yet your eyes are closed

Here's a David Bleiman poem, taken from his 2021 collection, as pictured:


Lacquer Wood Fiddler

In Red Square grannies sweep the snow,
men with hungry eyes come on the coach,
bribe our driver,
pull wild cats with ear flaps
from a canvas bag.

In the Lenin hills
veterans sell army caps
and all their glory badges
of a worthless war.
I need some trophy trinket
but I will not find you here

but posed and presented,
wood freezing your anguish
in the GUM department store.

Crudely made
you hold your fiddle
in a fingerless fist
and throw back your head
to a pudding bowl hat

and yet your eyes
are closed and ringed
in concentration
and the stubble on your chin
shadows a restless moon.

What is your melody,
my yidl mit’n fidl?
Who inscribed ‘Ayy’ on your base?
Who carved and shlepped you
from your shtetl?

My friend, you need to ask?
The klezmer I play for your ten roubles
is singing in your granny’s voice
and ‘Ayy’ is the cry that falls
from the roof of the burning barn

when the Cossacks ride out
in the morning.

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David Bleiman (1953 - )

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