David B. Axelrod has hit his stride as a poet of the old school–meaning one who could have stood with the writers of the Song of Solomon, the Book of Job and the Book of Ecclesiastes (a document that I consult at least once a day). Axelrod’s voice is wise, humane and self-transcending, and it is the voice of a sharp, articulate Everyman caught in the early 21st century between birth and death. Here’s the title poem of this, one of his richest collections, and one–to my chagrin–that ahadada books did not publish:

Something Beautiful

There’s a copper taste to a heavy cough
though more often that describes one’s
blood when a cut says “clean me,”
and, animals we are, we push a bleeding
finger into our mouth. There’s a heaviness
akin to the colonial tale of Giles Corey,
pressed to death for what sin? “More
weight,” he cried, to hasten his own death.
Drag the breath in through clenched teeth,
there’s a tingling in the gums, tightening
of tendons in the neck. They say strangu-
lation heightens sex. Remember the young
girl murdered in Central Park? “Beautiful,”
is that lifelong struggle for our breath–
ten each minute, resting, fifteen thousand
breaths each day, thirty-three million
before we die, unthinking, autonomic,
except this wheeze, which makes each
puff specific as a hip thrust. Yoga
teaches control of breath. Lovers pant.
Runners work to maximize the oxygen
in their blood. This cough, this need
to spit out life. Passionate breath,
sustaining breath, for which we
work, the taste of which we savor.

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