jfk

So anyway...

I was six. It was a normal day until the announcement, and then it was anything but. What happened after that--the whole weekend that followed--became what I refer to as my earliest memory.Of course I have snippets of memories before that, bits and pieces of things that happened on the first day of first grade, in kindergarten, at home in my childhood, etc., but it is the weekend of Kennedy's assassination that forms the first solid, continuous sequential memory in my mind. I realize it is only highlights of what happened, but still it lingers in all of its stark vividness.

It also marks the start of a lifelong passion for knowing what is happening in the world. At the age of six, I started reading newspapers that weekend. Why not? They were and are aimed at a reading level of sixth grade and I, a precocious reader, was reading well above my grade level. I certainly did not comprehend most of what I saw there, but I gleaned enough to understand what was happening, and I learned that these things that were delivered to our home each day could let me know about a lot of things...and also that they had col comics. (Hey, I was a kid.) I have always read papers or sought news online; it almost hurts not to know what is going on. Even if I am on vacation, I need to know. This began fifty years ago today; I still have all of the papers from that weekend.

Many years ago, I wrote a poem that expresses my childish reaction to the events of 11/22/63. Today, half a century later, I share it with you.

Eternal Tears

The crackle of a classroom speaker.
Dozens of small voices, stilled
             by the sudden intrusion,
             stop at once.
A silence.
No movement in the room but
the rhythmic metronome of the teacher's ruler
swinging back and forth in her craggy hands.
The crackle sounds once more,
and our faces turn in unison,
in anticipation,
towards its source.
A small, broken voice--
recognizable but not normal,
not the rich, strong voice usually carried into the room that way,
but a fragment of it,
a shell, without depth,
cracking like the speaker itself--
interrupts the silence.
"Bow your heads in prayer," it says.
Confused eyes stare at the oval grill
awkwardly jutting out of an ancient beige wall.
The voice, more broken now, continues.
"We have just received word that the President has been shot."
Vaguely we try to recall just what a President is;
visions of white-haired men in blue coats leap out of history books into
our brains, blur, roll into each other.  Names, mostly from holidays,
flash through our minds.
And one more.
Again the electronic crackling,
as if the speaker itself does not wish to hear the news:
"President Kennedy was shot this afternoon in Dallas."
A pause.  A sound like weeping.  "Pray for him."
Dozens of eyes,
glassy,
confused,
watch the teacher sit in stunned silence at her desk,
tears welling in her gray eyes,
the ruler grasped still tightly in her palm,
some connection to the world which has ended so abruptly.
Her face quivers, the gray in her hair even duller,
and her head slips to the desk.
We look at each other, recognizing
that something is terribly, unalterably wrong,
and bow our heads as well.
Eternity goes by.
No sound in the room but the humming of the clock
and the almost imperceptible click of its hand
every minute.
An airplane in the distance rattles the blinds on the window.
Somewhere a woman is calling someone,
her pained voice reaching out into the bright autumn sky.
Somewhere a baby is crying.
And we sit, heads on our desks, unsure exactly
what it all means,
still as we have ever been, waiting.
Waiting.
And the history book images flood back in:
Abraham Lincoln was a President who had been shot, but that was long ago,
very long ago,
and the quaking voice from the speaker had said, "this afternoon."
Voices from the mind: fathers' voices, mothers' voices,
in dinner conversation,
working around the edge of a roast,
red and dripping,
saying something about a new age, a new life for the country,
a new hope.
The speaker comes to life again, startling us out of our thoughts;
the voice is choking back tears.
"President John F. Kennedy died this afternoon in a Dallas hospital."
Wailing from somewhere down the hall.
Silence in the classroom.
Our faces blank, our minds blank.
All silent.
The speaker fades.
In the halls, there is silence.
Something terrible has happened, something
which will shape and define our lives.
So young, but we know that.
And we file quietly to our buses,
no tears in our eyes.
On this day, the tears are left to the grownups.
On this day, it helps to be a child.
And the buses roll through empty streets,
early afternoon traffic
stilled by the flickering blue light
of the television screens all are staring at,
and we go home to the arms of our waiting mothers,
and the blue lights transfix us too
Perhaps some of us cry then.
Perhaps some of us wait
for the scratchy images
of a frigid November morning
with a horse-drawn carriage
rolling along the street lined
with men in black and
women in dark veils and
the young boy raising his hand
in a silent salute,
or perhaps we wait until the small flame
begins its eternal vigil,
solitary on the hillside,
or perhaps we never cry at all,
and return to our desks
next week,
bursting with children's vigor,
forgetting what we have seen
and heard,
not fearing the next crackle of the tiny speaker.

But there are some memories,
stark or vivid,

that haunt and cling and will not let go.
And there are some tears, shed or withheld,

that never go away.

shards

Shards

Here amid the ghosts

                        and scattered leaves

            I watch

            numb

            as shards of my life

            flitter in the warm wind

            float

            softly to heaven

                        and vanish

Taking with them what remains of me.

I have stomped on the ashes

I have scattered the bones

I have ground the remains beneath my heel

                        until nothing is left but

                        empty and silent

                        my soul

                        empty and silent

                        watching

Ready for the next journey,

            the next odyssey.

These silver shards, razor sharp,

            flicker on the breeze

            in the twilight

            drifting, fluttering, going

            wherever

            lost and fragmented dreams go.

If I could capture just one of them,

hold it in my open palm one instant,

and withstand the pain

as it slices my hand to the bone

            (as it will inevitably do because

            it must),

bloody and strafed,

            my hand would hold

            for that one moment

            my life,

            and

            I might once more understand.

But I cannot.

In the thickening evening,

the last glistening shards meander skyward,

and I turn,

I who have created them by destroying myself,

and join the other ghosts

            in the endless

            drifting

            wind.

suicide note in may

suicide note in may

the green plate is yours

and the bowls

the two wooden bowls

in the cupboard,

they are yours too
and all of your clothes of course

but not the table

we don’t own the table

you have to give it back

there’s a picture in a frame

the one of your brothers

and you

and Monica

in front of red flowers

like the ones on the walk

when you were all

when we were all

so young

you may have that too

if you can find it

I don’t really know where it is

oh but be sure to return the other dishes

to Sylvia next door

I borrowed them, they are not ours

I’m sorry

I know you like the pattern

the colors swirling around themselves

pretty

never stopping, never the same

they are not ours

but you may keep the green one

and all of the glasses

keep them too

your sister used to like the Disney ones

but that was a long time ago

of course

before she

well you know

there is some cleaning liquid under the sink

if there is a mess please clean it

I don’t want a mess

sorry

I will try not to make one

and there are dishes in the sink

you’ll need to do them

in any case

but you may have the green one

and the candles too

we have pretty candles

some of them smell nice

they are yours too

I wish I could burn them with you

today

could burn them and tell stories

or just sit in the grass

and breathe in the spring

and sing songs

we used to sing songs

didn’t we

I think there was a time

I know

I know I promised

I’m sorry

here is your daddy’s phone number

call him

he’s in Canada but he’ll come

and call your grandmother up in

New Hampshire

tell her happy Mother’s Day from me

the bitch

she never even gave me

never mind, I’m sorry

I wish it could be

different

I wish I could give you the sand

on the beach where we played

or the blanket from your bed when you were small

or the sun shining on the car as we drove west

I wish

but it’s gone now

all of it

gone

I wish I still had it

I wish you could have it

but you’ll be fine

pick up the bottles please

water the flowers

and think of me

when you use the plate

sunsparks

sunsparks

it’s your hair that i notice first

streaked with morning

it frames your face

you lying there eyes closed

soft breath not quite there

unmoving

i follow its path as it bends the sheet

and i can touch you there

touch what i feel is you

in the spark of daylight

you’ll rise

pull on the wrinkled shirt from last night

say something you think is beautiful

drink some coffee

from behind my paper

and drive away,

leaving a kiss on my lips

and a hole in my heart

where a fire ought to be

The Longest Month

The Longest Month

The children will tell you
it's December,
the days crawling by like years
as new snow beckons
outdoor thrills
and Christmas looms
always justthisclose
but never
close
enough
or perhaps, if they considered,
they'd argue for May,
when the browngrey dullness
of winterscapes have
exploded
into blooms of color
and sunlight
and the warmth calls to them
to run
leap
play
but only
through schoolroom windows.
Children will tell you
and children are sure,
but there are matters in this world
beyond childish comprehension:
months into the seasonal gloom
when the memory of first flakes
has lost all of its charm
and cantankerous rodents
dream peacefully
of spring
after condemning the rest of us
to waking worlds of winter,
when bitter chill and
blasting snow
keep crocuses sleeping
past expiration dates,
when false lovers' holidays
foist pretend fire
into the silent kilns of
empty hearts,
ever-growing snowbanks
remind us of
what we learn each year
what melts away with the banks
each spring:
hell is not a place
of fire
and searing burning crackling
pain
hell is a landscape
endless, frozen,
cold
barren--
those whose eyes are open
are vouchsafed
a vision of it each year
if they choose to see.
February will end
and color return to the world,
but the wise
the adults
the seeing
know that it is the warmth and colors
that are the illusion,
as much as the
prognostications of
that weary woodchuck
and the flimsy arrows of
the churlish cherub,
and the chill of the
longest month
lives within us
waiting
waiting to freeze
to restrain
to pierce
the hearts of
those who believe in
spring
and joy
and love.
They do not exist.
They are cruel fabrications
thrust into the mind
by the devilish
interminable
monotonous
lonely
empty
snowbound month
of February.

Eternal Tears

The crackle of a classroom speaker.

Dozens of small voices, stilled

by the sudden intrusion,

stop at once.

A silence.

No movement in the room but

the rhythmic metronome of the teacher’s ruler

swinging back and forth in her craggy hands.

The crackle sounds once more,

and our faces turn in unison,

in anticipation,

towards its source.

A small, broken voice—

recognizable but not normal,

not the rich, strong voice usually carried into the room that way,

but a fragment of it,

a shell, without depth,

cracking like the speaker itself—

interrupts the silence.

“Bow your heads in prayer,” it says.

Confused eyes stare at the oval grill

awkwardly jutting out of an ancient beige wall.

The voice, more broken now, continues.

“We have just received word that the President has been shot.”

Vaguely we try to recall just what a President is—

visions of white-haired men in blue coats leap out of history books into

our brains, blur, roll into each other. Names, mostly from holidays,

flash through our minds.

And one more…

Again the electronic crackling,

as if the speaker itself does not wish to hear the news:

“President Kennedy was shot this afternoon in Dallas.”

A pause. A sound like weeping. “Pray for him.”

Dozens of eyes,

glassy,

confused,

watch the teacher sit in stunned silence at her desk,

tears welling in her gray eyes,

the ruler grasped still tightly in her palm,

some connection to the world which has ended so abruptly.

Her face quivers, the gray in her hair even duller,

and her head slips to the desk.

We look at each other, recognizing

that something is terribly, unalterably wrong,

and bow our heads as well.

Eternity goes by.

No sound in the room but the humming of the clock

and the almost imperceptible click of its hand

every minute.

An airplane in the distance rattles the blinds on the window.

Somewhere a woman is calling someone,

her pained voice reaching out into the bright autumn sky.

Somewhere a baby is crying.

And we sit, heads on our desks, unsure exactly

what it all means,

still as we have ever been, waiting.

Waiting.

And the history book images flood back in:

Abraham Lincoln was a President who had been shot, but that was long ago,

very long ago,

and the quaking voice from the speaker had said, “this afternoon.”

Voices from the mind: fathers’ voices, mothers’ voices,

in dinner conversation,

working around the edge of a roast,

red and dripping,

saying something about a new age, a new life for the country,

a new hope.

The speaker comes to life again, startling us out of our thoughts;

the voice is choking back tears.

“President John F. Kennedy died this afternoon in a Dallas hospital.”

Wailing from somewhere down the hall.

Silence in the classroom.

Our faces blank, our minds blank.

All silent.

The speaker fades.

In the halls, there is silence.

Something terrible has happened, something

which will shape and define our lives.

So young, but we know that.

And we file quietly to our buses,

no tears in our eyes.

On this day, the tears are left to the grownups.

On this day, it helps to be a child.

And the buses roll through empty streets,

early afternoon traffic

stilled by the flickering blue light

of the television screens all are staring at,

and we go home to the arms of our waiting mothers,

and the blue lights transfix us too.

Perhaps some of us cry then.

Perhaps some of us wait

for the scratchy images

of a frigid November morning

with a horse-drawn carriage

rolling along the street lined

with men in black and

women in dark veils and

the young boy raising his hand

in a silent salute,

or perhaps we wait until the small flame

begins its eternal vigil,

solitary on the hillside,

or perhaps we never cry at all,

and return to our desks

on Monday,

bursting with children’s vigor,

forgetting what we have seen

and heard,

not fearing the next crackle of the tiny speaker.

But there are some memories,

stark or vivid,

that haunt and cling and will not let go.

And there are some tears—shed or withheld—that never go away.