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| What more can we say about David, other than we like his stuff so much we're publishing his latest book, "How To Apologize," as our first Paradise Islands Press enterprise? Dr. Axelrod is serving out his two-year term as the Suffolk County, Long Island, New York Poet Laureate and is the author of sixteen books. He is also the sponsor of international writers' programs covering dozens of countries and nearly forty languages and has performed and taught as an author and educator, lecturing in England, Ireland, France, Sicily, Italy, Serbia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Croatia, Hong Kong and throughout the People's Republic of China. Speaking of China, with his third Fulbright Award he became the first American Poet in Residence in the People's Republic and assisted in establishing an American Center and taught media and literature in six of that country's provinces. Pretty cool, eh? Not to mention that he gave the Eat Write's chief copy editor and bus boy an "A" in his English 101 class back at Suffolk Community College in 1970. He's an inspiration, someone really can make a living as a poet (as long as he keeps his day job teaching). : David is also known as the Poetry Doctor (www.poetrydoctor.org) and is the founder of Writer's Ink Press (www.writersunlimited.org), which published the EWC's recipe mangler's first book. "The Story So Far." Here's some excerpts from David's latest book:"How to Apologize." |
| David B. Axelrod |
SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL
There’s a copper taste to a heavy cough
though more often that describes one’s
blood when a cut says “clean me,”
and animals we are, we push a bleeding
finger into our mouth. There’s a heaviness
akin to the Colonial tale of Giles Corey,
pressed to death for what sin? “More
weight,” he cried, to hasten his own death.
Drag the breath in through clenched teeth,
there’s a tingling in the gums, tightening
of tendons in the neck. They say strangu-
lation heightens sex. Remember the young
girl murdered in Central Park? “Beautiful,”
is that life-long struggling for our breath—
ten each minute, resting, fifteen thousand
breaths each day, thirty-three million
before we die, unthinking, autonomic,
except this cough which makes each
puff specific as a hip thrust. Yoga
teaches control of breath. Lovers pant.
Runners work to maximize the oxygen
in their blood. That wheeze, that need
to spit out life. Passionate breath,
sustaining breath, for which we
work, the taste of which we savor.
SOME THINGS SHOULD BE DEAD
Things that are in the wrong place—
bugs, particularly roaches. Ants if they
pester. Less so, spiders, unless they won’t
be let out when shown the door. Things
living in the way or, worse, carrying illnesses:
ticks, fleas. You do agree, then, some things
should be dead. Now let’s negotiate what
and when. We keep our poison in bags,
in bottles, aerosols. They shout us their
warning with crossed bones and skull.
Euphemism 101: Not for internal use.
May injure the skin. Do not give to children.
Sometimes kids do creep under a sink,
open a medicine closet door.
So, children shouldn’t be dead. What about
adults? The recidivist rapist. The serial killer.
The terrorist. Kill him. No big deal. By injection.
Watching the Oklahoma bomber die, a witness
complained he looked too peaceful. Watching
an ant that walked through poison, struggling
to clean its antennae. Watching the sprayed
wasp
curl into a ball and die in seconds. Watching by
the bedside of a friend whose eyes are so un-
blinking they have dried to yellowed paper.
Waiting for him to die. Wishing someone would
just kill him. Watching heaven for a sign
of how and when, and who should die.
NETWORKING
This happenstance this odd
existence our radiating toward
hence away from each other
the violets so dense and purple
now too lush and swallowing
the garden, the dying rose
persistent with new leaf
and we bouncing decibel
lumen Richter any stimulus
for a response. Oh yes we
rationalize with g-d or gods
and propagate to save our
souls, our planet our marrow
but chemo alone or formal-
dehyde can’t preserve us.
What will our reputations
be that will outlive us?
SEARCHING FOR THE LIGHT
1.
Loneliness is my light.
Late at night I read by it.
2.
It’s one a.m. and the mercury
of street lights bleeds through my blinds.
3.
When you leave, a light goes out,
leaving me to fight the darkness.
4.
A little sleep and sunrise
slaps me awake.
5.
Quantum physics states
time and light are one.
6.
The ancients had sundials.
7.
She said her name meant light
that she had seen a vision
that she had a mission
to do only what was right.
8.
I said to her light and she put her hand
on light and we kissed light drew each
other down light to make light each
weeping light at the joy of touch
which made us light ever so
light floating higher still light
to merge with white light
of a searing noon sunlight.
9.
I need no other light than
your wide, dark eyes.
EWC No. 7, December 2008