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Alicia Ostriker: "Jersey Transit"
and Other Poems
JERSEY
TRANSIT | THE VOCABULARY
OF JOY
| THE NATURE OF BEAUTY | LOCKOUT
| THE BOYS, THE BROOMHANDLE, THE RETARDED GIRL
Poet
and literary essayist, Alicia Suskin Ostriker, lives in Princeton and
teaches English Literature and Creative Writing at Rutgers University.
She is the author of nine books of poetry, including
The Crack in Everything (U. of Pittsburg Press, 1996) which was
a finalist for the National Book Award and won the Paterson Poetry Prize
and the San Francisco Poetry Center Award. Her latest book of poetry,
The Little Space: Poems Selected and New, (U. of Pittsburg Press,
1998) which was also a finalist for the National Book Award was a finalist
for the Lenore Marshall Nation Prize.) The Imaginary Lover
(1986), won the William Carlos Williams Award of the Poetry Society of
America. Alica Suskin Ostrikers poetry and essays have appeared
in American Poetry Review, Kenyon Review,The Nation, Paris Review,
The New Yorker and numerous other literary magazineds and periodicals.
The University of Michigan Press published Ostriker's astute commentary
in Dancing at the Devil's Party: Essays on Poetry, Politics and the
Erotic. in 1999. She has written several other highly acclaimed critical
works, including The Nakedness of the Fathers: Biblical Visions and
Revisions (1994) and Stealing the Language: The Emergence of Women's
Poetry in America (1986). The poet wrote NJPoets.com saying,"
Im proud to be a New Jersey poet, in the line of Whitman, Williams,
Ginsberg, and all my brother and sister New Jersey poets writing today--what
a lineup!"
JERSEY TRANSIT
i
That black woman
with the extraordinary earrings
Haranguing
that black man about the contradictions
Of society,
challenging his premises, she's
Been doing
it since the freezing Trenton platform
Where
the rest of us shivered and looked at our watches.
Doctrinally
correct, but
He's tired
from work and
He's just
been helplessly viewing her breasts
The whole
trip between Trenton and New Brunswick.
ii
Father and son in
the aisle, the man's
Mouth
is hair-thin; nose too; it would seem he exercises
Much control.
He is pointing something out
Among
the grimy smokestacks of Elizabeth--
Telephone
wires? A church? His boy looks aside and says:
"Forget
it, dad."
iii
The elderly passenger,
the young conductor, negotiate.
The
old man puts his
Change
in his pocket, leans back
Against
the seat and picks his teeth.
The
train rattles along, making us all
Fall
half-asleep.
Over
the brown Jersey horizon the World Trade Center rises
Like
a pair of angels
Or a
pair of gigantic tusks
And
soon the train will dive into the tunnel, emerging
As if
newborn, into the mammoth
Starlit
City. The young conductor
Comes
back again and touches the man's shoulder.
Copyright
© Alicia Ostriker, from Green Age, U of Pittsburgh Press,
1989. Used by permission of the author. All rights reserved by the author
and her publisher.
THE VOCABULARY
OF JOY
I'm on the grass
in front of the library, writing
In the
usual notebook.
A couple
passes:
Mother African,
father Caucasian.
Father
to shoulders hoists
Their
slender redhead daughter, who
Laughs
and shouts, pulling his hair,
You're
fun, Daddy, then reaches
A free
hand to the mother's
Hand--good
enough--except I can't
Describe
the laugh. Barreling
Doesn't
do it, neither does pealing.
Much
less can I define the happiness,
Though
surely you know what I mean
In the
late twentieth century
When I say this.
LOCKOUT
He sets his Campus
Security cap on the stairs.
I like
his mustache and stocky build.
On the
third try his master key
Works
on my office lock. September one,
New
Jersey tropical, we sit and chat,
Sighing.
--I came here when I was five.
Sure,
the islands are nice, very nice,
But
you can't make money.
I need
to improve my vocabulary, he says,
My English.
You don't do tutoring?
I don't know about
this language lab,
I think
I'm blocked. I went to a psychologist,
She
said I was blocked.
So how
can I advance my career?
I did
fine in school in math, science, history,
But
never English. Why? Because, when I was small,
They
hit my hands with rulers and made me eat soap
For
speaking my own language, Spanish.
They
punished me and treated me like a foreigner,
And
you know what? This is * my* country. When Columbus came,
It was my people
who greeted him, who said: *Ola.*
We were
here before you Anglos, he says,
Resuming
his cap, pocketing the master keys.
THE NATURE OF
BEAUTY
I can only
say, there we have been; but I cannot
say
where. --T.S. Eliot
As
sometimes whiteness forms in a clear sky
To represent
the breezy, temporary
Nature
of beauty,
Early
in semester they started it.
Lisa
read in her rich New Jersey accent,
That
mixes turnpike asphalt with fast food,
A sexy
poem that mentioned "the place
Where
lovers go to when their eyes are closed
And
their lips smiling." Other students grinned,
Thinking
perhaps of the back seats of Hondas.
Instead
of explaining "place" as a figure of speech,
The
teacher wanted them to crystallize
Around
it as around the seed of a cloud.
You
all understand that? You understand?
The
place we go to? Where we've been? They got it.
All
semester they brought it back
A piece
at a time, like the limbs of Osiris.
Mostly
from sex, for they were all American
Nineteen
to twenty-one year olds
Without
a lot of complicated notions.
But
Doug got it from the Jersey shore,
Foam
stroking his shins, his need
Leaping
in fish form. Robin
One
time from dancing
With
a woman she didn't
Have
sex with, once from her grandmother
Doing
the crossword puzzle in pen.
Kindly
David from a monstrous orange bus
Whose
driver amazed him by kindliness
To passengers
who were poor and demented.
Dylan
from a Baptist church when song
Blent
him into its congregation, sucked him
Into
God, for a sanctified quarter hour,
"There's
no separation at that height,"
Before
it dropped him like Leda back to earth
And
the perplexity of being white.
The vapor of the
word collects,
Becomes cloud,
pours itself out,
Almost before
you think: the small
Rain down can
rain.
A brief raid on
the inarticulate
Is what we get,
and in retreat we cannot
Tell where we've
really been; much less remain.
THE BOYS, THE
BROOMHANDLE, THE RETARDED GIRL
Who was asking
for it--
Everyone can see
Even today in the
formal courtroom,
Beneath the coarse
flag draped
Across the wall
like something on a stage,
Which reminds her
of the agony of school
But also of a dress
they let her wear
To a parade one
time,
Anyone can tell
She's asking, she's
pleading
For it, as we all
Plead--
Chews on a wisp
of hair,
Holds down the
knee
That tries to creep
under her chin,
Picks at a flake
of skin, anxious
And eager to please
this scowling man
And the rest of
them, if she only can--
Replies I cared
for them, they were my friends
It is she of whom
these boys
Said, afterward,
Wow, what a sicko,
It is she of whom
they boasted
As we all boast
Now and again,
because we need,
Don't we, to feel
Worthwhile--
As without thinking
we might touch for luck
That flag they've
hung there, though we'd all avoid
Touching the girl.
Copyright
© 1998 by Alicia Ostriker from The Crack in Everything (Pittsburgh
U. Press). Used by permission of the author. All rights reserved by the
author and her publisher.
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