Copernicium poem by Janet Kuypers

Copernicium

Janet Kuypers

from the “ Periodic Table of Poetry” series (#112, Cn)

It was my love of you
and what you believed in
that made me try to get you.

With your Renaissance ways,
you taught me that I’m not
the center of the Universe,

but I’ve learned since then
to go beyond the sun, because
there is too much out there

to see.

As a scientist, I know you
changed our views of the world.
So science must create you, again.

I know that mathematics
can explain the Universe,
but you were more than a

mathematician, you were
a physician, a translator,
an economist, an astronomer,

an artist.

I know you were a founder
in your time, and the half-life
of what we create may be small…

but I would have to throw
any metal I could into any
isotope I could, like zinc to lead,

just to see if you would
come out for us again. Let us
find you, let us experiment

with you.

Let us accelerate these processes,
cause just the right reactions
to synthesize you and your genius.

I don’t care how we get you,
whether what we do is cold or hot,
when we fuse to create you,

and through all of our work
you may only come to us
after the decay of others

around you.

We’ve learned that only now,
now that we have you, we can
try to work with any part of you,

no matter how unstable
you say you now are. I don’t care.
You’re the last member

transitioning in this series — so now
I can only reflect on your relativity
to planets, like Mercury, as well as

your nobility.

I miss what you’ve done
for how we think in this world.
I miss clear scientific minds.

I only hope that what we’ve done
in your honor does you justice.
Even though we’ve only created you,

I want you to remember
that it is because we wanted
to learn, too, and we wanted you

to guide the way.

THE PHOTOGRAPHS, THE FILMY WHITE GAUZY CURTAINS POEM by Lyn Lifshin

THE PHOTOGRAPHS, WHITE GAUZY CURTAINS Poem

THE PHOTOGRAPHS, WHITE GAUZY CURTAINS Poem

THE PHOTOGRAPHS, THE FILMY WHITE GAUZY CURTAINS

 

I’m flung back to 92 Rapple,

sheer curtains to the floor.

Silk spread, snow smooth,

palest ivory, wall to wall.

Bridal, exotic. How many

years was it, wondering, a

virgin still, a husband who

brought me tea in bed but

not what I longed for. In

the photograph, gauze

camouflages, lures. Soft

drams, no angles. And even

before the first lover came,

bottle of wine, Chateau y

Kempe hidden in the

closet, probably stolen from

some friend’s house in

Carmel. Months of letters,

photographs of him, one

of Dylan Thomas so I had

no idea what to expect

Fantasy was one thing. But to

have him: ex con, alcoholic,

stagger across the country

with a torn suitcase and

broken shoes. I had no idea

where to keep him and met

him at a motel up the street,

terrified there was something

wrong with me, that that

was why I was still a virgin.

By evening, I checked the

mirror, disappointed I didn’t

see a change in my face.

Nothing about the motel

room stays in memory. Or

when he started living in the

trees, sneaking in the back

door when my husband pulled

out in the Healy. That room,

so pure, so like a bridal chamber,

tho still pristine, the only color

not white in the room beside

the tiger cat,  was his, my first

lover, and my body. After

love we’d read poetry all day.

Was it wine coolers or

scotch? He wanted drugs but

we had only nut meg. Like

silk draped over the railing

in the photo of this house,

my body fell over his. How

little I remember his smell,

how I felt with him inside me.

He was too big, he couldn’t

stay. He lit a match under my

window each night and I turned

the light on and off like a fire

fly signaling for a mate.

It was always a good story but

but it was getting so cold in

the woods he couldn’t stay.

The only place he can has been

for so many years

in poems

JULY MORNING, TOO EARLY Poem by Lyn Lifshin

JULY MORNING, TOO EARLY Poem

JULY MORNING, TOO EARLY Poem

JULY MORNING, TOO EARLY

 

almost night still. Insomnia

is more with me than any

lover. I could be on some

lovely lake in a tent of

sleeplessness. Nothing like

a child’s cove of dreams:

blue stars and shining

things hanging. No, we’re

in separate dented boats.

Who knows how they
could hold us. Only the

cat’s breath touches

mine. I haven’t felt what

I want to feel, what I

shouldn’t. If I cold just

reach out to touch you.

If I just did

THAT’S WHAT I OUGHT TO DO WITH THIS SACRED WRECKAGE POEM by Lyn Lifshin

THAT’S WHAT I OUGHT TO DO WITH THIS SACRED WRECKAGE

THAT’S WHAT I OUGHT TO DO WITH THIS SACRED WRECKAGE

 

soon to dissolve in

a rear mirror. Even

your eyes if I’m

looking, gone,

gone like those

summer evenings

when shadows of

willows crept

longer, closer and

people laughed

in purple darkness.

All of them gone

after the fights

and hugs as you

will be. Sacred

wreckage, walk

on by. And if people

think they can see

my sadness, blurt

“what am I, fly

paper for necks

“NEVER,” SOMEONE ON TV SAYS “COMPETE AGAINST 25 YEAR OLDS” Poem by Lyn Lifshin

“NEVER,” SOMEONE ON TV SAYS “COMPETE AGAINST 25 YEAR OLDS”

 

“NEVER,” SOMEONE ON TV SAYS “COMPETE AGAINST 25 YEAR OLDS”

 

Wanting you, anyway, there

can’t be an end of the

story since there won’t be

a story. Call it “ you know

it’s an old song” you

can’t compete with

25 year old beauties.

But he did love my poems,

read everything the first

few months. I’m your

# 1fan he whispered, his

mouth in my hair. Are

you shocked? I bought

clothes I didn’t need

for him, made hair

appointments for the day

of my class in his arms,

felt like so long I hadn’t.

When he kissed me

I dreamed it meant some

thing more, that “that was

a good class,” his “we’ll

have to go out and talk

about movies and your poems,”

meant we might. Once I

almost bought a coat

because he loved it, didn’t

then spent weeks when

it was gone, hunting it down

as I have him, elusive,

even in dreams. No,

I can’t, even with a 19 inch

wait and  long good legs,

long blond hair compete

with 25 year olds. But

unlike the young girls with

beautiful skin, their elbows

if you look just beginning

to be kissed by earth

I can, as they never could,

with a few words,

make him

immortal