Ask of Me, a poem by Seymour Shubin

Ask of Me

Ask of Me

I could have asked
so many things
like what was it like
leaving old friends
and an old land
then learning a new language
and even starting a business
and of her my mother
so many questions
I never got around to ask
of her either
and now I wait
for it is my turn
with children
for though from the same country
we don’t always speak,
so to speak,
the same language

A brief autobigraphical statement by Shubin:


I start off by saying I could have asked of my father what it was like leaving old friends and an old land and even starting a new business (here), all of which my father did when leaving the Ukraine (as a young man). And there were many questions I could have asked of my mother, too, who too had come from the Ukraine, and met my father here for the first time. But I found out as a young man that age more than anything else separated.the old from the young. Yes. we don’t always speak the same language.

Why Me

Tale of the Runner, A Poem by Seymour Shubin

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Tale of the Runner

I must have been six,
seven at most,
when this crazy neighbor woman
ask me to do her a favor,
and since you always did neighbors a favor,
I nodded and she brought around
this covered basket with two handles
that had wild scratching sounds inside it
and told me to take it to the creek
which was about a block away
and I carried it, hating myself
and I couldn’t wait to drop it
which I did,
in the field near the creak
not in it
as if that made a difference
to poor crazed kitty.
And I ran and ran
and ran and ran
but never far enough.

Seymour Shubin

Big Brother | Poem by Seymour Shubin

Why Me

Ruthie began to call me
Her big brother
Which used to bother me at first
Because she was some six years older than me
But then I understood
Her son had died at twenty-two
And her husband a year before
And now her daughter…
Give me hope, she begged.
Oh how I tried.
But I was only her big brother
Not, goddamn it, God

Why Me

Why Me by Seymour Shubin a Review

Why Me

In 1953, Seymour Shubin published his first novel, Anyone’s My Name. It was a New York Times bestseller, published in numerous international editions and taught in college courses on both literature and criminology. Subsequently, Shubin wrote more than a dozen other novels.

The effect on me of Anyone’s my Name and other Shubin novels  was more like Poe’s “Tell Tale Heart”. The struggle inside the mind of the killer predominates Anyone’s my Name and has stuck in my mind like the beating of that heart. Shubin stays with you and you know you haven’t read just a crime novel. He portrays the inner thoughts of a character and makes them your thoughts. That can be disturbing and enlightening. That’s literature. Anyone’s My Name and The Captain don’t leave me. They don’t stay where you put them, they don’t stay in their genre.

Rod Lott says, “Few writers can make you feel that kind of pain.”

Why Me is a book of poems, Seymour Shubin’s first glimpse into his life which began in 1921. These poems give us a glimpse of growing up in the Great Depression. They are free of the feeling of wading through it poesy. They are personal, autobiographic, and downright readable.

The storyteller manages to tell a story in each poem, a tiny little story that is a glimpse of his life, little snapshots like tiny books in a nutshell. “Cod Liver Oil” is such a poem. His parents gave him a nickel for drinking cod liver oil. He put his nickels in a “bank”.

But then one day my father
came home and announced
that the bank was one of many banks
that had “failed”
in the Depression
we were living in.
And my money was gone,
along with a lot of other people’s money.

I never drank cod liver oil
after that.

In a poem called  “The Reunion”,  Shubin ends with:

And his sister, she’d had such pain,
is she smiling again?
But do they even know
that I am
here?
I leave a stone in case they do.

As he does in his novels, Shubin takes you into his thoughts and you get a glimpse of the alter ego in the books but, once again, it’s the storytelling that makes these poems stand out. The dude can write.

A poem called “Half Ball” sent me scurrying to Google and Wiki. Stickball is played with a ball up and down the street. Half ball can be played from curb to curb and has imaginary runners. The poem has images of this game interlaced with the death of one of the “kids”. Glimpses, memories which make you want another.
Says Steve Hussy in his introduction, “Why Me communicates complex ideas with simplicity. As a result, it’s yet another form of writing that Seymour Shubin has mastered.”
Why Me is a book of poems published by Murder Slim Press. By their own admission, “This is the first –and probably the last– poetry collection we’ll publish at Murder Slim Press.” Actually I adore their name and think it’s the perfect name for modern poetry but I also admire their business sense. They published it because it was so damn good. Now ain’t that a hoot!

It’s simplicity, honesty, and straightforward storytelling that count in a poem. The poems in Why Me are autobiographical, personal, and give us a glimpse inside Seymour Shubin. I read it in one sitting and now seem to pick it up and open it at a random place, “Oh I remember that one.”

Bravo Mr Shubin Bravo. You captured me again. More!

david michael jackson

Just A Thought by Seymour Shubin | Poem

Why Me

Do you know, she asks, what day this is?
and I answer “Monday.”
Don’t be a wise guy, she says
while I’m trying to think.
It’s not your birthday, I say,
and she says, You get points for that,
but really, what day is it?
And I’m thinking, It should be a sin
to do this to a guy.
Seriously, she says, if you don’t know
just say so.
I know, I know, I say
but you make me nervous
and I can’t think when I’m nervous.
Forget it, she says, and walks out of the room
only to come back in a few moments
holding a new golf club.
Oh my God, I say,
and I’m only forty.
Forty-one, she says

Why Me

The Dancer Poem by Seymour Shubin

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The Dancer Poem

 

The Dancer Poem

I saw this so many years ago
On a school trip up the Hudson River to West Point.
This was before we got there
And the band was playing
And I looked into the large room on the deck
And saw her dancing.
Oh what a dancer! At one point
Her partner swung her so that the back of her head
Almost touched the floor.
And I remember a few days later
How, sitting in class next to her,
She asked if I would take her to the senior prom,
I who couldn’t dance a lick
And in my shock
I made up some excuse
And hating myself, for she was a beauty
As well as great dancer
And I even thought about it over the years
And then, finally, some sixty-five years later
In Death Notices in the morning paper
There she is, middle-aged-looking and still a beauty
And I wondered did she ever remember
Anything of that time,
Oh that time
That poor Wimpo can’t forget to this day

 

The Dancer Poem © Seymour Shubin 2013