RON JANOFF began writing performing and publishing poetry in New York in the 1970’s, took a long hiatus as a Director at New York University, earned his Ph.D. there, went on to teach Latin in Brooklyn high schools, served as President of the New York Classical Club and became a licensed New York City tour guide.
He came to Chapala in 2018 with his wife, the artist Diana Leidel, as part of the 360 Xochi Quetzal residency. He takes up writing poems where he left off–sometimes direct, sometimes collage, frequently lyric, often ironic, mercifully brief. He can be reached at chiron.nyc@gmail.com.
AT THE FRONTIER
Take a rest, we’ve reached the border
Between what’s true and what’s fantastic
We’ve achieved a remarkable velocity
In feet per minute as well as our amazing
Weight in pounds it’s amazing we can walk
Yet here we have to factor the weather in
We’ll need the rain, the precious water, yet
Too much will carry us away apart we can’t
Risk that, rushing as we are through wilds,
Jumping from one heaven to another but
Not, please, into hell, we stand here ready
To cross the line that brings us to our
Hoped for home that in the deepest sense
We already know we taste its concentrated
Liquor its ethereal essence that inebriates
Our judgement just when we must be clear:
Reach out! what we’ve sought at last is here
******
THE OFFERS
Desire keeps the furnace of advertising
Glowing in the morning papers but by
Evening we find we have nothing to read
Or nothing left to spend that is on these
Fabulous offers each with its own rich
Story and promise of well-being It’s as if
We were lifted to ten thousand fe
Couldn’t see our fuzzy hands in front
Of our startled faces, an experience both
Fearful and wonderful brought on by
Images of desirable objects glowing so
Before us as if we were the princes
Of a kingdom where we reign as children
Never needing to face our poverty
******
THE FLOOD
On the surface of swollen rivers, debris
glittering magnetically urges us to pause
On the remaining bridge to watch it flow
Hungry for all that’s lost yet exhilarated:
For there it goes, down the widest drain,
Onto the farthest sea, the furniture, the photos,
Tools, and china, and framed paintings,
Pots and pans, baskets, beds, and bottles,
Why did we ever procrastinate so long
Why wait for this disaster when all along
We could have done without it all, the weight
So heavy only the water can lift it, but
Our spirits rise as well, we are the buoyant ones,
Relieved by this terrific flood of memory,
Formed of objects in an irrational jumble
What was it, then? Here we glow in wonder
What we were, we aren’t now, what we are, are we?
We can begin to populate the world again
******
TRAIN WRECK
Wait. We linger here waiting for the future
To materialize as if it isn’t already determined
Not in these immediate terms between us
But in the larger frame of time and disaster:
Here comes the train with no engineer, the cars
Already vulnerable to rifle-bearing peasants,
The rails pulled apart, the switches jammed:
O woe to the first class passengers, woe
To the crowded poor and their chickens,
Yet out of this that future we mentioned but
Could not imagine, has to emerge, in a way
Already here, for from those chickens’ eggs
Come the next age’s first brave clucking chicks:
Wait. Hold it here, the next few seconds, crash.
******
DANCE OF DEATH
A music that does not ring in my ears
Is the melody of corruption that sound
That vibrates day and night for the dancers
In this government waltzing from Wall St
To Saudi Arabia with their partners in
Hungary and El Salvador, the weird tango
Of Alpha Caucasians with third world
Browns and beards and golfers in Florida
Look how clean their dirty hands are
Watch the careful pattern of dance steps
And the flashy shoes and oh those ties
The music of cash, the serenades of property
The symphony of crypto and over all
The painfully comic opera of collusion
******
IL PENSEROSO
You tell me optimism is the faith
That guides the world’s achievements
You assure me all the prophets
Have been pure of heart so here’s
The twist: look beyond dissection
Touch gently the prophet’s posterior
It will appear as if at the bottom
Of the eye a certain discoloration
Known otherwise as Doubt or
Fabrication not exactly deception
But a simple greenish opacity
That will mislead successive
Generations as if the mighty God
Would produce an infant out of
Holy Writ and Holy Smokes go on
There’s nothing to see here though
No one is innocent not even that
Infant born of mysterious genes
Who will be called Prince of Peace
So this is the optimistic allegro
And that’s about as far as I go:
Let’s temper this with charity
Give the dark alternative a chance
******
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After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
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