Paper Bridges: Selected Poems of Kadya Molodowsky

A White Poet

A White Poet For H. Leyvik129 New York. A white poet stood on the hundred-and-fourth floor. The sky and an iron city Engaged in a conversation. A thirsty "forever" marched on In bewildered Disorganization. New York lit up green And red, With a dazzle of sun. New York sank into thought All the way to its far, noisy end. A white poet stood on the hundred-and-fourth floor. The sky and an iron city Engaged in a conversation. The barefoot built New York, Blacks, Italians, Ukrainians, Chinese, Poles, and we Jews. —I am the one who painted the highest floor here, I am the one who pasted the wallpaper here, It's absolutely true, Here's proof: the bricklayer from Novidvor Fell from the tenth floor here. Here, all the peoples had their say, All sang out their song. A Black man died from a blow to the head. A Ukrainian choked his falcon.130 AJew and a Czech led a strike. A Chinese man withered and wept for a letter. 337 p§ yptmp nyJHI px - D^S tnjn Jin ,]§xn ipnaro^ x ]xD ^ or^x p^n x ,TXII ]ix ijmyi e ^ |DpxmxD rx mo^ p a TX px oxi jrxaxi x DXH; O px •mx pxtf? nyi yw pjmxs rx oxn o^n x - T^X Di^n x pX f S :^ip oyayi^x t?^ T'T BpTDttyi t:xn DJTXS nyi ,pxn H ,0x^7 nyn rx ox - ,D"V ix pms pyn ^XT ^oo-nr-^W ">^ ^ pmx 338 Now all stand— In gray jackets of Relief On the foreign street. Mister Joe interrupted words of a poet: —Max, jazz!131 And two hundred feet dazzled— Blacks, Italians, Ukrainians, Chinese, a Jew and a Greek. And danced out a sunny day And starlight, A luminous haven, And the firmament in its first trembling happiness Of creation. A white poet stood on the hundred and fourth floor. The sky and an iron city Engaged in a conversation. It's a dream— It is not the truth That my house is overgrown with grass and thorns, And an entire New York City street Has forgotten the last letter of the alphabet. New York is all light. There are no shadows. A dream is a head on a stone, fast asleep, Wrapped snugly in the hours of night. It's a dream—a white dove Seeking a mountaintop and a leaf, That came back poisoned From murder, betrayal, and grief. The poet choked on his own words: —Here is the crowbar, the ax, The Empire State Building should return to clay, Back to rocky stone. 339 ,O»TI — p i ny^^n T ^ X oy .Djrxs ijro^n x ]jnx&wjtt rx pyow pnys Diyimn *px t^x |x ]ix torn iyi x ]x ^0 or^x pxn 340 I'm going down . . . I'm going . . . I'm going to do this alone. New York is all light, It is sunny white, It is sky-green— MisterJoe interrupted the words of the poet: —Max, my machine! A white poet stood on the hundred and fourth floor. The sky and an iron city Engaged in a conversation. 341 JXTKS K ••JXTXD x ]ID pyiys » m &:ixn px •jSPTTayTa p§ ,*T:JXV S x p§ pyiys w m wxn pa rx - mnn |i§ p^s p^x nyi *|xa 7a mKit: oxn •bxa^ px fpnyrj ^ » nypnypa^n K px ix Diy^n ^say^-nysrs x •pyiys ]p^s •nynt: ny^nyirp px .STjyap rx'o .Donixn nyt^ys^ rx'o l^x^ yanp px px 3T pa px Ta nyn^x onyin n ^ra px ,"iy&2px ox x 71X ,pxT ix •'ITX ,pyV x xi rx'o ny^ayn yi^yr H ^xn yn^yr H x T^X oy xax ; •)XTX§ x ps pyiys ^m t^xn px|XTXS tmjj 342 ...