JIM COHN
SPRING MOON 
after Meng Hao-jam 
The new maple leaves blow outside my window
With the imperceptible weight of all they have brought 
From inside themselves. 
                                     The years go by with nothing to show 
But this empty room filled with candles & weeping.
The rulers of the world have so many errors left
& so the Universe endures its gaping wounds
                     filled with mountain berries
As we pass through the battlefield
Where the spring moon shines.
                                     Among the white bones
Of those turned into other beings 
I think of Meng Hao-jam who wrote 
Of his friend, the poet Wang Wei, 
"Few in this world hear the same music as I."
 
                                                                   23 May 1999

 


 
 
 
AMONG KRISTALLNACHT TORAHS, 
THE ONEG SHABBAT ARCHIVE,
CRACOW SYNAGOGUE WINDOW,
& GOLD PAINTED ARC WITH THE WORDS 
KNOW BEFORE WHOM  YOU  STAND,
I HELD THE PASSPORT OF SANDOR BRAUM

Born 14 July 1930 in Romania, one day a babysitter took him for a walk. When she fell asleep, the young boy wandered into the forest where he was found and cared for by a band of roaming gypsy musicians. Three days later they returned  him to his parents who for his next birthday gave him a small violin. Deported with his family in May, 1944, he ended up at Dachau where one day an SS guard came into his barracks with the promise of extra food to anyone would could play the violin he had in his hands. There were three volunteers. The first played well, but the work boss smashed his skull with an iron pipe. The second, too scared to play, was kicked to death.  Gripping the pipe tightly in one hand, with the other the guard held out the violin. Without thinking, he played the "Blue Danube." Pleased, the guard gave him the extra ration. On April 29, 1945, he was the only member of his family liberated from the death camp. In 1950, he emigrated to the US where he became a composer and professional violinist.
 

                                                                               27 May 1999

 


 
 
 
CYBERTRON

Cybertron, I am a culture of one.
You bring the kind of oppression 
Millions of dollars can't stop.

Aliens have taken hold of your voice.
New selves are continuously uploaded 
Like the clouds that eventually always part.

I still lace dollar bills in the hair of statued
Virgins & saviors for luck with money.
The Psalms say the good shepherd 
Will break the leg of the straying lamb.

Cybertron, in the sugar violets of your circuitry,
Even while seeming to offer information on
Choices of mnemonic enlargement procedures,
You forget how to talk about living. 

Artificial terminologies 
Give me membership among people 
That are recipients of euphemizations 

To distance us from too-near painful experience. 

Cybertron, is this too technical?
Do I blur the lines between social isolation
& the alienated male? 
What is the loving thing to do? 
 

4 June 1999

 


 
 
 
EACH FADED MILE

                                          I move with the spirit
Wherever it goes––through winter's heat 
             & cold of summer.
                          Crazy demons have no power over me. 
Ego is not solid––mostly air, mostly mind. 
            Rainy seasons bring mud, mud over everything.
I rise & fall in the eyes of others––
                       but most are trapped, consumed in themselves.
Floods walk nine steps & then turn along the canyon wall.
            The long years I retreated further into solitude
Brought only more of solitude's allure
                       till each faded mile was well known to me 
& worth the pain of not knowing
                                    if love is returned. 
 

                                                                 1 May 1999