Sample Poems by Helen Tzagoloff

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The Date

“Save money, invite your dates
to dinner at home,” his mother suggests.

She prepares chicken cacciatore,
bakes chocolate cake, leaves

for a weekend away with a friend.
He changes sheets, buys wine.

In the living room on the sofa,
between forkfuls of cake, he unclasps

his date’s brassiere. Kissing her breasts,
he pictures stray hairs, wet spots.

In tight embrace he leads her
along the hall to clean, cool sheets.

She’s smiling, closing her eyes.
Strong legs are about to clasp him.

He hears familiar footsteps
“I decided not to stay overnight…

the light was on, your door
was open, never mind, continue.”

“Who was that?” whispers his date,
her legs rigid beneath him.

“My mother.” “You live with your mother?”
“ Yes, my widowed mother. It’s okay,”

he says knowing it isn’t.
She refuses to leave by the front door.

He watches in horror as she climbs out
of the window, descends down the fire escape.

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What If Paris Had Been Educated?


A king’s son, abandoned, unschooled, sent off
to herd sheep (there were prophecies at birth),
what did Paris know of arithmetic or of diplomacy?
He didn’t insist the goddesses were equally beautiful.
Didn’t offer to cut the apple in three. Didn’t stall
for time. Surely Minerva, in her wisdom, should have
realized the damage of such silliness to her reputation.

Growing up without parental love, no wonder
he felt the need to come home, show off the booty
like a cat bringing the prey to its master, instead of
running off with his companion to a faraway country,
earning a living by tutoring in Troyanese, later
opening a school or going into business.
All kinds of possibilities when you’ve had an education.

But Paris was a simple shepherd and Helen, no mouse,
though having hatched from an egg, perhaps
somewhat bird-brained. Kidnapped once earlier
and rescued by her brothers, perhaps she optimistically
felt that this, too, would end well.
Or maybe she preferred to roll with the punches.
And Priam, why didn’t he hand Helen back to her mate?

True, it had been prophesied that Troy
would fall fighting the Greeks. But there was
an important if in the prophecy. The Greeks
had to want to fight. Not all were in favor of war.
Ulysses and Achilles, comfortably domiciled,
resorted to delays and subterfuges to avoid
fighting (and possibly being speared) on foreign soil.

And why didn’t old king Priam send Helen home?
Did he feel guilty for having treated his son badly,
taking away the prize, his son’s only accomplishment?
The citizens went to war, fought bravely and were slaughtered.

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The Fighting Sullivans

Movie: Fact-based drama of five Navy brothers,
World War II. Steady and ultimately moving.
—The New York Times, February 22, 2010

Ultimately moving—a giveaway, we know someone will die.
Five spirited boys, always together, the best of friends,
through a near-drowning, flood in the kitchen, motorcycle racing,
secret smoking, a running away from home, a romance.
Loving, responsible parents, an older sister who
irons the boys’ pants for a quarter, gives back for a date.

December 7, 1941. “What will it be: the Navy, the Army,
the Air Force?” asks George, 27, the oldest, as the five
consult behind a closed bedroom door. “What will it be:
the Navy, the Army, the Air Force?” asks their father.
“The Navy,” the boys reply. If only he were younger,
the father wishes, he’d too join the Navy.

“Stay home,” Al, 19, the youngest, with a wife and a baby,
is advised. Always together with his brothers,
he’s miserable. “Run, catch up to your brothers,”
urges his wife (the young, lovely Anne Baxter) as they head
for the recruitment station. “We'll manage while we wait
for you to come back.” (Hold on to his ankles, weep!)

Of course the Navy wants young, strong men, but
no guarantee can be given they’ll serve on the same ship.
In that case the Navy will not have them. Cross out their names.
(We know—ultimately moving.) George, the oldest, the leader,
is so fired up to serve, he writes a letter and permission is granted.
All five can stay together, serve on the same ship.

The quiet loving mother packs a boxful of sandwiches.
(Say something, cry, scream!) Al’s wife holding the baby,
waves goodbye on the porch. (O, hold on to his ankles, weep!)
“Ordinarily you’d receive a letter,” says the recruiter,
who is also a friend, but he wanted to come in person.
Killed. All five. All five? All five? All five.

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Anita In Boston Speaks:


Our Serbian friends don’t speak to us,
claiming Marko was a Nazi,
knowing very well
he was in the Resistance,
while other Croats
denounced friends and kin.

Solidarity with their brothers
in the war across the ocean,
after forty years of the melting pot,
playing tennis, learning bridge.

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Not Missing Anymore


Flight Officer Frank D. Gallion was buried
here near his home in Amish country today, Memorial
Day, more than 52 years after his P-47 Thunderbolt
fighter plane was downed by German machine gun fire
and crashed into the waters of the Zuider Zee.
—The New York Times, May 28, 1996

A Dutch dredging ship found the 29-year-old pilot
at his post in the cockpit. What was Frank like?
people asked Ottmar, who at 78,
found it difficult to remember his brother.

Looking at the muddy artifacts: scraps of fabric,
buttons, a rusted Zippo lighter, fishing lure,
pant cuff, two boot soles marked size 10-E,
he said: “Frank had thick ankles.”

He recalled their hiking trips,
swimming in Saps Run Creek,
remembered their sibling competitive spirit.
Someone suggested Frank was

the more adventurous brother, having gone
to Canada in 1941 to join up early,
whereas Ottmar spent the war guarding
German prisoners in Oklahoma.