To Abraham

This is a poem I created on a triangular form for a fellow student in a poetry class at Los Angeles Valley College. Abraham was a wise mature student taking a course with a bunch of young adults. He teased us and spoke Yiddish in class. He had Holocaust tattoos on his arm that were expanded and dull. He invited the class to his apartment in Van Nuys. Every wall was covered with bookshelves filled with a variety of books. I found a book by William Blake there that day from one of the dusty shelves! I made this to remember Abraham, a simple man of extraordinary insight and purpose! I still have this and it is now sitting on my hearth.

Triangular Poem By Holly D. Cornell
Future…A a ABRAHAM invited a bunch a kids to his apartment to… dayyyy… aroom fulla books and paintings SATURATION… And the helicopter flew overhead, transforming into A a ANGEL.
Abraham’s books in his apartment are filled with magic. I picked one up it told me what I was thinking. What is a mystic, yesterday and today, about life and death, and a soul that lives on… Masters hold on to the books they’ve created I know this to be true. I had a lesson from “Blake” today, he said “inspired seers and prophets-where the imagination is most alive.” He said “To keep the Divine Vision in times of trouble.” Is this who you are Abraham? Is this what you do?
Your home’s like mine- a block from the river- A cottage filled-with many… Books and paintings and images and things most precious to you near the sound of the racing cars. I’m embarrassed to share mine. Linked, yes linked, I know we are linked someplace, where helicopters fly overhead… I have Neptune in mine like yours, I have a mother and a child in mine like yours, I have imagination and the future like yours, and the link that binds is love.

Singed by Abraham Pesah Lenkawicki 3-11-1998

A young lad is thinking, thinking all night
Would it be wrong, he asks, or maybe right,
Should he declare his love, dare he choose,
And would she accept, or will she refuse?
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika,
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika
tumbalalaika, play Balalaika,
tumbalalaika – let us be merry.
Maiden, maiden tell me again
What can grow, grow without rain,
What can burn for many years,
What can long and cry without tears?
Silly young lad, why ask again?
It’s a stone that can grow, grow without rain,
It’s love that can burn for many long years,
the heart that can yearn and cry without tears.