedestal, Poetry International,  Spoon River Poetry Review, Stirring, and The Women’s Review of Books.

LETTER IN WHICH I THANK THE PRESIDENT FOR NOT INVITING ME TO READ AT HIS INAUGURAL

by J.R. Solonche

Dear Mr. President:

Thank you for not inviting me to read
at your inaugural.

Believe me, when I heard that that other poet,
that Blanco, got the nod, I was relieved.

Let me tell you, I spent days and days,
weeks in fact, occupied with nothing but America,

I steeped myself in America,
I breathed America, I ate America, I slept America,

I studied maps of America, that familiar two-handled shape,
I gazed at pictures of grain in amber waves,

I read the Declaration, I read the Constitution,
I read the Gettysburg Address, twenty times, I read Jefferson,

I read Adams, I read de Tocqueville, I read Franklin, I read Paine,
I read Huckleberry Finn, I read Moby Dick,

I read The Scarlet Letter, I read An American Tragedy,
I read Walt, I read Ralph Waldo, I read Emily,

I read Wallace, I read Robert, I read William Carlos,
I looked at every Norman Rockwell calendar I could find,

I looked at every Mathew Brady photograph I could find,
I listened to Gershwin, I listened to Ellington, I listened to Joplin,

I listened to Presley, I listened to Ives,
I listened to The New World Symphony, three times a day,

I rented every John Wayne movie I could find,
I ate potatoes three times a day, I ate corn three times a day,

I ate apple pie three times a day,
I drank bourbon, I drank hard cider.

And after all this saturation in America,
when I sat down to write an inaugural poem,

Mr. President, I drew a zero, nothing came,
the only word I could write was the one word America,

so what did I do? Let me tell you, I just started Yankee-
doodling around to see if anything would inspire me,

but all I got was acirema and I am acer and race aim and am Erica
and I care, ma, or Ma, I care.

So thank you Mr. President, for not inviting me
to read at your inaugural. Let Blanco do it. I’m a blank.

Sincerely,
J.R. Solonche


J.R. Solonche is co-author (with wife Joan Siegel) of Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). His poems have appeared in many magazines, journals, and anthologies since the 1970s. He teaches at SUNY Orange in Middletown, New York.