I learned that Gregory writes poetry from the moment we met — almost 20 years ago. Since then, there have been so many of them — on scraps of napkins, on crumpled sheets of paper found in pockets, on the covers of books.
He has always been shy about this gift of his, not considering it any kind of gift at all. And there was so much to do in each day that there was no time for poetry at all. But they were born — like buds on trees — and quietly wandered through the house. And sometimes they sounded — in those rare moments when Gregory, a little embarrassed, would decide to read them aloud.
This one I wrote down yesterday by ear — on the day when, for the first time a couple of thousand years ago during an evening meal, bread and wine became the Body and Blood. And where two or three gathered in His name — in response there came a feeling that we are not alone. Today there are three of us. And this is the greatest happiness for each of us, and our main strength, which gives us the ability to share it with others.
***
The bread was merry — round of face and warm,
It tumbled in to us straight from the oven,
Its sun-browned head still heavy with the heat,
It breathed in generous and fragrant slices.
And, brushing back the cloth with friendly elbows,
We feasted in a living, vibrant joy.
Conversation flowed — a bright, unbroken stream,
One neighbor, laughing, cutting off another,
The bottle drifting slowly down the table...
Then suddenly — as if a shadow passed —
And everything began to change, to shift:
The table moved, the walls drew up and lengthened,
The bread went stale, the dishes lost their ring,
The cloth hung down, grown heavy with our tears.
And none of us could tell, in that same moment,
Who among us was Judas — who was Christ.
Men and Women
Girls play with dolls,
boys play hide-and-seek,
From them grow women,
from them come men.
Men fall in love with women,
and women fall in love with men —
Someone long ago came up with
this order on earth.
Men dream of slender,
beautiful, sun-tanned women,
Poor men don’t understand
that what matters most is not the body.
For women can be mean,
women can be fools,
And none of that shows
in the slenderness of their figures.
And women look for the successful,
reliable, smart, and rich,
But end up getting
the greedy, the stupid, the pot-bellied.
And the women living with them
don’t love those men at all,
While those men want
nothing but football and vodka.
And quietly they hate
each other — men and women,
And talk to each other
only about money and things.
And so they live together
for years — maybe many years,
They suffer and struggle,
these poor, miserable creatures.
And they explain all their troubles:
they were looking for a “better half,”
But finding one is harder
than the elastic in a pair of underwear.
I found the reason for it all
and wrote it down in a notebook,
So I wouldn’t get it wrong,
so I could hit the mark:
Look for a whole woman,
and also a whole man.