Arlene Weiner is the author of the poetry collection Escape Velocity (Ragged Sky, 2006), of which Poet Joy Katz wrote, “I want to keep my favorite of these beautifully alert, surprising poems with me as I grow old.” A MacDowell Colony fellow in 2008, Arlene has been a Shakespeare scholar, a cardiology technician, a college instructor, an editor, and a research associate in educational applications of cognitive science. Her poetry has been published in journals including Off the Coast, Pleiades, Poet Lore, and U.S. 1 Worksheets, anthologized, and read by Garrison Keillor on his Writer’s Almanac. She maintains a web site for Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange.
Arlene remarks, “It’s hard to capture what life was like in the past or is like in other societies. Before air conditioning, or where it isn’t available, the rhythms of life were ruled by the weather. The constraints on women, African-Americans, and other groups that once were taken for granted seem shocking now. The working conditions described in ‘1959’ are close to literally true. They reflect a summer job I had as a file clerk in the collection department of a credit card company. I filed a lot of letters that began, ‘This is ridiculous!’ I think they hired temp workers because they were about to convert to computers. I was wrong about Esther Williams, the movie star who swam her way to fame, I think she made her last swimming movie well before 1959.
1959
Is it hot enough for you?
the neighbor said on the stairs
to the girl in gloves. Hot enough
for you? said the subway conductor,
closing the doors. Hot
enough? the elevator man
to the girl in a shirt waist dress,
one of many white girls,
in summer gloves, hair damp
on her neck, on her way
to the typing pool. She laughed
for the colored man moving
the brass control through its arc.
In the big room where the men
yelled into phones at debtors
fans turned. Ribbons fluttered
on the round cages to indicate breezes.
In the center of the room
an iron mesh, floor to ceiling,
surrounded the typists. Little jackets
hung on the backs of their chairs.
After work, elevator, subway,
stairs, supper. Maybe a movie,
Twenty degrees cooler inside.
Maybe an Esther Williams.
They never said, Fast enough
for you? Deep enough? High enough?
They never said then, Far enough?
Far enough for any of us?
Published in Escape Velocity (Ragged Sky Press, 2006) and on The Writer’s Almanac. Copyright Arlene Weiner.
Cancellation
Dear Sir or Madam:
I seem inadvertently to have signed up
or been signed up for the Death of the Month Club
and the deaths have been coming so frequently
that I haven’t had time to say, Stop.
I now have more than enough deaths
to last my lifetime and can give scant attention
even to the important deaths that everyone’s talking about,
the deaths long-awaited or overnight sensations,
precocious deaths. In the past
when the rubber tree relinquished its leaves
one by one, or a friend’s dog died,
I gave them serious consideration,
but I was young then, warm enough, and had hammock time
for melancholy wisdom. So dear, dear Sir,
merciful Madam, I hope you will agree
to stop my subscription, and if I have accrued
any bonus points, and you allow substitutes,
please send me instead preserves and tropical fruits.
Published in Escape Velocity (Ragged Sky Press, 2006) and Thatchwork, Delaware Valley Poets. Copyright Arlene Weiner.
Three Pointing Back
and thumb cocked ready.
Running around the empty lots.
Two shiny Dale Evans pistols came
with belt, holsters, red hat.
Origin story: big bang.
Blame blame blame.
A hand-me-down toy Colt
was better: dull gunmetal, big.
Loaded with Mom’s
Prince Matchabelli powder,
it smoked. Blame blame.
A mother’s son in Kevlar made a stand
with an AK-47, laid
three policemen down.
Pry my gun from my cold dead hand.
Blame blame blame.
Hate speech, talk radio, video game.
Salad shooter, cookie gun.
My hair dryer’s not innocent.
Improvised explanatory devices blame
the way we live now.
When Roy Rogers shot, his aim true,
the bad guy, shocked, rubbed his hurt wrist, Ow!
Copyright Arlene Weiner.
White Gardenia Poetry Press 