Wide Awake in Someone Else’s Dream

General EditorsMichael Delp, Interlochen Center for the Arts

M. L. Liebler, Wayne State University

Advisory EditorsMelba Joyce Boyd

Wayne State University

Stuart DybekWestern Michigan University

Kathleen Glynn

Jerry HerronWayne State University

Laura KasischkeUniversity of Michigan

Frank RashidMarygrove College

Doug StantonAuthor of In Harm’s Way

A complete listing of the books in this series can be found online at wsupress.wayne.edu

Made in Michigan Writers Series

Wide Awake in Someone Else’s

Dream

poems by

M. L. LIEBLER

Wayne State University Press Detroit

© 2008 by Wayne State University Press, Detroit, Michigan 48201. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without formal permission. Manufactured in the United States of America.

12 11 10 09 08 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Liebler, M. L.Wide awake in someone else’s dream : poems / by M. L. Liebler.p. cm. — (Made in Michigan writers series)ISBN-13: 978-0-8143-3382-2 (pbk. : alk. paper)ISBN-10: 0-8143-3382-6 (pbk. : alk. paper)I. Title. PS3562.I4418W53 2008811’.54—dc222007029901

This book is supported by the Michigan Council for Arts and Cultural Affairs

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the DeRoy Testamentary Foundation for the support of the Made in Michigan Writers Series.

Lyrics from “Between the Ground and God” by Stewart Francke, from the album House of Lights on Blue Boundary Records © 1997. Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

Excerpt from “The Moment I Knew My Life Had Changed” by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, from Things My Mother Told Me © 2000, Guernica Editions. Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

Lyrics from “Gethsemane” by Ricki Lee Jones, from the album The Sermon on Exposition Boulevard on New West Records © 2007, The Words Group Music (ASCAP). Reprinted by kind permission of Ricki Lee Jones and Lee Cantelon.

Excerpt from “Stigma” © 2007 by D. H. Melham, from Stigma & The Cave. Syracuse University Press, 2007. Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

Excerpt from “Against Death” © 2007 by Gary Metras. Reprinted by kind permission of the author.

Designed and typeset by Maya RhodesComposed in Copperplate Gothic and Clifford

For Gary Metras, who taught me the wonders of this world and this life

And for Aunt Jim and Uncle Earl Ensroth, who often gave me shelter from the storm

all those years ago

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I. Blue Alone in Red Square (The Russia Poems) 5 The Letting Go 6 Hermitage 7 Mother Volga 8 Zhilli Billi 9 Prague Spring 11 Blue Alone in Red Square 12 For Irina—Girl in Siberia 14 I Once Refused to Change 15 The Black Heart of Communism 16 Politics and Its Long Russian Scar 18 Sunset over St. Petersburg

II. Germany Is the Broken Heart (The Germany Poems)21 From the Gathering Hills of Stuttgart 22 Sitting with My Mother in Munich 24 Alone, Inside My Heart 25 Flowing Like the Rhine 27 Thread 28 In Heidelberg 29 Dachau Death Morning Blues 30 Moving with the Ghosts of History:

Stuttgart

C o n t e n t s

vii

III. The Tiny Birds of Israel (The Jerusalem Poems)33 The Tiny Birds of Israel 34 Unspoken 35 Old City: Jerusalem after Dark 36 50 Miles from Beirut—We Are in Charge 37 Shabbat on Ben Yehuda Street 38 Nothing Within 39 Broken Mirrors 40 Weeping at the Tomb 42 The Mediterranean Never Entered 43 Broken Bread 44 Evangeline, the Ghost

IV. Wide Awake in Someone Else’s Dream47 Making It Right 51 Bitter Tea—The Muddy Passaic 53 Outsourcing55 On the Scrap 62 The Loneliness of a Shadow 63 Walking with Sun Yet Sen 64 The Fingertips of Night 66 Reconsidering the Room68 Bricks without Straw 69 Under the Blood Sun, Venice Calls 70 The Landscape of Thunder 71 In Another Universe 72 Soul, Deceit, Crying 73 Arctic Dream 75 The Fragrant Benediction of Life

viii

76 The Sun Dancer’s Pledge Sonnet 77 Who Knew Attachment Was Not 79 Floors of the World 80 Blues for the Lost Days 81 Purple in the Gone Day

83 Acknowledgments

ix

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It was not until later

that I knew, recognized the moment

for what it was, my life before it,

a gray landscape, shapeless and misty;

my life after, flowering full and leafy

as the cherry trees that only today

have torn into bloom.

—Maria Mazziotti Gillan,

“The Moment I Knew My Life Had Changed”

Memories huddle like fugitives.

—D. H. Melhem, “Stigma”

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IBlue Alone in Red Square

The Russia Poems

Я помню чудное мгновенье:

Передо мной явилась ты,

Как мимолетное виденье,

Как гений чистой красоты.

I remember a wonderful moment

As before my eyes you appeared,

Like a vision, fleeting, momentary,

Like a spirit of the purest beauty.

—Aleksandr Pushkin, “To A. P. Kern”

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5

The Letting Go

Little by littleIt starts. In Siberia,I see a reflection—Myself standing stillIn the afternoon shadowOf ancient Russia.I know now whatI have never realizedBefore. I am alone

In darkness—a shadeOf myself hereOn another coldSiberian sidewalk,So many miles awayFrom Moscow,And even furtherFrom myself. Still,

I find songs in thisOld world, as I gatherMy ragged spirit in mid-May and struggleTo dance away from what isHidden in snow beyondThis here and now.

6

Hermitage

Inside this Russian ArkTwo of everything, at least,From Rembrandt to Van Gogh

And all the Western greats.Here, in the very heartOf St. Petersburg, historyEmbraces everyday lifeWritten with blood—Old victories andThat one good fightOn the frontier of justice.

And the Russian bear sleepsClose to the ground,Listening to a world movingOutside its bruised rib cage.

7

Mother Volga

In the SiberianTundra, cemeteriesAre brickyard gardens.

Tomorrow, the framers will againAwake in snow and meltingRain. Rosseya! HiddenGiant in the backyard,I hear you singing

With lost nationalism.Along the mighty Volga,Men bow and take offfur hats to salute your past.

8

Zhilli Billi(Once Upon a Time)

The Russian flag atopThe House of Scientists,In downtown Novosibirsk,Has become my Dog Star.

Each morning underThe bright Siberian sun,I rise, yawn, and centerMy soul to set my heart’s

Compass. In my dreams,Sometimes, I think I seePushkin’s tigers in the night-Time of lost fairy tales.

They are half asleepAnd waiting as theyWhisper“Zhilli Billi!”

9

Prague Spring

In the dark greenWinding paths of StromovkaPark, I am buried in flowers.Another Prague spring—Eastern European stillnessFalls from the ancientHardwoods as a breeze shadowsYesterday’s iron and metal wind.

On this soft blue pond, oneWhite rose spins underA May sun broken onlyBy winds that siftThe tall treesOn history’s angels.

To the east,The moving watersOf the Vlata River,Its current takingMy name downstream pastRed-throated blackbirds chirpingAnother language I will never know.

10

Within the silence of morning,I listen to distant whispersOf Communism, and I think maybeThis is the real plot to the storyOf my life. Momentarily, I sitOn the bank, alone in Stromovka Park,Listening for an echo to whisperHow the tale will end.

11

Blue Alone in Red Square

I sit blue aloneIn Red Square: Moscow—

Nearly 90 years afterThe Bolshevik Revolution

And 13 years from oldCommunism; the way it was,

The way it is.And while things change,

Others are clearly the same—My problem is trying

To distinguish betweenThe two. In this still

Red place, ambiguityMelds into daily life.

12

For Irena—Girl in Siberia

I am taking back from RussiaA young girl’s poemWritten in the sadnessOf a gray university classroom.

Through a slow Siberian rain,She wrote, “A young man dreamsTo escape the desperate overcoatOf his too young country.”

On the streets of Siberia,Soft wind pricksHard at all these gentle faces—

Hungry people movingThrough the emptinessOf a sad moon that hangs

Alone above the old House of ScientistsOn Morskoy Prospekt.Finally, I gather her poems up,

Tell her I will take them allTo America where they will live.And I remember her—

13

A young student who cried,In the dark lines of her poetry,“I want to live forever,But I can’t bear my own mindHere in this cold, cold distance,Away from everyone and everywhere.”

I tell her it’s only a train ride—easy—To Moscow, but she doesn’t have the ruble,And time is not kind to those who wait.

14

I Once Refused to Change

Finding my way hereIn the darkness isLike being a man who refusesTo change his lifeBecause he fears whatIt might become.

In the end, this healingLeaves only soft scarsAgainst a dark night of stars,Sickles, and blazing red hammers.

15

The Black Heart of Communism

Their dreams areThe national nightmare.The Russian heart is hidden

Beneath the rubble of old cars,Trash cans, garbage bluesIn the alleys of yesterday’sIdeologies and charmed deceptions.

I heard this rumor yesterday—Lenin diedHolding his head in his handsAs if his ideas were too heavyFor this world. And in Siberia

They say that Stalin died—His heart the color of mudAt the bottom of the Black Sea.

16

Politics and Its Long Russian Scar

Russia is the scar of Europe.A long, tight cut right downThe middle of its once vibrant soul.

When America thoughtIt had won the Russians’Hearts and minds, America neverRealized—it had neither.

For decades we battled againstTheir country only to find moreSimilarities than differences. In their eyes,

A history as long as the VolgaAnd as deep as the world.Together we have battled, andTogether we have struggled,

And at the end of the longCentury, America was onlyTreading the waters of hatredIn oceans of lies—our own

Anger and misunderstanding flowingThrough selfish foolishness,

17

Ideals, and wasted opportunities.Now, everyone knows that we are

The same. It took decades to discoverWhat we should have long already known.

18

Sunset over St. Petersburg

People move through their livesIn the streets of Petrograd;Another giant of human spiritCrawling half awake through

Years of poverty and war,An unholy strife—translated to historyWith so many blue stories in thisOld collectivist dream. There

Has always been heartIn the workers of Russia—Their anxiety moving by metro from LeninPlochad toward the Motherland

Where Lenin once struggledOn the corner of the sunThat today slides behindThe clouds and the gold-Plated roofs of Peterhoff Palace.

IIGermany Is the Broken Heart

The Germany Poems

In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,

And the roof-lamp’s oily flame

Played down on his listless form and face,

Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,

Or whence he came.

—Thomas Hardy, “Midnight on the Great Western”

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21

From the Gathering Hills of Stuttgart

The broken sun’sLight slides slowly throughThe window of this apartmentOn Charlottenstrasse. I seeThe ghosts of my familyComing down fromThe hills above Stuttgart.

It seems like clouds gatheringAbove, but when I look again, it isMy grandmother, filled with love,the one who raised me from birth,And to her right my grandpaGreeting me on the streets of Baden-Württemberg.

Is this where they all have gone?Back to the homeland. This isOur old neighborhood. GermanyIs the broken heart I haveNever forgotten. The originOf who I am. I have comeHome to my beginnings,And my family has waitedFor my return from an AmericaThat I never really knew.

22

Sitting with My Mother in Munich

We are ghosts togetherUnder this warm German sunOn a Sunday afternoonIn Munich—Just up the narrowStreet from KreuzkircheNear Marian PlatzJust before worship.We sit and prayAnd laugh aboutEverything that once was.

She speaks softlyOver coffee mit slagsana,And I hear all the storiesOf the wayIt used to beBack in the golden GermanyOf her past. A placeShe never really knew,But somehow we both feelAs through we are finallyHome in this world.

She leans over and touchesMy forehead and then my arm.

23

I feel her soft breath, angelsMoving through the fine hairsOn my arm. “Yes, Mom,”I say, “It’s like we never left.We have always beenHere near the Marian PlatzOn such a day in this sweetCity.” For us, whatElse is possible?

24

Alone, Inside My Heart

I am listening to the churchInside my heart, aloneOn the river’s bank

Where I long for soft windTo bend around my kneesWith all the glory of this life.

I want to meditate uponThese trees that line the avenuesIn the city of my forefathers. Stuttgart,

I stand alone in your shadow.Once I was tired and broken.Now, I find I am here,

Comforted in the houseOf my birth withinThe tender heart of my life.

25

Flowing Like the Rhine

Today is one moreDay to reconsiderThe rooms of my lifeAnd to change whereThey all lead. I feelMy soul, upstream, movingAs the Rhine flowsThrough my heart.

Somewhere between MainzAnd Koblenz, I understandThese true green watersThat touch along each shore-Line northward from whereI last remember my lifeFull as a June moon overThe wine-sweet Rhineland

Valley through Moselle and Saar,Where I look for all the broken piecesOf my past, the ancestorsOf old Germany—centuries moveIn this old river’s flow.How can time now matter?

26

I sleep on a quiet river-Bank where the moon isThe soul-shine of my past.

27

Thread

How could I have ever knownBefore that it would take meDown old cobblestone streetsIn ancient Munich?

In this place, old spiritsWere raised. I was Bavarian,One hundred years ago. SomehowThere is life embedded here in the

Mortar between these bricks. I keepLooking back for that one small pieceOf stone that is the future.

28

In Heidelberg

In Heidelberg, I walk in the darknessOf the old Schloss dungeon.I am looking for my lifeAmong the broken bones and stonesIn the ruins of my own history,And within the quietness of myself.

I think there might be buried here,In Heidelberg, a story for meTo rebuild my life. Here,Underneath this rubble and darkness—Free from all wars.

We’re all just water passingThrough like this old river In Heidelberg.

29

Dachau Death Morning Blues

First they came for the Jews

and I did not speak out

—Pastor Martin Niemöller

Death came alongside me and broughtMe through the workers’ gate.Inside the camp, a lonely woman’s shadowFollows me, whispering into my deaf earAll the horrors still burningIn the forest of the German night.

Between the turning gears,A human factory of skinPulled tight over the heavy poundingOf pain and steel. I meet peopleWho speak across this barren,Cold November yard.

They whisper to my heart,“Please—do not let them forgetOur hungry spirits. Don’t forgetUs here in your fading memoriesOf democracy and peace!”

30

Moving with the Ghosts of History: Stuttgart

It’s 5:00 a.m. in America,And most people are asleepAs I travel in the dark slumberOf dreams on another continentUnaware of all the moving ghosts,Stirring and shaping the newsThat will become tomorrow.

North winds are always coldAnd harsh as I slide up the railsFrom Stuttgart to Berlin. I knowThe busy people don’t thinkI can see them talkingOut the train window,Behind the barns,In the fields,Over their fresh cropsin Baden-Württemberg.

But I know these ghosts,Climbing through the slow historyOf my blood. And now I amOne with their brittle bones, attemptingTo conquer the weaknesses in this world.

IIIThe Tiny Birds of Israel

The Jerusalem Poems

Now we went up to the garden

Beneath the olive tree

The bells were ringing

The rooster crows . . .

You know you wake up one morning

And you're someone else

You're on your own

There is no miracle to take you home

—Rickie Lee Jones, “Gethsemane”

Long may the spirits incarnate the songs of birds

as the sun resonates its light through air.

Long may the spirits fly in the riot of bird song

when the earth tilts toward abundance and

beyond.

Though the songless dead outnumber

those who sing, still, each bird has a song.

—Gary Metras, “Against Death”

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33

The Tiny Birds of Israel

Articulate, little birdSounds swimming through whispersAcross lawns towardThe northern fields of NazarethAnd up into the dry holesIn the throat of the sun.

On earth, small finchesBathe in warmth. TinyLungs fill full withFresh mountain scentsIn bloom inThe Middle-Eastern desert.

Small birds break outIn peace songs from insideTheir gentle hearts.First, tranquilityFades into violence.Time takes them allEventually into darkness,Death, and loss whereThey will sing no more.

34

Unspoken

In Jerusalem,From Mount Zion,Sound moves insideBending flowers—New languages.Unspoken.

Tempered,Close to a whisper,Rhythm and soulAs alive as fish

Rising upToward the surfaceIn silence. This waterIs truth underThe old desert sun.

35

Old City: Jerusalem after Dark

Through the streetsOf Old Jerusalem,Moon-heavy spiritsDance in forgotten dreamsDetaching hope from memories:Bombs from the north—Suicide from Gaza in the south.

Follow the soundsOf war to the edgeOf the Christian Quarter,The Jewish Quarter,And the Muslim Quarter.Everywhere love is a faint murmur

From the deserts of different faithsAll sprung from the same source.Now, a dry well—emptyWithin the forgottenTemples of ourselves.

36

50 Miles from Beirut—We Are in ChargeLines Found in the Jerusalem Post, July 2006

This is Israel.Follow my instructions.Sternly stop at yourCurrent positions, and don’tTry to sneak further into Lebanon.

This checkpoint is set upTo protect you from terrorists,And to further serve our effortsTo pressure their government.We know this siege is meantTo smuggle captives out of our range.

Our main focus: HezbollahAnd their infrastructure—We must clear this waiting areaOf revolution and war.

When this war broke out,They refused to heedOur orders, but nowThe navy has been allowedTo be in charge.In the lower levelsOf it all—Lies.

37

Shabbat on Ben Yehuda Street

In the stillnessOf another Shabbat,Saturday morning seems as lonelyAs the crouching dovesStretching above on wiresFrom the walking mall toThe Russian churches, and all the wayTo David’s tomb. The distanceIs an ellipsis dotting throughThe history books of time.

38

Nothing Within

Listen, I understand nothing.I have sat inside awayFrom this dampnessTo keep my soul dry.Waiting and waiting,I look for the sun to evaporateThese haunted shadows of rain.

Listen, I am not making this up.I have no ideas anymore.I have studied these clouds closely,Looked deep into each drop of rain,Prayed for a respite from the weatherOf myself, and all I feel are occasionalSomber breezes. My soul isLocked in the outside,Where I keep listeningFor my heart’s beat.

39

Broken Mirrors

Angels settle in smokeUpon the reflectionsIn broken mirrors.

Moonless mist, coolIn the breeze risingHigh above the olive trees,

Wind of rosemary and spice.This world smolders—just another brokenHeart filled with the burning

Fires of this tortured world.

40

Weeping at the Tomb

When age surrenders the body,When the spirit leaves to becomeSomeone else’s memories—You find the changing seasons:A brother’s forgotten birthday,Your mother’s marriage, a grandmother’sanniversary, all this now a deep oceansinking in someone else’s heart.

Your messages from the past remainLost at the post office like yesterday’sBlack and white photographs or old postcardsLying for years in the mildewed bottomOf your uncle’s old cigar box.All is memory blowing acrossThe once blonde hairs of yourYouthful arm. Tomorrow is a ghost

Waiting for you to sit aloneUnder a blue moon that willinglyHangs, again, over old Jerusalem.You contemplate the placeWhere they washed the bodyOf Christ with rose water and perfumeOutside His tomb where a church

41

Now stands. You weepFor time andYou kneel in faith.

42

The Mediterranean Never Entered(The Tel Aviv Blues)

When I was a child,The Mediterranean meantNothing to me.

Today, I sitAlone and alive at itsShoreline, daydreaming.

I sit in saltAnd wind filling my lungs.The past is lost in baptizingWaves of silent youth.

43

Broken Bread

Broken breadHeals the angelsOf my past.

How many timesHave I eatenOf the Body?

And how littleHave I really fedThe angels?

Emptiness settlesLike rustAt the bottomOf our hearts.

I am as broken as bread.I am more whole than ever.

44

Evangeline, the Ghost(Sitting in Jerusalem Thinking about New Orleans)

Under humidity and mossIn the sweat of Evangeline,Ghosts slip out from cracks

In the sidewalks of Storyville.Together they huddle on IbervilleStreet with dark secrets of the Mississippi

Sliding over broken leveesSwallowing hearts, spirits awash in wavesMoving in reverse toward the Gulf.

They will settleTo the bottom—saltyBones in another Middle Passage.

This humidity is risingUp across America—Shadows hiding our ancestors:

While broken bodies drift andLost souls drown again in the oldLies of familiar darkness.

IVWide Awake in

Someone Else’s Dream

Soon stars will nest in the brow of the tired;

A quiet simplicity enters cool chambers

And angels step soundlessly from the blue

—Georg Trakl, “Autumn of the Lonely One”

When the lights go out and the house is dark

And you feel alone, you will find a spark

There is a place where I come from

There is a faith in what we’ve done

I want to live between the ground and God

—Stewart Francke, “Between the Ground and God”

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47

Making It Right(Lines composed after being asked to lecture on labor

in Detroit during the Depression at the Amerika Haus

Lecture Series in Munich, Germany 2004)

You know what work is—if you’re

old enough to read this you know what

work is, although you may not do it.

Forget you.

—Philip Levine, “What Work Is”

I bring no poetry todayFrom the oil and greaseSoul of my Detroit.

This history I am isOnly, and nothing more,Than the son of an autoworker.

Just another Detroit man beatenDown by the tortured yearsOf Depression, World Wars,

And the awful angst of unemployment.This is my story without balanceWeighing heavier on the side

48

Of heartache and less on the sideOf the sacred and glorious.This is my story of what no work is

And what it can do to theWorking class in the darknessOf our desperation.

I wish, now, I did have someKind of a poem to say aloud,Right here—to make you

All understand what is insideThe blackened heart and underThe whittled bones of the people

Who have been left behindIn the ashes of the plant. I guess

I could read you a poem about how laborTakes a boy and makes him a workerBefore he is allowed to become a man.

How the factory humiliatesAnd intimidates all peopleWith endless assembly and useless work.

49

How the line takes one ounceOf every soul lived for everyMinute it is sped up to completion.

How Henry Ford’s great innovationDoomed generations to continuousMonotony in the name of “making a living.”

But, I am afraid that I can only bringThe small news of what becomes of peopleWho work hard with greasy hands.

About people who learn that their reality isHaving their names spelled out in factorySmoke long before they were born. A birthright

For workers to endure throughThe long loneliness of industryAnd unemployment lines where

We wait and wait for ourBread and roses to fall from the skyLike beads of perspiration upon our graves.

We dream that, maybe, prosperityIs really just around the corner. So weget up every morning with hope, and

50

We return each night to the broken housesOf our lives, seldom realizing that it is ourLabor that keeps this whole world together.

I guess, in the end, we do not knowWhat work is, but still we continue toDo it over and over, making it right.

51

Bitter Tea—The Muddy Passaic

Outside

outside myself

there is a world

—William Carlos Williams, “Paterson”

I drink the bitter teaFrom the bottom of the emptySoul of the muddy Passaic RiverUnder the Great Falls in Paterson,New Jersey, where the dark waterMeets the riverbed of reality. I turn

Toward God inside the BlessedSacrament Church to pray overThe history of the shattered, abandoned,And broken ghosts of the workers that ISee in their faded reflections through theScarred windows of the old Colt Gun Mill;

The lost lives of Paterson’s workingClass. There is little antidote nowFor the hunger and emptinessOf unemployment. All the riversOf this broken world could neverFill the gap when jobs like these

52

Dry up the muddy waters. Suffering,Doubt, and loss become the mill town’sNightmare: “No Help Wanted!” Today,

I sit with all the others,Head in hands, along the closedBanks of the once mighty PassaicWaiting and waiting for our new dayTo rise up and take us all downstreamWith those dark river currents to a newAmerica of time and hope, where we willAgain sing to remember our history with theOld, familiar tunes of work and faith.

53

Outsourcing

I had an idea recently. “Genius!”I thought. I would disassemble the factoryOf myself, break it all down andShip the most valuable parts toSome other places. To do this, I hadTo carefully detach each wireAnd bolt, and secretly unscrew meFrom me, as not to grab anyone’sAttention or curiosity. For example,While my foot was asleep, I sentAll of my memories south. WhileMy scalp prickled with beads of sweat,I sent my love north to cool, and later,While my brain was entranced withCommercials on television, I sent thoseMysterious 21 grams of my soul, which IRead about in Time magazine, straightOut of this world—Way further than Mexico,China, Pakistan, or anywhere anyone has everHeard of. Gone—Vanished—just like that!

When all was said and done, very littleOf the old me was left. Yes, I had myEver-growing fingernails and toenails,The occasional annoying hidden body rashes

54

Here and there, and of course plenty of thoseMiddle-aged hairs growing in my ears and

nose.But the substance? What was the substance

anyway?

Suddenly it occurred to me the other dayThat when I gave all of me away, whatRemained was just another abandoned factory,And that’s no way to run a life—

55

On the Scrap

Come take a little trip with me in 1913

To Calumet, Michigan, in the Copper Country.

—Woody Guthrie, “1913 Massacre”

In a small, big town 1913At the northernmost reachesOf America—sticking out

Into the cold, deep waters Of Lake Superior—beautiful Body of lake and fresh earth Packed heavy with whitefish and copper

Land, veins mined by immigrants:Croatia, Hungry, Finland, England.

American multiculturalismLong before the academy labeled people

Through their longitudinal studies and statistics. Here, in Michigan, the working class Once again defined the country’s future by building A firm foundation: Keweenaw County—just another place

56

Where labor awakened to confront business

Owners who were determinedTo keep workers enslaved, endangered, and under

Control. When the first cry of “union” sprungFrom the workers’ wintry lips as they stood upon the frozen-

cold streets, the mine owners’ mantra was loud and clear

The managers’ chant of “We’ll let the grass grow on your streets Before we concede to the uncivilized

Working class,” was an offense to the few who

Understood English. Those words were met with

A reckoning response from labor everywhere.

Fortunately for the mining men of Calumet There was a strong-willed woman Who refused to let injustice

57

trample Her community down to ash in the name of“Business as usual!”

During the Great Mining Strike of 1913, Big Annie Clemec of Calumet stood up to be counted, And she took on the mine owners by challenging them to “Kill me! Run your bayonets and sabers Through this flag and kill me! For I will not

Be moved. If this American flag will notProtect me, then I will die holding it.”

Sweet Annie Clemec, Eastern European angel of the mines—

Tall, beautiful Upper Peninsula woman of integrity,

Who marched daily through The copper-rich streets of Calumet with her American Flag raised, stars, red, blue, and white,

58

High above her flowing brown hair,

Encouraging other men, women, and children to stand

Together for union and for their fair share.

Big Annie—Lady of Calumet—marchedHead on into the Federal Militia who watched her

From horsebacks with their silver sabers drawn And ready to knock her flag of freedom from her Steady hand, but Annie marched forward, always, Spitting on the yellow-bellied soldiers who dared

To take the working man’s birthright of fair

Pay for an honest day.

The miners wanted to work A little less and spend a little more time With their families—The miners wanted To be safer in the dark dungeon

59

Mines webbed with the evil sound of the widow-maker drill;

In the end, the company won the Strike of 1913 In Copper County, Michigan. They broke the back Of labor in their typical, hurtful, murdering way When they planted a scab-snitchin the old Italian Hall on Main Street—

December 24th at Big Annie’s Christmas party For the penniless children And the families of the striking men. As gifts Of oranges, handmade dolls, clothes, and such Were passed to the children from Santa on the stage,A loud cry of “Fire! Fire!” rose up over the heads of the childrenAnd the frantic strikers. A cloud of panic hung like a noose

Over the people who scrambled toward the one and only door.A human stampede where body after body

60

piled up on the stairway out.When calm was restored,

74 people, mostly children, lay buried in a twisted heap Of bones, blood, skin, and hair. A Working-Class Nightmare in the Home of the Brave. All Brought on by another nameless company snitch

Who yelled “fire” from his stool-pigeon perch,

And was never seen again in Calumet City. So—Big Annie picked up

Her flag, one more time, to bury the dead children in the frozen land—

December 28, 1913. She lead the funeral procession

To their snow-covered graves. The Calumet newspapers reported that miners won Nothing of significance during the Great Strike. They went back to work without their babies,

Without a raise, without better working

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conditions, and withoutRecognition for their union. All of that was buried

In 1913 in the cold Michigan earth.

62

The Loneliness of a Shadow

I am sleepingIn a meadowIn this green world.

Dreaming, I fallInto blackAnd white photos—

Motionless and asleep.In this picture, aBackground creek rises

Along the shadowOf a shoreline traced inThe chalk ghost of myself.

63

Walking with Sun Yet Sen

Along the boulevardOn Tiapa IslandIn Macau, and underThe smell of orchardsAnd spring bloom, I walkWith rebellion in my blood.

Here, along this boulevard,Named after the great leaderDr. Sun Yet Sen, I feelThe swiftness of change, and IUnderstand its necessity.

Soon after revolution ragesIn the clouds aboveThe bones of today,A vast change buildsUpon the rest of ourOne thousand tomorrows.

64

The Fingertips of Night

Where are my dreams now?Long ago I remember they dancedOut to the fingertips of night.Alone in their own enchantment—In wonder, in the moonlight,In a universe, I once dreamtAbout the truths that hideBehind the skin of youth.

Now, at midnight—crossing, somewhereIn the middle of my life—there isA balance. I paint these wordsIn sleep and pain uponThe back fences of my sadness:

“Never once did I dreamMore than I could holdIn the cupped handsOf youth.”

Now, in these later years,I am, again, close to myMother’s heart. I

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Drive on through lessons,Sequestered in the darkness, andI wonder what codes the beatingHeart will send to the blood buriedIn the blueness of my veins.

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Reconsidering the Room

InsideTheHeart

ShadowsMoveIn

DrunkenDarkBlood

AloneWhisperingThrough

BonesOfThis

WorldThatCan

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NeverKnowTruth—

TheGreenLeaves

OfYouthForm

DeepPoolsIn

ThisLife

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Bricks without Straw

I am bricks without strawHolding fast to the darkNight of the soul—whereEven quiet whispersFrom God thunder throughThe weather of my life.

Crowded black clouds of angerPush against mistrust in thisWorld, where rain fallsOn an otherwise calm day.

Alone in this world, I waitTo awaken from the long lonelinessOf some new life that isStretched out across the restOf my days. Alive in the free-Flowing presence of God.

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Under the Blood Sun, Venice Calls

Sitting under smooth waves of warmHeat from the purple blood sunIn Venice, I think about all the things

That could come easilyIf I could learn to prayIn silence. I want to dreamIn calm. I want to trustIn the peace of forgiveness.

So much in this worldI will never know, yetIt might all be buried, up there,In the whole of the Venice sun.

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The Landscape of Thunder

It is colorless in my hands,Cold to the touch of anythingLess than my soul. There isWind inside my grayingDream clouds—It calls

Me through to the echoes—The landscape of my heart.Life now moves in reverse,Slow strokes, backward againstA backdrop of anxious roses.

A clock tower trembles.My heart trembles.Alive, forever, callingTo define this life in shadows.

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In Another Universe

Tomorrow the edge will appearFar off in some distant cry that has beenCut through wailing cliffs of horizontalClouds that lie like smokeAt the ends of our lives.

The clock yawnsAt daybreak. Or, God’s fireStarts in the heartTo burn the soul free from sin.

Once I wasA boy before I wasBorn, a simple life crawling inA twilight circleWhere stars sleepIn the minutes of day.

I wonder if allThe anger I have ever feltWas really just the soul rubbingAgainst the blue gun triggerOf life. Now, I wonderIf it is a lie toldAs truth in anotherUniverse?

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Soul, Deceit, Crying

It beats againstMy teeth. Big soundsPulled from belowThe soul. Deceit—Cries roar out of the lungs,A new life pink and thrusting from deepWithin the walls of my mother’s dreams.

The words were thereEven when I was not, butI didn’t know them enoughTo speak. So I choppedWith my tongue, softnessOn the roof of my mouth,Splashing in vowels. A newFood being pushed upLike tulips in my throat.

I sit in angerAnd wonder which came first—The word, or thick soundsTossed onto a dark floor.

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Arctic Dream

Descending through bruised bluenessIn the arctic sky, I findReality on the solar ice.

In these moments just beforeLanding, I am rediscoveringA part of me that has been

Buried deep in the InupiatEarth—under these centuriesOf prayers and rituals.

With them, again, I amA student of this lifeLooking for answers

That seem to stretch acrossThe tundra as far as the eyesCan see. Out here I

Do not worry about worry.I learn the ancient artOf rhythm and balance.

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This wind is truthChanging like the sunIn the midnight sky.

Slowly it reveals newHorizons sliding throughA sky that never darkens.

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The Fragrant Benediction of LifeAfter Barry Lopez

Today, I sit at the top of the worldPraying for hours in quietnessAnd blind forgiveness as love heals all.

In the 24-hour daylight,I can see myself in the naturalLight of my own heart that is

Buried deep in my chestShining through my ribs, a cageOf reality to which I am bound.

Come sweet Lord—show me the light,Sensation of peace that lies waitingFor the fragrant benediction of life.

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The Sun Dancer’s Pledge Sonnet

With this rain comesThe running paint—A slow drizzle downThe tear paths of our faces.

Nature buries usWith each lament—readyTo pull the sun outFrom behind the gray clouds

Of earth. Our habitIs prayer and ourPrayer is this world.

Our job is to bringLife out of habit, and prayerFrom behind the sun.

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Who Knew Attachment Was NotFor Lisa Rutledge

She was a Buddhist who knewAttachment was not a part of herPrayer and meditation cycle. She

Thought about New York from timeTo time, but always kept it hiddenIn the mirror of her past. Her life—

Driven by everydaynessWith the headlights of all timeGlaring into her once-broken

Heart, but she kept a bookOf poetry close to help herHeal the scattered pain of this world.

Today, she drives to her jobIn warmth, and she’ll leaveIn the cold darkness of night

Where clouds loom like a rosarySwinging in her Midwestern heartWhere she’ll tuck away her mother’s

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Note to a young daughter. It says,“We live to live.” This isThe evensong of her soul.

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Floors of the World

In stillness,Hope ringsThe gardenOf a youngBoy’s heart.Music climbsDown from rainbowsTo the coldFloors of his world.

In dreams,He lassosPassing cloudsIn the darknessOf his sleep.

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Blues for the Lost Days

I remember the lost days of youth.Days I never counted or cared about.Moments when everythingMoved slowly like shadowsAcross the lawns of our lives.

I remember long, hot summersOf baseball and tree climbing,Wanting only to playThrough the summer’s dusks intoThe long, cool mornings of autumn.

I remember thinking that thisCould be one endless dream.One after another—One after another—

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Purple in the Gone Day

I am holdingFirm to my purple,Midnight dreams.

This lilac painRising to the topOf my pink skin.

In darkness, I feelPurple in the memoryOf my blood. Deep

Into the blueVeins of yesterday,Just another gone

Day where I amEmpty in my mood,Sliced open wide

By purple lightUnder the heartOf the slivered moon.

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I hold myself, now,In darkness and waitAnd wait for my heart

To fold itself intoThe deepness of sleep.

The author wishes to extended his sincere gratitude to all those who welcomed him into their countries, their homes and their lives on his many trips abroad.

In Russia: Edward Shornik, CEO, YMCA Novosibirsk; Executive and Director of the Educational Center “Smile”; Alexander Mezdrikov and his wife Youlia Mezdrikova; Professor Olga Ryzhkina at Novosibirsk State University; Natalia Zamyatina, YMCA in St. Petersburg; and the Wayne State students who were fellow travelers to Russia in 2005: Rebecca Gramlich, Noah Morgan, and Lucy “In the Sky” Siegfred.

In Germany: Professor Hans Peter Soder and his beautiful family in München, and his excellent staff Sommer Sherrit and Lena Bittle.

In Israel: Professor Karen Alkalay-Gut at Tel Aviv University; Derek, Jackie, Ashleigh, and Jonzie Stein; Linda Slutzky; Alex. N. Daniels, director of the American Center in Jerusalem; Sara Erlanger; Ralph “DJ Mix Master” Amelan; David Ehrlich at the Tmol Shilshom Café; and Dr. Shai Aran and everyone at the American Center Jerusalem’s CLASS Program (Civics, Language, and American

a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

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Studies Seminar, Department of Education and Cultural Affairs, U.S. Department of State).

Many thanks must go to Director Mark Ferguson and Louise Speed of Wayne State University’s Junior Year in Munich Program, Director Kelli Dixon of Study Abroad and Global Programs at Wayne State, Director Jerry Herron and Kevin Rashid of the Wayne State Honors Program, and President Irvin Reid for his support of Wayne State’s global mission.

M. L. is extremely grateful to Katheen Zamora who helped prepare this manuscript; to his editor Annie “Oakley” Martin, Kathy Wildfong, and Jane Hoehner at Wayne State University Press; and to his wife Pamela M. Liebler, who held down the home front while he was abroad.

Thank you to the following journals in which some of these poems have previously appeared:

Connecticut Review“Dachau Death Morning Blues”“Soul, Deceit, Crying”

Cortland Review(http://www.cortlandreview.com/issue/34/liebler.html)

“Walking with Sun Yet Sen”“The Loneliness of a Shadow”

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Hot Metal Press(http://hotmetalpress.net/Winter2006.html)

“Evangeline, the Ghost”“Weeping at the Tomb”“The Tiny Birds of Israel”“Old City: Jerusalem after Dark”“Unspoken”

Paterson Literary Review:“From the Gathering Hills of Stuttgart”“Sitting with My Mother in Munich”“For Irina—Girl in Siberia”“Moving with the Ghosts of History: Stuttgart”

Temenos: An Online Literary Journal of Central Michigan University

“The Letting Go”“Hermitage”“Alone, Inside My Heart”“The Tiny Birds of Israel”

Third Wednesday Literary Arts Quarterly“Hermitage”“In Another Universe”

Weathervane: A Journal of Great Lakes Writing (http://www.theweathervane.org/poetry.htm)

“Making It Right”“On the Scrap”

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