This Sunday is challenging because I want to sit and savor David’s poetry while working on a Venture Capital deal in the US, his country. He is prolific. If you can sing and sculpt, dance and sing, photograph and compose poems, then you are an artistic polymath.
Friends, I am humbled and honored to introduce David Shapiro-Zysk, my dear friend, a multi-edition poet in Ponder, and polymath. Here is what his LinkedIn profile says:
David is a Providence-based creative professional excelling in music, photography, and education. As a singer-songwriter, he performs Rock, Blues, and Folk, captivating audiences with heartfelt melodies. A fine art photographer since 2008, he explores evocative themes through his lens. With over a decade of teaching and data management expertise, David seamlessly blends creativity, intellect, and precision.
That is too little a profile, but that is good enough. As part of our tribute, we review the following poems:
a) ‘The Light’ is a vivid exploration of isolation and the haunting interplay of light and darkness.
b) ‘Fiction’ captures the profound distinction between the chaos of contemporary discourse and the transformative power of fiction
c) ‘Who we are’ poignantly reminds us of the impermanence of our physical forms and the narratives others create about us.
Let us jump into the verses of vitality without much ado.
Poem: The Light
that does not enter
the room in which
I convalesce
a prisoner in solitary
confinement
light so minimal
it teases like the old
bully who pulled
my jacket hood over
my head again and
again under an eve
of the school building
a light so dim that
the nocturne must
in pain squint to find
nourishment in the cracks
of cold cave walls where
no insect would dare
to crawl~David Shapiro-Zysk © 2024
Commentary on Poem 1:
The poet is stuck in a dark, enclosed room. Light is a renegade in this entire poem.
that does not enter
the room in which
I convalesce
a prisoner in solitary
confinement
They say that sunlight is the best disinfectant. It brings life-giving luminescence that enables living beings to heal and grow. When light is absent, many things can happen. We can lose our sense of time and direction. The poet describes his experience of recuperating as a prisoner in solitary confinement. There is a hidden metaphor here: the author is suffering from mental isolation, likely hiding in the dark corners of his mind, feeling alone and trapped, yet still striving to recover. From this point on, let us explore both aspects and see where it takes us.
light so minimal
it teases like the old
bully who pulled
my jacket hood over
my head again and
again under an eve
of the school building
We should consider both perspectives because they highlight the impact of physical and mental trauma. Light is depicted as something discretionary, almost like a bully. The poet shares a childhood anecdote that illustrates this: he recalls being bullied outside of school. The bully repeatedly pulled the poet’s jacket over his head, blocking sunlight. This experience left him feeling suffocated by darkness, leading him to associate light with a form of bullying. The trauma from his childhood lingers, causing him to view light as the perpetrator of “dark crimes.” This complex association is powerfully expressed in his work.
a light so dim that
the nocturne must
in pain squint to find
nourishment in the cracks
of cold cave walls where
no insect would dare
to crawl
After the third stanza, this is a Kafkaesque poem. Like Metamorphosis, there is a change in the form and shape of the poet, stuck in a room, almost like an attic without any view. The light is a rare commodity in a dark, enclosed room, that the inmate becomes permanently nocturnal. If he desires light, the nourisher of all things life, he has to squint his eye to find cracks, those little gaps through which light can seep in. Without light, there is no warmth. The closed walls are cold, like the cave. It is so dark that even insects are afraid.
“I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.”
― Sylvia Plath, Ariel
If you treat this ‘physical’ aspect as a metaphor for a cavernous mind, you will relate to Sylvia Plath’s dark commentary. Darkness is scary—it is the antithesis of light. It is internal permanence; it is malignant and scary; it assumes human proportions, alive and active.
Poem 2: “Fiction”
all I care to read
these days, anything else
too much, for me, too
little reality, the lies
too many, too easy to sniff
them out, too bold to take
seriously, anyone can write
utter absurdity and gain
an ignorant following
but in fiction, the figurative,
the play resonates with me
for, when I enter a page
I know a parable, a turn
of a phrase is meant to mirror
humanity~D. Shapiro-Zysk © September 20, 2024
Commentary on Poem 2:
If the dark metaphor is fearful, the reality of mediocre lives and writings is further scary.
all I care to read
these days, anything else
too much, for me, too
little reality, the lies
too many, too easy to sniff
them out …
Life in its original form is scary. All you have to do is to look at a newspaper — murder, rape, pillage, burglary, child safety issues, politics, power, revenge, and retribution — the newspaper is like a mirror of daily human malice. Watch the television — the vitriolic news programs, the villainous, dark soaps, and serials, the perversity in the name of reality shows — allowing the audience to peep into the basic instincts of humans — the electronic media is a panderer to human banality.
The poet expresses his exhaustion due to the lies and fake news in the media- text, audio, video, and images — all formats. Some of the fake news is obvious and blatant.
the lies
too many, too easy to sniff
them out, too bold to take
seriously, anyone can write
utter absurdity and gain
an ignorant following
Demagoguery, in its simplest form, is like murder. We need means, motive, and opportunity. The means — writing with absurdity, sounding as banal and vague, yet playing up the fears of the mob, motive — to gain an ignorant following, the mob feels that the peddler understands them — their fear, their emotions.
“The secret of the demagogue is to appear as dumb as his audience so that these people can believe themselves as smart as he is.”
― Harry Zohn, Half-Truths and One-and-a-Half Truths: Selected Aphorisms
There is no logic or science, but only vague, unproven claims, call them lies — that anybody worth their salt won’t ever consider them, but when repeated and ratcheted up enough and often, it would make a mental imprint strong enough for somebody with a weak constitution to accept it as gospel. The smartness of the demagogue is to play ignorant and sound like those ignorant followers.
but in fiction, the figurative,
the play resonates with me
for, when I enter a page
I know a parable, a turn
of a phrase is meant to mirror
humanity
Fiction, my friends, is imaginary. The power of imagination can transcend truth and lies, and the message, if at all, one looks for a moral lesson, is again perceptive. The implied message is that one should take fiction with a pinch of salt, sweet or savories, but not to take things to the head.
“Some of these things are true and some of them lies. But they are all good stories.”
― Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall
As long as we know that a page you are reading is a parable, it is easy to understand that it is a verbal imprint of human imagination, rather than demagogy that tries to stir up the heart and meddle with the head.
In the end, the boundary between reality and fiction is blurred these days — the amount of manipulation that corporations, politicians, movie stars and influencers is unfathomable, and human ability to decipher fake from authentic information is reducing day-by-day. So, who we are, really?
Poem: “Who We Are”
in the end
our bodies
will decompose
or we will opt for ashes
either way, our forms
will be unrecognizable
and people will say
about us what they please
according to their agendas
projections, misreadings
they will define who we were
the same as we do those
who pass before us
so while we’re here
we cannot allow others
to define us, for we have
but one chance to be
who we are~David Shapiro-Zysk © 2024
Commentary on Poem 3:
Two things are true — our mortality, and our legacy — the things people remember about us long after we are gone.
in the end
our bodies
will decompose
or we will opt for ashes
We are mortal. There is an end to all these — our bodies consume food, oxidate, age, and finally decompose. The software inside us, the spirit leaves behind the hardware, our bodies, in an act called death. Those who live beyond our death, bury (and therefore let decompose) or cremate (let the bodies fed to the ashes). The idea is that there is a finite time for our journey. We don’t know when and where our journey will end, but we know it will end — certainty and uncertainty about mortality.
either way, our forms
will be unrecognizable
and people will say
about us what they please
according to their agendas
projections, misreadings
People identify us by our physical forms and remember what they think of us. Our physical forms may change and would be gone. However, how they talk about us or recall is based on what they please. Now, this whimsical veneer that they draw upon us depends on their motives. Call this the beholder’s curse. The world seems to be pink if you wear pink colored glasses and yellow if you wear yellow. The beholder’s prejudices come into play when they talk about us.
“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.”
― Oscar Wilde, De Profundis
The point is that we are seeing distorted images of us. The mirrors are colored and contorted, so we look disfigured and discolored. If we put them all together, we are not ourselves, but a reflection of other’s perceptions.
they will define who we were
the same as we do those
who pass before us
so while we’re here
we cannot allow others
to define us, for we have
but one chance to be
who we are
We do unto others (especially those consigned to the annuls of history), and what others do to us. We have to break this universe of smoke and mirrors somehow. It starts with us — we are the only ones left, others are already taken. So let us look at originality and authenticity in this one life we have.
David’s work reflects the interconnection between darkness, identity, and authenticity in a direct and deep oeuvre of verses. Short, succinct yet savage — David’s poetry is a reflection of today's social and psychological conditions.
Vitality and Versatility:
I searched for something that could shift between visual, verbal, and auditory mediums. What I received, however, was good enough: a mockingbird. That is how I would describe David.
Mockingbirds aren’t content to merely play the hand that is dealt them. Like all artists, they are out to rearrange reality. Innovative, willful, daring, not bound by the rules to which others may blindly adhere, the mockingbird collects snatches of birdsong from this tree and that field, appropriates them, places them in new and unexpected contexts, recreates the world from the world.~
― Tom Robbins, Skinny Legs and All
David’s work consistently delves into universal truths, using unadorned yet impactful language. His poetry is deeply personal and widely relatable, resonating with those seeking meaning in life’s transient and often harsh realities. His verses reflect his deep and dynamic thinking and creativity, which flow into various art forms. The beauty of such an artist is that each work is so different and unexpected from the others.
Wishing David a fantastic 2025 ahead! I look forward to enjoying his artwork throughout next year and beyond.
~Ashok Subramanian © 2024
