Lori Levy
Lori Levy’s Granddaughter Ruby Lou at two from the poem “Hugs.”
By Lori Levy
I liked writing poems from an early age. We had to write poems in class for my sixth grade teacher. I liked it and starting writing poems out of class and, other than some breaks over the years, never really stopped. Maybe it helped that my mother encouraged my early attempts. I also found it easier to express myself in writing than orally.
How do I write? Something sparks my interest, inspires me, grabs my attention. It could be something someone said, something beautiful that caught my attention, another angle at looking at a subject. I write down all my thoughts on paper and then start polishing the words so that they express what I'm trying to say in the best way possible. Writing is therapeutic for me and helps me get clear on how I feel about things. If I begin a poem in anger or disappointment, the process of writing the poem usually helps me break through to a place of compassion. It helps me understand "the other"--something that's important to me.
The poems I've chosen for this series are all, more or less, on the theme of being quiet, an introvert. I used to cry if anyone called me "quiet." I thought it was an insult. Over the years, I've learned to accept the fact that, yes, maybe I'm quiet. And maybe that's okay. And now, at 70, I'm not sure if I'm so quiet anymore!
I liked writing poems from an early age. We had to write poems in class for my sixth grade teacher. I liked it and starting writing poems out of class and, other than some breaks over the years, never really stopped. Maybe it helped that my mother encouraged my early attempts. I also found it easier to express myself in writing than orally.
How do I write? Something sparks my interest, inspires me, grabs my attention. It could be something someone said, something beautiful that caught my attention, another angle at looking at a subject. I write down all my thoughts on paper and then start polishing the words so that they express what I'm trying to say in the best way possible. Writing is therapeutic for me and helps me get clear on how I feel about things. If I begin a poem in anger or disappointment, the process of writing the poem usually helps me break through to a place of compassion. It helps me understand "the other"--something that's important to me.
The poems I've chosen for this series are all, more or less, on the theme of being quiet, an introvert. I used to cry if anyone called me "quiet." I thought it was an insult. Over the years, I've learned to accept the fact that, yes, maybe I'm quiet. And maybe that's okay. And now, at 70, I'm not sure if I'm so quiet anymore!
HUGS
For Ruby Lou
I have a new teacher: my two-year-old granddaughter.
Come on, Savta, she says, when we arrive at the playground.
Lesson One is as clear as the shine in her eyes:
no sitting on a bench as a quiet observer.
She grabs my hand, and the adventure begins,
my introvert self pulled straight into the action.
She rushes to greet other kids. Hands-on, close,
she touches a face, pats a print on a T-shirt,
a flower, a princess. Fingers a necklace. Hugs.
I note Lesson Two, toss out a few hellos, swap names, ages—
nothing like her hugs, but, still, there I am, exchanging
pleasantries with mommies, daddies, grandmas, nannies.
She doesn’t wait to be invited, just joins in—Lesson Three—
chasing balls, pushing dolls in strollers, trying out
deserted tricycles. She sits down to check a truck
in the sand. Plays with pails and shovels.
Takes. Gives. Shares or doesn’t share.
On the swings, beside another child, she sings along
with the child’s mother, The wheels of the bus
go round and round, while I smile and push,
smile and blush, still too shy at 64 to sing
in front of strangers. Lesson Four: sing!
She takes a toddler’s hands in hers, spins, dances.
Some kids back away, not used to such affection.
One runs to escape, shouting, I need space from you!
I watch my little teacher, pretty sure I would have
cried, cringed, retreated. Lesson Five: her response,
how she follows, frolics, loves. Doesn’t give up.
So many hugs, given freely, whole-heartedly,
all of us deserving. But no mistaking Lesson Six:
she beams extra warmth at her chosen ones.
(Previously published in Goodness, a Wising Up Press Anthology)
JUDGMENT
What they said was You’re quiet.
What I heard was
say something! Don’t just
fill space
dull
as a mushroom
no jalapeño, no chili.
Wake up, shake
wave pompons.
Bang and stamp
open
spill.
What they meant—
I learned later—was
more along the lines of
rose
cream on the tongue
cabin in pines.
(Previously published in Eureka Literary Review)
THANKS, BUT NO THANKS
It was meant as a compliment,
but if compliments could be exchanged like ill-fitting jeans,
she would have asked for a different one,
more suited to a girl her age.
Not epitome of a young lady, as Mrs. Mosely wrote
on her first grade report card,
but brave or fun or clever
because who, at six, wanted to be well-mannered
and demure, as she imagined it meant.
Not when she was hanging from trees after school,
playing house in the dirt pile at the end of the road,
jumping, with the boys, off a stack of wood.
So confining that young lady
who, instead of skiing or sliding on toboggans,
was probably sitting on a sofa, listening to adults,
never interrupting, never disturbing,
perfect in her patent leather shoes.
So confining she fears she’s spent her life
living up to the young lady on that old report card—
though at 52, just when she’s ready to toss it in the fire,
claim the woman who’s bloomed from rocks and trees,
noble Queen of the Dirt Pile—
she hesitates; wonders, as she envisions Mrs. Mosely
and rehears the words,
if it’s too late to reconsider:
to embrace the young.
Even the lady.
(Previously published in Krax Magazine, England)
THE SILENT ONES
You know who we are—hands deep in our pockets
we watch from the sidelines, almost invisible
even to ourselves. Blurred faces, black holes in the crowd
we fold our arms and hide in middle rows.
But some of you see more in some of us . . .
Once I heard my name in a microphone: thank-yous, gladiolas.
She called me forward—she the whirlwind behind the third grade play,
director, writer, costume designer, raising long red blooms,
announcing, like a blazing trumpet, that I
made the whole show possible:
I babysat her daughter.
I slowly rose and, shining, understood.
LOVER OF LIFE
Once he made me cry.
Not him, but the pressure I felt
in his presence, as if he were pushing me
to get up on a table, wave my arms,
shout my story to the world, be like him—
fire, energy, center of the stage.
I went home and cried because I couldn't be him.
Now I want to celebrate him—
this man who seemed to grow younger with age,
who turned life into a party, laughing, dancing, singing,
spreading warmth and cheer, blessing others with his love.
Yes, of course he was there—at the music festival
in the desert in Israel with his daughter, nieces, friends.
I’m sure he danced all night, wild with joy
at the Supernova festival for peace and unity—
until rockets filled the sky, terrorists swarmed the land,
hundreds and hundreds bursting out from Gaza
to murder, rape, mutilate the party-goers,
the peace-lovers—for being Jewish.
Bullets pierced his flesh—his body out front,
as always, protecting his loved ones
until he was no more,
shattered by grenades.
I want to get up on a table now,
shout his name to the world:
Avi Sasi! Avi Sasi!
VIBRATO
It’s nothing, just an old desire
that comes and goes, like the scent of gardenia
carried in on a breeze, then lost or forgotten
as another takes over: coffee or a chicken grilling.
Comes and goes, then buried for years,
though from time to time a trace creeps in—
a tease—and there it is, a warmth in the chest,
a swelling of lips, blaze of brass.
At fifty-one it’s suddenly more:
a presence that haunts, demands embrace.
I want it now—as a birthday gift.
A trumpet. Yes, a trumpet,
like I had in fourth grade
when dreams were real
and I believed I’d be the next
Louis Armstrong.
Desire. Crescendo. Call it a need
to stand up and play it again,
Hello Dolly in full clear tones
and a sweet vibrato.
Another chance
to press a horn to my lips,
make it sing till it bursts
with all that’s been left unspoken.
(Previously published in Agenda, England)
