Any Old Wolf
by
Murray Silverstein
“Casting a wide-ranging eye over ‘the all-time tragicomic brew’ of
contemporary life, Murray Silverstein in these poems encourages us to look
at life through the double lenses of humor and compassion. Over and over,
he reminds us that ‘the sacrament is to live,’ and to try as best we can
to keep ‘delight, all its possibilities’ in clear sight. This is a
decidedly human, decidedly felt collection of poems—generous and
restorative at once.”
— Carl Phillips, author of The Tether
MURRAY SILVERSTEIN grew up in Los
Angeles, California. He wrote poetry in his teens and twenties but set
this work aside to become an architect, studying at UC Berkeley in the
1960s. He is the co-author of four books about architecture, including the
classic, A Pattern Language (Oxford University Press, 1977) and Patterns of Home (The Taunton Press,
2001). In his 50s, he returned to writing poetry; his work has appeared
in Fourteen Hills, Connecticut
Review, Zyzzyva, and other
literary journals. A partner in the firm of JSW/D Architects, Berkeley,
Mr. Silverstein lives in Oakland, California. Any Old Wolf is his first collection of
poems.
ANY OLD WOLF
Puzzled by all that e-i, e-i, o business
on Old McDonald’s Farm,
I once thought vowels were feed, like hay
or slop, and therefore the critters cried neigh
or moo, oink or
baaa: they needed
to be fed. They came with consonants
like teeth, but vowels came from the man.
And when night fell, wild
ones crept
around the barn to nab their share.
The famous wolf in silhouette against
the famous moon is howling
back
his vowels in praise—it’s good to be
among the fed. The sadness
in his note is need: it’s hard to
need,
he howls, but oh, to be well fed!
He believes his w, his l and f are mortal,
but his o grew from a seed
that fell once
from the Moon.
I am, I know, just any old wolf
but I eat of the i, eternal,
and so I ah at the oo, which also is eternal.
I took in a t from the teat of
my ma
but hunt the great farm for my e-i, o.
LEAF-SPEAK
The sidewalk, Go here, this
way!
The
tree, Not so fast.
But the
leaf, falling, what’s it say?
Blink, and it’s over, you’ve fallen.
Leach
your color back,
ghost of the street, it was stolen.
