Different Slants

My dear friend, Mike Hecht, 90, died this morning.  When I received this message from our Rabbi, this was my reply to him.  It was written eleven days after my previous post on April 30th (my 59th birthday) with Mike in mind.  I handed it to him when I last saw him.  I don’t know if he read it.  I’m going to believe he did.

 

Sometimes, being able to put words on paper to express such pain…is an incredible privilege.

 

 

This will certainly end up in my 6th book, about poetry, to be dedicated to Mike when it’s published this Fall.

 

 

This is a eulogy I’ll never deliver.

 

 

I just can’t do things like that.

 

 

 

Mike Hecht Dies

© May 11^th 2009

Robert M. Katzman

 

 

 

No, Jonathan

You are wrong

 

Mike Hecht’s not dead

 

We can’t see him, but he’s still there

He’s in the mortar of the Temple

He’s the wind blowing through the trees outside your window

 

 

He’ll be on the bima

Punching the air every Shabbat

Whenever there’s a blessing

He’ll be flickering in the candles

Whenever you nail a good sermon

 

 

Whenever another Jewish child becomes thirteen

and

Thanks his parents

Mike’ll be nodding and smiling

Kvelling that as a people

We will continue

 

And, for me?

 

I’ll still feel his solid weight in my hand

When I gently pushed against his back

As he struggled up the Temple’s stairs

On Friday nights

Grateful to be a part of us

 

 

I’ll feel his strong grip in both of our

Two left hands

As he descended those same stairs

Trusting that I would never

Let him fall.

I would never let him fall

(Read on …)

Today, Thursday, April 30th 2009, is my 59th birthday.

Glad I made it.  That wasn’t always a real good bet, after 30 operations.

In the last two weeks I had a stubborn bronchial infection that seemed to resist antibiotics and even an inhaler.  This came right after I attempted to lift a box I should have known not to lift and threw out my back. So, for about half of this April, except for standing, sitting, breathing, sleeping and feeling endlessly tired and short of breath, I was just fine.  Really.

Anybody who survives cancer, as I have since 1968, has no damn reason to bitch about getting older, aches, pains, lesser illnesses, greying or losing hair, or arthritis.  Dead people have none of those (as far as I know) and I don’t know anyone in a big hurry to die to avoid the complaints of old age.

The whole point is to get old. Then you win. For me, every extra year is a victory. Any person who beats a heart attack, or similar catastrophe where death was expected, will understand what I mean. In the fight to keep going, I’m in round 42.

So there, Death!!!

Yes, most of us want to be loved.  We want to be able to move around independently, to be able to see well enough to read and enjoy another season of spring flowers.  We want to still be able to hear a symphony, or rock n’ roll or a quiet conversation, without saying: “WHAT??” every other sentence.  We want to be able to enjoy good food.

In this depressing recession, with a Swine Flu epidemic slowly closing in on the planet while many of us wait to hear the latest news about how many new cases are confirmed, how many died and how many schools are being closed to protect our young, I was musing this morning as I drove to work in my old grey car on a grey, grey day with unceasing rain to dampen my mood.

Happy birthday to me, I thought.  What is really important to me?  I decided: Friendship.

The British broadcaster on BBC radio said, cutely, that good friends will help you move, but a REALLY good friend would help you move–a body.

This is probably another good reason why they lost their Empire.

So, here’s my thoughts about that same topic, after 21,535 days to think it over, so far.

(Read on …)

© February 2009

 

 

Windsor Castle

Stone Henge

Double-decker

Red buses

 

I’m flying to England!

 

Pubs

Warm beer

Lusty

Busty

Bar-maids

 

I’m flying to England!

 

Fish n’ Chips

Big Ben

The Thames River

 

I’m…ok, ok, you know

 

I snake through the line

at the

International

Terminal

 Hours early

I take

No chances

 

Just

One

Carry-on

I have my book

I’m smuggling

Dark chocolate bars

In my bag

In case

I

Really

Need it

 

The line creeps along

Bags rolling behind

Impatient people

Babies cry

Among the

Thousands

Leaving

America

 

I have my

ID

Hung around my neck

I’m so ready

So organized

The ideal traveler

Ready to go

(Read on …)

© March 2009 By Robert M. Katzman

I’m that guy

You pass my windows

But

You don’t know me

I’m that guy

Been there Forever

I own the store

(Read on …)

 

 

 

© February 2009

 

 

 

Bad cut

on

My leg

From a

Rusty old nail

 

Swelled

Like my knee

 was

Blowing a bubble

 

I

Slowly limped

into the

ER

Frightened

Seeking

A pill

and

A smile

 

The grey-haired and serious

Intake lady

Lifted her glazed eyes

from her

Beeping computer

took

one look

At my pregnant knee

and

Knitting her eyebrows

 

Like she was

Makin’ a baby’s sock

 

Put down her pen

and

Made a call

 

 

Big white  

Hospital doors

Crash open

and

Out came

this

Vision

this

Scandinavian

Goddess (Read on …)

© February 2009

I wait for you
I wait for you
Crushed by my anticipation

I wait for you
Playing with pink packages of fake sugar
Ignoring today’s Special
Searching the streets for you

Searching for the way your long hair sways
The indulgent tilt of your head
The coldness in your eyes
Your unapologetic walk

I endure forgettable music
Bitter aroma of burnt coffee
From unwatched pots
Wafting through the air

While I wait for you
The worn waitress peers over her glasses at me
Wondering: “Will he ever order?”
My tense body wasting her booth
Denying her tips from real customers

She mutters to the busboy
Her expression one of pathetic scorn
Women save for men who fail them
Whose suits are too big for them

I wait for you
I wait for you
That air you have of better things to do
Than be with me

The impatience in your voice
The disapproving lines bordering your tightened lips
The killing magnetism you exude
That cements me to this booth

My will crumbles
My plans on hold
My future on layaway
Enraptured am I by your criminal beauty

I wait for you
I wait for you
Crushed by my anticipation

Please…
Come to me

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.