Ira Schaeffer, winner of the 2016 Galway Kinnell Poetry contest, was also the recipient of the 2015 Editor’s Choice Loft Chapbook Award.
In addition, Ira’s recent poetry has appeared in Origami Poems Project, Penumbra; On the Dark Side: An Anthology of Fairy Tale Poetry; Tastes like Pennies; 50 Haiku; Wising Up Press; and Silver Birch Press. His poem, "Primavera," was a 2014 nomination for the Pushcart Prize.
In addition, Ira’s recent poetry has appeared in Origami Poems Project, Penumbra; On the Dark Side: An Anthology of Fairy Tale Poetry; Tastes like Pennies; 50 Haiku; Wising Up Press; and Silver Birch Press. His poem, "Primavera," was a 2014 nomination for the Pushcart Prize.
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Walking the Steere Hill Preserve
Once there were orchards freighted with abundance-- windfalls of red and gold. It was a slow time of hands and horses bearing crates piled high on wagons held steady over ruts and stones. I walk the old farm road passed meadows of indiangrass and Queen Anne’s lace swayed by their elegance. The sky is lavender and swallows lighten me with their curving grace. The sun tastes fine. I think I can fly. But gnats think otherwise, and I fall then retreat to a path through the woods. Not much light but lots of quiet-- pine needles underfoot and tiny white moths falling like a weird snow. One finds my palm and rests nearly weightless, profound in its inconsequence. My breath gives it motion but not life. One go-round to a customer, I say to the trees, to my moth with its golden eye, and its dead and dying tribe scattered among the leaves. I let mine drop-- then backtrack to the meadow. |
Hunger Moon
I decided to give fasting a try: twenty-four hours of lean times enacted on the ritual stage of Yom Kippur— at twelve I was ready for this test of manhood and, anyway, I was a natural: home-schooled with a focus on privation. I gathered with friends under the Whitestone bridge. Our conversation bit into notions of the starved body devouring itself and the frenzy of piranhas. None of us spoke of grace or atonement. We tried to kill hunger with wit— waiting for the first star at sunset. The wafered moon offered nothing bright—not yet, so we talked about Kennedy’s promise to take us to the moon and the dream life of our futures. We looked up. Stars here and there, the sky was darkening. Most of my friends left for fancy plates of whitefish and honey cake, a few for the cool burn of schnapps. I stayed on. Not God, but something else held me. Quiet now, under the rush of cars, the sea returned with its tumble of mirrored lights—the crazy gulls were eating each sparkle, laughing at me and my angry house. I wanted to throw stones at the damn birds, crack the moon like a boiling egg. I picked up a rock. Lunatics, my sister called us, living in a fucking madhouse. What could I do? I felt chilled, empty. I dropped the stone, said goodbye to the weird sky, and slowly made my way over the broken pavement, into the thinning air. |
