David Day

FIVE MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT

Editions Sur Ner

Library of Krytyka Literacka
www.krytykaliteracka.blogspot.com

Copyright © 2017 by David Day

All right reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews,
no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without
prior written permission from the publisher:

Editions Sur Ner
ul. Szkutnicza 1
93-469 Łódź
Poland
[e-mail]

First edition, 2017

Set in Segoe UI

Layout and design by Tomasz Marek Sobieraj
Photograph © 2017 by Erik La Prade

Back cover: David Day, New York City, 2017

ISBN 978-83-928664-5-9

FOREWORD

David Day was born in Chicago in 1936. His Chicago roots extend back
two generations to his great grandparents. David and his family lived in
a barn, the remains of some farm buildings located on the South side
of Chicago. This area was known as the Chicago Stockyards, and it was
notorious for the unsafe and overcrowed conditions a vast number of
immigrants (approximately fifty thousand) worked under, slaughtering
cattle for the meat industry. The Chicago Stockyards were made famous
in Upton Sinclair’s novel, The Jungle, a book vividly depicting the brutal
conditions which existed in the stockyards.

When Day was a child, his mother encouraged his reading habit(s)

by giving him books by Mark Twain and Jack London. These books
exposed him to fascinating places, and ultimately encouraged him to
travel in search of adventures.

One of Day’s first and perhaps earliest travel adventures occurred

when he ran away from home at the age of twelve, embarking on
a long trip, inspired by Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer. He took a bus to
Hannibal, MO., intending to visit Jackson’s Island, where Tom Sawyer
had also been. Unable to get a boat to take him across the river, Day
spent two nights sleeping in a row boat, before he was discovered
and sent back to his parents in Chicago.

I first met David Day at a weekly, Sunday poetry reading series in

a bookstore located in the West Village on Manhattan’s West Side.
David and other poets read their poetry, as well as the poetry of others.

Over a period of months, we became friends and had many

conversations about books. During one conversation, David told me
how he had been affected by two novels he had read as a teenager:
Studs Lonigan, by James T. Farrell, which takes place on Chicago’s South
Side, and The Man with the Golden Arm, by Nelson Algren, which occurs
on Chicago’s North Side. He mentioned how “The Chicago that I knew
was in books.”

1

Yet, if Day has been influenced by some of his favorite poems and

poets, he has also absorbed that influence and kept his own voice
and style. As I read his poems, I am drawn back to his comment,
“the Chicago that I knew was in books.” Readers of Day’s poetry
encounter the reality and fantasy of his “Chicago,” but also, of other
places too. The theme of traveling is one of Day’s central metaphors
throughout a number of his poems.

For example, in The Black Sky, the image of a crow flying

through darkness, perhaps night, extends to the end of the poem.
The title of the poem suggests Armageddon, but the poet’s voice
expresses no fear;

In the last darkness
I will be a crow
Climbing in the black sky
Alone, and away from earth,
To an even darker place
That is beyond imagination
And understanding . . .

Movement denotes time and decay in Day’s poems but it is also
suggestive of a transformative, spiritual element, the mystery of things
in transition. The poem, Transformation, is a fine example of the natural
world in flux without human sentimentality;

If you go to Cold Mountain
You will not find me there.
If you see footprints in the snow
They will not be mine.
I have discarded my human guise
And flown away with the cranes
To cast my shadow on the moon.
But I plan to return in the Spring.
This time, perhaps as a butterfly—

2

A patch of random color in another sky—
Or better still as a single cell
Struggling in the ocean’s foam
To reach a distant shore.

Day has written a number of nature poems but he isn’t a nature
poet per se. However, the images in his work convey a sense of being in
nature;

Moon and stars shine on Lake Atitlán.
Silver fish swim in black water
Unaware of tomorrow’s fisherman . . .
Winding footpaths ascend

Through a landscape of midnight green
And lead to the twelve villages
That surround the lake
And were named after the Apostles . . .

[excerpted, Mayan Yesterdays]

The Shout, occurs in an outdoor landscape, familiar but undefined,
conveying nature’s indifference to our physical need for human
interaction;

The ashes from our campfire were cold and gray
When we said goodbye. They scattered in the wind.
Our footprints parted in the snow . . .
I stopped and looked back
But your shadow had disappeared in the forest.
I stared at the black skeleton of a tree
And began to shout your name . . .
But you did not hear.

3

The reader doesn’t know the reason(s) for the separation occurring
between these two individuals, but in another short poem After
the Hunt, Day provides the reader with a counterpoint to The Shout,
revealing another side of people in nature; their drive to survive;

We squat on our heels in the snow.
There is meat and we have fire.
It is good to be alive.
But when the sky darkens
And the wolves howl,
We look into each other’s eyes
And clutch our spears.

Day is a regionalist in his creation of a mythology of place. I am
reminded especially of Sherwood Anderson’s great book, Winesburg,
Ohio. There are thousands of actual small towns in America, but
in Sherwood Anderson’s short stories they are mythologized as
Winesburg, Ohio.

One of the strengths of Day’s poetry is the way it creates the places

he knows as he encounters them, and like Sherwood Anderson’s short
stories or Carl Sandburg’s poetry, Day’s poetry locates and transcends
the region he is writing about.

The sense of place in David’s poetry runs the gamut from exotic,

mysterious or fleeting to mundane, like the places we live in and move
through, which are filled with beauty, boredom, fear. Thematically,
traveling, transformation, nature, survival, and place or region are the
major concerns in Day’s poetry. But there is another element running
throughout these poems, and that is Day’s sense of humor. A Fragment
of Love is a good example;

She loved me no more
But would forget me not.
“Go away,” she said,
And so I did,

4

When she was in the bathroom crying,
I said goodbye to the door.

This is Day’s first book. He started writing poetry in 1958, yet between
then and now, his voice has remained consistently original. His poetry
has a wide range and it is well worth our time to read these poems
more than once and discover this for ourselves.

Erik La Prade, New York City, 2017

5

For my mother who never lost faith in her son
and for my loving wife who never lost faith in her husband.

And special thanks to Stanley H. Barkan of Cross-Cultural
Communications and my good friends and fellow-poets
Erik La Prade and Tomasz Marek Sobieraj for their invaluable
assistance in publishing this collection.

□

space between verses

□□ space

between

stanzas

NOW

Once upon a time
I set out in search of a rhyme,
But in the course of my journey
I learned that nothing rhymes;
That nothing is like it was before
Or will be again like it is now.

9

AFTER THE HUNT

We squat on our heels in the snow.
There is meat and we have fire.
It is good to be alive.
But when the sky darkens
And the wolves howl,
We look into each other’s eyes
And clutch our spears.

10

A FRAGMENT OF LOVE

She loved me no more
But would forget me not.
“Go away,” she said,
And so I did,
When she was in the bathroom crying,
I said goodbye to the door.

11

THE BULLFIGHTS AT REYNOSA

Bulls die slow in the Mexican sand;
Are dragged from the ring
Out to the parking lot
And thrown in a heap,
Where dusky children wait
With wooden swords and ragged capes
To kill them over again.

Jose lops off an ear,
Manuel hacks at the tail;
And flies, as big as your thumb,
Buzz like power saws
Around the sun.

12

VAN GOGH

That afternoon was blue sky
Pressing down on yellow corn;
The red road that led him there
And grass so green it tinted the clouds.
But, most of all, that afternoon was crows—
Crows over the cornfield:
Blue-black harbingers whirling round his head,
Brushing the rough canvas on the easel
With their wild wings
And cawing to the wind
Of the terrible thing to come.

13

IN THE SHADOWS OF THE FOREST

The night is dark
And the road is a thin, black line.
My thoughts are like crows
That wing to the Virgin Mary.
But in the shadows of the forest
Where the apple beckons on the bended bough
And the rib waits for the ache in my loins to subside,
I hear the voice of the serpent.
An owl hoots at the toad,
And the swan swims on
In a polluted pond.
I touch her soft, white feathers
And they turn to flame.
Oh, crescent moon in the dying day,
Will my soul ascend to the Circle of God
Or will the angels let it fall
At the feet of the Black King?

14

POST IMPRESSION

(In Memory of Adele Mailer)

No washerwomen in the laundromat
Like the ones Renoir painted
With bulging thighs and muscular forearms;
Kneeling in the grass by a sparkling stream
Doing the wash in a fantasy of color . . .

Only the frowning face of a thin, young woman
Who has run out of coins.

15

THE PARTY

After the cocktails had been downed,
After the canapés had been consumed,
After the laughter had shook the rafters
And after the guests had left the room,
I knew the party was over
And I knew the feeling of doom . . .

16

RIMBAUD IN ABYSSINIA

The poet scowled at the moon
As he limped toward the sea
And the face of his mother.
The night was black gangrene,
And the stars were gold coins
He had counted many times.
He said nothing.
There was nothing left to say.
He would finish his poem in silence.

17

AGONY

Stars, do you burn like I burn?
Do you scream in the night?
Do you curse like I curse?
Do you get drunk in the sky?
Or is yours a silver agony of silence?

18

EMBERS

Black cats no longer cross my path. I cross theirs . . .
And when I make my rounds on moonless nights,
They stop and stare at me with disbelief.
My red eyes shine in the dark
Like embers of a fiery star
Expelled from paradise.

19

JOURNEYMAN

Under the Texas sun I walked,
And the straps of my knapsack
Cut into my shoulders like razor blades.
And I walked . . .
And my legs ached
And my feet burned
And my body was soaked with sweat,
And my breath came in great, hot gulps
And my heart pumped like a piston in my chest,
And I walked . . .
Knowing, like I had never known before,
No machine could ever equal me:
I was a man.

20

IN THE LABYRINTH

Night, hatched out of Chaos,
Spawned silver stars in Sky’s cold belly
And wept at their death in the dawn.
A white-winged gull flew out of the sun
And passed over the labyrinth.
Daedalus, lost in the corridors of his invention,
Raised his head and stared at the gull
Until it was lost from view.
Then remembering the Minotaur and the Maze,
He studied the sky and began to flap his arms.

21

COLORADO CHRISTMAS

Jesus Christ it’s cold,
Sleeping on the floor
Of a broke-down barn
Without any coat
And no star to guide me;
Three-hundred miles
And fifteen years from Denver,
Waiting for a fast freight
To carry me back
From here to there
And then on to anywhere
Before I reach the end of the line.

Jesus Christ, don’t get me wrong,
I’m not a wise guy
Or even much of a believer.
I’m just an old rolling stone
Without a gift to give
To commemorate the occasion.
But, regardless,
From the bottom of my heart,
Happy birthday to You!

22

TRANSFORMATION

If you go to Cold Mountain
You will not find me there.
If you see footprints in the snow
They will not be mine.
I have discarded my human guise
And flown away with the cranes
To cast my shadow on the moon.
But I plan to return in the spring,
This time, perhaps as a butterfly,
A patch of random color in another sky,
Or better still, as a single cell
Struggling in the ocean’s foam
To reach a distant shore.

23

DEATH WISH

The queen of my dreams
Is a gorgeous young heifer
And I am a horny old bull.

She has a long black tail,
Big brown eyes
And four magnificent udders.

Oh, that my pizzle
Could stiffen and climb
Between those loverly flanks
One final time . . .

Before I am let out to pasture
And allowed to graze,
For a few more days,
Then trucked off
To the slaughterhouse.

24

TEARS OF LOVE

Tears from broken-hearted lovers
Run like rivers joining others.
Overflow their banks
And flood the plains of yesterday,
Turn memories to mud
And mud to dust . . .

These tears of love,
That fall like drops of rain,
Become grains of sand
And blow away.

25

WAITING

Each and every day
I descend another flight of stairs,
Clutching the rail of a frayed thread,
Leading to
I know not where
Or why, or when
I must go there.
Almost out of breath from breathing,
I must have overstayed my welcome.
I stop and rest
And contemplate my death,
While my aging body teeters
At the edge of its abyss,
Dreading to take the final step,
Waiting . . .

26

A NIGHT IN THE BOWERY MISSION

Hungry and homeless, tired and cold,
We enter the Bowery Mission
Hoping for something to eat
And a place to sleep.
The price of admission
Is to mumble numerous pious hymns
And half-listen to the endless drone
Of prayers and preaching.
Then, and only then,
Are we allowed to shuffle in
To a makeshift dining room and dormitory
Where a few slices of stale bread
And a bowl of sour stew
Awaits our empty bellies.
We gulp it down, standing up,
Because there are no chairs and tables
In God’s dining room on the Bowery.
And, furthermore, there are no beds,
Blankets or pillows in his dormitory.
A few sheets of newspaper,
Spread out on the hard concrete floor
Is the communal bed we climb into.

□□

27

None of us have anything
To cover ourselves with,
But it’s better than being outside
During the frigid winter night.
Some of us use a bent forearm
For a pillow, while others use
Their precious shoes.
After the ceiling lights fade into darkness,
There is the glow of forbidden cigarettes,
The sound of hands scratching lice and wine sores,
The stench of urine and the sweet sickening smell
Of unwashed bodies and filthy feet.
We toss and turn, we cough and itch,
We grunt and groan ourselves to sleep.
Some of us belch and fart,
While others merely wheeze and snore
Until the indifferent dawn,
When we get to gulp down
A lukewarm cup of coffee.
Each of us is handed a paper bag,
Containing a baloney sandwich
And an orange,
Before we file out the door.

28

LINES FOR JADWIGA

Little blond-haired girl from Brzeźno-Kolonia
There is straw in your hair.

Little red-faced girl from Brzeźno-Kolonia
There are apples in your cheeks.

Little brown-eyed girl from Brzeźno-Kolonia
There is mischief in your eyes.

Little smiling girl from Brzeźno-Kolonia
There are kisses in your smile.

And no matter where I go,
Whether it be Warsaw or Cracow,
Or beyond the Tatry Mountains,
Whenever I think of you
I will always see
The straw in your hair,
The apples in your cheeks,
The mischief in your eyes
And the kisses in your smile.

I will always feel
The love in your heart
And you will always be
The girl I love
From Brzeźno-Kolonia.

29

GREEN SHADOWS

I kissed her fingers in the darkness
And smelled the fresh mint
She picked in green shadows.

Her golden hair sparkled in the sunlight,
But turned to silver on the pillow
When the moon came shining through the window.

And all the stars began to fall
And explode in the sky
Before we closed our eyes . . .

30

COCAINE QUEEN

Under the cocaine colored moon and falling stars,
She kneels before the phallus of a false Zeus.
He had convinced her he is a god
By invading the shadows of her dreams
In a cloud of white dust.

He floats like a swan and snorts like a bull
Until she invites his godhead into her veins
And it becomes the universe.

31

BATHING BEAUTY

Naked, she bathes in the cool, green pond
Where her pale beauty
Is reflected in the eyes of Zeus
And arouses his desire.

He dispatches a cloud,
While unsheathing his phallus,
Then falls upon her
In a shower of golden rain.

32

THE REFLECTION

The crane, standing on one leg
In the shallow pond,
Is a statue of concentration,
Waiting for the silver fish
That swim in the cool water.

As I approach the pond,
The crane runs across the surface
Churning the water with its feet
And flapping its wings.

It takes flight,
Climbing high above the trees
Into the blue sky and white clouds.

But, for one brief moment,
The crane’s image is reflected in the pond . . .

I stare into the green water,
Then blink my eyes.
The crane has disappeared
And I have become the reflection.

33

DAWN

I fall asleep,
Curled up in a bed of leaves
With my arm as a pillow.
The lonely call of an owl
Carries across the pond
And into my dreams.
The stars are blinking out
As I wake in the cool darkness.
I squat on my heels
And build a small fire
To cook coffee,
And warm my face and hands.
A gray mist is rising out of the pond
And into the sky . . .

34

FLAGS

Gone are the hands that raised them up.
Gone are the hands that snatched them down;
Into the dust where there are no boundaries.
Into the dust where there are no standards.

Gone are all the soldiers of conscience
Into the ranks of one vast army,
Into the dust . . .

35

THE BAD YEAR

Winter came and went without a flake of snow
Or even a gust of wind. Spring was dry and brown.
Summer refused to blossom and Autumn was monotone.
The moon and stars were inconspicuous dots
In a gray sky and the sun their dull accomplice.
Waves lapped shores in silence
And all creatures disappeared from their usual haunts.
Most poets agreed, it was a bad year for images.
A few blamed acid rain, others, global warming.
Some said they would plow their poems under,
Plant new ones in the spring and apply for government aid.
But the majority decided to abandon poetry altogether
And get regular jobs in town.

36

OTHER THINGS

My country is where I wander—
It has no boundaries.

My flag is the blue sky
Or a sparrow fluttering in the wind.

My anthem is the beating of my heart,
In and out of sync with life.

I do not think other things matter . . .

37

IN THE MUSEUM

Sometimes the paintings come alive.
Their colors blue before my eyes
And darken into another vision of consciousness.

I experience an awareness
That is somewhere beyond beauty
In a landscape of pure truth.

I see a splotch of black
In the center of a white canvas.
Nothing else . . .

38

LUNAR DEMENTIA

Sometimes there is a madness
That falls from the night sky
When the moon comes shining;
It seems to ebb and flow
Like some insidious tide,
Lapping at the hearts of men
And dementing all their actions.

39

LANDSCAPE WITH RAIN

The cold spring rain
Falls on abandoned fields,
Orchards of wild apple trees,
Deserted houses . . .

Falls on empty silos
And mildewed barns,
Crumbling bridges . . .

Falls like slivers of glass
That pierce the forehead.

The harness returns to dung,
The plow evolves to rust
In the cold spring rain.

40

THE OLD WHITE DOG

The old white dog with blue-green eyes
Collapsed on the floor near my desk
And could not lift his head when I called his name.
When he began to whine and cry I telephoned the vet.

The old white dog with blue-green eyes
Tried to walk but couldn’t
So I carried him into the examination room
And laid him on a cold, steel table.

The old white dog with blue-green eyes
Stared into the Void and released his bladder
While the vet told me what was wrong,
What was humane and what had to be done.

The old white dog with blue-green eyes
Watched me nod my head, giving my permission.
I held his paw while the vet inserted the needle.
He told me it would only take a few minutes.

The old white dog with blue-green eyes
Died in a puddle of urine at the hands of a stranger
While I, his cowardly master, watched and wept.
When it was over I removed his collar and stumbled from the room.

□□

41

The old white dog with blue-green eyes
Still runs through the field of my dreams
But, when I wake with a start in the night
And stare into the darkness, he is not there.

42

THE BLACK SKY

In the last darkness,
I will be a crow
Climbing in the black sky
Alone, and away from earth,
To an even darker place
That is beyond imagination
And understanding . . .

43

FIRE AND ASH

I grow old sitting by the fire
And burning the trees I planted.
My youth has gone up the chimney,
My memory has turned to ash,
But I enjoy sitting here
And staring into the flames.

44

ECHOES

Sometimes, after supper on summer evenings,
My wife would walk up the hill, behind the house,
To feed the fish in our small, green pond.
She would stand on the pond’s edge
And throw chunks of bread to the silver trout
That lurked in the shallow water.
Her voice would carry across the pond,
Through the poplar trees,
And down the hill into the valley.
“Here, fish, fish, fish,” she would call,
As she threw the tiny pieces of bread
Into the cool, dark water.
I told her that I doubted if the fish could hear,
Let alone understand,
But that never stopped her voice
From calling out in the twilight
And echoing in my ears:
“Here, fish, fish, fish!”

45

THE LAST SPARROW

When the last sparrow dies,
It will be noted with curiosity
In certain scientific circles.
Its death will cause omissions
Of text and illustration
In the Audubon Guide for Tomorrow.
There will be asterisks and dates
Denoting the details of its departure.
Its tiny body will be treated with chemicals
And stuffed with cotton wadding
Before it enters the display case
With other extinct species.
It will sit on an artificial perch,
In an unnatural habitat,
And stare at all the birdwatchers
With its little glass eyes.

46

FOUR POEMS ON THE HOLOCAUST

LAMPSHADE

“The skins of concentration camp prisoners made excellent lampshades.
Tattooed skins appear to have been the most sought after.”

(From The Rise and Fall of The Third Reich by William Shirer.)

Behold the crude blue cryptonyms
On swathes of pale luminescent skin,
Sliced, peeled and ripped from inner forearms,
Then tanned and stretched.

Behold the initialed flowers
That blossomed in torsoed gardens,
Somewhere between the nipples and the navel
And cheated the nectar-sucking bee.

Behold the anesthetized butterflies,
With extended patterned wings,
Caught in life’s frenzied flight
And impaled on death’s invisible pin.

Behold the benighted faces of the departed
Staring from their final darkness
Into the eyes of admiring beholders
Gawking behind visors of diminished glare.

Behold a phantasmagoria of evil
Displayed in all of its infamous glory
On a lampshade.

49

TATTOO

Tattoo this on your memory
So you will not forget
There were bakeries of death
That baked human loaves
Until they burned to ash.

Tattoo this on your consciousness
So you will not forget
The ashes were scattered
On cabbage fields
Or processed into soap.

Tattoo this on your heart
So you will not forget
The red brick ovens
Are still there
Waiting to be stoked.

Tattoo this on your soul
So you will not forget
There was never a shortage of bakers
Willing to knead the dough
And bake another loaf.

Tattoo this number on your arm
And you will not forget . . .

50

HIMMLER

He licked an index finger with his tongue
And, from time to time, like other people do,
He turned the page when that page was done.
The book was a birthday present,
Inspired and inscribed by the Fuhrer:
A special limited edition of Mein Kampf
With printed pages of human skin.
He most enjoyed the chapter
Plucked from the bones of Moishe the Tailor
Who happened to faint one evening
At Auschwitz roll call
And was kicked to death.

51

THE BLACK ROAD

“It is hard to find clues of a crime. But we cannot forget that the whole
area is one huge necropolis.”

(Quoted from a brochure about the death camp at Treblinka, where more
than 870,000 men, women and children were murdered in less than a year.)

We follow the black road to Treblinka
Where crows circle in the gray sky
And flakes of snow begin to fall.

We follow the black road to Treblinka
Where human ash has turned to stone
And stone to memory.

We follow the black road to Treblinka
Where the flakes of snow
Melt beneath our tears.
We follow the black road to Treblinka . . .

52

FRAGMENTS OF CHILDHOOD

There were juicy pears in the orchard of my grandparents,
Golden fruit that spattered the earth like rain, like snow,
When my cousins and I shook the branches.
The sky glittered above the trees
And the sun shimmered through the leaves
While we laughed and played.
Sometimes, after supper on summer evenings,
We would sit on the porch
And watch the fireflies blinking in the pasture.
Grandpa would tell stories about working in the coal mines
When he was young and before he got crippled by a cave-in.
Grandma would sit in her rocking chair,
Sometimes knitting, sometimes churning butter
And sometimes just rocking back and forth, back and forth.
When it got dark, Grandma would say, “Time for bed, boys.”
We would climb the stairs to our pallets in the attic
And kneel on the floor to say our prayers
With the moon and stars shining through the window.

55

WILD STRAWBERRIES

One stolen afternoon,
On the last day of spring,
I left the sweltering highway
And pushed a borrowed bike
Into the shade of nearby woods.
I knew, as a boy once knew,
Where wild strawberries grow.

With bulging waist,
Failing eyes and stiff fingers,
I stooped and picked
And ate as I went
What proved to be
A meaningful number:
I was completely out of breath,
Hot and soaked with sweat,
Dizzy and overtired
From picking a few handfuls
Of tiny berries.

I sat on a nearby stump and rested,
Hoping for a breeze where there was none.
Peddling back that evening,
Slower than I had come,
An old man lost in an old man’s thoughts,
With the taste of wild berries
Lingering . . .

56

THE SHOUT

The ashes from our campfire were cold and gray
When we said goodbye. They scattered in the wind.

Our footprints parted in the snow . . .

I stopped and looked back
But your shadow had disappeared in the forest.

I stared at the black skeleton of a tree
And began to shout your name . . .

But you did not hear.

57

LETTER TO A FRIEND

The afternoon has burned away.
A red rose darkens in the evening dusk
While water clouds in its crystal vase
And shadows slowly enter the room.

This day is done and all is still
Except the beating of my heart
And chimes of memory.

I sit and stare into the ink of night
Until the first star comes shining through the window
And I decide to send these lines to you . . .

58

***

Ponder This:
An endless army of black ants
Marching across the forest floor
Scurrying to attend their ordained chores.
Lilliputians such as these
Could carry any Gulliver
To their teeming hill . . .
Not so far for them to travel
And not so far for him
To the end of all his travels
But further still than all imaginings.

59

SOLDIER BOY

A soldier sleeps beneath the stars
Wrapped in a wolf skin crawling with lice
And clutching a two-edged sword.

A soldier rises in the dawn when the bugle calls.
Last night’s wine has turned to water in his veins
But he charges into battle screaming and pretending to be brave.

A soldier dies in the red mud of war
And is buried beneath the stars
Face down, without his wolf skin or his sword.

60

MAYAN YESTERDAYS

Moon and stars shine on Lake Atitlán.
Silver fish swim in black water
Unaware of tomorrow's fisherman.
Gentle waves lap at hard shores
Of steep hills and dead volcanoes.
Winding footpaths ascend
Through a landscape of midnight green
And lead to the twelve villages
That surround the lake
And were named after the Apostles.
Where ears of blue corn
Dry on every farmer's roof
And Children of the Sun
Sleep and dream of golden yesterdays.

61

THE FAWN

One winter afternoon,
While wandering through the woods,
I found an exhausted fawn
In a bank of drifting snow.
There was no doe in sight
To show concern or chase me away.
There was only a set of tracks
That told me the fawn had come alone.

Coyotes welcome such encounters
To feed their hunger with opportunity.
I stooped and picked up the trembling creature,
Cradled it in my arms
And carried it to a nearby meadow.
I could feel its tiny heart
Pounding next to mine
As I laid it in a patch of winter grass,
Near a pool of melted snow.
Confused and terrified, it rested there awhile,
Struggled to its feet, licked some of the snow’s runoff,
And without a backward glance,
Bounded back into the forest from whence it came.
Walking back to my cabin that evening,
I wondered if the fawn could survive the winter,
And if it did, would it remember me
When the snow melted in the spring.

62

DOUBLE TAKE

The other morning, at the bathroom sink,
I looked in the mirror and started to think,
Whatever happened to that slim young fellow
I used to see, when I was only twenty-three?

In case you actually want to know,
That was thirty-four pounds ago.

63

WINTER SOLSTICE

A wild apple tree
And the silver moon
Shining through black branches;
Stars overhead
And footprints in the snow
Leading to a hermit’s hut.

An old man sits by the fire,
Warms his face and hands,
Then counts his beads,
Giving thanks to the powers that be
For warmth on a winter night
And a feast of frozen apples.

64

DEER CROSSING

The doe bounded out of pure darkness
Into circles of blinding light;
Steel smashed flesh,
Spattered blood,
Crushed bone,
While her little fawn stood trembling
By the side of the winding road.

65

REFLECTIONS ON BATHING

Birds in a birdbath
Don’t bathe like you and me.
They don’t lather up with soap
Or dry off on a towel.
They flap their tiny wings
And splash themselves
With a few drops of water,
Which, I suppose, is adequate
If you’re only a little fowl.

66

SOMEWHERE EAST OF EDEN

In the heat of a fiery sun
And the cold shadow of the moon,
He hums a moral madness
And howls a bloody tune.

He stalks through his father’s garden
Eating apples picked by his mother,
Prowls east in winding sheets,
Searching for his brother.

67

ON IGNORANCE

Most of us go to our doom
Without ever knowing
If it’s the woof or the weft
Or both, that cross over
The warp in the loom.

68

WILD THINGS

Whenever I hear my neighbors rave and rant
About their gardens and what and when they plan to plant,
I always start to smirk and give a great big laugh
When I think about all that work they’re going to do,
Just to harvest a veggie or two.
While I, on the other hand, will be out in the woods
Sprawled under a tree, taking life easy
And living off the fat of the land.
I never have to sow a seed,
Water plants or pull a weed,
Not like they do.
I pick wild leeks and mustard greens,
Dandelions, ferns and stinging nettles,
Milkweed, mushrooms and lily petals.
And by the time they start their planting,
I’m out in the woods doing my picking
And getting all I want of wild things.
It’s not because I’m so smart
That I don’t have a garden,
But I’m definitely not dumb
Because I don’t need one;
I’ve got a green thumb for wild things.

69

IN MEMORY OF RALPH CAMPO
(STREET FIGHTER
AND MERCHANT SEAMAN EXTRAORDINAIRE)

In honor of his memory

We cast his ashes into the sea

Where they shall ride the tide,

Beneath the waves and sunlight

Of all his yesterdays.

But memory is a gull

Screeching in the wind

And circling in the sky,

Before it dips its wings

And slowly flies away.

70

THE ALUMINUM DREAMER

I am an aluminum dreamer

Prospecting for empty cans

In the streets of Eldorado.

I stake my claim

To the garbage and trash

Of yesterday’s abundance.

I prowl cityscapes

Choked with litter and uncollected waste

Searching for random nuggets.

I seek the promised mother lode

Of assembly lines and mass production

In overflowing dumpsters.

I define the boom or bust of poverty and plenty

By counting the nickels I receive

For my bags of empty cans.

I descend the economic ladder

And cling to a forgotten rung

Somewhere near the bottom.

But I always cry “Eureka,”

When I find an empty can

In the streets of Eldorado.

71

THE DEATH OF FRANKIE VITO

The death of Frankie Vito was short and sour.
After one of many long and sleepless nights,
He came to a final conclusion:
The hero of all his dreams
Had become a heinous villain
Staring back at him from the bathroom mirror.
And rather than return to prison
As a three-time loser
And serve twenty-five years to life,
Without the possibility of parole,
He placed the barrel
Of a thirty-eight caliber, snub-nosed revolver
Into his mouth
And, without a moment’s hesitation or trepidation,
Pulled the trigger.
He swallowed the tiny lead pellet in one gigantic gulp.

72

FROZEN APPLES

When the nights are long and cold
And the mountains are deep with snow,
And the road through the valley
Is a ribbon of winding ice,
I sit in a chair by the fire
And feed the flames of time
With rambling thoughts
And faded dreams,
Confusion and a sense of loss.

Voices, from long ago, call my name.
I give them face and memory
But fail to give them meaning;
Friends and loved ones then,
But almost strangers now.
They are as leaves beneath the snow
Or frozen apples on a tree,
Less than what they were before,
Different and yet, somehow, even more.

73

TRACKS

Follow the tracks in the snow
With pounding heart and heaving lungs
That expel streamers of vapor breath
While your shadow trudges behind.

Follow the tracks in the snow,
Until you find the carcass
Of a white-tailed deer
That died of starvation in the orchard
After standing on its hind legs
And pawing at the sky
For frozen apples beyond its reach.

Follow the tracks in the snow,
Leaving footprints of your own,
To where all tracks vanish
Between the brittle twigs and rotting leaves
Of a frozen apple world.

74

GOLGOTHA

In the Golgotha of my dreams,
I use an axe to crush the skulls of enemies.

In the dream,
My face and hands
Are covered with blood and viscera.

The axe handle grows slippery
As I swing it, around and around,
Again and again, in a deadly circle
To slay my enemies.

But I lose my grip,
And when the axe slides from my hand,
My enemies scream with joy
As they overwhelm me.
They have axes too,
And when they begin to swing at my head,
I always wake up screaming.

75

LOVE’S GOOD-BYE

Love said good-bye with a sledgehammer to the heart,
Sent a river of tears through the eye’s veins
And filled the empty mouth with salt.

Love cursed other love with bitter tongue
And vowed revenge with mountains of pain,
While stumbling through streets of pride.

Love burned love to lonely ash,
While glaciers crossed the soul’s divide
And slowly froze love’s memory.

Love said good-bye to love
When time echoed the end of hope,
And broke love’s battered heart in two.

76

FIREFLIES

Sometimes I think we’re all like little fireflies,
Blinking in the night and searching for love.
Some of us find it and some of us don’t.
Those that do fly off together,
And those that don’t fly off alone,
But, regardless, the search itself never ends.

77

50. CALIBER

Not so long ago,
In a distant land,
He was dozing in the sunshine,
After a long, bone-chilling night,
Half-listening to the birds in the jungle
When someone yelled,
“Here they come again!”

He pulled the slide back
On his weapon
And began to fire,
One short burst after another,
Until an enemy round
Smashed into his chest,
Tore through flesh and bone
And spiraled off into eternity.

The sun exploded in the sky.
The morning became black and cold
And the birds in the jungle stopped singing.

78

THE HOMECOMING OF ULYSSES

After ten years of war
And ten years of wandering,
I, Ulysses, slyest of all Greeks,
Washed ashore on the isle of Ithaca
To reclaim my wife and kingdom.

Rumor had reached me in a distant land
That I, the mighty Ulysses,
Strong as a bull and wily as a fox,
Had perished on the bloody plains of Troy.
And a band of foolish suitors
Had invaded my castle,
Like a flock of greedy vultures,
To overwhelm my beautiful widow
And devour her dead husband’s fortune.

Fearing some unforeseen treachery,
Which is basic wisdom for a king,
I dressed myself in the rags of a beggar
And presented myself as a poor homeless stranger
To all who had known and loved me.

I gained access to my castle
By begging for food and a place at the fire
And, as is the custom of my country,
The request was granted.

□

79

Only Argos, faithful dog of my youth,
Sniffed out my identity
While I crouched in a dark corner
Of the great hall plotting my strategy.

It was simple, as most strategies are.
After the suitors had tried and failed,
I strung the mighty bow
And proceeded to slay them all, one by one,
Until there were none.
Old Argos wagged his bushy tail
And licked my hand with his warm tongue.

At that moment Penelope knew I was, indeed, her husband
And, with familiar charms,
Welcomed me into her waiting bed,
While toothless Argos howled with joy
And lapped a nearby pool of blood.

A few days later, Argos died in his sleep.
I buried him high on a hill.
Within the year, Penelope wove herself into madness.
I locked her in the castle’s tower.
Time passed and blurred into old age
Until my son, Telemachus, ascended to the throne.

□□

80

And then, seeking one final adventure,
I gathered a trusty crew and set sail
In search of virtue and knowledge.
But Poseidon waits for every man;
I perished at the end of the world
Beneath the waves of a cold and angry sea,
Thrashing my arms and legs,
Gasping for breath
And blinking at the stars.

Homer said, “Men are playthings of the Gods
And all their deeds have been foretold,”
But the blind poet was wrong.
I, Ulysses, slyest of all Greeks,
Warred and wandered, loved and killed,
All with a will of my own.

81

MODLITWA

(A Polish Prayer For Rain)

Oh, God!
On this warm and wondrous night,
Please open the floodgates of heaven
And send a rousing river of rain
To the forest and fields of our village
That I might pick mushrooms in the morning
And eat soup in the afternoon.

82

A BOWL OF DUST

Eight years old and barefooted,
Wearing bib overalls but no shirt,
I was coming out of the barn
After feeding our milk cow
And slopping the pig.
When I heard the screen door
To the kitchen, squeak open and slap shut.
I looked toward the house
And saw my grandmother
Strewing a handful of cracked corn
To our flock of puny chickens
Surrounding her in the yard.
Soon, they were clucking, scratching and pecking
At the unexpected morsels
Scattered around her feet.
All of a sudden, she bent over
And snatched an old hen by its neck,
Raised it over her head
And swung it in a circle,
Four or five times,
Like she was getting ready
To lasso the sun.
The chicken’s body
Detached itself from the neck,
Flew through the air
And landed in the dust
That seemed to cover everything in those days.

□

83

After spewing a trail of blood,
While fluttering and flopping around the yard,
The headless body finally fell over
And was still.
That evening, Granny said Grace,
And thanked the Lord
For providing in these hard times.
We had chicken and dumplings for supper
And there was even enough for seconds.

84

HARE IN WINTER

There is a blue rabbit
Sitting in the middle of a winter landscape,
Painted on a plate,
Hanging on the wall in my kitchen.
The rabbit watches me when I enter the room
And seems to be listening to every word I say.

There is a blue fence and a blue tree
In the foreground and a field of snow
Drifting off into the distance,
Where more blue trees climb
Into a white, winter sky.

But, after these,
I always see a landscape of time
Where my mother’s brown eyes
Are gazing into mine,
Thanking me for a piece of Wedgwood
I gave her long ago . . .

85

AN IMPERFECT MATCH

They met on match.com.
Both were fairly attractive,
Currently uninvolved
And each was seeking
Their significant other.
They were also “readily available.”

She was unemployed,
But an aspiring actress,
Politically progressive, jogged every day,
Adored cats, was gluten free
And never missed an episode
Of Sex and The City.

He, on the other hand,
Marched to a different tune,
Was a derivatives broker,
A closet conservative,
Always cabbed it, hated cats,
Loved dogs, bagels and the Knicks.

After a whirlwind courtship
Of risqué texting and tweeting,
They consummated their affair
With a self-satisfying session
Of hot and heavy
Cell phone sex.

□□

86

But their relationship ended.
Several months later,
When she learned
He had been cheating
With her roommate
On a computer.

When basketball season was over,
He would stare at his cell phone
And remember all those intimate encounters
They had shared together;
And he wondered
If she would ever forgive him.

87

FIVE MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT

The moon is a clock on the dresser
Shining and winding down.

A shadow rises from the rumpled bed
And sweat-soaked pillow
To become a silhouette on the wall.
It shuffles across the room,
Stops at the waiting window
And stares into the darkness.

Stars explode in the skies of other times,
To mock the mind before they burn to ash,
At five minutes to midnight.

88

David Day was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1936. His parents were
American born. He began working as a young boy and as he grew-up,
he worked a range of jobs from truck driver, longshoreman, furniture
mover, business man. He served two years in the armed forces, U.S.
Army 1955-1957, plus two years of college from Roosevelt University,
Armed Forces Institute and the University of Kansas, studying literature,
history and economics.

Day has close ties with Poland. Since 1974, he has been married to

Jadwiga Piątak and made numerous visits to Poland. During the 1980s,
he was an active supporter of Solidarity. He wrote numerous articles
and letters for newspapers supporting the movement and participated
in pro-Solidarity demonstrations. As of April 2016, he left New York and
currently resides in Ostrołęka, Poland. His hobbies are writing poetry
and mushroom picking.

Erik La Prade has a BA and an MA from City College of New York. His
writings have appeared in ArtCritical, Art in America, The Brooklyn Rail,
The Outlaw Bible of American Art, and other journals. His next book of
poems, Neglected Powers is forthcoming from Last Word Press in 2017.

89

CONTENTS

NOW . . . 9
AFTER THE HUNT . . . 10
A FRAGMENT OF LOVE . . . 11
THE BULLFIGHTS AT REYNOSA . . . 12
VAN GOGH . . . 13
IN THE SHADOWS OF THE FOREST . . . 14
POST IMPRESSION . . . 15
THE PARTY . . . 16
RIMBAUD IN ABYSSINIA . . . 17
AGONY . . . 18
EMBERS . . . 19
JOURNEYMAN . . . 20
IN THE LABIRYNTH . . . 21
COLORADO CHRISTMAS . . . 22
TRANSFORMATION . . . 23
DEATH WISH . . . 24
TEARS OF LOVE . . . 25
WAITING . . . 26
A NIGHT IN THE BOWERY MISSION . . . 27
LINES FOR JADWIGA . . . 29
GREEN SHADOWS . . . 30
COCAINE QUEEN . . . 31
BATHING BEAUTY . . . 32
THE REFLECTION . . . 33
DAWN . . . 34
FLAGS . . . 35
THE BAD YEAR . . . 36

91

OTHER THINGS . . . 37
IN THE MUSEUM . . . 38
LUNAR DEMENTIA . . . 39
LANDSCAPE WITH RAIN . . . 40
THE OLD WHITE DOG . . . 41
THE BLACK SKY . . . 43
FIRE AND ASH . . . 44
ECHOES . . . 45
THE LAST SPARROW . . . 46

F O U R P O E M S O N T H E H O L O C A U S T
LAMPSHADE . . . 49
TATTOO . . . 50
HIMMLER . . . 51
THE BLACK ROAD . . . 52

FRAGMENTS OF CHILDHOOD . . . 55
WILD STRAWBERRIES . . . 56
THE SHOUT . . . 57
LETTER TO A FRIEND . . . 58
*** (Ponder This) . . . 59
SOLDIER BOY . . . 60
MAYAN YESTERDAYS . . . 61
THE FAWN . . . 62
DOUBLE TAKE . . . 63
WINTER SOLSTICE . . . 64
DEER CROSSING . . . 65
REFLECTIONS ON BATHING . . . 66
SOMEWHERE EAST OF EDEN . . . 67
ON IGNORANCE . . . 68

92

WILD THINGS . . . 69
IN MEMORY OF RALPH CAMPO . . . 70
THE ALUMINUM DREAMER . . . 71
THE DEATH OF FRANKIE VITO . . . 72
FROZEN APPLES . . . 73
TRACKS . . . 74
GOLGOTHA . . . 75
LOVE’S GOOD-BYE . . . 76
FIREFLIES . . . 77
50. CALIBER . . . 78
THE HOMECOMING OF ULYSSES . . . 79
MODLITWA . . . 82
A BOWL OF DUST . . . 83
HARE IN WINTER . . . 85
AN IMPERFECT MATCH . . . 86
FIVE MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT . . . 88

93

KRYTYKA LITERACKA is a non-profit quarterly of literature, the arts
and public affairs, published independently in Poland since 2009. It was
founded by writer, photographer, literary and art critic Tomasz Marek
Sobieraj. The magazine is concerned with both Polish issues and
international perspectives and open to different points of view.