March 8, 2015

POETRY BY DINA FRIEDMAN "SOME DAY, HE NO LONGER LISTENS TO MUSIC, NARCISSUS IN THE NEW YORK RAIN"


D. Dina Friedman has published widely in literary journals (including Calyx, Xanadu, Common Ground Review, Bloodroot, Inkwell, Pacific Poetry and Fiction Review, Tsunami, The Sun, Anderbo, San Pedro River Review, Mount Hope, Rhino) and received two Pushcart Prize nominations for poetry and fiction. She has also published two young adult novels. Dina currently teach at the University of Massachusetts/Amherst, and is enrolled in the MFA program at Lesley University. Visit her website at www.ddinafriedman.com






Some Day

we  will know for sure we are as alone
as the grass, the river, the cat

curled into itself in the morning sun
who knows how to be alone, in ways we don’t

just as the river has found a way to be itself
without questioning.

And the mountains, the poor goats
milked for cheese, they have learned to be alone

the wind too, has no song of community.
it laughs as we hold hands, or try to paddle out of eddies

against the current of who we are … some day
we’ll be able to live in our own skin

rejoice in the company of our breath
and the million cells that speak our secret words.




He No Longer Listens to Music

So much to be missed—the churchy piano chords
proselytizing tolerance, embrace of imperfection
wedged into the prescribed order of the universe,
like the song of the bassoon, proclaiming that all there is to be

is just as it is in the troubled heart. The chaos of dusk
settles rigid in his shoulders, repeated words
masquerade themselves as prayer. Who is left listening?
Once music is gone, God can’t be far behind

unless you believe in the supernatural origins
of percussive thunder. And what about art?
Ballet? Drama? The swaying shape
of the body? The seduction of color?

The big ideas, like why we were created
if not to create—and what in fact are we creating
but idols of ourselves
seeking houses where the heart can dance.




Narcissus in the New York Rain

I can’t see myself in these puddles.
The streets are too dark.

All they reflect is the half-eaten pizza ,
the flyer advertising discounts

at the local tanning salon
heading toward the sewers

Are there really alligators down there?
Can I write the drama of being eaten alive

details of teeth sinking into flesh.
Why are people looking at their feet?

Is it that risky to catch your reflection
in someone else’s eyes?


~Dina Friedman

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