Winter, Liberty, and the End: The Commentator's Poetry Section Fall 2017
Editor's Note: The following poems are courtesy of the Yeshiva University Poetry Club. The Commentator thanks the club and their leaders, Chana Morgenstern and Yakov Stone, for their contributions to the paper throughout the fall semester.
“The Galaxy’s Tempo”
By Gabriella Englander
Beneath the humming gaze of Galaxy,
Clouds shed their summer slumber
Into thunder, twined as sterling spores,
Albino powder, winged oars,
Which stir nature’s umber bed
Into a woolen terrace, white-wed.
Moonlit stardust ponders air,
And sheaths silver poplar’s bare
Skeleton in lace veil.
When gust-chimes through willows wail,
Vines spooled with ice-dripped pearls,
Graze lakes’ glazed swirls,
En-marbled with crystal fossil, fixed-foam,
Alabaster alchemy, metallic-chrome.
Frosted fields of ferns unfurl,
Snowdrops and crocuses uncurl,
Into a pale-draped tableau,
Beneath the Galaxy’s tempo.
“My Mind, For Me”
By: Irwin Leventer
I want my mind for me, for me,
I fester for such liberty,
I fight for it so thirstily,
Ephemeral control.
On all things real we disagree,
I search for truth, he wants but glee,
He booms with volume of the sea:
Dig deep into your hole.
I can’t give in nor take a knee,
Post seven falls, the righteous, he,
Arises, up, sets himself free,
A liberated whole.
“Dead”
By Chana Morgenstern, Co-President
There’s no more to be said
Though there are words aplenty
It’s done, It’s did, It’s dead
You never looked inside my head
I’d have given you my thoughts for a penny
But there’s no more to be said
We should have spent more time in bed
And made love like we were twenty
Anyhow It’s done, It’s did, It’s dead
I think of the vows when we wed
I wish now we had any
But there’s no more to be said
Am I seeing green or red
Now that you say you love jenny
Is that why It’s done, It’s did, It’s dead
You say seeing me fills you with dread
And of regrets I have many
But there’s no more to be said
And I know It’s done, It’s did, It’s dead.
“Endings”
By Jacob Stone, Co-President
It may take less than a lifetime to mend
My absence. Reading this, they’ll say
I hate it when suicidal poems end.
From another world, I’ll make sure to send
My regards. Don’t worry my friends, be gay!
It may take less than a lifetime to mend.
In the middle now, at an emotional bend,
That flux of health, though liminal, won’t last until day.
I hate it when suicidal poems end.
And myself? I have a message, but, without amends,
My doubts deliberately silence my way.
It may take less than a lifetime to mend.
A ray of hesitation slowly wends
Into my mind. The lines left unwritten while I lay!
I hate it when suicidal poems end.
The tragedy of this one, though, won’t portend
A worse fate for his verses. I whisper from faraway,
It may take less than a lifetime to mend,
I hate it when suicidal poems end.
