December 3-9, 2012: Martin Gottlieb Cohen and Zev Davis

Martin Gottlieb Cohen and Zev Davis

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Martin Gottlieb Cohen

Bio (auto)

Martin Gottlieb Cohen was born in the South Bronx somewhere on Simpson Street, went to a Yeshiva on East Broadway and Canal Street, and then lived in the South of Brooklyn, the South of Long Island, The Southern Tier of Upstate New York, The South of Manhattan, and finally South Jersey in Egg Harbor. Listen to Martin read some of his work here:

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Martin Gottlieb Cohen and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Remembering: A Sequence

in a cloud––

the wind in my ears

the blackbird’s silence
from tree to tree

Zev Davis

Bio (auto)

I was born in Detroit in 1943 and lived there until coming to Upper Nazareth, ISRAEL in 1981. I’ve been writing poetry since high school, but for all sorts of conventional reasons I never had the "potatoes" to manage a "literary" or otherwise artistic career. Mostly working and raising a family, a wife plus four, and soon enough a total of fourteen grandchildren. In the between there were poems, some of them were published, some of them are lost in a damaged hard disc.
Over the last year, as well, I have been collaborating with a Northern California poet, from Crescent City. In fact, he is mostly responsible for me getting back to the craft. Like the Phoenix, there are yet newer poems. In a month or so I will be coming out with my first chapbook.

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Zev Davis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


What do books know about anything,
what do they tell you, if
you have a question that begs
an answer when it has
no idea where to look, not even

a piece of paper will suffice. A stray neuron lights up,
perhaps. An apple falls
from a tree the same time as your eye
watches it hit the ground,
sets off a multitude of images . . . All at once
a world that never was comes
into existence. Here and now,

a blob of clay, at a potter’s wheel, either
you move your feet, or it’s
nothing at all. In your head, ephemeral
all by itself alone, nourished by the heart . . .

Don’t deceive yourself, don’t even imagine
the messages from upstairs mean
anything. The electrodes are granules
of puffed rice that wouldn’t snap, crackle,
or pop without the fresh air

the lungs bring. The life you lead
doesn’t mean a hill of beans
without the blood that surrounds
the cranium. What gathers the moments . . .

visions call for more, sounds
send a rush order, quick. Love has arrived,
run to her, kiss her before she goes away. Then
you remember how sad
it was the last time you met. Flashes
back and forth, back and forth. You

sit down. Leave the books on the shelf,
collect your thoughts. No matter
what you do . . . a notepad on a drawing board,
an automatic pencil so your hand can go anywhere. Words
that evoke what she is

sort out the confusion. Slowly the mind comforts
the heart. The heart reminds the head not
to forget, that they
depend on each other.