Zyskandar Jaimot
Zyskandar A. Jaimot has been published in Europe and the Americas including
works in Wasafiri, The Tampa Review, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Stray Dog,
Revista Americana, Troubadour, Coal City Review, British Haiku Society, American
Tanka, The American Dissident, Karamu, Chimera, Maryland Poetry Review,
among others, and has recently been awarded the Indiana Review Poetry
Prize 2002 for the poem "The Wrestler's Shower"' and The Thomas
Burnett Swann Poetry Prize by Revelry for the poem "Test Of
Faith." In Mr. Jaimot's own words, "To me--poetry is a long
summer night full of fits and starts--when dark walls come close suffocating me
in my airless cubicle--and it is only eventually I am able to peal the sticky
sonnets from off my spent skin. As regards academic credentials--none. No
degrees--no writing pedigree. I work when I can and when I have to in
order to maintain a roof and electricity and food and spirits of which I usually
eat and drink too much." The sketches and artwork on this page are also the
work of the multitalented man his friends call "Zaj."
The Rushish Baths
between 2nd Avenue and Amsterdam, NYC
Elter khakers, these old men
come to sweat out old dreams.
Hairy backs, hairy arms, layers of fat
holding recollections like a sponge.
Sidelong glances view others
Exposed silently suffering.
Wooden buckets, empty water
on superheated roundstones.
Taken from Galitsyaner cemeteries, some say,
ensuring souls of the dead will fire
reminders of days gone by through swelter
and teardrops. Old men, patriarchs,
greeting other landzmen with language
from another era. "Vos makht ir?"
Replying automatically, "Gut a dank. Un ir?"
Wondering after pleasantries
if either still reads the obituaries
of The Forverts -- concerned when they too
will be disregarded along with
yesterday's Yiddisha news.
Like the taste of tsholnt, leftover
potatoes-meat-beans, served only on Shabes.
Followed by more potatoes
every day of the week.
Dated men, overcome by steam, recall faces
of relatives, kuzines, zeydes, feters,
from fotografyes indelibly etched
on eyes from a land beyond the pale.
More than the minyon number who sit and sigh
humming to themselves tunes of songfest zingyaren.
Dancing in their minds to klezmorem joys.
Allowing themselves visits from old proverbs
where a fault was taking a bride
that was too beautiful.
Learning in life it is better to marry
a broad-hipped meydl -- whose hands,
furrowed and strong as the soil,
would work day and night in a faith
she would try to cultivate.
Only to see women, pastures, houses.
crops, cows, horses -- spoiled and stolen
by jealous bigotries growing in Polyn.
Old men, mostly from outskirts of shtetlach
near Lubin, Minsk, Bialystock; now in Amerika,
beaten and flayed with oak leaf bouquets.
Good feelings mixed with bitter.
Like eating horosses and moror
Starets trying to sweat away old angers,
Afterward plunging into the cold pool,
Shocking waters of the schvitz.
Old bodies old memories, wishing all zayt gezunt.
At the Governor's Mansion, Kingstown, Jamaica
The tour guide hurries us
from room to room. Pointing
at parlor paintings, flounced men
and women dressed in silk
all adorned with sashes of rank
arranged on walls tinted pale blue-green
the shade of Europe's eyes
which match seas sparkling
in sun's tattoo of island paradise.
Ushering us up broad polished stairs
to airy bedrooms. Catching breezes
which travel like gossip on lips
of clouds. While we were allowed
to quickly examine part of the past.
Feeling the goose down pillows
or the bed where Sir Henry Morgan
slept. Hearing stories that
caused us to laugh at how
his pirate exploits gained Henry
fame, titles, and this structure.
White-washed pillars, large balconies
overhung with shady fruit trees,
mangos, avocados growing
all around for nourishment
and aromatic cool cover.
Regarding the old clock
still ticking generations away
in mahogany shiny long case
while we were informed
ever so briefly about how
seventeenth century
Kingstown was a haven
for rascals, buccaneers,
and slave sellers who supplied
bodies for the sugar cane farmers.
"And of course, pleeze
try our rum. None finer
anywhere in the world.
Duty free, and much less
expensive in our shops."
Told to us in perfect English.
Blue blazer worn with panache.
His smile set in that chocolate hued
laughing face, white full teeth like
some zoo attendant. Eager for us
to glance at the exhibits--
but see none of the animal 's
pain. As if on cue, we could
hear steel drums begin
rhythmically vibrating,
causing us to drift away
to some melodic joyous place.
This island like a happy lilypad,
floating in a blue-green world
painted by some drunken impressionist.
Adding to this coloured view
of an island as plantation
for tourists. So we were led
down into the dirtfloored kitchen.
The domain of a woman,
Rosamund by name, whose picture
hung on a wall. And our eyes
focused on her likeness--
a dark face which we regarded as
judgmentally as if she were stock
in a meadow. A crude sketch of her
wearing an old straw hat
in sepia tones which bled
earth's color. At that moment
Calibans howled in frustration
imprisoned by her gaze.
Looking but unspeaking.
Listening to our guide explain that
Sir Henry treated her
just like family.
Showing us the large cast iron stove.
All the time fired and hot.
Needed to heat water for
bathing. Large enameled
basins to wash in. Pots,
pans, platters for daily
cooking and entertainments.
Pointing to the pile
Rosamund got wood from,
how she split kindling with
her own axe. Arising before
dawn to ensure the chores
were done. Grinding meal
by hand. Making bread.
Washing clothes. How she took
pride when fixing biscuits.
(A favorite of Henry's so
it says in his diary) "Rosamund the lady
of dis kitchen, makin' love
wid her pots," said our guide.
Adopting the "Yeh Me Mon"
Jamaica dialect. Breaking from
cultured voice of civil
refinement which masked sins
easily. And it was only when
we exited the kitchen
moving to another historic
gallery that we saw
the old chains and ankle clamps
attached to the stove.
Test of Faith
At a twilight camp meeting
Deep in poor Meshack Miss-issip
On an open field sheltered by palmettos
Where lovely women of all shades
Butterscotch ginger and eggplant hues
Gather to help y'all call the Lord
They drag their young'uns with 'em
Far from temptations in wicked Nineveh
Song fluttering over heads like angels
Looking down in a mirror at sisters
Singing separately but competitively
In pious fervor right hands raised
To God above calling on brother Gabriel
To sound his golden horn which promises miracles
It is jes' when Big Mama Francis
Purely covered in yards of delicate white chiffon
Rises as slow as smoke of offering from
An ancient wooden folding chair
An she begins to proclaim and sway
religiously allowing time before she falls
Overcome by the moment waiting for hands
On an invisible clock to reach
An appointed time for faith will surely save
Like we assume automatic doors will open
Admitting us effortlessly into rapture
Hoping to be carried away like a 50's bobby-soxer
As Big Mama swoons backwards into what is surely
The ready waiting arms of her twin boys
Eight-year olds Enoch and Esau
Properly schooled in how to catch the spirit.
Undercurrent
No one knows
Why the sharks
In the flood
Of spotlights
Madly churn the surf
And strike at the steel piers
Of modern Cozumel hotels
Concrete and glass ice-cube trays set on end
Awaiting visitors hiding behind dark glasses
Who will use this island sanctuary
And never notice
The evening tremors that deeply redden the waves
Staining the sandy beach
Made sacred by tread of tourist feet
While downtown
Far from the unfathomed fury of these giant fish
Between broad walkways
Bright in the glare of jaundiced neon
All-purpose department stores
Sell bottles of turtle lotion
Those precious shells ground-down
To lubricate sunburned flesh
Of aliens
Who never see or hear,
The shelves shake or the wordless
Cry for revenge.
Our breath slows and...
I imagine you always at sixteen
when I knew nothing of you
drifting miraculously like a snowflake
in the fading Northern lights
where it's always later and closer to evening
And I knew you would always be smiling
with that face of raw beauty which caused
many a Vermont boy sleepless green nights
Dreaming of coupling with you
Hidden by long ashen silences leading to
white forests when wisps of early frost
cling to clothes scattered still warm
like embers smoldering
in gasps of adolescent acceptance
And after nighttime's freeze
seeing burst trunks of trees where sap
exploded in tortured release
And I view you forever at sixteen
after feeling your soft presence
next to me in that Yucatan village
close by the jungle
Where the bruja* read my tarot
in bones cut from a language foreign
to my experience
Mystical rialtos of recurrence summoning
me to be part of you
In mind as well as flesh
Summoning me to be part of your music
Learning that when you love a Vermont girl--
you must spend your truth
And how we would sleep in wool
awaking to run out in the cold
avoiding cow "gifts" dropped in pastures
Afterwards brushing and rubbing with mittened hands
to revive frozen buttocks still tingling
from creating our joined snow angels
And I am here at your side
our youth drying on our skin
When you ask me to count your hairs of gray
turned pale as the fading winter sun
As we are naked and unashamed
Our breath finally slowing
to the same
ordered
rhythm.
*bruja in Spanish equates to sorceress or witch
Colors of pity--Appearances of love
(The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood paints women)
Of those men --
We remember only the women they painted.
Fanny Cornforth became Nimue, the sorceress,
hair floating around her like a cloud.
Lizzie Siddal as Ophelia, doomed
to drown in laudanum surrender.
All these poses with bright color palettes,
foreshadowing movie stars like
Marilyn, Kim, Julia, all "vogueing"
for unseen admirers as if they were
perfectly idle, with nothing to do,
quite happy merely to be seen.
Yes, we know the painters' names.
But we only remember the faces and forms of these women.
Because after all, wasn't Antonia Cacia's figure
used for all bodies as if perfect heads
of upper middle class women could be grafted
onto the working class--as if true ladies
only had heads and women were just mindless bodies?
We remember these women--
Jane Morris was the Astarte Syriaca
with her grey eyes, full lips;
staring out like some spirit
from the underworld haunting us.
Anne Miller with her phosphorescent white skin,
large sad eyes, was a tremendously powerful combination
of beauty and misfortune as Troy's never forgotten Helen.
All these women: Maria Zambaco,
Effie Ruskin, Marie Spatali Stlllman,
Christina Rossetti, their likenesses
with us still in posters and prints.
Painted and decked out in literary allusions,
while they titillated our imaginations
in sometimes shocking Victorian boudoir art.
They are there and nowhere
with long necks, "ten kisses long."
They are the synthesis
for all our Eves fallen from Eden.
They stand before us
laden with symbols.
Loosened hair signifying downfall.
Virgins descending a staircase
to the door marking an innocent threshold.
Unwrapping themselves like
unfolding buds of sycamore trees,
harbingers of Spring.
We gaze upon these women--
All with brilliant eyes beyond ordinary.
All with pale and creamy skin,
the colour of clotted cream.
So alive we know their aroma
is of fresh milk, or almonds,
or rosewater, or some divine oriental spice.
Which excites our senses and makes our breaths quicken.
We are captivated, much the same way,
Alice Liddel caused a Wonderland
to be created for her.
All these women painted as a manifesto
to beauty by men who preferred to regard
these creatures as raw material for art.
Rather than to understand how much more they were.
Of those men--
We remember the women they painted.
Saicon
(In the Annamese tonal dialect of Southern Vietnam, the former capital,
Saicon, is pronounced "sigh-Ghone", while Tudo Street, the broad
avenue in the center of the city, is pronounced "Too-dah". The French
word,
ville was spoken by Americans stationed there as "vill" rhyming with
"ill".
Cholon was the old Chinese section of Saicon and Route one was
the largest highway running North and South.)
Beautiful ville
in this fertile delta of ancient goddesses
guarding the recurring cycle of time.
established when Khmer kings excreted
their
primacy at dawn of history -
decapitating friend and foe in sparkling rivers
of venetian reds that
whetted the appetite
from a dry earth never satisfied.
A body lying face down
in the center of Route One.
An Asian face hardly worth a look.
Beautiful ville
surrounded by plains of grass
where no one ventures.
A city of inscrutable religions
where shaven skulls crinkle
from octane fires of refined immolation.
While others kneel to portraits of Victor Hugo.
And black is sacred
for paper gods are white
and consigned to die in flame.
In a land of all-knowing bronze Buddhas
who see all and never blink.
Jeeps -- APC's -- roll back and forth.
Raw flesh sticks to tire treads
manufactured in Dayton and Akron.
Beautiful ville
ablaze with hibiscus and bougainvillea,
smelling sweetly of feces and rotting fruit.
A city of slant-eyed girls wanting
easy tricks. Filled with whine of Vespas and Honda 50s
carrying whores in hot-pants,
their slippery breath prostituting a nation.
On Tudo Street the bar-girls
sweat soft and moan
in air-conditioned drone
while over-sized traffic lights,
symbols of grandeur that marked French colonialism,
change colour as effortlessly as a farmer by day
changes to a black pajammaed V.C. in unholy
night.
A single body lies in an unclean road.
A black wound where streams of ants ebb and flow
against a tide of power driven death.
Beautiful ville
where Chinese businessmen of Cholon
are old and set in their ways of trade.
Buying - selling - anything - anyone - anytime,
even truth or lies. Payment in rubber trees,
dongs, piastras, purple script, gold leaf,
just more monopoly money for the game.
Because selling favors is the price of freedom
and all manner of addicts hungrily bite
the empty air craving the safety of opiate dreams.
A pile of bloody refuse.
A being flattened into mud and filth.
Repeatedly driven over in that dead place
of our souls.
Beautiful ville
like some naked almond skinned woman squatting
splay-legged. Unashamed of her openness.
Glistening after the time of desire.
Inviting all to be strangled by embraces
hot as napalm's wind.
A naked woman
waiting
for the monsoon season to wash away her sins.
Substance of the image
Lot's
Wife - Helen Frankenthaler,
lithograph, 1971
Larger
