Sample Poems by Janet
Heller
JanaThe whale thrashed me onto
shore.
I had gotten so used to living alone
amid the ribs and
thwarts of its belly
that the trees of the island seemed to gesticulate
menacingly
and the wind threatened to knock me down.
It was
horrendously hot.
My head and armpits and genitals dripped.
I
stood there, my naked woman's body burning,
and
prayed.
God caused a gourd to grow up around me.
It was air-
conditioned, and I could sleep.
It had a restaurant and was rest-room
equipped.
Movies and records came after meals.
At least once a
week there was a phone call.
I became dependent.
Then
worms devoured the gourd.
Now it was refrigerator cold. My breasts
and thighs shivered.
I stood there, my naked woman's body
congealing,
and prayed.
And God said,
"Are you very
angry because of the gourd?"
In answer, I drove my fist into the air
where the gourd had been.
And God said,
"Maybe now you
understand Me better.
Go to Nineveh and
prophesy."
Adam and EveWe leave
Eden,
the setting sun scorching our eyes.
I gaze for the last
time
on our pear trees and daffodils,
listen to the cadences
of
the tranquil River Gihon.
Our eyes are opened:
we stare at
one another's nakedness,
attracted and repelled,
then cover
ourselves with girdles of fig leaves
and turn away from each other's
gaze.
You reproach me for trusting the serpent
and
succumbing to the fruit.
I blame you for scattering the
cores
and forgetting to empty the garbage.
We walk in a
hostile silence,
self-absorbed.
I stumble on the rocky
path,
you reach out your hand to steady me.
Our eyes meet, and I
take your hand.
We must learn to live
in a world of
deprivation.
Spring
When the waters of
hate receded,
a seasick linnet flew from the ark.
She returned with
a birch leaf
in token that spring was emerging
but the bitterness
had not subsided.
NoahMy boat is
tossed by waves,
buffeted by winds from the storm,
battered by torrents
of rain.
It is so dark that day blurs into night.
As the ship
pitches,
the animals groan.
My children are seasick.
After five
months of storms,
a heavy silence hangs
between me and my
wife.
Then the rain slackens
and our ship comes to rest
upon
the mountains of Ararat.
We wait for seven more months,
listening to
the howl of the winds.
Hoping for a miracle,
I send out a plump
dove.
She returns at eventide with an olive leaf.
The children scream
with joy.
My wife and I embrace.
Our feet tread gently on the firm
ground.
It feels strange not to be tossed as we walk.
Without the sound
of rain,
the world seems hushed and still
like a synagogue on Atonement
Day.
Slowly, a rainbow arches across the sky,
as colorful as Joseph's
coat.