Sander Zulauf

See Sander Read

genemyers — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 01:58:26 +0000

Reading Joe Weil’s New Book

genemyers — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 01:10:24 +0000

I’m glad I bought your book, Joe—
It’s filled with old favorites and new gems,
Bounded by a bass player
Hand-colored in a pink zoot suit,
The moon and a huge apartment building
Brightly lit up behind him
While Harvey Peckar
Croons with him your praises on the
Back porch, and in between those covers
The Pursuit of Happiness,
Jefferson’s promise to us
Declared large
Through failure
And collapse
And honesty
And gentleness
And mercy
And hatred
And self-defeat
As the purpose of life—
Never the preservation
Of the self, but the
Selfless end of self—
So at the last,
Whether fake Christmas trees,
Bluebirds, frozen William
Weatherspoon,
The Blue Woman with
Moth-wing lips,
The insane violence
Of dissolution
And crushing desolation
At the Elizabeth Arch,
Newspapers for blankets,
The broken prayers
Scraped together at
Graveside,
Sue Rapeezi loving you,
Or Roberto Clemente’s
Leathery glove,
Your hand works grief
Effortlessly,
Gracefully,
True as an ancient
Chinese poet’s soul
Catching glimpses of eternity
Between flakes and azalea branches
In the falling, gathering snow.

Republished from identitytheory.com

1954

genemyers — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 01:04:40 +0000

Aunt Ethel, who died the same year
Ethel Merman died, could also belt them out,
Those old songs ringing from her heart
Like Roosevelt School fire alarms, free and clear,
She had “No Business,” she had no fear-
“Baaaaby Faaaace, youâ€™ve got the cutest little-”
Her chest must have measured 50D.
She drove her blue Plymouth from Martin Street in
Paterson
To our house with grandma one spring afternoon,
Her tight blue sweater suddenly gyrating
Like a washing machine,
Her eyes fixed weirdly on the kitchen ceiling,
Her voice bellowing out to me
“How do ya like those milk-shakers, honey?”
The women all roaring their kitchen laughter
At her and at me, their blushing victim,
Eight or nine, a chubby third-grader,
My dad’s basement crew-cut bristling,
Seeing those two blue balloons thrashing
Like Rocky Marcianoâ€™s giant boxing gloves
Pasting me with a right, a left,
Long before trimming the trailing ivy
From her grave.”

Where Time Goes

genemyers — Fri, 29 May 2009 11:35:25 +0000

The poems that Sander Zulauf has brought together in Where Time Goes often begin in memory – of family, friends, childhood places, as well as poets who have been important influences: Walt Whitman, James Wright, and Kenneth Burke. “Learning Loss” sounds the prevailing tone: “An astonishment of petals/ Drift and dust the ground below,/ Then disappear for another year. . . ./ Nothing can keep them here,/ Nothing can keep their sweet soft breath.”

The poems that follow carry us into shaping episodes in the poet’s life. In “Frank,” for example, Zulauf reflects on going with his grandfather to the barbershop: “Frank’s tin-ceilinged/ Five-chair shop, green walls/ And mirrors with piles/ Of torn-up magazines/ And clumps of new-mown/ Hair.” In “Mercy,” he remembers a singular first time with a girl: “My hand slips/ Down her silky blouse/ Feels the yielding softness/ Feels the flowered pattern/ Of her bra.” In “Honeysuckle,” the sweet smell brings up the memory of his mother “Teaching me the word,/ Wild, untamed,/ White and yellow tongues/ And filaments.” Each poem is like a glint of light in the darkness – together, they evoke the talismanic force that memory has for the poet . . . and for all of us.