When a man in a hospital bed Needs a haircut and shave, The barber with his black bag Goes humbly through the wards. In shadow and in light, The barber and his patient, Seen through an open door, A…
Source: Haircut and Shave
Author: Salvatore Ala
Please Do Not Disturb
I am reading Larry Levis
With so few motel rooms
On the road to consolation.
Thank You, Poetry
Thank you, poetry, for my father’s barbershop,
For the barber chairs and soap machines,
For the windows and mirrors, for it being downtown,
For the movie theater and marquee next door,
For opening nights and the Saturday matinee.
Thank you for the barbershop magazine rack,
For the hours I had to read and wait,
Mirrors sinking my thoughts into dreams.
Thank you, poetry, for the weight of scissors,
For the fragrances of Clubman hair products,
For the sounds of the razor on the strop,
For the razor on the back of the neck,
For the hot towels and sting of aftershave.
Thank you for the bus rides downtown,
For my mother helping my father close
So we could all go home together.
Thank you, poetry, for the magic
Of those mirrors, for the poetry hidden there,
For letting this quiet boy, the son of a barber,
Experience something of your presence
Among such humble things.
Haircut and Shave
When a man in a hospital bed
Needs a haircut and shave,
The barber with his black bag
Goes humbly through the wards.
In shadow and in light,
The barber and his patient,
Seen through an open door,
A smile on the sick man’s face.
Mercy for Mercy
for Ashraf Fayadh
Once flowers blossomed in the text,
Words were like petals on water,
Walls whispered in Andalusian script
And paradise on earth was whole.
So if a poet is to be executed
Language grows a stronger root.
The channel of living water
Runs the length of the palace.
So if a poet is to be executed
The sacrifice of one magnifies
The charity of the harvest
For those who are hungry to learn.
The example of the faithful
Who waste a seed of mercy
Is to lose the seven stalks
From which a hundred grains fall.
Crow Feather Totem IV
This time the signs are good.
Black and gray hairs grow from my scalp.
Ghost sickness has lifted.
Crow feathers fuse darkness and light.
Crow eyes see inner worlds.
I have found feathers
For a headdress of clouds.
Mercy for Mercy
for Ashraf Fayadh
Once flowers blossomed in the text,
Words were like petals on water,
Walls whispered in Andalusian script
And paradise on earth was whole.
So if a poet is to be executed
Language grows a stronger root.
The channel of living water
Runs the length of the palace.
So if a poet is to be executed
The sacrifice of one magnifies
The charity of the harvest
For those who are hungry to learn.
The example of the faithful
Who waste a seed of mercy
Is to lose the seven stalks
From which a hundred grains fall.
Lessons
A rude girl brushes past me in the music building and slams the door. After a few seconds I hear the most beautiful voice. How can I be upset when I was also in a hurry to break into song.
The Silver Maple
As they carve at our tall rotting maple
I stand outside to watch the old tree die.
One tree cutter said that a felled tree
Gives off its essence and an aura lingers.
As branches fall, a sapling grove springs up,
Light blooms green, air so pungent
With core wood I feel more alive;
And though the tree is nearly down,
I look up it towers above the pines,
Ragged crown of blue and silver leaves
Before darkness covers my tree of light.
Misreading a Line by Holderlin
For weeks I’ve not been well but refuse a doctor.
For weeks I’ve been unhappy but refuse the past.
For weeks I’ve misread a line of poetry
As “the aging of the dead” and not “the aging and the dead.”
For weeks I’ve been depressed
Thinking the dead grow older. One misreading
And I have wasted a thousand years in eternity.
Salvatore Ala 