• Address 720 East Locust Street | Milwaukee, WI 53212
  • Phone 414.263.5001
  • Hours Tue-Fri 11-8pm | Sat-Sun 12-5pm | Closed Mon
  • Hours Tue-Fri 11-8pm, Sat-Sun 12-5pm, Closed Mon
Event Calendar
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special events
June 18 -22

Summer Youth Poetry Camp!

performances
June 21

Formations Series for New & Improvised Music

special events
June 25 -29

Summer Youth Poetry Camp!

readings & workshops
June 28

Poetry Reading: Elisa Karbin & Jessica L. Walsh

readings & workshops
July 10

Offsite Reading: Poetry in the Park at Juneau Park

readings & workshops
July 12

Poetry Reading: Ed Werstein & Sylvia Cavanaugh

readings & workshops
July 14

Genre: Urban Arts Reading

readings & workshops
July 18

Book Launch: Still Waters Collective, Runs Deep anthology

performances
July 19

Formations Series for New & Improvised Music

July 30 - Aug 10

Woodland Pattern Annual Inventory - STORE CLOSED

readings & workshops
August 14

Offsite Reading: Poetry in the Park - Juneau Park

performances
August 16

Formations Series for New & Improvised Music

Judith Harway

Judith Harway's books of poetry include All That is Left (Turning Point Books, 2009) and The Memory Box (Zarigueya Press, 2002). Her work has appeared in dozens of literary journals, and has earned fellowships from the Wisconsin Arts Board, the Hambidge Center and the MacDowell Colony. She is on the faculty of the Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design.

Selected Poems

Tending the Past


Judith Harway

 

                          For Chaie



Wrap your feet in rags. Come stravaging
home down a lane between potato fields
as daylight waters down to dusk
and hearthstones stir with fire. Take off

your shawl. Bend to your stitchery
by candlelight, pretending not to laugh
at your brothers singing Etel Betel's tochter
und Chaim Yankel's zohn. Unpin your hair

and brush it to your waist at bedtime.
It is better not remembering
some names, some times: just drop them
like a glove, their loss unnoted

in the mystery of how this world rolls
over us. Rolled in the same old quilt
wake up a million miles away
from Meskaporichi. Though home

is all you see, even with closed eyes,
bend to your stitchery until the whistle sounds
then shuffle out into grey streets
where lamps already glow. Walk slowly

in your flowered shawl and listen
past the cartwheels' clatter, shouts and horns,
the streetcars' racket down the Bowery
for a voice as gentle as your father's was

then take a man from home and love him well.
Take his name, although its syllables pile up
like fallen chimney stones. Brush out your hair
and sow the rugs of your apartment

with hairpins and tears. Wrap your son in songs
you carried from the shtetl, feeding him
on things kept to yourself
no one can make you tell.