January 10-16, 2005: Louise Crawford and Ulrike Gerbig

Louise Crawford and Ulrike Gerbig

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Bio (auto)

Louise Crawford is a Brooklyn, N.Y writer She lives with her photographer husband and two kids She writes a newsletter for the Fire Department of New York for the families of those who lost loved ones on September 11th She worked in the film and video industry as an editor and producer for many years and made a documentary film called “In a Jazz Way,” which was shown at the Museum of Modern Art, the Film Forum, the Public Theater, and on cable television A full-time writer, she is finishing a novel called “Crossing the River,” and a book of poetry called “Five Ten on Tuesday ” She has received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the New York Council for the Humanities for her film work
Visit Louise on the web:
wonderwheel.blogspot.com and thirdstreet.blogspot.com

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Louise Crawford and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Poems Such a balabusta I am bringing this tin of homemade cookies More fodder for your extravagant elucidations your theoretical be-bop Chewing them slow you savor the X-ray view swallowing the id of me Flavorful, rich Freudian frosting Purveyor of phantasmic erogeny and childhood suffering I whipped up these mnemonics of small sweet longing in my hot basement kitchen For your plasir and your analysis, of course Sugar on your lips you lean forward eyes shut tight receptor of psychoanalytic radio signals and riff radiantly on my unconscious confections Take them for what they are my cookies are yours Room This poem is a frowsy bedroom In a rent stabilized apartment building where we rub excellent bellies and trade aches and erogenies whispering elixir words and poesie on Louis Armstrong’s birthday The neighbors across the airshaft yell fuck you to the stars Now I am unzipping you bending down, holding you in my hand Melancholy Blues is on the radio My tongue licks like Niagara Falls Dawn nears in this poem and you are cooing Dosa You are my dosa,  my Indian sandwich Long rectangular arms enveloping, folding wrapping me lovingly in crispy fried flat bread Saucy curried me Chutney sweet sour concoction of a personality Oh my caramelized onions My leafy green cilantro My Xantippe ways and desperate need for mirroring and penetration I am starting to feel ancient pain I am starting to love our sacred hugs Clinging, never letting go You are my dosa,  my Indian sandwich Rapid Transit A woman reads How to Know God on the subway in a Panama hat, a red shirt, and big, black, comfortable shoes The Bronx No blue embroidered prayer shawl to daven in No kipah to cover your poet’s skull No fountain pens or Bundist Bar Mitzvah pictures to share with your thirteen year old boy No challah, or phonetic Hebrew for hungry blessings on Shabbas nights Your parents were going to change the world with mortal hands and kreplach “God is nowhere,” they said Zayde’s tfillin locked away with Russian shul memories in the broom closet But God was everywhere Even on Yom Kippur when you ate cheeseburgers in the red communal cafeteria of your trade union apartment building God was loving each and every atheist in the Bronx Especially you Without It’s a small death each and every Tuesday when I lose you to the buzzer at six p.m You practically push me out the door No sun warms my refugee shoulders on your stone cold stoop Backwinded, struggling to regain buoyancy wondering which new port will receive my penury arms The dismal neglect of your half-drawn shade and your air conditioner’s steadfast humming for the person who comes after Their spellbinding specificity echews mine If I go to Jack’s I’ll see my boy He always has enough time for me Chazeri I think you like the poems more than you like me Concise formal svelte, they are in their Subtle construction minimalist even like my mother’s apartment What’s to like about zaftig me? My talk so rococo a mix of polka dots and stripes No wonder you like the poems My chazerai can be a tad confusing

Geranium Last summer I adopted a Geranium At a market stall it stood half-withered and forgotten I took it home Under gentle hands it unfolded its proud stem once more it grew a crown of flaming purple .all summer You loved Geraniums old-fashioned lovably stuffy reliable a sign of home and I loved you .all summer In autumn you left the plant and me It blossomed all autumn in hope of your return Winter found it still outside unprotected uncared for it simply died of exposure. Kiss of the muses Come, my male Polyhymnia Shed your Crotus’ skin Under the light Of Sagitarius Forget your need To hunt, Let yourself be Captured Follow my salt-sweat rivulets, Soft hills, Valleys , Down to, The crevice The cave Lust and create With gentle hands Unlock the spring of Magic potions Let them Quench your thirst Enchanted, Inspired, Dive deep Into the sorceress Into her warm well Later She might ban You onto Paper. In between years Sluggish days: Time drips, Leaded sand, Through the Narrowing waist Of a hazy hourglass Gluey cobwebs Deny exit from Memory maze Tired eyes watch The world in Slow motion Outside all trains Travel backwards.