Sample Poems by Helen Tzagaloff

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Poem on a Line by Philip Larkin


At once whatever happened starts receding,
the once in a lifetime opportunity, though you did not know it
(being young and brash), dismissing it with “whatever,”

as it receded into the “easy come, easy go.”
Later secretly hoping it will happen again
and this time, whatever people think,

you (middle-aged) won’t pretend not to care, at once
will strive to do whatever’s necessary
before it recedes and if you fail,

you’ll have to start hoping again,
but this time it may happen when you
(getting on in age) have receded into “what’s the use?”

And when that happens, you may as well say “whatever.”
The opportunity this time will recede into the never.

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Woman in the Snow


Why was she there, standing alone?
Where is she now
half a century later?
Why do I remember
the woman in the snow,
waving to me as the train
speeds through Siberia?
I, an eight-year-old at the window
wave to her.
She, black-coated
in an expanse of white,
her head in a gray scarf,
black hair showing.
She smiles. I smile.
We keep waving
as the train speeds on
and she becomes smaller, receding
until nothing but a dark speck
remains, and it too recedes
and finally is swept away,
leaving a blank,
a cover for the indecipherable future.

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Discovery


The screeching of tires stopped me
from chasing the puppy. The man at the wheel
going in reverse was staring at me, smiling.
Something was different about his smile,
not a smile I’d ever seen before.
It made me uneasy.

I was out in the backyard playing with the puppy,
a gift from my parents on my ninth birthday.
The day was warm and sunny.
My parents, believers in fresh air and sunshine
as beneficial to the body, had instructed me
to wear shorts on such days. Only shorts.

The car edged closer. The man kept staring, smiling.
When he drove away slowly, he continued to look at me,
turning sideways as if reluctant to give up
whatever it was that made him stare and smile.

I went inside and stared at myself in the mirror.
On my chest were growths, the size of
button mushroom caps, the nipples no longer
embedded flat in the skin against the ribs.
Was this part of the growth spurt that
everybody has been expecting?
I put on a blouse and stayed inside the rest of the day.

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Roast Beef


The first time I had roast beef,
I found the pool of blood sickening—
I grew up on baked chicken and kotletyi,
patties of meatloaf breaded and fried.
I could not finish the huge chunk and
let the plate be carried off. What a waste.

After coffee and cognac I was
introduced to a couple, the man big,
red-faced, his wife thin and petite.
“I can never finish such an enormous
piece, but my husband loves roast beef
and I’ll make him a sandwich
for lunch tomorrow. I slipped the meat
inside my bag,” the wife told me
while the men were getting our coats.

She unclicked a beaded evening bag
and there on the soaked white satin
lay a cold graying slab of beef.