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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 Ostriker’s 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," I’m 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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