Dead Men's Praise

Jacqueline Osherow

• Publisher: Grove Press
• Year: 2007
• ISBN:
  9780802196729
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

A witty and formally versatile collection of poetry exploring life, faith, and history by the Witter Bynner Prize-winning poet. With Dead Men's Praise, Jacqueline Osherow gives us her fourth and most ambitious collection of poetry to date. Her hybrid inspiration ranges from Dante's terza rima, to free verse, to biblical psalms, all delivered in a casually conversational voice. Combining the self-mocking inflections of Yiddish jokes with the pure lyric inspiration of biblical verse, these poems range in theme from Italian hill towns to contemporary art installations in Los Angeles to the vanished Jewish world of the Ukraine. Her effortless humor and sharp insights take us from imaginings of the future to recovery of the past, and her distinctive voice becomes a fusion of the sublime and the down-to-earth. "Like Elizabeth Bishop, who wove her voice into a sestina so effortlessly you forget the form is there, Osherow makes villanelles, sonnets, and even Dante's terza rima feel genuinely conversational." —David Yaffe, The Village Voice

I

Ch’vil Schreiben a Poem auf Yiddish

I want to write a poem in Yiddish

and not any poem, but the poem

I am longing to write,

a poem so Yiddish, it would not

be possible to translate,

except from, say, my bubbe’s

Galizianer to my zayde’s Litvak

and even then it would lose a little something,

though, of course, it’s not the sort of poem

that relies on such trivialities, as,

for example, my knowing how to speak

its language—though, who knows?

Maybe I understand it perfectly;

maybe, in Yiddish, things aren’t any clearer

than the mumbling of rain on cast-off leaves.…

Being pure poem, pure Yiddish poem,

my Yiddish poem is above such meditations,

as I, were I fluent in Yiddish,

would be above wasting my time

pouring out my heart in Goyish metaphors.

Even Yiddish doesn’t have a word

for the greatness of my Yiddish poem,

a poem so exquisite that if Dante could rise from the dead

he would have to rend his clothes in mourning.

Oh, the drabness of his noisy,

futile little paradise

when it’s compared with my Yiddish poem.

His poems? They’re everywhere. A dime a dozen.

A photocopier can take them down in no time.

But my Yiddish poem can never be taken down,

not even by a pious scribe

who has fasted an entire year

to be pure enough to write my Yiddish poem,

which exists—doesn’t he realize?—

in no realm at all

unless the dead still manage to dream dreams.

It’s even a question

whether God Himself

can make out the text of my Yiddish poem.

If He can, He won’t be happy.

He’ll have to retract everything,

to re-create the universe

without banalities like firmament and light

but only out of words extracted

from the stingy tongues of strangers,

smuggled out in letters made of camels,

houses, eyes, to deafen

half a continent with argument

and exegesis, each refinement

purified in fire after

fire, singed almost beyond

recognition, but still

not quite consumed, not even

by the heat of my Yiddish poem.

Views of La Leggenda della Vera Croce

How will I ever get this in a poem,

When all I have to do is type AREZZO

And the name sidles up along a station platform,

The train I’m riding in begins to slow,

And—though I swore I wasn’t getting off this time—

I know a train comes every hour or so

To wherever I’m headed—Perugia? Rome?—

And suddenly I’m rushing off the train,

Depositing my bag, crossing the waiting room,

And striding up the Via Monaco again

As if I couldn’t see each fresco perfectly,

Couldn’t see them, now, against this screen.…

But in a minute, they’ll array themselves in front of me:

Soldiers, horses, placid ladies, kings,

All patient, in their places, not spinning crazily

Like the first time I saw them: unearthly beings

Breathing luminous pearl-green instead of air,

Horses and ladies-in-waiting flapping wings

Stolen from the eagle on the soldiers’ banner,

Their brocaded sleeves and bridles grazing spinning walls,

Hats twirling, armor flying, coils of hair

Unraveling into whirling manes and tails—

And that was before the winged arm’s appearance.…

When the Times ran an article about Stendhal’s

Famous nervous breakdown from the art in Florence,

Half a dozen friends sent it to me.

I suppose these tales of mine require forbearance.

Not that I had a breakdown, though I was dizzy,

Closed my eyes, leaned against a wall,

And told myself that there was time to see

Each panel—one by one—down to each detail:

Hats, sleeves, daggers, saddles, bits of lace;

I studied every panel: Adam’s Burial,

St. Helena’s Discovery of the Cross,

Solomon Meeting Sheba, The Annunciation,

The Dream of Constantine, The Torture of Judas,

Whose other name I learned from a machine

Which, with the help of a hundred-lire coin,

Supplies a telephone with information.

I did it for a laugh; I chose Italian.

I thought I heard the torture of the Jew

And was so stunned I played the thing again

(My Italian was, after all, fairly new

And the woman on the tape spoke very quickly

But she did say the torture of the Jew-

In Italian it’s ebreo—quite matter-of-factly)

The torture of the Jew who wouldn’t reveal

The location of the true cross—I got it exactly—

Put in a lot of coins to catch each syllable

(I also heard the English, which said Judas),

All the while not looking at the rope, the well;

Instead, I chose a saintly woman’s dress,

An angel’s finger pointing to a dream,

A single riveting, incongruous face—

What was I supposed to do? They were sublime.

The Inquisition wasn’t exactly news

And, while I did keep my eyes off that one frame,

I wasn’t about to give up on those frescoes.

In fact, I saw them again, a short while after

And again soon after—in those heady days,

Trains cost almost nothing and a drifter

Could easily cover quite a bit of Italy,

Though I tended to stay in Tuscany. The light was softer,

And—probably not coincidentally—

It had a higher density than any other place

Of things that could dazzle inexhaustibly.

And I was insatiable, avaricious

For what—even asleep—a person can’t see

From a slim back bedroom in a semidetached house

Like every other house in its vicinity

On a site whose inhabitants had been wiped out

To make room for spillover, like my family,

From the very continent I would have dreamed about

If I’d had even an inkling of the mastery

Of what its subtlest inhabitants had wrought

When they weren’t doing away with people like me.…

See how Solomon, listening, leans his head?

How the tired horseman leans against a tree—

How the guard beside the emperor’s makeshift bed

Can’t resist the sorcery of sleep—

So only we can catch the angel’s finger pointed

At the dreamer’s head, the horse’s sudden leap,

As if straight from that vision, to the battle scene:

Christianity’s triumph over Europe.…

I love the wing, the arm, the dreaming Constantine,

The moonlight casting shadows on the tent—

It is moonlight, though there is no moon—

Pale, as always, silvery and slant;

It’s coming from the angel’s pointing arm

Which I didn’t even notice that first moment—

All I saw was undiluted dream—

I didn’t really care what it ...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Part I
• Part II
• Part III
• Part IV