Abe Ravitz

Kitty's Tentative Recovery

We endured the miseries -

The least of which was hell.

A hateful end is all

We thought we'd have to tell.

But the sick one of our cats

At last is getting well.

Kitty's little horror

Has broken – like a spell.

 

From George

I gave up verse by 1998.

It had petered out, and I was done.

I have the remnants and the residue,

And the only books that I had written.

We met in January, 99.

I was struck. And then I went insane,

As though I was a paragon of health

Prior. And again began to write.

Whether good or bad, I've written poems

Since we met, because of and about you.

If I'm ever known, and if I have

Something to be known for, it will be

Because we met in 1999.

9-20-13

An Old Pun

Pain is seldom short.

Of all possible reliefs

Laughter's not exempt.

The Lawyer entered court

Quite without his briefs

And was cited for contempt.

 

Les enfants terribles

When the sermon's finished,

(Quoth she: do as they wilt)

Let's go backstage and see

How the sets are built.

You can pretend to be Mary.

I'll be Peter or John.

We can play in the baptistry.

And the word goes on.

The Rich, Famous Writer

A popular writer for children -

I won't mention his name -

Concocted a series of stories

That brought him a wealth of fame.

His characters loved by millions -

His characters stupid I thought -

He wound up richer than Croesus

From all of the books that were bought.

A woman somewhere in the country

Wrote – words and music and plot -

A show based for kids on his stories.

“May they do it?” she wrote. “They may not!”

 

Abe Ravitz PhD

I would have a Masters

And be teaching in a college.

I love to think and talk about the arts.

But when I picked a mentor

From those you'd think woulds have its

College nestled somewhere in their hearts,

I picked a guy who couldn't type named Ravitz.

What he wrote this verse and my

Career at once completes.

“You obviously know nothing about Keats.”

1-18-14

Elixir

Automatic writing is the truth.

Better than a verse that can't be taught.

In spite of all the beauty he lies dreaming,

Age spots come, arthritis kills the drive.

Painfully he gets himself to Denny's,

Has a cup of coffee, two or three,

Then leaves – again a man of 25.

Waitresses, the coffee and the feel

Of Denny's – pack them safely in a box,

Package them and patent them and sell

Them another cure for getting old.

 

The Key

Like picking bits of undigested food

From piles of feces – gleaning signs of love

From pleasant conversation – this was not

A simile when Williams thought it up -

And there was no comparison to love -

It's a marvel I can think such thoughts -

I am bad at numbers – Einstein

Received an honorary PhD -

I just sit alone and think of phrases -

200 years ago, by candlelight -

I spent my life (did anyone avoid it?)

Listening to unrequited love,

Hopeful love, or love – but that was then

In music – music n'existe plus.

Wishful love inferring loving thoughts -

Like cooling rain to wet a parching heart -

Can this be a part of god's desire?

That some should die of love and some without it?
She takes from good men – gives to those she loves -

Beyond the fundamental rudiments

I know nothing – only what I see.

If he wants a better kind of love,

This is all I have. It isn't in me.

And never was. Even when I try.

I love. I sigh. I laugh and go away.

And no one ever knows that he was loved.

Although too many did and did not care.

And like a very young myopic child,

I rediscover truths about myself -

Redundantly – and put them into poems.

 

Jill

I was writing well

Verse I couldn't sell,

Loving it until

I discovered Jill.

She crammed my skull with praise,

Quite enough to raise

A beggar from the dead,

Like no one ever said.

And I became a crank.

My poesy turned rank,

And even made her scoff.

Then she drove me off.

A year since then, or two,

A lush green beanstalk grew.

I love my verse again.

Praise can do you in.

Well Written

Well written. That is all of poetry.

Everything – the subject of the senses -

And everything that's fanciful or thought -

And memories – sweet poetry itself -

Is there for all and everybody knows it.

Well written is the most that can be done.

For centuries it's beautifully happened.

Not arranging words in funny places -

And silly lines - Arbitrary, random -

Despite the genre's many syllables

Defining and explaining what is done -

Nor all the vehemence the writer shows

Defending what he writes. Or such as I.

 

Abe Ravitz

If this falls into rhythm,

It's not because of me,

Without a clever phrase

To make it poetry.

A graduate whose major

Was humanities,

I chose my classes, loved them,

My grades were As and Bs.

Assigned to write a paper

On a sonnet, what I wrote

Pleased the teacher totally.

No thing of little note.

I'd been reading Keats

Since I was 21,

I found him deep, enchanting,

A revelation, fun.

I picked him for a thesis

And bought a dozen books

About him, read them all.

Like one of nature's rooks,

I selected for a mentor

An arrogant old man,

The guy who'd liked my sonnet,

Typed and sent my plan.

He refused completely.

One of life's defeats,

He said in rotten typing,

“You know nothing about Keats.”

Ravitz was his name.

Abe. I cannot wait

Until he's in the hottest hell

Heaven can create.