Connecting the Dots: New and Selected Poems

By Helen Kanevsky

Helen Kanevsky dismantles the separation between fact and fiction in her new poetry collection that enlightens with imagery but also delves into literal truth. Life, the endless reverse from which Helen Kanevsky draws her bitter-sweet poetic brew, is just too weird to grasp and maybe not worth grasping (“Life violates every code of decency”). It is “Rabbis in kimonos munching on gefilte fish sushi.” It is an entity that, when you think you’ve found the particles from which it is constructed, turned into a wave and scatters – its meaning ever elusive, and fading into old recollections. And yet, there is that reality that must be connected with sobriety. As the poet says, “Memories are useless ballast … until you are brought in for questioning.” Reality in Helen’s poems defies exactitude, best captured not by exciting exposition, but in the Kanevsky-esque disquisition. And, it is FUN! Bruce Neuburger, writer, educator, and peace activist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jun 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483485591

Helen Kanevsky

The first short-short story that I wrote in my introductory English class in San Mateo Adult School was about a homeless woman who managed to find a janitor position in a doctor’s office and went shopping in Nordstrom. I always knew how to dream big. Pretty soon I learned that many American success stories were made by poorly equipped people—some college dropouts, some who were mentally or physically disabled. Well, I started to write my beloved poems, prose, and short stories long before I gathered a little ability to speak and be understood. Why not? All those success-story folks didn’t have an MBA or mastered any calculus. It is America after all—nothing stood between me and my vision about the pursuit of happiness. I still didn’t make my first million or even a thousand dollars, but I have published my first book of poems. I hope you will enjoy my narrative and start your own vision about the pursuit of happiness, and when you get rich, please do not forget to buy a few copies of The Devious Route. I would really appreciate it.

Book preview

KANEVSKY

Copyright © 2018 Helen Kanevsky.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-8560-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-8559-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018905747

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 5/10/2018

Foreword

Commenting on poetry, especially good poetry, is tricky business.

In the realm of the word, Poetry is more like sensation than corporeal existence.

Poetry is the quantum particle of language. The poem-particle defies precise description as the very process of defining it alters its effect.

It," being a feeling, a flash of light, an image, a sound of conjoined words, a mood, a melody, the mental spark that jumps out at the delight of unforeseen connections or the collision of grating contradictions.

Thus, it is here.

Bruce Neuburger

I

Water

Your first bath.

A midwife cleans you up.

You don’t have fun.

Then come

the sprinkles of holy water in church,

the tepid water of the nursery,

the ardor of rain water,

the predatoriness of ocean water,

the ice water after you’ve made love,

swallowed fire or juggled clubs.

You drink that water in one gulp.

Motes of dust stuck to the furniture.

Your eyes are red,

but the tears dried up.

Left here alone for weeks on end

with waterlogged images

in thick gray clouds

you play hide-and-seek

with memories of the March sky

in patches of meat and mustard,

with a carpet of bold spring flowers,

with a blue outline of mountains.

The fated assault of the time,

dark shadows around the eyes,

the hair unwashed and disheveled.

Promises written in water

form a puddle of bitter tears.

Your life is water under the bridge.

The last bath.

Fire

Fire hates publicity,

always unsure which hat to wear.

Today it hurts me,

not timid about probing my raw flesh.

Senseless.

Tomorrow it wears the saver’s hat

nurturing what is left from its rage.

Sentient.

Fire keeps my wound clean,

creating a burning sensation in my throat

with Jameson,

pacifying fervent emotion

with a burst of machine gun

when my furious fate breathes fire

on my doorstep, insisting

that the past onslaught isn’t over.

Having no time to breathe or think,

with a lingering taste of coffee in the mouth,

watching dead leaves fluttering on the ground

marking agitated joggers jogging through fire

and pretending to talk about this and that.

A strange noise behind the door.

Shock and shame.

Tears cannot extinguish a budding fire.

Flickering flame

at the foot of the staircase

looks harmless until it’s too late.

A presence that commands the room,

the recurring dream.

People are inanimate objects for flames.

The psychopath Fire can melt metal.

Wood

We are nothing but trouble for Wood.

Our comfort will not make Wood happy.

In her prime, Wood controlled the world

but lost out to humans in the finals.

A tree cannot petition congressmen

on the insulting behavior of builders.

Trees still can crush you to death

in a seemingly safe park

if you cross the forbidden path.

Lured into a hearth

Wood keeps you warm and amused.

Wood’s glory wanes

like rain lessens to drizzle.

I stare at Wood. Wood stares at me

shaking off oxygen-producing leafage.

I think Wood plots to asphyxiate me

for stolen animal habitats and drained wetlands.

The natural balance is messed up.

Confused worms feast on tree’s flesh.

Wood builds a timeline in her head.

Wood hates water, metal, fire, and earth

for their apathy towards her fate.

Circumstances Wood didn’t choose

nor has any power to change prevail.

After a quarrel with the Four Elements,

defeated by a cookie-cutter housing scheme,

Wood was out of arguments against suicide.

She spooked a smoking drifter

and started a remorseless fire.

Once upon a time,

the world was made of wood.

Today