Judy Katz-Levine WHEN PERFORMERS SWIM,
THE DICE ARE CAST (ahadada books, tokyo/toronto; 3158
Bentworth Drive, Burlington Ontario Canada, LM& 1M2, 2009) ISBN
978-0-9811704-3-5; 150mm x 5 7/8” X 210mm, 8 ¼”) cover photo:
Joe Zanghi [no price]
It's
been a few years since I read & reviewed a chapbook of Judy's.
Back then I lived in Wellesley Sq. MA & carolin combs my spouse
(d. 26 JAN 07) was alive. I've changed. My impression is that Judy
has, too; but she doesn't think so, so my old reviewing style: quote
one whole poem, make a few comments, let you readers do the rest,
seems inadequate, so let me start by saying there's a
fibrousness (one
of my fave words) to this chapbook that the one I reviewed before
lacked (or so I recall.) What's fibrous
about it? Complex density, mixing personal & surreal images; I
don't really know how to read surreal stuff, so I'll start with the
(mostly) personal.
I GET BY (p.9)
I get by. When
having a glass of wine, I get stern. My
doctor says I
shouldn't drink at all. And what with all the
medicine I take,
sterner still. The drummer was playing a
fast marimba beat
to a slow sad ballad and I got off, got in
a good solo. (1)
So many yellow leaves, & the stars. I've
had a revelation.
Seaguls float. The sax (2) was smooth,
from his days on
the road. That was at the party. The
drummer, a woman,
said “sometimes you just have to
shake your
money-maker (3)”and did a little shimmy behind
her drums and
grinned. I loosened up. Laughed.
Notes:
(1) Judy's a jazz flutist. (2) Her husband's a saxophonist. (3) aka: booty.
Got
it? You may think you
have, but now watch: just turn the pg:
PERFORMERS
(p. 10)
when performers
swim, the dice are cast. Sounds like a piano
doing ragtime,
echo of the voice of a clown across the sea.
when performers
laugh, the trees whistle as if hearing.
jugglers on sand
dunes remember.
when performers
tango, stages turn into bridges, an aster in
a garden blooms.
when performers
teach, a taught drum vibrates, a Native
American flute
holds its breath, then come the long notes
haunting an
audience.
When performers
die, the oceans leap up as keen as seals
emerge and fly.
Now,
for a fibrous
mix, turn to the next pg. (11)
REDEMPTIONS
1
I lose my place
playing flute in the samba. The trees
quiver in brief
wind. A hot wind. Rain. When looking out
The window sable
scarves. Losing one's place is like
tripping not
falling. The pianist grins. We go on to another
tune, “Corcovado”
and I redeem myself.
2
Day of gifts like
blue hydrangea. I remember a
grandfather who
loved to fix watches – the gears in the
jars. You empty a
jar of screws you use to fix your sax
mouthpiece.
Enlightened look on your face as you
concentrate,
barely noticing my presence, my ego lit up by
a new book.
3
Tired after
listening, we sleep. I dream of my mother,
having a party.
For this one she has two plump helpers.
They are my
brothers. She takes a photo of them
standing together,
but refuses to take one of me. Then she
relents, after
teasing me this way, and snaps.
Now
do you get it? How about this? Jump to p13:
FRINGED
GARMENT THAT LEADS TO A PERSON
One person leads
to another and to another
Stressed as a
mime, playing drums and flute
in the square, I
in a red-striped jersey and jeans – beret -
when he came,
holding flowers, also dressed
as a mime, in
white face, when strangers were passing.
And the sun gave
us a strange light
like the light in
a clearing in
the woods
of New
Jersey,where sassafras undergrowth exists
and I thought of
him there when we were kids -
But the white
glare of the sun
now as I awaken 15
years later
reminds me of a
man in shredded garments
face chalk-white
so long ago, eyes black, black hair
coming up from a
shaved head like grass
standing in the
sun
before he fell
Can I
assume you're getting it by now? (Even I am.) btw, both of her
grandfathers (one tinkered with watches), died of heart-attacks. Her
career as a jazz flautist continues.
Leading
us to this fibrous coda on p22:
SUNSET
III
trees with leave
like the hands of prodigies.
a boat still in
twilight, in the neighbor's driveway.
a son about to
redeem himself.
lilac with 9
unripe flowers.
saxophone moaning
its scales, ready to play Monk's
“Ruby My Dear”.
prodigies who
can't control their thirst for knowledge.
prodigies who
can't fit in, and talk strange languages.
prodigies who wait
for the morning”s river.
being 4 years old
that time of glistening forsythia.
being 4 years old
that time of grandpa's lap and the watch he fixed
just before he
never came back.
being 4 years old
and speaking perfectly.
saxophone mourning
its scales like burning lilacs, ready to play
“The Night Has A
Thousand Eyes”
saxophone
twittering its soprano notes as dusk flies in.
a boat in
dry-dock but someday it will float.
a boat in dry-dock by the
house catching last light.
a boat not quite
ready, but we are patiently waiting for that day.
Demonstrating
JUST how she can sum-up & sur-pass herself...
(I'll
be back with more of her poems & my linkages.)
[BC: 20 JUL 13,
Valley Village 4-4D, Santa Clara CA]
