Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. We've published several poems by Washington, D.C., poet Judith Harris, who writes beautifully about her Jewish heritage. Bruno Bettelheim, writing about fairy tales, remarked on the closeness of the relationships between young children and elderly people, and this poem touches upon that. Harris's most recent book is Night Garden, from Tiger Bark Press.
Grandmother Portrait
Here's a small gray woman in an enormous beaver coat
standing at the end of the curb of a street in Brooklyn, her strapped heel
about to be lowered to asphalt.
I'm strolling beside her carrying a sack,
the sidewalk shaded by cranked out awnings: butchers, bakeries, shoe repair shops
the smell of rotting eggs,
as we climb up to her sixth floor apartment with its plastic slip-covered chairs,
the long chain for a toilet flusher, pocks in the plaster ceiling.
She is my Romanian grandmother who speaks little English,
but taught me to crochet,
now lost among the broken headstones of the old gated Jewish cemetery
we passed by that day after buying our milk and our bread.
Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. We've published several poems by Washington, D.C., poet Judith Harris, who writes beautifully about her Jewish heritage. Bruno Bettelheim, writing about fairy tales, remarked on the closeness of the relationships between young children and elderly people, and this poem touches upon that. Harris's most recent book is Night Garden, from Tiger Bark Press.
Grandmother Portrait
Here's a small gray woman in an enormous beaver coat
standing at the end of the curb of a street in Brooklyn, her strapped heel
about to be lowered to asphalt.
I'm strolling beside her carrying a sack,
the sidewalk shaded by cranked out awnings: butchers, bakeries, shoe repair shops
the smell of rotting eggs,
as we climb up to her sixth floor apartment with its plastic slip-covered chairs,
the long chain for a toilet flusher, pocks in the plaster ceiling.
She is my Romanian grandmother who speaks little English,
but taught me to crochet,
now lost among the broken headstones of the old gated Jewish cemetery
we passed by that day after buying our milk and our bread.