This might seem like or actually be a clever Ayn Randish title, except for the fact that I learned the pronunciation is Ju’ di see.
I want to share the following poems with you, not only because to me, they are so beautiful, but because of another fact I will post below the poems. Please note: no matter what I tried, even hand-spacing, I cannot keep the poems’ formatting. I believe that formatting is essential to a poem. Some did hold – the running together of words to create new ones, for instance.
Mr. Giudici, please forgive me. Know that I am trying to find you to see if you are still writing and to thank you for penning the gems below.
The Silent Sun
In setting you free before the single
Unblind eye of dawn (blinking profuse oddities)
And pulling loose strands of daylight
to your tears, for you to see and love,
I deny black suns.
Turn my flower-broad back on them.
Regretting neither snow petals
nor the revolving of a lightbulb moon.
although I am crushed in their smiles.
As I entwine your youthmorning breath
with pillars holding up
my hand of light creasing silently —
Or glide through pages
Of broken clouds, your words:
Speaking like ashes on the Pompeii of my love:
the lines of a bronze sky rant their life
in your languages of distant sounds.
I cannot hear unless your goldstrung
Mountains frame mine.
When you rise in skylines of vision
(newfound within an alphabet of stars)
And meet me under punctured flowered laughs
my eyes see yours.
A mosquito breath revolves in sockets
of daylight, scrutinizing air under moon-soaked
telescopes. The slurring brush, time,
Sinks flowers into the slowly
Hardening amber of a grin.
Turning faces, creating snow from bits
of moonlight chained to their eyes, frown
like ripples in a cloud; brief and rejoicing.
A printed rage sings past the
circles of glass dropping over sounds
man-shaped. Soft voices raining grooves.
An eye’s quick tool of curves
Descends like diamonds grasping in the sun.
And suddenly the air is made of stones.
Small daffodils change night to voices;
A scurried planted monogram of leaves stops;
The breath from every starsky but the last
cannot begin; and I am slowly turning to your eyes.
Moving alone and long,
the heaving mountains of your laughs
The poet was 15 year old when he wrote these works, discovered in a drawer some weeks ago; they were written around 1964 when Mr. Giudici shared them with Harold Katz at Stuyvesant High school in New York. I wonder if you are still writing poetry, sir. I certainly hope so, but life so often and unfortunately eclipses the blazing sun that is youth.
posted by Julie Shavin