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Village Voices
Village Voices is the showcase of creativity by the members and volunteers of The Village Common of Rhode Island. We welcome submissions in all media: 2- and 3-dimensional art, creative writing, transformative ideas, crafting, and art collections. As important is the personal stories that accompany each submission.

Rael Gleitsman

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I was born on 27 July, 1935 in Hewlett, Long Island, NY. My family were middle-class, second-generation Americans engaged in business. My birth religion was Jewish; I am now an atheist. My education was varied: The Woodmere Academy; Amherst College; The Art Students League 1959-60; Rhode Island School of Design, MFA Ceramics ’71; and in 2011 a 72-hour Permaculture course with Lisa Fernandes and Charles and Julia Yelton at the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association.


The turning points of my life began in 1948 — I was 13-years old when my father died. My son was born in 1965, and my daughter in 1968. I traveled in Europe in 1954 and later lived in Seville, Spain for 16 months from 1964 to ’65. Stateside, I have lived in New York, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Maine, and New Hampshire.


In my life I have been a Painter, Potter, Actor and Poet. I was President of the Rhode Island Association of Craftsmen 1975-1976, Executive Director of Dukes County CDC, Board President and Director of Development of an organization that established Featherstone Center for the Arts on Martha's Vineyard, Board Treasurer and first House Manager of Vineyard House, a Sober House on the Vineyard, and an actor at the Martha’s Vineyard Playhouse.

I have worked with people with disabilities at two agencies in Maine: Elmhurst, Inc. in Bath; and Waban Projects, Inc. in Sanford. For a decade onward from 1986 I volunteered as a counselor at Martha’s Vineyard’s Camp Jabberwocky (the oldest sleep away camp for people with disabilities in America), where I was also the camp’s Potter in Residence. In the late ‘70s I was diagnosed with Essential Tremor. This has progressed to the point where I have very little use of my right hand, and only somewhat more of my left. Now living with my own disability, I am especially appreciative of the Providence Village volunteers for their help managing my life's necessities.



In the summer of 1954 between my freshman and sophomore years in college, I had the opportunity to spend 2 months in Europe. The experience was life-changing. For the first time in my life, I found myself overwhelmed by a world of profound beauty and meaning. Here was exhibited a way of life that offered a way to explore both the resources of the self and your relationship to the world. My painting, drawing, ceramics, acting, and poetry each draw from a well of creativity unique to me and my journey.

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   The Final Loser


"Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing."


MACBETH - ACT 5, SCENE 5



At the end of the race

There is no consolation prize

For the final loser.


Witnessed perhaps, by an uncomprehending crow

Who signals the event to the indifferent air,

And then moves on.


Or perhaps no sentient being attends

This ultimate exhalation

In a parched and barren field.


A breath of fetid air

Lost in the hovering, sullen fog,

The climactic monument.


Desist


What shall we make of this corpse;

This dead fawn lying smashed

On the verge of this northbound highway?

No clever word-play, no arrogant self-serving metaphor,

No evasion to appropriate, to disgrace

The silence of this meaningless death.

What shall we make of this corpse;

This dead fawn lying smashed

At the edge of this northbound highway?


          Nothing.

Julie


She's gone and you are left to suffer

The cruelty of measuring love in grief.

A jagged passage tearing at the heart

Made of searing memory and loss

Stretches before you with a dark insistence.

Your pain a measure of the stolen love

No well-meant soothing language can arrest.

Gracious time and tender courage honoring

Her sacred place within your soul

Will shepherd mourning to a hallowed peace,

And her transfigured love will live through you.

Not Yet


Not yet.

The Great Unwind

Has just begun.

A calamitous viral response

To the treachery of overshoot

And hubris

Is illuminating our arrogance

And ignorance.

We must come to terms with

What we are and where we are,

Or we die forever.

Face Down


I'm quite disturbed about that little child

Lying unmoving, face down in the sand.


How sweet of you to show the least concern.

No need to fret you see, because he's dead.

Nobody Told The Daffodils


Nobody told the daffodils:

"Not now my dears".

The litany of earthly ills

Falls silently on hope's deaf ears.


Joyous harbingers of Spring,

I greet your signal jauntiness;

The nascent promise that you bring

Of Summer's tender warm caress.


No slave to time's relentless need,

You bloom when Nature gives you leave

To trumpet forth salvation's creed,

Sweet anodyne for you who grieve.

Misled


When you look back, it's clear

That the road you traveled

Was anything but straight.

Full of twists and turns and near

Misses and near Mrs.: memory raveled

Threads of chance and fate.


Stunned into a shattering life altering

Mortal consciousness, a wounded child

Fled inward to nurture grief alone.

Absent a loving parent's sheltering,

Life's disparate claims remained unreconciled.

Nor shield at hand to brave the great unknown.


Tread softly little one and peek.

From the safety of your tame disguise

You shall come to know the way from there to here.

The bright enlightenment you seek

From searing revelation shall arise.

Salvation's radiant pathway must appear.


Enlightenment, Salvation, Revelation. No!

Misguided concepts groping in the dark.

Desperate illusions of a phantom choice.

You blindly reap a crop you did not sow.

Predestined all, there is no other arc.

Your inner guide was never your own voice.

Decline and Fall


We place our trust in grifters, charlatans and fools.

Criminals infest our blighted cities.

Betrayal is not a potent enough word 

To describe the unconscionable disgrace

Of raw corruption spiced with blatant lies.

But, we are not absolved nor innocent.


How did we arrive at such a place,

Anointing sociopaths to be our guides

And lethal guardians in these troubled times?

We allowed our institutions to decay;

Getting and spending became our twin obsessions;

We believed that wealth was something one could count;

That power was a permit for excess,

And consequences only for the weak.


Self-serving, in fraudulent disguise,

Leaves us with lives of ashes, dust, and death.

Education is a classist casualty.

Long trusted Institutions are in fact 

Mendacious usurpations which conceal

Rapacious systems of iniquity

With murder as the social tool of choice.


Confronted with these monumental wrongs,

The need to act is urgent and extreme,

But paralyzing apathy and fear

Condemn us all to darkness and despair.

Flagrant Ease


We kill each other with such flagrant ease,

As if afflicted with some foul disease,

A sordid evil, evil multiplies;

A plague beyond our nostrums to appease.


What are we that with glazed indifferent eyes

We count the mangled bodies killed by lies?

Anointing with the sea of blood we shed

Those twisted men whose blood-lust never dies.


The sanctimonious sanctify the dead

With pagan rites defiling wine and bread

As raving prelates urge their flocks to kill,

Braying unholy messages of dread.


Corruption shrieks from every ravaged hill

Ripped open by each ruthless miner's drill.

The toll of our offences blights the earth,

A vulgar tale of purblind human will.


Our species, bound to death from bloody birth,

Satanic mobs provoke the Devil's mirth

While morbid ecstasies of senseless pain

Deny the reckoning of Human worth.


Subjects of the baleful reaper's reign,

Endowed descendants of malignant Cain;

Indifferent to the multitudes we've slain,

Time's grim cosmic joke; a mortal stain.