Beth Levin

Beth Levin is a classical pianist in New York City. Things musical seem to work their way into her poems. "Working on a poem is a chance for me to work with words, break out of a score and in to the spoken world for a little while."

Istanbul

Older, I visit the city of seven hills
really two cities
one polished, underneath it the uncut ruby
grave faces waiting for a bus
the bus a funny green
A thousand year old tile in the mosque
indigo, emerald, mustard
I touch its cold surface
men washing their feet outside the gate
a dense, intricate culture
like the carpets
Can I read the markings
unravel enigmas
see inside, behind?
 

untitled

Hakan so true
in a woolen cap
once he lost it and was more careful
his eyes, his eyes
see through any lie
a man of the earth, a man of the people
at work in an embassy
not exactly the right setting
he travels with us, translates,
jokes, adding light to the journey
a noble everyman
sensing his role in the scheme
Only we see him as prince


Sabine

Sabine knows what to do at the piano
I am there to evaluate the students in Edirne
Instantly I question my ability to judge
try to keep myself out of it
but how?
I know the pressure of this morning
the keyboard askant
dank hall, cold lighting
classmates and teachers present
Sabine is the one in whom they have invested
the one they dream on
I know Sabine
 

                          ***

untitled

Poplars winter white, fragile
Swan Park, U.S. the ugly duckling
a fancy lunch at The Washington
Hillary Clinton has eaten here
her picture in a special place
divine food. I don’t exaggerate

Another lunch, simple this time
we eat with our hands
the real people
men with hair of coal
married to dark-eyed beauties
some heads covered, some uncovered


Damaris

regal, eyes the color of the sea
her laugh eradicating all things petty
her appreciation of art, history
the tiniest irony
loving the color red, music, people
large in sympathy
living large


Memory

A tone of voice so soft it could
woo doves from their nest
children in a gilt theater
answering the characters on stage
rehearsal of Don Pasquale
orchestra splendid, Turkish singers first rate
introduction to the opera director, a dark Peter Sellers
horned rimmed glasses, ascot
a hand kisser


untitled

the winding streets, fog
gentle merchants
we are served tea
a show of carpets
they speak to me
I take one home
 

untitled

there is something about the way
sunlight hits an ivy plant
there is something about the way sunlight
hits an ivy plant on the oak table by the window
there is something about the way sunlight
hits an ivy plant on the oak table by the window
on a late summer's afternoon

there is something about the way sunlight
hits an ivy plant on the oak table by the window
on a late summer's afternoon before the rain
and the cool darkness sets in.
 

untitled

yes to a day of chores
a run into town
happy bird watching
a baked lasagna
one performance done
still more ahead
but today yes to chores
a run into town


untitled

awake fresh
none of the grudges
or worn hangovers
dressed in a moment
a squint in the glass
air still wet
steel gates unfurl
cabbages melons The Times
my breath fast cold
I am in the morning
it speaks
revealing the perfect plan


untitled

My crinkled skirt of blue
a print of old patterns
I lift it to wash my feet
under the hose
scrape against the screen door
running back and forth
the air soft again, pulling me
could you see through
the filmy blues
to my skin
alive in the bare breeze


The tuning

he arrives on a three-wheeler
from the east side
like a doctor with his black bag
coming to help a new mother
I brew strong coffee
ready odd supplies
towels glue a dust mop
never saw to the humidity
the cold the dirt
used it as a pawn
played it to death
he will set things right
just make room let him sprawl
give him peace to listen
tap maneuver
shift nuzzle fidget
conjure the hidden tone

© All poems copyright Beth Levin 2006 and are reproduced with kind permission.

Please email me if you want to contact the author.