The fog came furtively in the night and slumped heavily upon the fields. At dawn I wondered, though this mantle is beautiful in its transformation of landscape, will it truly depart, relenting with the sun or will it remain this time, blinding us permanently to our vistas – so that we see only our own hands and nothing else before us? Its impenetrability deafens us, a pall muting the sounds of my small world, stifling dear familiar voices. I am inclined to whisper as there is uncertainty in what I might be missing. I surmise it is for this eventuality that pianists memorize an entire concerto, why actors rehearse lengthy monologues, why we weep over an aria.
I was not acquainted with Aunt Aurelia’s voice as she died, a young woman, of appendicitis, twenty years before me. All that is left of her is a receipt for a dress for $2.35 bought in Akron, Ohio, her grave in Saint Luke’s Cemetery, and a few photographs. From her image I’d like to believe I may have enjoyed a memory of her voice. There’s now no one left to remember her conversations around the kitchen table with her mother and sisters.
(True, gratefully, I’ve nearly gotten my mother’s shrill voice out of my head – a finality to her mania. But this preference is the exception.) I have a cassette recording of my therapist’s voice, my surrogate big sister, reading The Velveteen Rabbit. When I was a lost young man, it was a simple and effective (though somewhat embarrassing) tool in soothing long empty evenings in empty rooms – saving me from my own desolation. She died of cancer this year. This remnant, this flimsy ribbon cannot be all that’s left of her voice.
It is my terror that a fog will surreptitiously descend upon my memory – that I’ve nearly forgotten my father’s voice – that I may somehow misplace my beloved’s. If I cannot recall the subtle wit and intimacy in her tone, how may I hope to navigate my days? I comprehend the inevitability of my annihilation. I embrace the certainty. However, I am plagued by the horror that my wife and children will forget my timbre, my tenor, my laughter – that my voice will fade over time, unintentionally becoming too wearisome for anyone to recollect. There is no other aspect of my mortality that frightens me.
David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
October Hurricane
watching hurricane news
how I long to hear your updates
from the valley of death
patiently waiting
I check my inbox
a black void
I am reminded
you are without assistance
without food, without water
let alone internet services
in utter horror
your authorities leave you to die
blocking civilian intervention
threaten arrests
to those trying to help
unnamed helicopters
hovering aid sites
causing fear and disruption
destroying supplies
watching news from the distance
I am wondering
why
deep gratitude
to fellow humans
groups of great brave people
continue to reach out
hearing your cries
they continue bringing supplies
another day's end
the sun will keep on rising
silent prayers and thoughts of you
from the dark abyss
sparks of hope
the brush barely touches the canvas, and other narratives become possibilities.
Naked and obedient,
you are borrowed like fine art exhibited from gallery to gallery.
Gran Sasso, Italy, became a fist to the chest
as the clouds turned dark,
the heavy rains started, while your scent lingered
on the sheets and in my thoughts.
Fine glass
is never used to secure.
It is to be admired, handled, and then put away.
If dropped, by chance or purpose,
a momentary visual experience
is created
before the chards are swept into a heap
and then discarded.
You were cold and self-absorbed
when you hurried out the door.
I leaned back on the bedroom chair
tapped the tips of my fingers together
and eventually closed my eyes.
Excuses were a credit I believed I deserved.
Yet I understood
how optimism
usually morphs into a sad smile.
You are an illusionist
and your carefully crafted illusion
makes the truth
an uncertainty that chimes
silently and deadly.
Your note
had no inhibitions.
It stood there propped against an empty wine glass.
Your handwriting was graceful, stylish, and to the point.
“Forever was never on my mind.”
Philip received his Master of Arts in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five poetry books, three novels and two plays. He has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.
The whole class goes to extinguish incendiary bombs. My friend and I like it better than sitting in a cold classroom. Although I continue to study diligently, I still have the feeling that there is no need to study now. There’s a war all around! And so we benefit and do not freeze in the dimness of the classroom.
In a couple of months of participating in such operations, our class probably went around the entire Petrograd district. Bombs fell by the dozens or even hundreds. Some of them ended up in rivers, parks or squares, and they were usually not touched. Our goal was to extinguish bombs that hit houses and ended up on roofs, attics or even indoors.
It may seem strange now, but extinguishing bombs was not a very difficult task. The main thing was not to yawn and quickly cover it with sand until the “lighters” ignited everything around. It was scary at first. Some classmates said that bombs could explode and flatly refused to approach them, others boasted excessively, but at the sight of the bomb they panicked and could not move. However, over time, we all got used to it, and extinguishing “lighters” became almost as commonplace for us as homework or test papers.
Once, Igor and I and two other guys even managed to extinguish five bombs in one day. This event did not go unnoticed, and the director said that some commander would come to praise us the next day (I did not remember his last name and rank).
It was a real event for us. The blockade brought us much closer to the teachers, and even many cold and strict teachers thawed out and treated us like family. During these six months, we have already become accustomed to receiving certificates or encouragement from them and even the director, and then a person from the outside will come, and even a military one at that! All that morning, while waiting, we discussed his arrival.
– I wonder who will come to reward us, maybe Comrade Zhdanov? – one of our friends suggested.
– Why did you decide that it was him? – Igor grinned back.
– Hey, you heroes! – our ill-wisher, bully and sophomore Petka, intervened in the conversation, – What are they going to hang orders on your chest now? You’re going to walk around and shine them at the whole school, aren’t you?
– And what are you jealous of? – I asked.
– What did you say? – he started to attack me.
– Look! They’re coming! – A voice came from the hallway.
We ran out onto the stairs in a crowd. Through a small window, we clearly saw three figures in military uniforms entering the school.
– Everyone to class quickly! – Our teacher shouted.
Everyone rushed to their places. And after a couple of minutes, a short commander with a mustache, probably as big as Budyonny’s, entered the class. Our four were asked to come to the blackboard. This commander looked at us and addressed the class with a speech. He said a lot that the situation in the country and in the world is not easy, that we are fighting for a just cause and that victory will be ours, including thanks to such brave young people like us. Then he praised us and thanked us for our dedication and service to Leningrad, shook hands with everyone, handed over badges with a portrait of Lenin and performed a military greeting (saluted). To which we all replied in unison:
– Always ready!
When he left, we continued to discuss his visit and although, as some guessed, we did not receive medals or orders, this minute of communication, praise and gratitude completely replaced it and forever fixed in my memory.
6
More raids, shelling and bombing. One of them also occurred in our area. No sooner had we rejoiced at the return of the brothers, than the blockade again reminded us of itself!
That night, many houses were destroyed, but by some miracle our street was not hit. That was the first time I heard that terrible scream that night. At first I mistook it for the sound of an exploding shell or bomb, but when it was repeated, it became obvious that it had a different origin. However, a person couldn’t scream like that, a car couldn’t make such sounds, what was it? I heard it maybe five more times during the night. Something scared me in its sound, it was the sound of pain and despair, it seemed that the city itself was crying after the bombing, trying with effort to heal its wounds.
The morning was full of bustle for our family, we accompanied Ivan and Leonid to the front. Even my mother took time off before lunch for this occasion and was at home with us. But that terrible scream kept coming out of my head, and I decided to share my thoughts. My questions and assumptions were met with misunderstanding at home, and even reproaches. They were escorting their brothers and sons to the front, and I was climbing with my nonsense. Only Leonid shared my curiosity and, at parting, told me that he had heard from an upstairs neighbor a story about how an elephant from our zoo was wounded by a fragment last night, but there are no medicines and he is doomed to death.
After school, Igor and I walked around the zoo again, hoping to see something. He was very impressed by my stories. Although he did not hear these screams himself, he took my word for it and expressed hopes that specialists could come from Moscow and save the unfortunate animal. We were very worried about our elephant.
The promenade and the streets around the zoo seemed lifeless and quiet. Bare trees stuck up their branches like thorns. The dark waters of the Neva were still shackled by the ice blockade. The sidewalks, despite the spring month of March, were covered with snow. It seemed that there was not a single living soul in this world anymore, except for Igor and me.
Suddenly, I was called out. Turning around, I saw Masha dragging a sled with empty buckets. Scolding us for our idleness, she told us to immediately collect two buckets of water and take us home. Unable to refuse, I dragged the sled to the river. Igor volunteered to come with me for company.
On the way back, in this disturbing silence, we heard the cry of an elephant for the first time that day. So he was still alive! But why does he keep screaming? Is there really no way to help him? While we were standing and wondering, the elephant trumpeted again, even louder and longer.
His cry was reflected in our hearts with horror. We quickly walked away from the zoo, and he screamed over and over again, it seemed that he was chasing us, either begging for help, or warning about the agony of death, or blaming the pain that man generously gave to innocent animals.
At night, the screams of a dying elephant were heard again. I couldn’t sleep, and in order not to wake my brothers, I quietly got out of bed and walked barefoot to the window, slightly opening the window into the night darkness.
The almost indistinguishable silhouettes of the city were filled with the wild cry of death of the unfortunate animal. Perhaps this is the most terrible memory of the blockade and what I have always associated with it. That night, I also couldn’t sleep, but just stood and stared out the window for several hours in a row, hoping that my participation could ease the elephant’s torment.
