Still Poor

Jeff has opened this collection of his poetry with this:

"This begins a new volume of poetry
as yet unnamed and obviously incomplete,
poems being added as they are finished,
with no thought yet as to arrangement.
However, as will be noted, most are:"


The first section consists of poems written between February 1966 and December 1969. He sub titles this section as "Still Poor". Perhaps that was a comment on his bank account rather than his life. I know Jeff was married in 1966, you can see the photo at the head of this post. The poems he wrote between 1966 and 1969 that are in the section "Still Poor" are posted here, so scroll down and read them. Due to the vagaries of the blog software the last written appears first. You can scroll right down and read the first ones written in chronological order by reading down, then scrolling back up to the next post. Annoying, I know.

Otherwise just read them as they run and remember the poet was getting younger as you read! Maybe deconstructing the work that way might lend new insight? There is one poem not included with the rest below which I have included here. I posted this on the main Jeff Lassen page, it is my favourite of all the poems written that I have read, so far. There is still an enormous amount of work for me to trawl through and organize so I might end up with several favourites before I'm through!


HE, SHE, IT and THEY


HE loved SHE, SHE loved HE;
Both were happy as can be.
IT was a love so very grand;
HE offered SHE a wedding band.

Then THEY began to speak -
IT was over in a week.

HE and SHE are now apart,
Each one guarding an injured heart.
THEY, it seems, are satisfied:
THEY succeeded at what THEY tried.

Jul 1969


I would hazard a guess that the marriage of 1966 came to something of an end in mid 1969, wouldn't you agree? Enjoy 'Still Poor'.

A Grace Before The Christmas Meal

Bless, Oh Lord, this food -

The feast is ready:
All manner of food is prepared
To tempt the eye
And please the senses -
A steaming roast turkey;
Variety of vegetables;
Diverse pies, cookies, candies,
Nuts, and jellies.
(Or other foods,
Each according to his family custom.)

And atmosphere:
Full of merriment,
Gay,
Friendly;
A fitting scene for a great feast.

A feast:
A commemoration
(So Webster says)
Of some event or person
Of some significance.

And this feast is
A commemoration of -
A thanksgiving for -
The birth -
Whose birth
That after near two thousand years
We still commemorate,
Celebrate,
Give thanks for -
Of Jesus,
Child of simple parents,
Poor,
Of no import,
And yet -
The gift
Of God Almighty:
Promised a-long
For the world's salvation.
Of this import -
This the event
To commemorate -
For this the feast.



Otherwise we mark the day:
By gifts
To fill the needs
(As He fills ours)
And please the desires of
The recipient.
We dress and light a tree
To glitter and shine
As the stars of heaven:
A new light -
As different from the rest;
As to this day apart.
We send our greeting,
And welcome to our house
Such as will come;
Forget our isolation
And commune,
Rejoice,
With all mankind.

For Christ is born:
The gift of God
To all mankind -
The greatest gift
Ever.

If our feast,
The food before us,
Is to feed the body
As His gift
Feeds our souls;

If our merriment and joy
Is token
Of His reception in our hearts;

If our gifts
Are only to reflect
His gift to us;

If our tree
With lights and glitter
Is just to show
The symbol of
The Light
Come into the world;

If our greeting
And friendliness
Is but to show
His coming
For all mankind;

If all these things
Are the reason,
The cause for our celebration,
Then we are ready
To eat the feast
To his eternal honor and glory;

Then bless, Oh lord, this food.

Amen.

Dec 1969

Lines To A Nymphet

Lines to a Nymphet

A Poet's Dilemma


What can I say,
Without being ridiculous;
What!
That you will believe
And understand?

I know what I can't say -
And why!

I can't say I love you:
You'd never believe,
That knowing you a little,
I could feel so much.

I can't say I want you:
You'd misunderstand
My motives
And be afraid.

I can't ask you to
Be mine alone:
It wouldn't be fair
To tie you down.
You'd say no,
And maybe
Never see me again.

I can't describe
In poetry,
Of lesser beauty than yourself,
Your attributes,
Your youthful charms,
Or you would call me
Lecher!

But
What can I say,
At which one
So young
Will not take
Offense.

Perhaps
I'll get by with this:

Moments spent with you
Are little bits
Of Heaven;
Pure,
Sweet,
Joyous
Times.

It doesn't matter
What
or
Where:
only
Who -
That's you!

If mere moments are so heavenly,
Think what days, weeks, years might be.

Dec 1969


Editor's Note: I love that last stanza, "If mere moments are so heavenly,
Think what days, weeks, years might be." That, people, is romance! That's what poetry and poetic composition is all about, surely? To say so much, so eloquently and yet also so enjoyable to read (out loud of course).

Why?

Why?
Why do I fight within myself
Trying to reconcile
My love for her
With her independence?

Torture -
Sheer, painful torture:
Loving her completely,
To the exclusion of all others -
Without thought for other girls,
Or thought of my needs -
For so long now unfulfilled -
Or any selfishness
Which in my feeble power
I am able to subdue.

I would not force her:
I would not pressure her...

Yet what am I -
Stone?

I love!
And yet I am not loved!

Her fancies range,
And others merit
Attention more than me.

Am I to idly sit
And wait forever,
Hoping that she will finally
Accept,
Believe my love for her?

No!
I cannot bear the pain.

Aug 1969

Poor Miserable Wretch!

Poor miserable wretch!
Hateful loathsome creature:
Selfishness clothed in Love -
Penultimate Sin -
Desiring that which cannot yet desire,
And will not be desired.

It is that I do not love,
Or that I love too much -
Granting freedom to one not ready
To freely wield the choice
Of love?

Do I -
Meekly, patiently - honestly -
Asking her to freely choose -
Bind her
To a choice not hers -
Not yet?

Poor miserable wretch!
Hateful loathsome creature:
Are you selfish -
Even if unwittingly,
Contrary to design -
Because she believes so?
The wrong is just as grave!

Aug 1969

Aiden

My little friend!

Why are you gone so soon?

What was your purpose

In your brief life?

Of course

It wasn’t your purpose.

It was God’s!

And I can’t know

What that was.

I get no answer

To my question

“Why?”

I’m confused!

It is difficult

To accept

And to have faith

That some good end

Was served.

But it was!

For your brief time

You brought something

To many.

You had friends -

Friends you never met -

Who cared for you

And felt for you

And prayed for you!

There formed

A great network

Of people reaching out

With common cause

To you

To your parents

To God

Which would not have been

Except for you.

And some of us

Learned something more

About prayer

For God’s will

And acceptance

Of the goodness

Of His plan

Whether seen or not.

I learned of courage

And strength

As your little body

Fought to live.

I learned more

of unselfish love

As I watched

Your father

Keep his watch.

And I learned more

Of my own strengths

As I tried to give

And of my weakness

As I doubted.

Thank you Aiden

For the chance

To know you

A little while

And be better for it!

You can rest now

Little one!

Christmas Gift - 1968

Why a poem as a Christmas gift:
Only because of poverty:
Or is there further reason,
Positive value to commend
The writing of a verse at Christmastide:

I think there is!

First off, a poem cannot be bought.
As such no value can,
In monetary terms,
Be to poetry applied -
And therefore no discussion
Of who spent more or less.

Second,
And I'm sure the much more weighty case
For a poetic gift,
Is that a poem cannot
An empty present be.

The thought behind the gift...
They say this is the thing.

And yet, how many folds begrudge
The few coins for a gift?
How many settle
For what they only hope
The recipient will like?

At best, these gifts are only poor
Tokens of feelings
Which may or not exist.

But no one writes a poem
Unless he feels,
And loves.

The thought behind the gift is in it;
The thought is the gift - is the poem.