December 29, 2018

Carol V. Davis

SALT

A man bends in the entryway of the market stalls
sprinkling salt from a box.
His boots are rubber, a green so pale
they are almost no color.
That is right because there is no sun,
no warmth this time of year.
The box of salt is also without color,
though it holds the memory of blue,
the curtain of sky over the Neva
in late spring, when couples sit
on steps of the embankment, saying little,
arms linked like the ornamental chains
of the cannons behind them.
Now the man surveys the floor, turns,
his feet sliding in a figure eight
as if skating on an indoor rink.
The salt mixes with snow and ice
riding in like parasites on the black boots
of the shoppers toting black bags already bulging.
If the door is propped open all day ice will form.
Then he will have to sprinkle more salt.
Or else stand aside to watch the women slip,
catch themselves or fall.
He will grade them on their performance
and they will receive low marks, every one of them.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2005

__________

Carol V. Davis: “Poetry comes when I make room in my life for it. The language, sound, rhythms, stories in poetry sustain me. When I am living in Russia, the poems seem to come more easily. Perhaps that is because, even after having lived there many times, I still feel the outsider, which is often the role of the poet in any society.” (web)

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January 19, 2015

Carol V. Davis

WHAT IS FAITH, AFTER ALL?

At ten, newly returned from living in England,
I sat in a rabbi’s study reading about a vicar’s daughter.
When he asked about the novel in my lap, I stammered,
mortified at being caught reading about another religion.
As if faith were so fragile I’d make the switch just like that.
A traitor revealed.

Thirty years later, leaving Russia, my elderly friend
made the sign of the cross over me, as I backed down
the dark staircase, tearful we’d never see each other again.
My religion irrelevant; her protection what mattered.
But didn’t my grandfather trek across Russia’s broad back

to flee Cossack sabers blessed by this sign and Orthodox priests
sprinkling holy water on soldiers itching for pogroms?

That same trip, a friend in Novgorod gave me an icon
for safe travels back to America. I tucked it in my suitcase,
unsure if it would protect or doom me.

This act of betrayal could pull down the belly of the plane.

Now on the computer a writer talks about his new-found faith.
My husband walks in; my cheeks burn with betrayal, the red
snaking down my neck, my body, as if by listening I am signing
on and that man in sandals and dusty robes will enter and snatch me forever.

from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

[download audio]

__________

Carol V. Davis: “I have been exploring faith and doubt and also superstition in my poetry. Judaism is complicated as it’s also a culture, a history, an identity. I have gone in and out of religious observance, but never lost my Jewish identity. The past some years I have returned to belief and, as a result, observance. All I can say is that it has taken on a central core to my being and has to do with a dialog with something greater than people, with G-d, if you will.”

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