Home PageArchivesVolume no. 2Issue 3Poetry: Feldman


Ezra Feldman

In which for a prelude the air tears down Green St.

In which clouds slide in and thicken like a marble cake.

In which city hall’s flags insist they have something to say.

In which every particle of whatever winter left solid goes live wire in electric air.

In which fire engines sail past us in thunderous red rectangles, outrunning their own sirens on the gale.

In which—and this begins it—an enormous bolt locks down the firmament, turns loose another engine, and the rain—yes—teeming, and what follows that, the world in shelter while you play.

A fib you live without me in the picnic sky.



Ezra Feldman

A swamp tree stands
in for me,
weak kneed.

You come with your calipers
and a poem not bigger
than my latest bud.

You know,
I know, what happens
when water rises.

No one remembers
how I towered.
How my thick roots madded

the arrogant man,
enticed you
first to take measure.

A swamp tree stands
for me. With your calipers
you become

my enemy, take
your cut of me.
Water logged

in the leg, what was
hardwood bends into
your word.

Ezra Dan Feldman received his MFA from Cornell University, where he won the Corson-Browning Prize for Poetry. Recently his poems have won third place in Narrative’s 2010 poetry contest and honorable mention in the Ruskin Art Club Poetry Award. His writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in DIAGRAM, The Harvard Review, Gertrude, LEVELER, and elsewhere.

1 comment

  1. A.M. Rooney says: October 4, 2011

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