Poem: "Firgun"
This poem is spillover from the February 7, 2023 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from Dreamwidth user Librarygeek. It also fills the "Morganite - Unconditional Love" square in my 2-1-23 card for the Valentines Bingo fest. This poem has been sponsored by DW user Fuzzyred. It belongs to the Shiv thread of the Polychrome Heroics series.
"Firgun"
[Thursday, June 9, 2016]
Simcha liked helping people.
It made him feel good to solve
what problems he could and
make the world a little easier
for people to move through.
"How are things going today?"
Simcha asked Rozeve Pave
when they met in the office.
"Busy," she replied. "People
are still jumbled from the quake."
Simcha had already seen
some of the shakeups caused
by the Big One, even this far east,
and that made him determined
to help wherever he could.
There were new people
working in Hanson Hall,
some of them displaced
by the earthquake, others
just needing to compensate
for the shifting resources.
Simcha liked Shiv in particular.
The kid was like an alley cat --
the kind that Ahimsa brought in,
all sharp claws and wary gaze --
but something about him just
tugged at Simcha's attention.
Shiv had been kind to
Ahimsa's menagerie of
broken-down animals,
the ones who posed as
art models in workshops.
When Lunette had sliced open
her hand in a stained glass course,
trying to cut curves she hadn't been
trained for yet, Shiv had hustled her
to the clinic to get it patched up.
Shiv was nice to Noemie, too,
and the other folks over at
All Life Is Precious, even
though he wasn't a member.
It was the same with Simcha
and the Tikkun Olam Collective;
Shiv would pitch in despite
not even being Jewish.
Simcha wasn't sure what
faith Shiv followed, if any --
quite possibly, none at all.
It still felt good to see
the new kid fitting himself
into the weird little family
that made up Hanson Hall.
Shiv even ate like an alley cat.
He'd go for any kind of fish
or seafood that he could find.
With that thought in mind,
Simcha swung by the Canteen
to pick up something for lunch.
Offering in hand, he rapped
on the door to Shiv's studio.
When it opened, Simcha
held up the plate and said,
"I brought you a tuna melt. I
figured you might've gotten
busy with the benefit project
and forgotten to eat anything."
"Yeah, yeah," Shiv said, dragging
a hand through his head. "C'mon in."
Stepping inside, Simcha could see
the scatter of colored glass across
the top of Shiv's workbench, already
hinting at a sky of blues. "That
looks quite lovely," he observed.
"Thanks," Shiv said. As soon as
he sat down, he stuffed the sandwich
in his mouth, humming in pleasure.
"Oh, this is so fuckin' good."
"I'm glad you like it,"
Simcha said, and
bit into his bagel with
cream cheese and lox.
Shiv looked at him, and
then looked away again.
"How come you always
do that?" he asked.
"Do what?" said Simcha.
"Look happy whenever
someone else is happy,"
Shiv said. "Like me
enjoying a tuna melt."
"Firgun," Simcha said.
"It's Hebrew, for taking
joy in someone else's
pleasure or achievement.
Jews get knocked around
enough, we have to take
our happiness as we can."
"I know how that goes,"
Shiv muttered, fidgeting.
"Don't worry about it,"
Simcha said. "I'm just
generally a happy guy."
"Yeah, so ... you got
any other takers on
the auction?" Shiv said.
"We sure do," said Simcha.
"So far it's up to two dozen.
I think we will pull in plenty of
donations for earthquake relief."
"Good, that's good," said Shiv.
"They need all the help that
they can get, after that shit."
Simcha remembered that
the whole reason Shiv had
rented a studio here was
because he had given up
his old apartment to friends
displaced by the Big One.
"How are your friends doing?"
Simcha asked. "Are they okay?"
Shiv waffled a hand in the air.
"Okay-ish," he said. "Not injured,
but upset by what happened. I
think they're settling in, but
it's hard for me to tell."
"I'm sure they appreciate
your help," said Simcha.
"They're musicians, right?
You might invite them over
here, if they need a place
to practice or perform."
"Doubt they can afford it,"
Shiv said, shaking his head.
"Well, there's a new program
for refugees," Simcha said.
"It's at least worth exploring."
"Yeah, maybe," Shiv said.
He stuffed the last of the tuna
in his mouth, then ambled over
to a collection of soda bottles.
He picked them up, one by
one, and put them back, until
he found a couple that he liked.
"Here, these're kosher," Shiv said,
offering one to Simcha. "I got 'em
in the Canteen the other day."
Simcha recognized them as
Rose's Sweetened Lime Juice.
"Thank you," he said, taking one.
The bottle felt surprisingly cold.
The flavor was sweet-sharp,
and Shiv seemed to enjoy it
as much as Simcha did, while
most people found it too strong.
Simcha thought that it suited him,
because Shiv was all sharp edges
himself, but sweet underneath
where few people would find it.
That was why Simcha liked him.
* * *
Notes:
This poem is long, so its notes appear elsewhere.
"Firgun"
[Thursday, June 9, 2016]
Simcha liked helping people.
It made him feel good to solve
what problems he could and
make the world a little easier
for people to move through.
"How are things going today?"
Simcha asked Rozeve Pave
when they met in the office.
"Busy," she replied. "People
are still jumbled from the quake."
Simcha had already seen
some of the shakeups caused
by the Big One, even this far east,
and that made him determined
to help wherever he could.
There were new people
working in Hanson Hall,
some of them displaced
by the earthquake, others
just needing to compensate
for the shifting resources.
Simcha liked Shiv in particular.
The kid was like an alley cat --
the kind that Ahimsa brought in,
all sharp claws and wary gaze --
but something about him just
tugged at Simcha's attention.
Shiv had been kind to
Ahimsa's menagerie of
broken-down animals,
the ones who posed as
art models in workshops.
When Lunette had sliced open
her hand in a stained glass course,
trying to cut curves she hadn't been
trained for yet, Shiv had hustled her
to the clinic to get it patched up.
Shiv was nice to Noemie, too,
and the other folks over at
All Life Is Precious, even
though he wasn't a member.
It was the same with Simcha
and the Tikkun Olam Collective;
Shiv would pitch in despite
not even being Jewish.
Simcha wasn't sure what
faith Shiv followed, if any --
quite possibly, none at all.
It still felt good to see
the new kid fitting himself
into the weird little family
that made up Hanson Hall.
Shiv even ate like an alley cat.
He'd go for any kind of fish
or seafood that he could find.
With that thought in mind,
Simcha swung by the Canteen
to pick up something for lunch.
Offering in hand, he rapped
on the door to Shiv's studio.
When it opened, Simcha
held up the plate and said,
"I brought you a tuna melt. I
figured you might've gotten
busy with the benefit project
and forgotten to eat anything."
"Yeah, yeah," Shiv said, dragging
a hand through his head. "C'mon in."
Stepping inside, Simcha could see
the scatter of colored glass across
the top of Shiv's workbench, already
hinting at a sky of blues. "That
looks quite lovely," he observed.
"Thanks," Shiv said. As soon as
he sat down, he stuffed the sandwich
in his mouth, humming in pleasure.
"Oh, this is so fuckin' good."
"I'm glad you like it,"
Simcha said, and
bit into his bagel with
cream cheese and lox.
Shiv looked at him, and
then looked away again.
"How come you always
do that?" he asked.
"Do what?" said Simcha.
"Look happy whenever
someone else is happy,"
Shiv said. "Like me
enjoying a tuna melt."
"Firgun," Simcha said.
"It's Hebrew, for taking
joy in someone else's
pleasure or achievement.
Jews get knocked around
enough, we have to take
our happiness as we can."
"I know how that goes,"
Shiv muttered, fidgeting.
"Don't worry about it,"
Simcha said. "I'm just
generally a happy guy."
"Yeah, so ... you got
any other takers on
the auction?" Shiv said.
"We sure do," said Simcha.
"So far it's up to two dozen.
I think we will pull in plenty of
donations for earthquake relief."
"Good, that's good," said Shiv.
"They need all the help that
they can get, after that shit."
Simcha remembered that
the whole reason Shiv had
rented a studio here was
because he had given up
his old apartment to friends
displaced by the Big One.
"How are your friends doing?"
Simcha asked. "Are they okay?"
Shiv waffled a hand in the air.
"Okay-ish," he said. "Not injured,
but upset by what happened. I
think they're settling in, but
it's hard for me to tell."
"I'm sure they appreciate
your help," said Simcha.
"They're musicians, right?
You might invite them over
here, if they need a place
to practice or perform."
"Doubt they can afford it,"
Shiv said, shaking his head.
"Well, there's a new program
for refugees," Simcha said.
"It's at least worth exploring."
"Yeah, maybe," Shiv said.
He stuffed the last of the tuna
in his mouth, then ambled over
to a collection of soda bottles.
He picked them up, one by
one, and put them back, until
he found a couple that he liked.
"Here, these're kosher," Shiv said,
offering one to Simcha. "I got 'em
in the Canteen the other day."
Simcha recognized them as
Rose's Sweetened Lime Juice.
"Thank you," he said, taking one.
The bottle felt surprisingly cold.
The flavor was sweet-sharp,
and Shiv seemed to enjoy it
as much as Simcha did, while
most people found it too strong.
Simcha thought that it suited him,
because Shiv was all sharp edges
himself, but sweet underneath
where few people would find it.
That was why Simcha liked him.
* * *
Notes:
This poem is long, so its notes appear elsewhere.