Sue Saniel Elkind 
USA

A Tribute to Sue Saniel Elkind: "Our Poetry Mother"

Edited by Andrena Zawinski. Text by Will Elliott, Assistant Editor.

 

LOVE POEM

by Sue Saniel Elkind

You've gone
When I need you most
I dial your face
over and over
but no recall.
I hear your laugh
your anger
the room still
carries your smell.
What I want most
is to see your face
the look in your eyes
after you've loved me.

note: except as noted, all of Sue Saniel Elkind's poems used in this essay are from "Bare As The Trees," © 1992, All Rights reserved.

    Poet Sue Elkind, who died on January 21,1994, is finally beginning to receive recognition, long overdue, as a distinctive, significant voice in contemporary American poetry. 

    As far as her art was concerned, Elkind was something of a late bloomer; she began writing poetry at the age of sixty-four. During the course of her career, Elkind published six collections: "The Final Season" (Papier Mache, 1993),"Bare As The Trees" (Papier Mache Press, 1992), "Another Language" (Papier Mache Press, 1988), "Waiting For Order" (Naked Man Press, 1988), "Dinosaurs and Grandparents" (MAF Press, 1988), and "No Longer Afraid" (Lintel, 1985).

BARE AS THE TREES

by Sue Saniel Elkind

it happened
like the wind in autumn
rubbing
against tree limbs
it happened as I buried
my sister along with
fifty years of anger

anger that knew no season
but was worn always
nourished
each time she was praised
that grew when people
compared her to a long stemmed
American Beauty then shook their heads
sadly when they looked at me
Anger that was fed each time she passed
and I failed

her death happened  and
I am bereft
of a sister
I am left bare
as the trees

 

     Believing that writers are nourished when they interact with one another, Elkind established the Squirrel Hill Poetry Workshop in Pittsburgh. There, she inspired many fledgling writers to devote their lives to the art of creating poetry. Elkind was affectionately referred to, by her students in the workshop, as "Poetry Mother." The Squirrel Hill Poetry Workshop published its first anthology in 1990. A second anthology, "Pittsburgh and Tri-State Area Poets", was published in 1992.

    After Elkind's death, her daughter, Carol, honored her mother by compiling a poetry anthology, "Crossing Limits: African Americans & American Jews: Poetry from Pittsburgh." In a letter to PoetryMagazine.com, Carol Elkind said, "My publishing the poetry anthology, 'Crossing Limits' was no accident. After my mother's death, I was driven to create something that would connect me with her and at the same time develop something of my own. I created "Crossing Limits" so that two groups of people could learn about each other through the art of poetry."

    "I learned much about my mother through her poetry - things that I was unable to address with her on a day-to-day basis - difficult issues, painful ones. Poetry gave this woman a sense of belonging she never had before. To my mother and poet, Sue Saniel Elkind, thank you for the unconditional love and encouragement you gave to me in your lifetime. Your love of poetry and the legacy you left us live on in 'Crossing Limits.'"

    Carol recommended to us these two poems by her mother, Sue Saniel Elkind, from which she learned so much about her mother's aging and maturing process:

LIKE A TREE

The finality of being an adult
came to me after my parents died ----
first my mother, then shortly after
my father, and I realized I had
become that generation and my children
mine. I was now next in line . . .
I trembled at the thought, as days
became years, and years blended one
into another. I began to feel
like a tree, roots deep and firmly
in the ground.
Like 
a
tree
I'd go
on
and
on.

That is from her last anthology, "The Final Season."

This is from "Bare as the Trees":

THEIR MANY FIRSTS

Today the world crumbled
around me when my husband said
we got that apartment
we've been waiting for.
All I could think of was:
we watched our children grow here,
watched them take their many
first steps here.

Now, when I'm old
I'm expected to move,
learn a life without room
for a freezer, without room
for the grandchildren.

As if this isn't enough
the dentist told me
I need to have my teeth pulled.
First my house
now my teeth.
How will I chew apples again.

    Inspired by her mother's social consciousness, Carol has spread her love into the public schools of Pittsburgh by developing a "Crossing Limits" curriculum implemented by poets from the anthology. Her plans include a Quarterly by the same name and with the same intent.

NO ONE SAID YOU WOULD LIKE IT

by Sue Saniel Elkind

To all you mothers of daughters
they will grow up.
When you're wringing your hands
instead of their necks, don't despair
leave the mess in their rooms,
let it grow like weeds in the garden,
and in time, when they must plod
through the growth, they will clean it.
Remember, too,

the teens have yet to be dealt with,
cared for, buds that they are.
Telephones will become appendages
conversations will stop abruptly
at your approach, and the family car
will no longer belong to the family.

But one day the bud will bloom, become
a prize dahlia. She will have her own family,
will make the Sabbath dinners, chauffeur you around, and slowly you will become a child again.
No one said you would like it.

    Remembering Sue Elkind, PoetryMagazine.com's Associate Editor, Andrena Zawinski, says, "My relationship with Sue San Elkind was limited to a few happenstance yet memorable phone conversations. Sue liked my work as I did hers. In these chats, she always advised me in what I like to think of as a grandmotherly way - unlike the advice my own mother issued in endless frets about what trouble would befall me any time I ventured away from Pittsburgh - Sue encouraged me to take risks in my writing, in getting my work published, and she encouraged me to travel."

     "I used her poem, Night Watch, as a model for an exercise writing about our fears in the HIV/AIDS victims poetry writing workshop I was running at the time, " continues Zawinski, "my own poem, 'Property Value', grew from that - a poem in which, on the surface, I blamed the needs of the house I lived in for stalling my traveling and writing. That poem appeared in "Sistersong: Women Across Cultures" and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. So, I am thankful to Sue for that, too. I hope that after her death, she will continue to have an audience for her work. Her small body of poetry is one with a great deal to say in a voice so clear it cannot help but encourage others to write."

THE LISTENING

by Sue Saniel Elkind

Once, after they untied your hands
you lifted your gown, patted your fat
wrinkled breasts, and smiling said,
"pancakes, flat as pancakes they are."

Was it in this lifetime, mother,
that you held me to those breasts,
that I fed from them, times rested
my cheek against your skin?

Bend close, mother, whisper everything
you might have forgotten to whisper.
I'm listening, say what we both need
to hear before silence.

    "Sue was one of the most important people that came into my life. She was like another mother to me, and many of us in the Squirrel Hill Writing Workshop referred to her as 'Our Poetry Mother,'" says Georgeann Rettberg, who was one of Elkind's students at the Squirrel Hill Poetry Workshop. "I owe the publishing of my book, 'Steelworker's Family', to her," says Rettberg, "she insisted I organize my manuscript, and we would sit at her kitchen table surrounded by my poems, putting them in order. I miss her very much. When she died, I wrote a poem about her, and as if she was standing there beside me, this poem came out in her voice."

    Joanne Samreny, one of Elkind's students from the Squirrel Hill Poetry Workshop, says, "Sue Elkind was a dear, dear woman, a poet who said quite a bit with few words. I liked her style. She was very serious about keeping the Squirrel Hill Writing Workshop she started together and viable."

     A fellow poet of Elkind's, Rosaly Roffman, says, "Sue was a good friend, once you were deemed 'OK' and she always acknowledged occasions. For instance, after my mother died, she planted a tree in her name; when I was ill, she sent me to her own doctor. She was generous with her time, encouraging people to submit poems to publishers. She was also wonderfully angry when a lot of the time we couldn't begin to know where that was coming from. She tolerated no bullshit or what she believed to be 'bullshit.' She was the reason I kept coming back to the Squirrel Hill Poetry Workshop," continues Roffman, "I think poetry kept her alive. She did not suffer fools easily and would rail at the gods for her own infirmities. We were Sue's salon and the poetry kept her alive, I'm convinced."

    In addition to being a gifted poet, Sue Elkind should also be remembered as a caring woman who made numerous and selfless contributions to the community in which she lived. Elkind assisted in organizing the Jewish Community Senior Citizens Program, in Pittsburgh. She also established and administered a foster home placement program through Craig House-Technoma, a day school for emotionally disturbed children and adolescents.

      After Elkind's death, Rosaly Roffman wrote 'The Real Subject,' a poem in honor of her friend and fellow poet. "I rearranged reality a little bit just to enable myself to go on with the pulse feeling, says Roffman. "I remember how angry I was when I was in Germany and Anne Sexton, whose poems I had reviewed for several publications, died and no one told me and then no one told me she committed suicide when she was such a life-line, herself. How mad I was. And her last book was "The Aweful Rowing Towards God." And when Sue died, her daughter Carol called to tell it, and I was sad though we knew how ill she was, and angry that another light went out - and thus, this piece. I wrote it for poetry and Sue and time."

    Following her death in 1994, Kalliope, A Journal of Women's Arts and Literature, founded a scholarship in Elkind's name, awarding an annual prize of $1,000 to an exemplary female poet.

PROPERTY VALUE

by Andrena Zawinski

Sleep is a smooth talking gigolo 
promising dreams between sheets 
painted with wings, 
where I would if I could speak 
in some romantic tongue 
on waves that lap a distant shore.

Up inside this attic nest loft 
beneath the slanted skylight,
alone and indisposed 
I am on my back again in bed.

Above across the patch 
of wanderlust sky the roof lets in, 
birds print v's against the light
in a chorus of angels
off to somewhere I've yet to be.

And I am beginning to see 
things I wish weren't here 
in this house from which 
dreams are launched.

This house has taken its turn 
through the stretch of three years 
hard work, primping 
before neighbors' eyes, grinning

Impatiens flowering sills 
in Sunday's best, bars dressed up 
with hearts crossing window eyes, 
fresh paint fooling old mortar 
walkway walls, slick roof raft deck 
heading out toward constellations 
of city stars.

These calloused hands might have 
written an epithalamium if not for 
the stiff knuckles, the ache 
of home improvement digging in 
calf and thigh, small of the back,

each sacrifice measured against 
some longing: moonlighting 
and borrowing the way through 
working class ethic from Bottoms 
to Flats to the river 
of waste breaking through 
the foundation wall, 
rusted furnace heating grate 
rotted in a basement flood, 
teetering chimney refusing the flue 
where birds won't roost 
without warm. Roof work

 becomes a writer's colony 
under blue skies in Vermont, 
the heat a rose colored canyon 
far west, the pipes 
a fine arts degree, the deck 
a belly full of food, mouthful 
of wine in a Prague cafe, a ride 
along the Seine in a fast car 
with the top down. This house,

stripped bare of rococo and dark, 
has been opened up wide 
with my own hands like a poem, 
tearing down and building up, 
moving about the blocks 
of black and white, filling the space 
with a symphony of voices

struggling for harmony against 
a chain saw whir and someone else's 
noisy shingles slamming the street. 
This house eats bank notes,
coughs up dollars and cents,

but poor chatter has it from behind 
the candid chain link fence 
that property value is rising 
in this roost where I should be 
pecking poet's keys but try to sleep

above the news spreading across 
the jackhammering sidewalk. 
I am afraid this is not my season 
for traveling. I couldn't move
if I wanted to.

PUBLICATION CREDIT--Sistersong: Women Across Cultures, Vol. 3, No. 2, 
Pushcart Prize Nominee, All Rights Reserved.

 

I HEAR BELLS

by Andrena Zawinski

I hear the bells 
in grand vaults between heaven and 14th Street. 
I hear bells 
below the hill summon ushers' arms 
about the old glass cutter's brass casket, 
hear them toll 
death's rattle before an old woman's milky eyes. 
I cannot hear 
the cries at the end of the bloody chapter 
where Christianity 
adopts in another bastard son.

I hear the bells 
vault between heaven and 14th street,
hear bells 
beyond the hill where parishioners parade 
a carpenter and his bride. 
I cannot hear 
new summer rain penetrate sun, ring 
their brows wreathed polyphony of promises. 
In the vaults
rainbows rival the rain 
between the heavens and 14th Street.

I hear the bells 
muffled through the cafe wall, past the bathroom scrawl 
of a girl in a tinkling timbral robe writing: 
Jesus saves sinners and redeems them for valuable prizes. 
I hear bells 
where fish fly on the ceiling and forks jam the toaster. 
I hear the bells
while morning glories make my walk home, and I dance 
in the bells, 
bang a steel triangle with a force that could lay a gale of wind.
I hear bells.

PUBLICATION CREDIT: Tri-State Poets Anthology, Sue Saniel Elkind, Ed., All Rights Reserved.

THE REAL SUBJECT

by Rosaly Roffman

 I'm not leaving my house today,
the boy kissing a girl on the steps
is enough to keep me home forever.
But I'm stumbling over shoes
wondering why I have so many.

I see a pair where the bunions
almost break through, and I remember
being on a subway trying to know
who it was when I looked down/then up,

I see a pair of black patent leather
with bows that say the obvious--and 
the homemade sandals with long thongs,
Roman, that crisscross around the calves
And here are the pointy boots from the sixties,
cardboard covering holes on the bottoms.

My doctor never polishes his boots,
worn with his jeans and doctor's shirts.
The latest style is not to tie laces,
Peter and Mary trip over them, willingly,
and my florist has the whitest leathers
her husband takes pride in polishing.
My father dyed his green for attention;
Van Gogh painted baby shoes wheat brown,
no perspective or line beneath them;
and my sister--most comfortable in combats.

But I don't want to write about shoes,
I want to write about a woman
who knows she is going to die
and gets angry enough to cheat.
Every year her family holds a major party
for any excuse; a fantasy daughter comes 
still insists that mother had more children
but won't tell her, all we hear are love stories
and letting go stories, her real subject,
a broken body, a soft stick--
once beautiful, of course any woman
finds death harder to befriend.

No wonder I see shoes,
no wonder strong eyes
keep me loping and begging.

© Rosaly Roffman, All Rights Reserved.

 Carol Elkind tells us that the following is inscribed on Sue Saniel Elkind's headstone from: 'A Song of Thanks'

Sue Saniel Elkind
POET
I face east and sing of life.
I sing to you a song of thanks
for all that has been given me:
husband, children, grandchildren


I walk down the hospital hall
peer into each room, see
motionless form, expressionless faces
staring at test patterns,
untouched dinner trays.
I face east and sing of life.
I sing to you a song of thanks
for all that has been given me:
husband, children, grandchildren, and
when I look outside, see the green
blades of spring grass, each blade a life,
I sing to you.
When I leave here and walk down
the streets of this city where I was born,
spent my life, these glorious tree lined streets,
I will thank you.