The HyperTexts

Peggy Landsman

Peggy Landsman is the author of a poetry chapbook, TO-WIT TO-WOO (Foothills Publishing). Her work has been published in many literary journals and anthologies, including, most recently, GYROSCOPE REVIEW, NASTY WOMEN POETS: AN UNAPOLOGETIC ANTHOLOGY OF SUBVERSIVE VERSE (Lost Horse Press), and SWWIM EVERY DAY. She currently lives in South Florida where she swims in the warm Atlantic Ocean every chance she gets. Her website can be explored at


for Beryl and Zelda Botwinik

When I was a little girl in New Jersey
I saw the photo
of that little boy in the Warsaw ghetto.
I could not unlock his large dark eyes from mine.

Then there were the films
of people who'd gone to camps
that had nothing to do with summer.

Beryl and Zelda, our Polish cousins,
came from Israel to live with us.
They spoke Hebrew, Polish, and Yiddish.
I helped them with their English.

Zelda had saved her life by jumping from a train.
Beryl fought in the underground.
He told me things.

Images of naked corpses spilling into open pits,
the occasional open, empty hand
clawed my nighttime dark.

Bedtime turned against rest.

I turned to books, to covert reading
long after parental "lights out."
I read Anne Frank's diary,
Adolph Hitler's biography —
the one William L. Shirer wrote especially for young readers;
Elie Wiesel's Night....

Night after night on page after page
trapped in the beam of my flashlight,
the printed words froze like prisoners
who failed to make their escape.


what is preying on us?
the death of the earth is certain
the black-dwarfing of the sun foretold

yet unformed forms are forming

we only get in trouble when we don't mind
that little boy in the Warsaw Ghetto—
his eyes go on forever

everything is remembered

yet-unformed forms are forming
though the death of the earth is certain
the black-dwarfing of the sun foretold

we only get in trouble when we don't mind

the nightmare express wrecks
leaps its tracks

are we alive again?

we thank god
even when the inner-light of everyone is cindered
god's will be done—

the impossible ignition of another six million suns.

First published in Mosaic


The tea bag sinks to the bottom of the cup.
I wait a few minutes; watch as the water turns dark.
I sip the tea. It works no magic.

I go outside; watch the sun set.
As it sinks into the Pacific,
Cirrus clouds—high overhead—turn pink.

In Sarajevo, Mufid's mother
Marinated pink rose petals in large glass jars of sugar water.
She set the jars on the window sill early in the morning.
They made the most of ordinary light.

In Osaka, sakura yuki. Cherry blossom snow.
That's what I called it.
Walking along the river in the wind and rain—
Cherry blossoms.

At Kibbutz Usha, I killed a snake
On the stoop out back behind the kitchen.
In the middle of peeling and chopping two hundred seventy onions,
My eyes tear-blind and mad with stinging,
I smashed in its skull with a stone.

Night after night...

I think about the former Yugoslavia.
On the spot where Gavrilo Princip took aim and shot,
The impression of a pair of pointy-toed shoes
Is sunk in the sidewalk. Preserved in bronze.
I stood in them. They were just my size.

So many spots where I stood in Kobe
Waiting for all those job interviews, the trains at Sannomiya.
Waiting and watching as Black Vans rolled.

Impossible to not think about the Holy Land.
Tonight another bombing of another bus in Jerusalem.

Somewhere down the street a car backfires.
It startles me. I turn around.

At the beginning of the twenty-first century
the thing that still amazes me
is how easily I startle.

First published in the 2004 Political Issue of


Hagar and Sarah should have talked,
Laughed together when alone.
Who did Abraham think he was—
Ha-Yehudi ha-rishon?*

Ishmael and Isaac should have been
Boon companions, closer than brothers,
Passing their days doing their chores,
Tending their father's sheep together...

Staying up late entertaining themselves
Arguing over the numbers of stars
Each was the first to have named.

*"Ha-Yehudi ha-rishon" is Hebrew for "The first Jew."


A dull echo remains.
The radio astronomers are
All ears—
Big as satellite dishes—

Listening for news that was
Out of date
Light-years ago

As if it will set the world on fire.
As if hearing a peep from the Big Bang
Will tell us who we are.

First published in Neovictorian Cochlea


Dreaming of hydrocarbon snow
falling on Titan's methane lakes

of egg-like Europa cracking its shell
hatching in the dark

of geysers spraying nitrogen
over Triton's strange terrain

I dream of the Cosmos banging
and banging once again.

First published in Science Poetry (N. H. McAlister)


Look at all the work the universe has done.
It makes the most of ordinary light
from new moon to full moon, from sun to setting sun.

It does the work of all the worlds rolled up into one
mind-boggling miracle of space and time and light.
Look at all the work the universe has done.

Will we ever know for certain how the universe was begun?
Will we ever learn the reason for all this lovely light
from new moon to full moon, from sun to setting sun?

Much of what we think we see, we know in fact is gone.
Stars do die out long before we catch their traveling light.
Look at all the work the universe has done.

Now look at all the works of man, the wealth of our creation!
There are still no substitutes for heat and light…
from new moon to full moon, from sun to setting sun.

I'm ready to quit my day jobs now; to leave them, one by one.
All I want is to make the most of ordinary light,
to look at all the work the universe has done,
from new moon to full moon, from sun to setting sun.

First published in Bringing Sonnets Back


Simple physics, a cinch, the tock-tick of it all;
Though they haven't a clue to the trick of it all.

Light cones. The über-timeline. The multiverse. No strings.
Theorizing the cosmologic of it all.

Construct dream castles in the air, but do not move in.
Come down to earth, the mortar and brick of it all.

The ontology of Being with a capital "B"
or a small "b." The dialectic of it all.

Turn on. Tune in. Drop out. Sex and drugs and rock 'n roll…
There's no escaping the dead and the quick of it all.

Let's look deep into each other's eyes, initiate
our intimate connection. The orgasmic of it all.

And let's raise our half-full glasses and toast the other half;
Delight in the pointless, gorgeous music of it all.

First published in SWWIM EVERY DAY

The HyperTexts