Poems by Dan Goorevitch

Bubbles and Butterflies

You caress the bubble but it doesn't burst.
You squeeze it. It cannot burst. So you eat it

And as it passes out there's a world in there

Not some New York skyline with snowflakes
But a man, yourself, as you should have been.

He is taller than you, stronger than you,
He is warmer, more generous, more kind

He has a keener intellect, a finer humour
He laughs at himself and accepts his foibles.

He is the you you should've been but aren't

So you flush him. But he finds his way out
Of the pipes and into the river where he bubbles up

With millions of other bubbles he heads for the falls.

He falls and stays intact. He wanders up and down
And through all the earth, this homunculus who will outlast you,

Capable of every thing but one:
He cannot free himself from the bubble.

You stand in your living room and a butterfly
Puts his wings between your fingertips

And your feet leave the ground.

At first you laugh but, as your head passes through the ceiling
And you wonder if you're air or plaster, awake or asleep

You fear to let go but you're curious to go on.

You rise up above the clouds, above the stars even
To the untouched waters over heaven

And you find yourself in a pink spiral,

A tunnel. How strange. Above the space, you thought,
There would be more and more space, ever more freedom

But it's a tunnel, and it's narrowing.

The tunnel gets dark and you're afraid to let go
So many miles from home and then you smell the stink.

The stench is appalling but you think it will pass.

It gets worse. You can't let go now. You can only hope
Things will get better. But it gets worse. And it gets hot.

Surely it can't last and if I let go I'll die here

In this heat and this stink, alone. At least I have
Someone with me, the butterfly. But who is this butterfly?

It put its wing between my fingers. It wanted to take me here!
But I have nothing else and fear to die alone.

So you hold on. The heat gets more intense. It is searing
And then it gets twice as hot. You can't breathe.

Now it's so hot it's beyond heat. You feel ice cold.

The butterfly is letting you down into a burning lake.
The lake is silver, like mercury. Like a volcano

It bubbles. Perfectly round solid bubbles and you see
Either reflected on the outside or inside it (you cannot tell)

A man resting peacefully, each under his own fig tree.
He drops you.

You feel your feet hit something solid, your knees buckle
And instinct makes you reach with both hands to break the fall.

You let go of the butterfly.

You are on your feet, crouching, in the centre of
Your living room. You know, for the first time

The fear and love of God.

On Contempt

The you she thinks you are
The she you think she is

Is not the you you think you are
Is not the she she thinks she is

So she's the world         to you
And you're the world        to her

And you can't afford to throw the world away
For the you you think you are

The she she thinks she is
Without the world is just a dream.

And it's sad I know for you, but for her, a tragedy—

Ramblin' Rose

Though
Ramblin' Rose
played twice

as dust
behind  car
and   sun

and sand's  ribs
under lake
and bubbles  rose

dragging up
my father's hair
a whitened   body, it

seems
now  that
all

the way
to the beach
that  day

the rhapsody was
so
that

even  now
it
goes:

How I love you
(so it goes)
How I want you

heaven knows—
Who can cling to

To Them

May I eat this tender chop,
carved from the lamb by the butcher
who follows at only a step?

May I eat this ear of corn, these teeth
sown in the furrow that follows the plough—this
crop that springs point first
disturbing the crumbling ground?

Confused though we are by this crushing stone, which
must have been thrown by one of us
—hollow clanging armour gleaming—hot butter
smiles along the long rows,
salted. we meet. here. teeth to teeth.

        Finally,
        may I
        eat—May I
        breathe—this
        Dust—your
        philosophy?