The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, November 30, 2007

fairy tales

Richard Beban

Seven Variations on Hansel and Gretel

1

Gretel pushes her anorexic finger
through the bars of the cage
but the witch says "I know that trick,
it's really a chicken bone." Gretel
protests: "Hansel says I'm getting
too fat," she tells the witch. Later,
when Gretel dies, the witch must let
Hansel go, since the recipe called for
two plump children.

2

We are raised to love Gretel's chicken bone.
The ingenuity of youth. The witch,
for all of her power and spells
could not really see-only the way a seer saw
but not like the rest of us. Old, astigmatic,
she is defeated by a thin bone wielded by a
small girl, who saves her brother in the process.

3

The witch, an excellent cook, serves the children
porridge and fresh honey from the hives in the
back pasture. "Come, get warm by the fire,"
she says, acclimating them.

4

The witch, an excellent cook, serves the children
among baby new potatoes, carrots fresh from
the garden, the sauce is Hansel's blood with a
roux from the miller at its base.

5

"Our father is a lawyer," Gretel says, "he will
pay handsomely for our return." "How much,"
says the witch, and Gretel knows she is hers.

6

"I am a stringy child," Gretel says, "most
disagreeable. There are better in the village
to the north of here." "Two in the cage,"
the witch replies," are worth dozens
in the village."

7

"It is your fault," Gretel whispers to her brother,
angry that he drew them into the woods in one of
his silly, boy games. "That's right, blame me,"
Hansel replies, "but where were mother and father in all this?"


The River Asks

When I was nine I drowned.
Carried by a strong current,
lodged in the silver depths,
I began to melt, the pain
finally dissolving like a lozenge
on a fevered tongue--
when my father's sudden, strong grip
said "no" to the water.

It was like forgiveness,
like blessing,
like saying, "I'm sorry" & finally
being heard.
Sometimes truth lies deep,
snags you like a hidden root.

A half-hour later,
curled in the back seat,
I drifted into sleep,
the river a faded promise
under our wheels.
The sound of tires slapping bridge rivets
louder than the swift water.








Richard (http://www.beban.org)

Thank you, Richard, please join me any time.
Love your poems.

1 comment:

  1. Thank you, Joanna, for the posting. Glad you liked the work. If I can illuminate it any further with comment, please don't hesitate to ask.

    Richard (http://www.beban.org)

    ReplyDelete