Stone. Hands. Heart.
—to Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz
I threw my mind into mystery for you last night.
Because you are tired,
I stayed awake.
Awake
With the words of the poet.
Paul Celan. Jew. Survivor. Worker of words.
I pick up his words, hold them in my hands, in my heart.
I think: difficult. I think: necessary.
I think: beautiful.
glowing stone from the world’s heart
where light grew for us
stone-flight, stones of the sky
as one speaks to stone,
as you, with your hands, grope into there
how did we touch each other—
with these hands?
delicate hands—
for them the cherry bleeds
heart: here too reveal what you are—
leaping heart-blood
stones, white,
with the shadows of grass blades
seven hearts deeper the hand knocks on the gate
Mind into mystery. The eye, closed, sees.
Heart-blood runs to the ebb of time.
seven hearts deeper the hand knocks on the gate
We lived together.
We wrote our words.
stones, white,
with the shadows of grass blades
You are tired.
I stay awake.
glowing stone from the world’s heart
where light grew for us
I am grateful.
I will remember.
—Shirley Glubka
Poet’s note: I lived in a communal house with Melanie in Portland, Oregon in the 1970’s and we were in a vital and long-lived women’s poetry group together. When I learned Melanie was approaching the end of her life I wrote this poem for her. May she rest in well-earned peace, she who fought so fiercely for peace — and for justice. (Lines in the poem that do not begin with capital letters are taken from a variety of Paul Celan’s poems as translated by Michael Hamburger.)