first awareness
of being
aware
warm groin
bladder pressure
light
sheynah b’shacharit
inertia
body at rest
urethra
tight
mattress fire
sheets of ice
leap up
before the sun
leap up lion
and greet the king
* * *
Start to a good day: figure on the smallest ratio of time it takes to leave the house to the amount of equipage left behind. I am happy to settle with an inverse proportion…in either direction. It is especially nice if I get to wash my hands before I leave and lift them up to dedicate their labor. In the blocks between home and shul, by swinging my arms in stride, the early air dries the dampness on the back of their palms until small hairs stand on end.
* * *
all scaffolds shall be kicked away
the morning shall bring
an obligation
a doorway
a small egypt
from whose hardened hands
we leave
we leave with
ten plagues
parades
commandments
and men
joined around the living tree
halleleuiah
heliotrope
morning renews
a bondage of opportunity
my exodus:
the choice to obey
the voice to refrain
each tongue drawn back
like an arrow on breath’s bow
lets fly a song
the arrows go
each arrow goes
and buries its shaft
into shafts of sun
dissipates
dissolves
into the names of its targets
into dancing trees
vine-covered buildings
commuted paths
all beloved
paths that snake
through scaffold earth
to carry
surfeits of words
surplus of song
ten plagues
parades
commandments
and men
ten
pairs of feet
cleaving at their insteps
assemble
to resemble
the angels’ single-footed stance
angels who stand at their stations and sing
sing only while
we are men not angels after
our songs are sung
our steps (each step) leaves egypt
to wander in a wilderness of air
and land again its promise
* * *
City law prohibits steps this steep. Descending to the street is like entering a river. Tumble forward down the concrete cracks (some are sprouting grass), join the others and float along, side by steering side, through log jams of people pleased to sip or skip their morning coffee and kibitz, past the corner schizophrenic, his bloodshot smile and ragged, drab jacket, become caught in an eddy of traffic, the sense of a separate self intact, then the river quickens its ripple and lick until a very last great spill: a rapid, rushing foam of faces falls down the subway’s cavernous stairs (city law prohibits steps this steep) and flows through turn-styles to a waiting train.
ב
What about the buildings on the east side of Broadway between Fulton and Johns Streets? Shuttered and the sidewalk closed, storefronts occupied by contractors’ crews preparing for demolition. Steel-toothed excavators painted with cautionary enamel are primed to pull up the pavement and place large wooden beams to brace what remains of the street. Orange flags and plastic netting direct the flow of pedestrians along a lane now closed to cars. I think I will have some soup and grilled cheese. Does it matter what they build there?
* * *
the day has emptied the morning’s full belly
though not yet ravenous
its song O its song
proceeds
from consuming desire
to consume desire
to conceive O the song again
given a desert of limbs O
a pillar of fire O
we must search for neighbors and friends
sister, find a well of water
brother, bring the almond flower
O
gather gather
to be reminded
of what we left by morning’s door
of what we lifted from morning’s door
solitude
these several solitudes
come gather O you
engineers from your offices exit and come
artisans of stone
and workers of metal
bureaucrats, you who are least sure
leave off of your labor
and come
the day is hungry O
the seeds of our arrival
have grown with apex sun
our songs are ripe for singing
O worthy of praise and happy is he who offers the praise of his mouth;
O worthy of praise and happy are they who stand and sing in Your house.
ג
The view from my balcony: balanced boxes of bricks, traffic signals, street lamps, illuminated entrances, a mixture of symmetry, shadows and incandescence. Each house with a yard in the rear and at least one twiggy, leafless tree, a pile of raked-up leaves. Laid-out lots march up 10th Street; two bicyclers follow the progression of front gardens as they push their pedals hard. Twilight becomes quiet.. There is no starting point, no destination. A train rises from the tunnel under 9th street, traveling toward the City and slows on attenuated tracks. Screech. Hiss. Luminous windows come to a stop on the steel bridge platform above 4th Avenue; doors open; people exit and people board. I know this but I cannot see it.
* * *
in the morning the world gained form
the world was not given form
the edges that were always there were revealed
to be distinct
the opening colors climbed ladders of light
climbed onto cradles of leaves and leapt
onto a savings bank’s blanching columns
where the city’s skin meets sky
light climbed into the cradle of day
to cry a fresh spectrum of leaves
iron railings columns of concrete glass and grass
day widened its eye
and the heart was fed with song
its hungers poured forth satiated
by a vacancy only vacancy could fill
a new song was born
whose music was labor a contract
made between music and maker
now night waits where it has always waited
a previous precinct
night waits to obliterate
what day made new and distinct
waits to roll and roll and roll
the night is cloudy the moon is new
stars are obscure and black is blue
hold fast hands and walk slow fields
far from the city’s illuminated grid
far from vehicles’ sweep and glide
walk out beloved and embrace the bride
the Sabbath bride the Sabbath bride
dissolve the hands that hold and hide
the ocean of night swallows day
our hands become nothing
nothing and everything
an open mouth:
the source of praise
He earned his B.A. from Sarah Lawrence College in 1997 where he focused in Creative Writing (Poetry) and Philosophy of Religion. Before moving to Brooklyn in 2001, Mr. Angel has lived in England, West Virginia and Israel. He now lives in Park Slope with his wife, Aviva and two sons, Hillel and Avraham.
Mr. Angel’s poetry is concerned with the (in)ability of language to describe and embody social, spiritual and esthetic implications of experience. His poems are preoccupied with Jewishness. He is fascinated by formal conventions and the way patterns of sound, meter and image constrain and/or release the voice to and from its utterance.
Mr. Angel has been published in the Mima’amakim print and online journals; he is currently enrolled in the Brooklyn College MFA Program in Creative Writing; and, when not trying to be a good husband, father, poet, yid, he works as an independent building consultant to architects and engineers.
© Philip Solomon Angel All Rights Reserved