Bluestein.
The night is jet black,
No star,
No light.
Bluestein.
Upon the horizon,
Bare trees,
Haloed.
Bluestein.
A moon rises like
No moon
Before.
Bluestein.
The corpse light shines upon us,
Frigid,
In death.
Bluestein.
A shriek rends the night
Rabbi!
Rabbi!
Bluestein!
The rise of brotherhood,
The smart,
The damned,
Bluestein.
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3 comments:
I sure like your poems better'n my own.
I never could grasp its intricacies (poetry).
I suppose it requires a mathematical brain.
Whatever it takes, I know you are good at it (and that makes me want to write it that much more, eh, eh).
My poem was inspired by your poem!
The speaker is a follower (believer) of Bluestein who suddenly sees that to fellowship with his Rabbi (become one of the smart) he must enter into a cold dead world. The only light the light of Bluestein's intellect.
This could be built upon: the moon represents both wisdom and madness, beauty but over a lifeless landscape.
Ah yes.
I remember as a lad, reading of that one great mind, that mind to end all minds, Mr. Robert Goddard.
"Mooney" they called him (as he was mad).
Who would possibly dream of sending a rocket to the moon but a mad, mad man (or the CBS network, where they had a man-made moon scape that Dan Rather used to enjoy skipping across as he wore his leader-hosen, and fancy tights).
But as a lad, it was my concept of him that he was not that one known as "mooney", but rather, "Old Goddard, that man who made those fancy, big pipes that emitted explosive flames from their rear-ends".
Bluestein, on the other hand, is no Robert Goddard.
Robert Goddard was a genius (and no maker of Minorah).
Why, he celebrated Christmas by launching a Tannenbaum across Walden's Pond (I heard it set Longfellah to writin' poetry).
Yup. He was a veritable genius. And he was no Jew. No sir.
His ass wuz as white as Don Imus'.
And I think he was Polish, to boot!
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