It is done. I felt that my book should have a featured poem that would reflect the title. This was weighing on me for months. Then it hit me.
In 1968 I studied writing at The City College of New York. I finally had the space in my schedule, and I registered for fiction writing with author, Mark J. Mirsky, and nonfiction writing with the author, Eve Merriam. They were cool, smart and funny. Both liked my work.

Mark Mirsky

Eve Merriam

But I was a kid, had so little experience to draw upon. I realize now how living and learning is key to writing.
But I tried. I wrote a story about a friend. Nostalgic, much like I write now. Eve praised it.

Still, it took me years to find my voice. The original story is in a folder somewhere in storage with other pieces from my college years and it haunted me, as did the events. In a flash I realized what I had to do for this book. I needed that story to pull my book together.

In my zeal, I made the piece too heavy with details and events that were floating away from each other. It was cathartic; recalling snippets and writing them in what I thought was a new meaningful piece was daunting. I ended up redoing the whole thing. Cutting it severely. There was needless information and it became disjointed and confusing. Sometimes when our emotions take us on a journey, the reader misses the boat, drowns in something meaningful only to the author. Not good. Couldn’t have that.

Now it is done and was submitted with the manuscript, embedded in a group of poems for the reader to find. Hopefully it will be the treasure in the chest.

By changing the focus and the perspective, the poem took on another life. It is so much deeper and richer than that 19 year old could ever produce. I needed to grow up. Who knew I would need so many years.

I hope you are as moved by this poem as I was living it and revisiting the events. Whenever I read it a chord deep within me is hit and I have uncontrollable sadness, then a good long weeping session. Amazing how so many years later, things can still affect us.

Eve Merriam, my dear teacher, rest in peace. Through a serendipitous poetry reading in lower Manhattan, I met my two writing professors from CCNY. It was the early 1990’s. A friend brought me to an event where I found myself re-introducing myself to the two people who had such an influence on me.

There was a dinner party following the reading. I got to sit and talk to Eve Merriam. I was so lucky.
She died of cancer a year later.

The Cerebral Jukebox

Victoria Elizabeth, named after her mother,
lived in an apartment on the top floor of an eleven storey tower
overlooking the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
From her living room window
she could see to the horizon,
to where the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges
formed necklaces.

Her nickname was Ping.

I live in that apartment
in my memory;
mind-music of
nineteen-fifties and sixties.

We were two little girls in elementary school.
Standing at her window,
she is still next to me.
Victoria, with her blond pixie haircut,
her blue eyes framed in
orange harlequin eyeglasses
locked to her face by a ski jump nose.
My little friend,
Ping,
who shared a bedroom with her parents
in a three room apartment.

The floors were parquet wood, uncovered,
against Stuyvesant Town regulations:
Carpet, on eighty percent of the floor.
But no one below seemed to complain when we clacked about
like dancers in our Thom McCann flats or little heels,
tapping like adults.
Oh, I loved the sound, the feel of my shoes
striking the floor.

I went home to green carpets and art on the walls.
To chinoisserie, lit lamps, wing chairs. A menorah.
To suppers, served reliably at 6:00 PM.
Ping’s youthful blond aunt came over to pick her up one evening;
she sat in the lady chair, looked around and said,
It’s so lovely here.

But at Ping’s house
the rooms were spare,
a canvas butterfly chair here,
a couch there,
a black and white television
with splayed rabbit ears.

One Sunday morning, her father started up
the turntable with Josh White,
followed by Judy Collins,
then Odetta.
He showed me the record jackets;
I smelled liquor on his breath.
He had been through World War II;
he woke during the nights screaming,
his face wet and reddened by
Japan.
I was once there when her mother fell asleep on the couch;
drink took her to sleep,
where she spoke in the foreign tongues
of dreams.

Ping wore the key to her apartment around her neck
on a graying piece of string.
It dangled between her dress and undershirt.
While in junior high school, while her mother was at work,
she brought a boy home from the other side of the tracks,
maybe from Second Avenue?
They were making out on the couch
and the wires of their braces got interlocked;
the scene a far cry from the days in sixth grade
when we made prank phone calls
from the greasy black kitchen wall phone,
laughing until we cried, hanging up the
receiver without guilt.

High school separated us;
she traveled uptown to hers,
I traveled downtown to mine,
within the purview of her windows,
a school embedded in an area
where immigrants once bought from
rows of pushcarts
and fished in pickle barrels.
The last time I saw her,
she wore knee high black leather boots.
We sat on my bed and did geometry.

Years later, I met Lucy, a mutual friend,
in a ladies’ room at C.C.N.Y.
I asked about Ping.
Her father had passed away:
Fell in the street
or something.
Ping.
Was it she who came home for Christmas, or spring break,
to find her mother dead
on the kitchen floor?
Days worth of death from
malnutrition.
Or something.

I listened to red-headed Lucy in the room with
frosted glass. Water running.
Toilets flushing. I saw her mouth moving.
I heard the words.
I was nineteen years old.
If I was holding something, I dropped it.
If I could have understood what I was hearing, I would have.
If I had seen my face in a mirror at that moment,
I would not have known who I was.

I often think of the view from Ping’s apartment.
The world was small but vast.
Looking out, I could focus on the tenements,
their sad faded brown façades, the stoops,
the small uneven shops:
Koburn’s Deli,
Freidel’s Luncheonette,
Weissman’s Children’s Clothes,
China Boy Restaurant.
There, the red and white-faced Carvel.
I feel the weight of a frosty Brown Bonnet
in my hand, the swirled vanilla custard cone
dipped in chocolate and frozen.

Look! Further down. Tompkins Square Park.
And the library on East Tenth Street,
once grand.
I see rickety metal cellar covers,
embedded in the sidewalks;
they clanged when people walked on them.
The sagging storefront
where Mr. Brandt cobbled
broken shoes,
his eyes darting over his glasses
to the action in the street,
a girly calendar with a Cat’s Paw ad
behind him on the peeling wall lined with shoes.
His shop smelled of old cracked dirty leather,
machine oil and cigars;
Auschwitz was blue-tooled into his arm.

I can see the beginning of the Puerto Rican influx:
I watch the little Spanish girls treading carefully
on icy winter streets,
to P.S. 61 on
East Twelfth Street and Avenue B,
in thin yellow or pink nylon ruffled
party dresses with black sashes,
little white anklet socks in black Mary Janes.
Shivering in sweaters,
their curls bouncing as they ran,
little girls who left the Caribbean
and who ate the school lunch of
peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat;
with tomato soup.

I can still smell the soup.

I could see all the way down
to Canal Street, or so I thought,
where my father worked for years at
the Neptune Raincoat Company,
laboring and loading in his torn tee shirt, until his face was red
and his hairy back was wet.

I could see and remember all of this,
all that I saw and thought I saw,
all that I knew and thought I knew.
From that living room window,
I looked down and out and up and
through gold and pink-swept skies,
after school on spring days,
to bridges and to pigeons flying in formation over rooftops,
over greening treetops,
to the East River and to gliding tugboats.
I still see the round water towers
with pointy hats,
perched atop the aging buildings,
on skinny stilts,
like a gaggle of long-limbed water fowl.

If I were to look up,
so many years later,
I might not be able to see where I once stood.
I’d have to crane my head back to
find the window, among hundreds, searching,
squinting, and pointing to hold my place,
blinded by reflections and the glare of time passing.
And if I could find it, if I could get to it,
if I could touch the old glass in that living room,
the fingerprint fog of childhood would prevent me
from recognizing the world I knew.
But the view will forever remain,
to play and play again.

In my Cerebral Jukebox.

Please join me in a glass of bubbly:

To the future: may it be rich and rewarding to poets and non poets alike.

Thank you for everything~
Sue

Thank you for the wonderful comments, I am responding to them personally.

editdeletereply lauritasita wrote on May 4, ’09, edited on May 4, ’09 You’re right, this poem is very touching, very moving, and I feel that it pulls your book together very well, which is what you wanted.

reply greenwytch wrote on May 5, ’09 what a wonderfully rich tapestry you weave with your words!

reply caffeinatedjo wrote on May 5, ’09 sanssouciblogs said if I could touch the old glass in that living room, the fingerprint fog of childhood would prevent me from recognizing the world I knew. But the view will forever remain, to play and play again. In my Cerebral Jukebox. Your poems are filled with such colorful descriptions. Isn’t it great that we can replay memories over and over in our “jukeboxes”.

reply catfishred wrote on May 5, ’09 I see the world through your poem with two micro-worlds, in particular colliding. It’s liberation day today here in Holland. We’re thinking a lot, especially after the senselessly murderous suicide that happened on our Queens Day this past Thursday. Good luck with everything, dear friend. You inspire me!

reply sugarpiehuny wrote on May 5, ’09 I love seeing your world through your eyes.. I laughed out loud at this line…you make be run the gamut of emotions!”They were making out on the couch and the wires of their braces got interlocked;”

reply billatplay wrote on May 5, ’09 And so it was with me when I wrote, It led many to believe that life was a busy East End street. How lucky I was compared to your window, your only escape to freedom eleven stories high. Apartments of any quality are anti social. They blinker people to a degree where melancholy becomes a part of life. I was unchained from my memories by demolition fortunately, unlike yourself who live with their ghosts everyday. You poem hurts my heart.

reply mntsinger wrote on May 5, ’09 a perfect exposure of childhood and beyond.

reply sousonne wrote on May 5, ’09 VERY well done….but then, I’m not surprised.

reply philsgal7759 wrote on May 5, ’09 BRAVO

reply sweetpotatoqueen wrote on May 5, ’09 sanssouciblogs said If I were to look up, so many years later, I might not be able to see where I once stood. I’d have to crane my head back to find the window, among hundreds, searching, squinting, and pointing to hold my place, blinded by reflections and the glare of time passing. And if I could find it, if I could get to it, if I could touch the old glass in that living room, the fingerprint fog of childhood would prevent me from recognizing the world I knew. But the view will forever remain, to play and play again. In my Cerebral Jukebox. And this is the essence of your writing! You take us back to the days that replay in your memory put down to such vivid words ..we are right there with you! Congratulations my friend! I celebrate this accomplishment and admire your tenacity in this project which apparently has been gaining momentum in your Cerebral Jukebox for a life time!

reply hadenough1 wrote on May 5, ’09 I like it. I felt like I too was seeing the area and I was thereBest wishes to you. I await that book

reply papahere wrote on May 5, ’09 Best of luck to my friend who keeps bringing me back to memories of living on the East Side NYC.~Papa

reply strongwilledwoman wrote on May 6, ’09 I have never been to NY but I feel as if I was your shadow as your words brought me to a place I have never seen. A child and her world years ago but as fresh as if it were today. Indeed this is the treasure in your chest. I can’t wait to read it and find all of your treasures.Thank you so much for sharing your journey with us, you shared your hopes, fears, tears a laughter along the way to the printers. I feel blessed by knowing you.

reply aladybug wrote on May 6, ’09, edited on May 6, ’09 Ahhh… it’s very beautiful…. and that’s where the brainy jukbox comes from? I’ve known you for such a while and I only thought it was related to the music on your mind…Despite not having been there I can relate very well to your experience, but through your descriptions you take us there, to see from those windows and to step with high heels on the parquet. I saw the Deli and other stores, imagined the avenues.New Yorkers will particularly relate to many of those stories. They are universal but the scenery is so special and you capture particular instants, images of the surroundings.I think it is a great idea to include the poem embedded within a group of other poems. Good books are written like that! It is a recollection of your memories –also embedded– within your Cerebral Jukebox. And the reader will say: Aha! The poem will for sure stand out.

reply starfishred wrote on May 6, ’09 bravo-

reply opossumd wrote on May 6, ’09 It was a real honour to read this heart-rending poem, Sue. I can confirm to you that this IS your unmistakable voice. You write words that come to life, so vivid are the images you evoke, so piercing the feelings you communicate. Your style is deceptively simple, but it encompasses a world of experience. It is true for most writers that what they feel MUST be included in their work, because it supplies the correct perspective and background to understand the rest, end oftens making it murky for the reader. So re-writing becomes a necessity. I haven’t read your manuscript, however you state that this poem is included. I can only give my opinion about this single poem: it contains not one word too many, yet it conveys a crystal-clear impression. The images are live and EXIST in space and in time. The perception of forms, colours, sounds, textures, smells and tastes is sensorial. With few but perfectly fitting words you create a three-dimensional universe that lives an breathes. Unforgettable.

reply virginiawmn41 wrote on May 6, ’09 so very Happy for my wonderful Sister in NewYork,you are so right, this is a work of art…..hugs and Bravo…..GoodLuck…

reply kittigory wrote on May 6, ’09 CONGRATULATIONS, SUE! You done good, as they say!! *hugs*

reply danceinsilence wrote on May 6, ’09 Reading this, I felt as if my eyes had walked through a novel from youth to old age. Each detail brought out a portion of what every reader would and should feel, that grew up during times such as these. These small nuiances to much larger graphic events that foretell the beginnings and middle points of our lives.The small:While in junior high school, while her mother was at work, she brought a boy home from the other side of the tracks, maybe from Second Avenue? They were making out on the couch and the wires of their braces got interlocked; the scene a far cry from the days in sixth grade when we made prank phone calls from the greasy black kitchen wall phone, laughing until we cried, hanging up the receiver without guilt.The graphic:Years later, I met Lucy, a mutual friend, in a ladies’ room at C.C.N.Y. I asked about Ping. Her father had passed away: Fell in the street or something. Ping. Was it she who came home for Christmas, or spring break, to find her mother dead on the kitchen floor? Days worth of death from malnutrition. Or something. It is things such as these that should hold the reader, have them fall back in an era an experience a time within their own Cerebral Jukebox. You have brought us to yours … and the experience … strong, powerful, sad, whimsical, light-hearted, and real. Simply put … Ya done good.

reply knightstar wrote on May 7, ’09 sanssouciblogs said But I was a kid, had so little experience to draw upon. I realize now how living and learning is key to writing. So very true, Sue–and that life experience comes through exquisitely in this poem, to be sure.I believe we write best, when we write about our own past, whether our recollections are written as a biography, couched within fiction, or sculpted into poetry. We are, after all, the experts when it comes to our own memories—be those memories happy, sad, bittersweet or–whatever.–M

reply jadedruid wrote on May 7, ’09 This is a wonderful ride down memory lane. And reflects the music of life in your mind. Bravo

reply tylerh wrote on May 7, ’09 I love the descriptions of people, particularly Ping with her glasses locked to her face. Great poem Sue, bravo!

reply morgaineofthefairies wrote on May 7, ’09 dear one you have a delightful way of taking us back in time all those personal touches and running it like a movie in my mind. i loved it i also was raised 80street and riverside drive . your pictures are so meaning ful and have such a warm ethnic feeling. wonderful poem such talent love morigaine

reply vickiecollins wrote on May 7, ’09 wow, it is a testimony to your writting that I stuck that out, and read all the way through it. So many pictures and images painted with words in the mind. Great.

reply vghozlan wrote on May 7, ’09 Sue, I just finished reading but I want to come back and re-read. You painted a huge picture and I need to contemplate….I’ll be back in a couple of hours….

reply nomadtraveller wrote on May 7, ’09 Loved to read it, Sue. Thank you for giving it to us. Good luck with the book!

reply vghozlan wrote on May 7, ’09 Ok Sue, I re-read and what strikes me the most, is the deep vein of sadness…the memories are not recalled with fondness…the reference to Auschwitz, the immigrants and the bleakness of poverty hint at subliminal desperation…for some odd reason, I am reminded of Albert Camus in his “Justice Pour Un Juste”, where he infers that there is a certain nobility in being poor…your poem certainly gives lie to THAT nonsense…I enjoyed your poem Sue.

reply kwika wrote on May 7, ’09 It’s true as children we don’t judge each other. We know who we like who cares why. I loved this Sue. You sound rather as if you envied Ping the view of the world from her window. However things turned out she is forever immortalised in the words of your poem. Would that I were so lucky.

reply forgetmenot525 wrote on May 7, ’09 Congratulations Sue been a long time coming but well worth the effort. Can understand why you chose this one , you really do manage to pait vivid and recognisable pictures with your words.

reply darlene57 wrote on May 7, ’09 Sans, how sweet it is! I love how you used many descriptive words, really placed me standing in front of the window. It kept me interested and a need to know more. What makes a great poem, story, etc., for me, is the yearning for more and being able to put myself in the writers minds eye. You have done it, girl! I will pray your efforts of hard work and long hours will be blessed with success. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your success~smilies~d~

reply aimlessjoys wrote on May 8, ’09 You capture the experience of childhood in NYC of that period very beautifully. Your voice is unmistakable, Sue, & I especially like the way the view of the world breathes. Cheers & cheers again!

reply ged1965 wrote on May 8, ’09 Vivid and engaging,excellent work,congratulations

reply val65000 wrote on May 8, ’09 Like the colorful descriptions you gave concerning the scene of your upbringing. i will have to revisit this post to go through the details.

reply agnes128 wrote on May 8, ’09 I took part to a Night in crime event at the American Library in Paris. Had an interesting chat with a Irish lady afterwards in the bus. I think details in books are important, even in mystery books, they speak of the time when the book was written. I like your descriptions, I’m here, just near you ;-D

reply brian51 wrote on May 9, ’09 Forgive me for gushing. This is one of the best pieces that I have ever read, because I quickly forgot that I was reading. I was there in your mind’s eye with you. Simple is taxing and demands much from the writer; because simple is pure, and the less of it is more. Being good enough to write simply, yet take the reader away and into word paintings of memories, this is a great gift. I love your muse.

reply gapeach7355 wrote on May 9, ’09 Wonderful…a tapestry of memory…Best of luck on the manuscript–I expect to be purchasing it at Barnes & Noble!

reply pestep55 wrote on May 9, ’09 What joy and sadness — so much like life and memory. I have loved reading this one, thanks for the link /:-)

reply fluffyj wrote on May 9, ’09 This is indeed the perfect introduction to the “Sans” I met here, through your writing that has dazzled me with rich details of a place and time I feel I’ve been able to share in these snippets you’ve posted online over what feels like years now on Multiply. I can’t wait to read your book!

reply asolotraveler wrote on May 10, ’09 i enjoyed it a lot. my first thought was, though rich in captivating detail, it seemed to meander a bit back and forth from scene to scene – perhaps intentionally much as the ebb and flow of one’s life…i particularly enjoyed the josh white, judy collins scene w/ her father and his re4cords… i might have worked on crafting the words to evoke the red balled Japanese flag as matching the appearance of his face but …. that is to be taken merely as an aside – not a definite wish! as always, your work is stimulating! well done SS.

reply mindsnomad wrote on May 10, ’09 Most times I look upon memory as a flaw in human beings, cause it lets us relive the hurts, aches and misery of the past. A past we can do nothing about in the now. But as I read this, I have to admit, memory is an exquisite gift especially if one has mastered the art of storytelling. I love the details, the varying emotions, the acknowledgment of changes that bring nostalgia for a time gone by. If this were a hearty dish, I would say it is very Delicious :).

reply gileson wrote on May 11, ’09 At this late date, I am truly unable to say a word that hasn’t been expressed by all the others. The feeling of being there, being a part of it all, the smells, the sounds, the flavor of your beloved city. I don’t need a crystal ball to predict great and wonderful things for you. It is my great pleasure to know such an artist!

reply instrumentalpavilion wrote on May 11, ’09 Oh this is wonderful…. congratulations and THANK YOU! Fred

reply spazzycat7 wrote on May 11, ’09 (hands outstretched horizontally, making downward and back upward motions, head bowing and returning, …encore!!!…I’m not worthy!) Sue, you have such a way with words! I am seriously in awe and am definitely endebted to you, you are now the reason for my less than mundane Monday! I felt just like I was there with you, seeing, touching, smelling and experiencing all of it. You will go far and I raise a cyber thetic glass of champaigne to you my talented and wonderful online friend! Huggggggggs!

reply quinkento wrote on May 12, ’09 Sorry I haven’t been around but it is always good to come here and read your “history”. It reminds me that there was a world outside of mine’s while I was growing up. And I wander back to when I was 19…

reply bostonsdandd wrote on May 12, ’09 LOVE it! I love how you brought it full circle. You summed up you book by this poetry instance because it’s important to you. So when comes to figuring out were we stand in live we have to peer backwards.GREAT write!

reply tulipsinspring wrote on May 13, ’09 Did you hear any more of Ping after that? I’m sorry if I missed it but it seemed that was the last thing you learned. How devastating that news must have been.What really fascinates me about your writing is I don’t remember things the same way you do. I remember the people, and the words, and when I remember something the feelings come back to me as if I’m where it first happened. But the surroundings of the memory — how the street looked, who else was there, the myriad of details you come up with — those don’t come back to me in memories. It’s amazing to me to read your words and the details in them, as if you are literally looking back at films of the memory or photographs.In describing all this detail you bring a feeling of the place, even if it’s a place I’ve never been. I’ve never been there, but I can somehow feel the place because of your description. Because of you I have been there even if not physically there.I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I’ve been a bit MIA lately. But I’m glad I did, and this poem made me so sad, and filled me with nostalgia even though it isn’t even my own memory.All I can say is wow. I think it’s absolutely perfect, and given what I know of the theme of your book it couldn’t be more perfect. Congratulations my friend. I look forward to sharing that champagne.

reply cynintheflinthills wrote on May 18, ’09 I always knew you could do it! You take the reader with you on an armchair journey……Good Luck Sue!

reply hadenough1 wrote on May 26, ’09 It’s hard to know what agents always want–they are different too. And there is our learning process too as you mentioned Over time, people have preserved information in many ways. In times past, writers recorded their words on monuments, stone or wood tablets, leaves of parchment, and other materials –or a scroll. And least you didn’t have to do that!Hope to see your book soon–best wishes

reply lonewolfwithin wrote on May 28, ’09 each time i read a piece from you, i always read twice; once to take it all in, and again to see what tugs my soul the most… my soul was tugged from beginning to end… but… there was one area…”I listened to red-headed Lucy in the room with frosted glass. Water running. Toilets flushing. I saw her mouth moving. I heard the words. I was nineteen years old. If I was holding something, I dropped it. If I could have understood what I was hearing, I would have. If I had seen my face in a mirror at that moment, I would not have known who I was…”(i have my thoughts, but i think i will keep them mine… ~smile~)i’m always amazed in your selection of words from the present to completely display images and emotions of the past, be they good or bad… i do so love this… new beginnings from no definite endings… just life circling on… congratulations again, my friend! *hugs* oh… btw… your intro provided me a little more insight to my own unfolding path:”Sometimes when our emotions take us on a journey, the reader misses the boat, drowns in something meaningful only to the author. Not good. Couldn’t have that…” guess i need to quit being so emotional if i am to write for others to read again! lol! be well, dear friend! and i so hope to continue making my way here! *hugs* ^. .^

reply poeticjay wrote on Jun 4, ’09 I have tried again and again to read this while at work, only to be interrupted by life and reality. Today I finished it. We have spoken many times about this project and I tell you now that it is wonderful. I am proud to know my friend has accomplished something so masterful. Your writing provides inspiration for me to write more. Thank you for sharing this. Let me know when it comes out so I may purchase it.