%1 http://coloradoencyclopedia.org/ en Robert Cooperman http://coloradoencyclopedia.org/article/robert-cooperman <!-- THEME DEBUG --> <!-- THEME HOOK: 'field' --> <!-- FILE NAME SUGGESTIONS: * field--node--title--encyclopedia-article.html.twig x field--node--title.html.twig * field--node--encyclopedia-article.html.twig * field--title.html.twig * field--string.html.twig * field.html.twig --> <!-- BEGIN OUTPUT from 'themes/contrib/bootstrap_barrio/templates/field/field--node--title.html.twig' --> <span class="field field--name-title field--type-string field--label-hidden">Robert Cooperman</span> <!-- END OUTPUT from 'themes/contrib/bootstrap_barrio/templates/field/field--node--title.html.twig' --> <!-- THEME DEBUG --> <!-- THEME HOOK: 'field' --> <!-- FILE NAME SUGGESTIONS: * field--node--uid--encyclopedia-article.html.twig x field--node--uid.html.twig * field--node--encyclopedia-article.html.twig * field--uid.html.twig * field--entity-reference.html.twig * field.html.twig --> <!-- BEGIN 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id="id-body"><p style="width: 100%; text-align: center;"><img alt="Robert Cooperman" src="https://coloradoencyclopedia.org/sites/default/files/Robert_Cooperman_2.jpg" /></p> <p>Robert&nbsp;Cooperman&nbsp;is the author of many collections of poetry, most recently,&nbsp;<em>City Hat Frame Factory</em>.&nbsp;&nbsp;<em>In the Colorado Gold Fever Mountains</em>&nbsp;won the Colorado Book Award for Poetry.</p> <h2>Poems</h2> <h3>At the Denver Botanical Gardens</h3> <p>Beth and I have come early<br /> to view the on-loan Calders:<br /> whimsical bolted metal shapes<br /> reminiscent of Picasso’s flute playing<br /> goat-men and opulently endowed women,<br /> though these are more abstract,<br /> giant mobiles floating above babies’ cribs.</p> <p>It’s a treasure hunt to find the pieces,<br /> both of us racing to point, “Aha!”<br /> when we spot a black or blue or rust-<br /> colored mobile and stabile: a word,<br /> we read in the pamphlet, that means<br /> the pieces don’t move in the wind.</p> <p>Nothing seems to be moving this calm<br /> spring morning, except Beth and me<br /> as we stroll the grounds, admiring the artwork<br /> and the plants beautiful as sculptings,<br /> especially the hardy, prickly ones<br /> that had to adapt to a harsh, dry climate,<br /> like our favorites, the Spanish Bayonets:<br /> cellulose swords that home-owners plant<br /> under their otherwise easily burgled<br /> first-floor windows, the tips sharp<br /> as D’Artagnan’s or Zorro’s sabers.</p> <p>But here, they’re works of, if not art,<br /> then natural selection’s whittling<br /> and honing, to create the perfect shape<br /> for the perfect weapon.</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <p>First published in <em>Slant</em> magazine</p> <h3>Stopping by Woods on Guanella Pass, Above Georgetown, Colorado</h3> <p>We drove from Denver for the changing leaves—<br /> the <strong>aspens</strong> turning gold and pumpkin-wild—<br /> and stopped to take photos among the trees.</p> <p>And since the drive had been long, we relieved<br /> ourselves off the trail; then we saw the sign<br /> among the vividly dying autumn leaves:</p> <p>“Attention!&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/article/mountain-lion"><strong>Mountain lions</strong></a> have been seen<br /> in this area.”&nbsp; And is that a pile<br /> of steaming scat beneath the lovely trees?</p> <p>We did our business fast as rain off eaves.<br /> and didn’t dare linger even a while<br /> among the gorgeous, flaming, golden leaves,</p> <p>but convinced ourselves something big was breath-​<br /> ing, scenting meat all down our freezing spines,<br /> stalking us in the blazing autumn trees.</p> <p>Secure in our car, we looked back, reprieved,<br /> almost hoping to see a shadow climb<br /> down, tawny in the gorgeous, golden leaves,<br /> a predator’s easy gait among the trees.</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <p>First published in <em>Loch Raven Review</em></p> <h3>On the Corner</h3> <p>“Iraq War Vets, anything helps,”<br /> his sign reads; she sits, leaning<br /> against a pole, their belongings<br /> in knapsacks in front of her.</p> <p>He wears a smile ill-fitting<br /> as a thrift shop jacket;<br /> her head droops in dejection,<br /> her cigarette ash growing longer.</p> <p>They look like weary travelers<br /> in a strange city: no place to stay<br /> except maybe a park tonight,<br /> or a downtown shelter.</p> <p>Beth rolls down her window—<br /> heat a traffic cop’s raised palm—<br /> and hands him a bill; he blesses her.</p> <p>Beth sighs, and I think that guy<br /> could be me, though I never served;<br /> Beth rolls up her window,<br /> the air-conditioning scouring us.</p> <p>In our rearview mirror, he holds<br /> their sign like a cue card;<br /> her knees are jackknifed<br /> into her chest, her exhaustion<br /> in pitiless America immense<br /> as the Rockies west of Denver.</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <p>First published in <em>Exit 13 Magazine</em></p> <h3>Warning at the Bank</h3> <p>by Robert Cooperman</p> <p>The sign at our local bank warned<br /> no one would be allowed in<br /> wearing shades and a baseball cap:<br /> apparently, bank robbers’ preferred attire.</p> <p>One guy pulled off a series of heists<br /> in a single day, maybe trying for the world,<br /> or at least the state, record, or his habit<br /> so desperate, his hauls barely kept pace<br /> with the drugs he shot, snorted, or smoked.</p> <p>But the last time I needed money,<br /> I noticed, no sign: maybe the manager<br /> complacent after a year of boring business<br /> without interruptions, or maybe no one<br /> paid attention, so the manager gave up.</p> <p>The tellers are all women, and though<br /> they may be undercover agents packing<br /> more concealed heat than Old West gamblers<br /> with hideout guns, and more expert<br /> at martial arts than Bruce Lee, I fear<br /> for them in their lovely friendliness,</p> <p>always asking about my weekend plans,<br /> showing off engagement rings,<br /> or flirting with me, their safe uncle.</p> <p>They’re trained to hand over the money<br /> and keep smiling, though guns have gone off<br /> from the trigger fingers of nervous men<br /> who never thought they’d be reduced<br /> to doing this to get by.</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <h3>Taking Beth to the Denver Nuggets Game Against<br /> the World Champion Golden State Warriors</h3> <p>Over breakfast at our favorite greasy spoon<br /> the next morning, Beth informs me I missed the action,<br /> by paying too much attention to Steph Curry<br /> sinking treys like dropping sugar cubes into coffee,</p> <p>and dribbling through the Nuggets defense<br /> with the speed of a husky with a bowlful of Purina.<br /> The real game, Beth leans closer, to make sure<br /> the scandal doesn’t leak out, was when the wife</p> <p>and small daughter of the guy in front of us<br /> went to the restroom, and his wife’s friend<br /> moved next to him, the woman, according to Beth,<br /> gorgeous, her skin like hot caramel, and abundant</p> <p>under the halter top she wore in this fall cold snap,<br /> her stylus-sculpted fingers caressing his face,<br /> tattooed, rope-hard arms, and belly, then a quick kiss<br /> from pillow-lips, before she returned to her own seat,</p> <p>the guy staring as if Adam’s last glimpse of Eden.<br /> “See what you missed,” Beth taunts now, as I slice<br /> into my French toast, and swish it through syrup.<br /> “Besides, the Nuggets lost again, not even close.”</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <p>First published in <em>Waterways</em></p> <h3>Rock Climbers at Garden of the Gods, Colorado</h3> <p>“I love work,” the old joke goes,<br /> can watch guys do it for hours.”</p> <p>No joke, I love to watch rock climbers,<br /> their slow, steady patience of ibexes<br /> that would drive most guys nuts,<br /> who jones on the speed of basketball,<br /> soccer, football, or hockey.</p> <p>It’s the climbers’ competence,<br /> the challenge of figuring out<br /> where to secure a piton,<br /> what fissure to grab hold of,<br /> where to plant their climbing shoes,<br /> or like that world-class Frenchwoman,<br /> ascending barefoot, her toes more agile<br /> than the hands of great tennis players.</p> <p>Then there was the time Beth and I<br /> were walking in The Garden of the Gods,<br /> once a <a href="/search/google/ute"><strong>Ute</strong></a> holy place, now a state park,<br /> its sandstone formations irresistible<br /> as Swiss chocolate to rock climbers.</p> <p>While our necks were craned—hungry<br /> as owlets for the regurgitated meat—<br /> one climber fell, his rope bracing him,<br /> thank goodness, and not the splattered mess<br /> below that we feared, turned away from,<br /> while other observers screamed,<br /> and someone ran for a park ranger,</p> <p>before the climber spidered back<br /> to the wall and signaled, to cheers,<br /> he was ready to continue, though Beth and I<br /> had had enough for one day.&nbsp;</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <p>First published in <em>Aethlon</em> magazine</p> <h3>The Kid with the Camera</h3> <p>Crossing the street<br /> with his elementary school class<br /> after a visit to the Botanical Gardens,<br /> he snaps at everything with the confidence<br /> of a smart, loved child: the street signs,<br /> the parking garage tunnel, and me,<br /> waiting for the light to change.</p> <p>It hits me like a giant salami<br /> in a vaudeville slapstick routine,<br /> this could be the opening scene<br /> of a mystery: the kid taking a photo<br /> of something, someone that should’ve remained,<br /> for the sake of his health, invisible.</p> <p>The bad guys track him down, rip the film<br /> from the camera, or smash it to pieces,<br /> and if the kid protests, I don’t even want<br /> to think what they’ll do to him.</p> <p>But maybe if they take him prisoner,<br /> the diminutive genius will make their lives hell.&nbsp;<br /> Or if it isn’t played for laughs, something<br /> terrible will be done to him, unless the cops&nbsp;<br /> or an intrepid rescuer frees him<br /> and wreaks terrible vengeance.</p> <p>All this flies through my head<br /> while the kid snaps me again and smiles<br /> that knowing smile that asserts<br /> the world belongs to him; and it does.</p> <p>Me?&nbsp; I’m almost finished with the space<br /> and oxygen he’ll need for the rest<br /> of his wonderful life, until—and he doesn’t<br /> know this yet—it’s his turn.</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <p>First published in <em>Plainsongs</em> magazine</p> <h3>Mobbing the Hawk</h3> <p>“Mobbing,” it’s called, when crows<br /> attack a raptor in a tree or in flight.</p> <p>They scream off-key, as only crows can,<br /> to chase off the predator: blood memory</p> <p>strong as carrion scent, to recall their young<br /> or mates taken, bones clattering down.&nbsp;</p> <p>In the park this glorious Sunday morning,<br /> I spot a red-tail hawk in a tree, trying</p> <p>to make itself invisible from the murder<br /> of crows that would love to kill this beauty,</p> <p>its feathers marbled like opulent Renaissance<br /> tables treaties were signed on.&nbsp; But no peace</p> <p>treaty will be offered this morning,<br /> between raptor and outraged crows</p> <p>that keep up their racket until the great bird&nbsp;<br /> flaps its wings once and flies across the lake,</p> <p>crows giving chase, screaming, shrieking,<br /> making sure it won’t return, as much as we,</p> <p>earthbound humans, would love to see it<br /> snatch and silence an obstreperous crow,</p> <p>not nearly as lovely as this hawk;<br /> thus, in our murderous-aesthete eyes,</p> <p>undeserving of our worship.</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <p>First published in <em>US. 1 Worksheets</em> magazine</p> <h3>“Learn English Here”<br /> Sign outside the Coram Deo Reform Church--Denver</h3> <p>“Learn English here,” the sign encourages,<br /> in all good will: Denver a city lyrical<br /> with Spanish, Vietnamese, a splattering—<br /> as if a brief spring sun shower—of French<br /> at one croissant bakery, on Saturdays,<br /> a smattering of Russian, Hebrew, Arabic.</p> <p>Still, English is necessary: to ask directions,<br /> to read cereal boxes, street signs, addresses,<br /> to fill out forms, and to avoid the thousand<br /> little mousetraps in this all-American city.</p> <p>But the sign’s in English, and presumes<br /> a non-native speaker will understand,<br /> and therefore not even need the lessons,</p> <p>though in this case, “English” could mean,<br /> “Only English spoken here,” “Or Speak<br /> English or Go Home,” if one assumes—<br /> and why not, without the proper words<br /> to deny the assertion—that whoever hung<br /> the sign bears no love for foreigners,<br /> and assumes all of them are illegal aliens.</p> <p>How hard would it have been to print,<br /> “Aprenda Ingles Aqui”? since someone<br /> in the church is going to teach English,<br /> and someone who wants to learn<br /> our most irregular tongue will thus<br /> know to walk inside, eager to sign up.</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <p>First published in <em>The Chiron Review</em></p> <h3>Tailgating</h3> <p>The driver of the torpedo-sleek<br /> sports car behind me has clamped down<br /> on my rear fender so tight<br /> I can see rage bristling his face<br /> like a wounded boar: not caring<br /> I’m five miles over the speed limit.&nbsp;</p> <p>He’s waving a fist, punching the horn<br /> like a cattle prod: a semi blocks his path,<br /> or he’d have passed me blocks ago.</p> <p>When I turn into the parking lot<br /> of a department store, he follows, still<br /> so close he could suck fumes from my tailpipe,<br /> and, I hope, asphyxiate behind the wheel.</p> <p>But instead of the raging, muscle-crazed<br /> steroid tiger I expected to have to run from,<br /> he’s metamorphosed into an old man,<br /> arms stringy as deflated birthday balloons.</p> <p>“Why can’t you move your ass, damnit!”<br /> he rasps, and I fear he’ll swing so hard<br /> the wind from his haymaker will knock<br /> him down, and he’ll stroke out on the asphalt.</p> <p>The young impatient?&nbsp; It’s their grandfathers:<br /> so many places to go, things still to see,<br /> and so very, very little time.&nbsp;</p> <p>Copyright 2018 Robert Cooperman</p> <p>First published in <em>South Carolina Review</em></p> </div> <!-- END OUTPUT from 'themes/custom/encyclopedia/templates/field/field--node--encyclopedia-article.html.twig' --> <!-- THEME DEBUG --> <!-- THEME HOOK: 'field' --> <!-- FILE NAME SUGGESTIONS: * field--node--field-keyword--encyclopedia-article.html.twig * field--node--field-keyword.html.twig x field--node--encyclopedia-article.html.twig * field--field-keyword.html.twig * field--entity-reference.html.twig * field.html.twig --> <!-- BEGIN OUTPUT from 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<!-- END OUTPUT from 'themes/contrib/bootstrap_barrio/templates/navigation/links--inline.html.twig' --> <!-- THEME DEBUG --> <!-- THEME HOOK: 'field' --> <!-- FILE NAME SUGGESTIONS: * field--node--field-additional-information-htm--encyclopedia-article.html.twig * field--node--field-additional-information-htm.html.twig x field--node--encyclopedia-article.html.twig * field--field-additional-information-htm.html.twig * field--text-long.html.twig * field.html.twig --> <!-- BEGIN OUTPUT from 'themes/custom/encyclopedia/templates/field/field--node--encyclopedia-article.html.twig' --> <div class="field field--name-field-additional-information-htm field--type-text-long field--label-above" id="id-field-additional-information-htm"> <div class="field__label" id="id-field-additional-information-htm">Additional Information</div> <div class="field__item" id="id-field-additional-information-htm"><p><a href="https://coloradopoetscenter.org/poets/cooperman_robert/">Colorado Poets Center: Robert Cooperman</a></p> </div> </div> <!-- END OUTPUT from 'themes/custom/encyclopedia/templates/field/field--node--encyclopedia-article.html.twig' --> Wed, 26 Sep 2018 14:24:41 +0000 admin 2963 at http://coloradoencyclopedia.org