Katharyn Machan Aal
EQUINOX
A.R.C Finch
AMERICA
Dorothy Tobe
PEONIES
Karen Chase
DAYS IN FEBRUARY
D. Castleman
MARVEL
DIGNITY BLUSHES
JUDAS INQUIRES OF THE FACE IN THE POOL
DESIRE IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEAST
Aleka Chase
A CONDITION OF HEALTH
Kirk Wilson
PROPHECY & FAMILIES
Mark Rich 1NIGHT VISION
Joel Dailey
LAPSE
CURTAINS FOR AL
FLEEING DETAILS
Hal J. Daniel III 1RUNNING OFF
Eileen Malone
THE ANTIQUE SHOW
MEMORY
Gregg Hodges
GLASSES ARE USEFUL EVEN IN DREAMS
James W. Penha
WELDON KEES FOUND
John A. Youril
HIEROGLYPH 3
Judith Neeld
PRETORIA : THREE VOICES
THE HOUSE OF RECEIVING
FIRST YEAR OF THE VINE
Steve Klepetear
THE WEARY-MAN COUNTS HIS BLESSINGS
Maura Liebman
IS THIS REALLY YOU?
Carolyn J. Fairweather Hughes
YOU HURT MY HEAD
Austin Straus
THE PROCESS/2
THE PROCESS/4
THE PROCESS/6
THE PROCESS/7/2
Muriel Karr
COMING CLOSER
Douglas A. Mendini
THE LITTLE SPARROW
Sheila E. Murphy
CONTROL
J. A. Miller
POETIC COMMISSAR
Pat Hoffmann Francis
(untitled)
Mike Manis
WHERE IS THERE PEACE
Dan Gribbin
THE PETALFALL OF DOGWOOD
Notes on the contributors
Illustrations:
Margaret Anne Cleek
Walt Phillips
Cover:
Margaret Anne Cleek
that seem to echo laughter. He
is waiting for her slow descent
to end, will reach with bloodless hand
for hair and skin still fragrant
with her mother's grain and blossom,
cloak sweet and damp from morning's
lingering rain. Ah, touch. Ah, warmth
of all her youth as she recoils
from icy tongue, grip that bruises
and makes her winter's own. Again
he'll give her silver, onyx, uncut
diamond., all the coldest
treasure of his throne. But she
will always turn her face, count weeks
like seeds torn from the reddest
fruit she knows.
What were those monuments, the ones I felt
around in death to find, and always found--
which princes' tombs were they--and mummied corpse--
and friend--and have no culture here, how lone-
ly without corpse or market square.
I have no death, which means I have no life--
no hope of monuments or fear or tombs--
I am an ugly child, doomed to kill
the ancestors' possessions with a shadowed blast
that all my towns make clear. I shut the door,
I close my life, I close my home, I close my ear.
I live a day in a desert. A whole night.
I live another day. I wait for night,
night, night, that has no markings right.
Wait for the markings. Go. This is your home,
so go from the markings, follow out the path,
since none are right. Go from the markings. Night.
The hieroglyphs of Egypt and the tombs of Rome,
the menhirs of the Druids and the markings there,
the chalk face on the hills, the bodies in the sand--
go from the markings, go, and find a helpful land.
So in the warm night where the ship of air It was I not there that moment. She might have picked me up then and seen I am afraid to steal them, will rise from the stems, such expanse widens this must be sadness the ground is white sadness your name metaphor
windworld the wind towards what
once I studied astronomy I kept looking up
towards what places of worship
How naturally we age Crows feet and worry lines A voyager probes unknown space
* * * Like two people We would discuss
the ages of our children We would keep our faces
* * * I construct and tell myself tomorrow
* * * picture a stroke Imagine a feather coming loose
1.
2.
3. Cruelly One puny word we said that we should not One gesture from the lit moon of an eye Dignity is wounded by deep nothings, You will be given a toad Do not ask for more. You've distinguished lone fowl wing pilgrimage on Pensively the sails bend from the harbor unheralded, The grapes winnow' up the field, are burst by females
Alas, my babe, I am no better and no worse, for so My place is not here, in your world but in some wilder one
where I tear meaning where anger has wings
Today I'm catching bullets Nostradamus poor bastard
At night windows look not outward but inward. into inverse sharpness, as in that pane of glass at the odd bold moment with us both in embrace,
The rain sounded like someone walking around in "Someone dropped a dime on Al," Vinny the His son he would grapple Old friends and the muskrats He never got hungry He walks the gray sand now, He fingers taupe and dusty rose chiffon Steam rises from my raincoat I begin to float around myself Through myself, I reach forward My hand, a tired bird in his, Somewhere, behind me, My ancestors drank blood from skulls Cut down in a pagan, fertile summer In the sun overdose film maker, and a painter An ominous eternity lurks over the sand A pause in the labyrinth is all that remains Among the statues that we plant like wheat We are surprised by the pain.
Afterwards There are hungers.
Permit the bullion through-- Age But today this woman walks She is of those whose blood slows The Death
2.
3.
4. It could be worse. Working in sewers would be worse, We have blessings to count Come, be of good cheer! "Behold, the day is passing swiftly over, Leave the seminars alone, Shoulder your red pencils, There is work for us to do, Shadows fall across your face, I'm just drivin' in my car, We once played together Gold crosses hang around your neck, but I cannot take my eyes I smile Ubiquitous stew of words to dip into You let this stand for that and such and such And yet you hesitate in your translation Is one ever even partly comprehended? Yet I write as if I were still there
The closer I peer the stranger IT
becomes. One world disappears
into another, rules reverse,
inhabitants grow limbs and eyes, their
babble indecipherable, movements
random, poetry unknowable.
Words, where do you aim? At
Platoed furniture which
disintegrates upon clumsily carried out
inspection? Words,
fictions, self-referring entities, a closed
universe of paragraphs, a weave of lies.
There's nothing nameable out there,
(names being arbitrary, nothing but jokes)
there's nothing graspable out there
(phenomena fall apart when tightly squeezed)
there's only whatever's out there
out there.
And we, screeching at each other
of truth
and reality
and the world words mean...
Where in the void are we
and what in hell are we gibbering about?
The end of philosophy is the end of Where are words then? Lost in the Oh poets, do we need all this It's a battle
Words
causing headache Words, only words
make word-bits as real or as fake Magic that disappears the magician. Symbols that stand for nothing/that detached, Trunksful of deadly stickers, fistsful Use with discretion. Approach with caution. only words.
Watch the hands of the one pouring tea Twice it happened. And the second time wasn't much of
a surprise. But the first time blew me away. Oh, I guess
it was still Saigon. Yeah, in '70. I was with Kentucky and
the little guy. You know who I mean. We were in all those
pictures together. Right! The little guy. In this bar on some un-fucking-believable street, we
went for some brews. The three of us. Beat buddies. Pals.
The Three Musketeers. Kentucky was always with me and the
little guy, too, but he hardly ever said anything. And he
never did anything that we didn't do first. But I guess you
could expect that from someone from his grandmother's
backyard. Anyway, the three of us were there, in this cruddy
bar. You know the scene, man, shit all over the place. And
smoke, fucking yellow whores--white ones, too--stupid Yanks
with their dicks so hard they could have swatted baseballs
with them. They were stupid, Wan. Real plain stupid. And
today, they're probably going crazier because they want
kids. (The wife screams: "I want your kids!") But they
won't be having any kids, because they lost their ammo in
some whorehouse in Saigon. Kentucky and I were never that
stupid. I don't have to spell it out, do I? You know
what I mean. So ... we're in this bar, right, and we go over to the jukebox. And there's nothing on the box. Except
this one name. One fucking woman on the whole thing. I
didn't know who she was. The little guy couldn't read
English, I don't think. Kentucky--I told you he was from
Kentucky Avenue in Atlantic City, didn't I?--told me who she
was. Her name was Edith Piaf, right? Piaf. Or something
real close to that. And he said she was French. See, Nam
was owned by the French before we started renting it by the
decade. Kentucky told me all about her. She was a singer,
alright. So what, I said. Diana Ross and the Supremes are
singers, too, but "Baby Love" wasn't on this box. He said
Piaf was a real singer. That people listened to her like
they listened to politicians. That she was important. It
didn't make a lot of sense to me. I told him that I would listen to one song she did.
It was something about looking at life through colored
glasses. It seemed like a good idea, since we were looking
at the world through piles of shit. Well, the song was good, I guess. But it was in
French. I couldn't understand it. The little guy said,
like he was real into music, that he 'felt' it. I said I
could feel it too. It was the words I couldn't figure out. A sailor from New York or someplace turned around to
me. He said that Piaf had been a whore, I think, and then
she started singing and all of a sudden she wasn't a whore
anymore, she was rich and famous and loved all over the
world. So, listen to what she did: she started doing real
heavy drugs, right? Not the shit us guys were doing ..
real heavy shit. And then everything fell out from under
her. And she died poor again. What a fucking bitch, I told
the guy from the city. Did I tell you about the second time it happened? No, I guess I didn't. Well, me and Lora Smith were out
dancing at the firehouse in Tannerville. And at the
firehouse they have a club room in the back. Real fancy and
private. Lora wanted to get to know me better, you know
what I mean? So, what else could I do? I took her back
into that club room. But she got all nervous and shit. And
she said she needed a drink. I went and got her one of
those ready-mixed whiskey-and-Seven-Ups. But by the time I
came back she was standing over the jukebox. She said,
"Come over here and look at this. What does it mean?" "What?" "Look." "So?" I said. "What the fuck does all that mean? Is that music? I
can't understand a word of it. Not at all. It must be some
other language." "That's Edith Piaf. She's French. She's an important
singer," I told her. "French?" "Yeah, French." I handed her the drink. "Thanks. Why are all these songs in French?" "Because she didn't sing in English." "But why are they here?" I didn't have the answer to that right away. But I
found out. The Turk, I bear, spends all his time at the
firehouse. And The Turk has all this money (I hear he
bought his Ford pick-up with cash), and he likes Edith Piaf
records. I was told that when The Turk was in World War II,
he was stationed in France and fell in love with "The Little
Sparrow." That's what Piaf was called. The Little Sparrow.
So when The Turk had enough money he bought a jukebox for
the firehouse and put all of her records in it. Now he
spends all his time listening to her. Have you seen The Turk? He's about 300 pounds and all
he ever does is sit. I don't understand people like him. He collected all
kinds of money when he was in his truck wreck out on the
interstate, but now instead of doing something, I mean doing
something different every day, he just sits around and
listens to music, to songs in a different language. I've been saving my money. I told you I still get a
check once a month from the government. (Last week Lora
wanted me to show her how much, but I didn't let her peek.
I think she wants to see bow much I collect just so she'll
figure on marrying me or not.) Anyway, when I gather up
enough money in my passbook, I'm going into Scranton or down
to Philly and pick up a jukebox of my own. And I'm going to put mine next to The Turk's, because I'm going to be rich
enough to join that ritzy club of his. And you know what
I'm going to put on my box? Ken, that's Kentucky's real name, says he's coming up
to see me. He's going to sit right next to me, here, right
on that stool. And we're going to lift up our mugs. Just
like in Saigon, but you know, we can't be as close of
friends as we were there. Hell, no. I don't know how I'm
going to explain all that to Lora. She'll figure it out, I
bet, when she looks into those pretty eyes of his. So ... you know what I'm going to put on my jukebox?
I'm going to get all those Supremes' records. You know,
before Diana Ross became so shit-ass big. I like music I
can understand. I had a nap starring selected permutations of next sitting How many people understand Russian If all the world's a stage, Sad bear, if summer's island became frozen Restless. You wander through summer's heat The river is your life. Your friend. And water you respect because it has blood.
The river sings an ongoing praise of life
A shower of pearl I stroke his fur They beg me KATHARYN MACHAN AAL is the Director of the Feminist Women's
Writing Workshops in Ithaca, NY. Her most recent collection
of poems is Alone The Rain Black Road (The Camel Press). D. CASTLEMAN was born 11 July 1949 in British Columbia and
schooled in Northern California. For money he drives a
lumber truck. He lives in a shanty in a redwood grove. ALEKA CHASE recently taught Creative Writing at San Francisco
State University and is currently editing Barque. She lives
in San Francisco with her two dogs, Thelonius Monk and
Ferdinand the Bull. KAREN CHASE teaches writing to hospitalized psychiatric
patients at The New York Hospital--Cornell Medical Center in
White Plains, NY. She has been awarded grants from the
Witter Bynner Foundation for Poetry, The Rockefeller
Foundation, and the van Ameringen Foundation. She lives
with her husband in Lenox, MA. MARGARET ANNE CLEEK is an Industrial/Organization
Psychologist born in San Francisco. She currently lives in
Asheville, NC with her husband, son, and two Alaskan
Malamutes; and is an assistant professor at the University
of North Carolina--Asheville. JOEL DAILEY teaches English at the University of New
Orleans. His poems have appeared recently in Rolling Stone,
The Wormwood Review, Luna Tack, Pulpsmith, and Exquisite
Corpse. His is the editor of Acre Press. HAL J. DANIEL III is a professor at East Carolina
University. His third collection of poetry, Recovery From d
Serious illness, is looking for a publisher. A.R.C. FINCH has published poems in several small magazines,
and written two verse plays under the direction of Ntozake
Shange at the University of Houston. She is currently
planning to study feminist literary theory at Stanford. PAT HOFFMANN FRANCIS lives in Plattsburgh, NY. DAN GRIBBIN teaches English at Ferrum College, and is a
poetry editor of Artemis. GREGG HODGES was the John Atherton Scholar in Poetry at the
1985 Breadloaf Writers' Conference. He has numerous
publications and is currently teaching English at Iowa State
University. CAROLYN J. FAIRWEATHER HUGHES lives with her husband and two
teenaged daughters in Pittsburgh, Pa. Her poems have
appeared in The Vanderbilt Street Review, The Black Fly Review, Forma, and numerous other magazines and anthologies. MURIEL KARR was born in Massachusetts, and taught French and
German in colleges in Maine and Indiana. Now she lives in
San Rafael, CA and earns money as a secretary/word processor. STEVE KLEPETAR has taught literature and writing for the past
11 years. He currently teaches at St. Cloud State
University in Minnesota. He has published in numerous
little magazines, including Hid-American Review, Poem, and
The Milkweed Chronicle. He has been overheard to claim
predominance among Shanghai-born, Jewish-American poets
living in Central Minnesota. MAURA LIEBMAN "I like gray owls that fly across the campus
in the dusk, walking the back road to the mall, laughing in
the sunshine ... and running with my Golden Retriever ..." RICHARD LONG currently lives in Buffalo, NY. His poems have
appeared recently in The Arts Journal, Negative Capability,
The Texas Review, and A Carolina Literary Companion. EILEEN MALONE makes her living from freelancing and teaching
English at a community college. Her poetry and short
stories have been published in various literary magazines,
and she edits an equestrian newsletter. MIKE MANIS is a behavioral therapist working with autistic
children and adults in Orlando, FL. He has been published in numerous magazines, including Poetry, New Voices, The Arts
Journal and Earthwise. DOUGLAS A. MENDINI has published fiction and poetry in
Hoboken Terminal, Descant, Swallow's Tale, Stone Country,
Voices International, and others. His plays include
"Katherine the Great," the currently running "Timmy Kills
Lassie On Christmas Day," and the upcoming "Flood". J. A. MILLER has been published widely in the past several
years, including Manhattan Poetry Review, Descant,
Commonweal, The Gamut, and Croton Review. SHEILA E. MURPHY lives in Phoenix, AZ. JUDITH NEELD received the 1985 Poetry Society of America
Emily Dickinson Award. Her poems appear in such journals as
The Poetry Review, The Greenfield Review, Calyx, Mid-American
Review, et al. Since 1974 she has edited Stone Country. JAMES W. PENHA grew up writing in New York City and is
surprised to find himself conducting academic affairs for
the University of Detroit, sharing his home with a basset hound and searching for the big, two-hearted river. WALT PHILLIPS is a poet and artist with numerous
publications. Recently, Pinchpenny has featured his
drawings, and his poems and drawings have appeared in
Samisdat. MARK RICH has published poetry and fiction in Poem, Impetus,
Visions, Riverside Quarterly, Pandora, and others. He
lives in Beloit, WI and is the Co-editor of The Magazine Of
Speculative Poetry.. AUSTIN STRAUS was born in Brooklyn in 1939. Antiwar
activist, former S.W. Regional Coordinator of Amnesty
International USA. Painter, collagist, printmaker.
Originator and co-host of Pacifica Foundation's Poetry
Connection on KPFK in Los Angeles. DOROTHY TOBE was born in 1962 in Ft. Recovery, OH. She
studied creative writing under Bruce Weigl at Old Dominion
University, where she received her M.A. She is currently
job hunting. KIRK WILSON lives in the woods outside Plum, TX, working as a freelance writer and filmmaker. His current
assignments include a documentary film on the destruction of
a bird habitat for The Audubon Society. The Early Word, a
chapbook of his poems, was published by Burning Deck in 1972. JOHN A. YOURIL is a writer and artist currently living in
Asheville, North Carolina.
rocks in the night's sad music, I am gone
into another jungle, where the tombs
I've never seen still run outside my blood,
and too close languages stare in my face.
Mark Rich
PUTTING IT RIGHT THERE
Such mindfulness is meant to be disrupted
by creative disorder. I see her
with late light dim above computer
continuing where she might have been interrupted.
I should have been book tilting from shelf
falling just then to carpet, opening
to a page well rested yet dormant.
that word placed before all others
in hard copy. I would be there on white paper
wondering myself what I might mean.
Dorothy Tobe
PEONIES
I want to pick the peony blossoms
spread over stones in the graveyard.
I imagine they draw from the dead
a smell of faint agony
like carnations, roses, like peonies.
especially at night
when shadows move with the trees
to follow me, touch my heels
and pull back into the moon.
I may bring a soul back with me,
caught up in stems that bleed in my hands.
And in daylight
the caretakers may catch me,
my arms blooming pink and white petals.
Spirits will follow,
entwine from the fragrance.
As I sleep, wispy torsos
float above my bed,
look at me, touch me,
breathe open my eyes.
Karen Chase
DAYS IN FEBRUARY
it's been snowing
since sunday night
the far side of the lake
has been taken over
by the onslaught
within me now
familiar lines
of landscape fade
nothing much interrupts it
there's no mishap in sight
no call to action
no distraction
here I am with you
name sadness
I never knew what to call you
I tried foreign words
italian sadness
I tried nicknames
a nickname for sadness
Karen Chase
at night
to look up
stars sky space
to learn more
yet the sky
held its thrill
to the barn
light ebbs
the land is still
cows walk to be fed
dot the land
days opens wide
its morning
it's light
I've lost why
Richard Long
OUT OF TIME
have marked us. Our faces
erode to the look of mountains
Our vision fails us
and only with glasses can we see
the river flowing at its own pace
consistent as high and low tides
everything passes
moving toward the infinite
Atoms composing our bodies
move at light speed
spinning away
from the oblivious tick
we strap to our wrists
who once loved each other
we pass unknowingly
rushing to work
to buy groceries
wherever
and stopped to talk
our voices would sound strange
as if heard long distance
after years of separation
the neighbors who complain too much
and the worries
that shadow our eyes
peeled to the cracks of the sidewalk
or watch people passing in and out of doors
or cars speeding over the hill
to places we never dream of
the cancer of dreams
the contents of my jean pockets
an agate marble, a wooden heart
a knife, loose change and keys
I'll go and have my lungs checked
and go to bed dealing
wishing on any star
the scanner has found them free
of tumors eating the organs that let me breathe
of good luck
the image of playing
in the sun
and being tanned
watching the birds
dive for the crumbs
you throw in the air
high as you can
the gravity of its suspension
striking down all concepts
leaving you weightless
and ignorant of time
Richard Long
THE ALTERED PLOT
Weeds that hide the plain family markers
have roots too deep for such crippled hands
to pull. She staggers to her corned feet
and laughs to think that someone unaware
would mistake her frame for a skeleton
risen from the earth. "Better a scarecrow
without stuffing," and scans the vaults that scar
the flowered hills, whose mighty names
their deeds enshrined in monumental stone
as if they sought the sun to warm them underground
evoke no awe
Stooped again among the weeds and wild onion
she shuts the heavy doors of her eyes
and is blinded by the dazzle
of her memory: the beauty she was with long, night hair
and the smile and the walk that made a soldier stop
and be at ease with the unimaginable absence
of war; their troubled son who crafted wallets
but never fattened his back pocket
and the doll of their daughter
ravished by Baltimore. In the attic of her mind
they stand in a brilliant row of whitewashed crosses
but her colon is the ache of a broken heart
deeper than love or history
and bad bowels alter the preparation of the plot
and so she summons her lineage home
then serves them ham and rich banana pudding
and issues her final maternal command
to celebrate her passage from this sad world
and she discourses upon her certainty
that she will rise to the light of his glory
in the body of sweet, sweet Jesus
who is the breeze on which
her spirit will soar
D. Castleman
MARVEL
Rebecca wanders
in the milky west alone,
and silent as the sunswept stones
she puts off her life,
merely to imagine
one productive quest
as if the old moon
to the old sun shone.
life's ribald pasquinade
binds our convoluted fates
to her musings,
as if the humors
of one morning that unwinds
might somehow be pacified
without her choosing.
and plays a doleful palm
about her breast,
unworried of those various ways
withholding that thin
and opiate calm,
so heedless of the price
to still the maze.
D. Castleman
DIGNITY BLUSHES
Life's profoundest issue is not of death
but of that disquiet we burden our souls
by, and which is known to none else of breath:
it's the bell that in the mind's silence tolls.
have said, might wake those chapels ringing hard
with bells announcing contrapuntal thought
and vicious inklings that will not be barred.
might damn this heart of ours we watch within,
and we can brood for hours on one slight lie
cast in the black significance of sin.
annihilated by imagined stings.
D. Castleman
JUDAS INQUIRES OF THE FACE IN THE POOL
Mercy?
You ask for mercy?
and a bucket of salt,
nothing more.
There is none.
D. Castleman
DESIRE IS THE EYE OF THE BEAST
With my hand I trace your hand, unweaponed babe,
and with human lip
embrace fragrance of your skin, unsullied, without
scent of mortality
yet encrusted. We accept easily you know nothing,
although you assume
and witness enormity with a frightening clarity and
with a purity
relinquished by ourselves. Much paused with a falling
seed.
heavenly avenue, so
intensely desirous of roost in one ampler world by them
sedulously gathered,
once in time's lighter mood. Abusers of the vision of
innocence, we
acknowledge all absence of twilight, and the confusion
of beast and infant.
wreathlessly,
requesting waters to lend balance. Beneath our
waters' humbling urge
moves maelstrom, yet the sea forgives a floating
existence, submits.
brutal and fantastic,
by males too accusative of less than you, (mild
child,) and lascivious lips
unzip to incur the sweet juice and it plunges madly
within seamy tissues
unctuously and limps in stale rivulets animal maws and
animal bellies
earthward, bloodily to burnish costumes with a martial
vehemence.
gratefully I pull
the luscious blood and grovel unminded and maudlin,
and, the damp nightmare
you suck so thickly channels your challenging streams
and kills you.
Aleka Chase
A CONDITION OF HEALTH
This was once an apology.
of steady nurturing
limb from limb
and slashes the familial air
Kirk Wilson
PROPHECY & FAMILIES
What shall we say of the future?
with my teeth, tomorrow
(bring me spirits) some spread-
legged valley to lie in,
golden pubis a memory to carry
sideways into darkness
the night my molecules dissolve.
saw me sniffing distant bombs
& said so--to what pain
& dismay? But how could he
be silent, anymore
than I can, looking out
at tousled-headed children
& some of them his own?
Mark Rich
NIGHT VISION
(For Molly)
i turn pages beneath my desk light and see
pages turning backwards, in the darkness mirrored.
I would have these past few days so clearly
spread before me, memories recessing forward
true reflections, with unfamiliarity in reversal:
if I could lift the lampshade and then let pass
nearby imitations of those events, a post-rehearsal
of what has been, then hold where I found impasse
I would place lanterns behind each of our eyes
to turn coinciding gazes back upon their trace
where they might find the source of their surprise;
then would I let events roll back to place.
Joel Dailey
LAPSE
(for Molly)
the next room as if he owned the place.
It had been raining for too long. Everybody in
the county was depressed.
Studies concerning the delicate relationship
between weather patterns and the subtle workings of
the human soul were initiated at the State University.
Local gossip over coffee and cigarettes still
anointed the air, but it, like everyone else, had to
dodge raindrops to get around town.
The joke at many a pair of lips had to do with a
guy named Noah on Pleasant Street and something
looking like a boat in his backyard.
Still it poured.
Why is God pissing on us? a drunk, on his knees,
demanded of a dark sky.
The rain had misplaced both dictionary and
thesaurus. Stop, cease, end, finish, halt ...
Halt! or I'll shoot
...arrest...
You're under arrest. You have the right to
remain silent, and to stop raining.
...suspend, interrupt...
Excuse me, but could you please stop
downpouring?
...stall, still...
It's quiet, Emma. A little too quiet...
It's the rain, Caleb! I don't hear it! We're
saved!
...turn off, shut off, desist, discontinue...
I'm sorry, but this particular line of rain has
been discontinued. Try writing directly to the
manufacturer. They may have more in stock.
...quit...
You can't fire me! I quit!
...cut off, let up, terminate, terminate,
terminate.
Streams ballooned into mighty rivers,
rivers
achieved ocean status quickly.
Boats became necessary. Entire families moved
to
rooftops to stay above the increasing water line.
Even when asked politely, proper etiquette
administered by the Town Librarian, the rain refused
to stop.
Community tears soon added to the rising water.
It rained on toast and eggs overeasy with sausage
as well as on salisbury steak with gravy, boiled
potatoes, green beans and salad.
Glasses, drawers, boxes, refrigerators, ovens,
dreams, all were brimming with rainwater.
The Reverend mumbled lengthy prayers, the Police
Chief nailed up Wanted posters, the newspaper editor
agonized over arid editorials, the local poet burnt
his copy of Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient
Mariner. Mr. Mayor even offered his resignation--all
to no avail.
Then the drownings began. Whole families
were
washed away to God Knows where. Merchants vanished
with their goods, as did consumers. Arms, legs akimbo
could be seen carried down main Street by the powerful
currents.
There was never even a slight lapse in the rain's
cruel barrage.
Then it just stopped.
Heads poked out of high and dry hiding places to
watch the flood waters recede.
A month later some guy sat in Happy's Lounge
complaining about the drought.
Joel Dailey
CURTAINS FOR AL
(For Haug)
Foot told The Razor outside Guido's Lounge.
"No!" The Razor protested.
"Yup."
"Not on Al!" The Razor carried on.
"Horrible, huh?" Vinny agreed. "Way I hear
it the poor guy was nickel & dimed to death. And
that's not all either..."
"What else?" The Razor demanded.
Vinny stared at The Razor hard. Then he grinned.
"The Finger's been put on his moniker," Vinny
trumped.
"Geez, old Al's up against it!"
"Brother," Vinny observed, "he's way past
'up against it'--he's it."
Joel Dailey
FLEEING DETAILS
The landlord complains about the noise.
He is beaten to death with his firstborn's body.
Squad cars galore; police lights wash the neighborhood
in red panic.
"Don't leave one stone unturned!" the Sergeant screams
through his white bullhorn.
A rookie cop is bent over in the vicinity of the
driveway picking up rocks.
Hal J. Daniel III
RUNNING OFF
He once caught the red drum
at the Shady Banks pier,
before the river turned to coffee
sometime last year.
every clam brought a cheer
before his river turned to coffee
sometime last year.
ate blue flag, drank beer
before the river turned to coffee
sometime last year.
never shed a green tear
before the river turned to coffee
sometime last year.
the mud future unclear
above the river dregged coffee,
leaving next year?
Eileen Malone
THE ANTIQUE SHOW
The auditorium is tropical.
Windows weep against the rain
and the heat, sullen,
attaches itself
as my private atmosphere.
speaking drowsily of pigeon blood glass.
enfolding me, heavy and slow.
as a lady in emerald fringe,
applying lavender water,
jingles garnets at her wrist.
I enter without resistance
plans within plans,
known human imprints.
to a solid crystal paperweight.
Plunged within, suspended,
is a single violet.
Am I becoming part of
someone else's possessions?
he leads me through the doors.
There is cold, blowing rain
and revelation.
-perhaps farther than I know-
is a young girl who captured her moments.
They remain and wait
-could it be for me?-
forever,
in crystal,
like memories,
like violets.
Eileen Malone
MEMORY
There are no trees on the hill
just strewn straw, no grass.
The cows dumbly swish the heat
concentration-camped
long forgetting
there could be something else.
with no dilution
plunging their Druid spirits
into trees and animals
stickily
as heated honey.
Did they realize what happened?
I watch the cows.
The air is heavy with hell smells.
Is it thirst?
Is it homesickness?
For what?
Gregg Hodges
GLASSES ARE USEFUL EVEN IN DREAMS
I choose to wear them when the moon
searches in the clear window. Yellow
and lovely when crisp, its light spills
over the barn's weathered planks.
The shingles tremble with love of rain
on a moonlit night. The owl's eyes
and talons and cries are sharper.
I can see the mouse hug the ground beneath
the tree posing a more precise pattern
against the blueblack sky. The wind
is steady on the wire running through
the circus of my room, and my reach
toward certain visible stars stretches.
James W. Penha
WELDON KEES FOUND
In Four Pages Of Hayden Carruth's Anthology Of Modern American Poetry
Kees was a
(A Collage Of Carruth's Headnote And Kees' Poems)
Golden
poet,
augmented by a tenor sax
when he moved,
fiction writer,
agitated, almost angry,
Kees was,
critic
both of suicide and of
a contra-bassoon played
by a worn-looking
composer
(chiefly in jazz),
some critics believe.
Kees was a
photographer
of a dead waltz
and
because he had spoken
(chiefly in jazz)
associated
in jazz
with
the fat woman
associated with
Willem de Kooning and
the sound of beating
associated with
Hans Hoffman
His fate remains ...
Born in Nebraska, he
could not count
(chiefly in jazz)
all the miscarriages.
Kees
worked
after the healing
abroad
in New York until 1951 when he moved
his fate
to San Francisco.
A wayward dance proceeds
near the Golden Gate Bridge.
In 1955 he
chiefly
disappeared.
A short ejaculation from the fifes.
His
photographer and a film maker and a
car was found
covered with spiderwebs
moved to San Francisco
near the Golden Gate Bridge;
pieces of old fruit came
in and were left by the tide;
but because he had
walked into the water
under an assumed name,
spoken
and died
with Willem de Kooning and Hans Hoffman
both
walked into the water and died
of suicide
because he had spoken
thinks about the human condition
and of retiring abroad
(chiefly in jazz)
under
the water and
an assumed name,
Kees,
his fate
is classical in form.
Kees
remains
Kees was
under the water and
(chiefly in jazz)
a little
conjectural
rosin
remains
on his bow.
John A. Youril
HIEROGLYPH 3
What can be said of the lives we have wasted here
The blood and breath that we have chained
to the rock
The thoughts we have let perish on the dark sword
of our days.
While the bleak game continues over the
final catastrophe of time.
We are the death here
And the mindless avenging hand.
of our love
A moment stolen from confusion
A ripple in the endless darkness
A cold and tattered instinct for our home.
And the grim nameless stones scattered in
our unholy fields
What disembodied voices still scream in our winds
What endless dreams of theirs still violate
our sleep.
Judith Neeld
PRETORIA: THREE VOICES
The
sentence
is
as if
to spiders.
Any road you
take
reaches us.
Anywhere
our
hands
will bury
the webbed
light years.
when you look
into
your palms
nothing is there
but
a new
visitation
comes.
You will
receive
it.
us
to know
the weft
of prisons:
together
we
learn
their rules
and
one more
way
to die.
Judith Neeld
THE HOUSE OF RECEIVING
The Gift
Sun honors the dust as gold
after the lineal rain.
in the house
a room is chosen to filter
a bowl
when, as clouds return
it is stored for someone
who will put in her hands to stir
the light
but will not steal it.
Where the land is, there will be
ocean in 4,000 years--
its sediment holding her fossil
whose print is the vein
building
a new mother lode.
the tenacious edge
counting
the little stones that were whales' ribs
sharks' teeth, counting
the fungi she calls earth stars
There are more like these
at home
where the scavenging collects.
who foretell
the barrenness of each coast
and require an accounting for each
seedless month.
The lining of home
pads her year's floor, as winter
returns winter.
It is a grass shaded
to match
the brittle fur of a mole
the woman has found unburied.
When there is rain now
when the ground pours
tunnels
open like the runs in a cloth
that has spent its youth.
And the frayed water
washes
this small
enemy
into her hand.
Judith Neeld
FIRST YEAR OF THE VINE
1.
Winter, and the terrible patience
of her seed
when nothing grows.
Then, too little time:
she goes from leaf to flower
to fruit
the cartography of ruin
trolling
each indescribable step.
Stem and roots clawing
raw
and the damned
sun straddles her bed.
After it
this earth wrinkle's shingled
in green.
No one said: hold on
Hold on or die.
The line is straight enough
from hunger up.
Steve Klepetar
THE WEARY MAN COUNTS HIS BLESSINGS
Or
There Are Worse Things Than Teaching Composition
At Mosquito County Community College
the congenitally sullen glare,
slumped, bolted to pastel chairs
feeding on mixed metaphors,
slime participles
that wriggle and dangle,
and comma splices,
raw.
The high schools teem with razor blades
and gloves.
Alien, antennae bobbing,
students glide along halls like sharks.
Teachers huddle in their fragile cages,
a timid school of Jacques Cousteau at bay!
summer anyway.
Rabies would be worse,
and rashes,
and amoeba Anthropologists pick up
in places that have names repeated twice
(like Pago-Pago
or Tango-Tango)
and leprosy would certainly be worse!
and homes to count them in.
Most of us have all our limbs
and some have most of our hair!
Carve the turkey and let's give thanks
that it is not our livers we must eat,
that we are not chained to rocks,
that earthquakes haven't swallowed us
or lava buried us
or the tse-tse fly whispered in our ears.
our life is passing swiftly over;
and the night cometh, when no man
(or woman, I would add, Carlyle, Carlyle)
can work."
forget the high-numbered literary plums.
heft your handbooks high
colleagues,
and rejoice!
and we have numbers of our own!
Maura Liebman
IS THIS REALLY YOU?
Gold crosses hang around your neck,
and you wear a black lace dress.
I haven't seen you for a long time,
and I'm havin' trouble seein'
this is really you.
I keep waitin' to hear.
Is this really you?
you stand in the doorway of that place,
and rain falls before your pretty face.
You stand alone
in the quiet night,
watching the rain hit
the windows of the Porn Palace.
I heard the singer at the corner bar,
I don't believe my eyes are right.
This can't be you.
when we were kids on Seventh Street.
We rode our bikes,
we laughed at whether
we'd grow up to live
on the other side.
We played on the railroad tracks,
We walked through the dump
by the river,
and smoked dirty cigarettes.
and you wear a black lace dress.
I haven't seen you for a long time,
and I'm havin' trouble seein'
this is really you.
Is this really you?
Carolyn J. Fairweather Hughes
YOU HURT MT HEAD
with your cacophony.
I hold palms over ears
to stop the brittle shock
of words,
from your mouth,
the way it moves
animating
a silent screen face.
mime your pouting lips
and dream your voice
a ribbon of blue silk
that gently strokes my skin.
Austin Straus
THE PROCESS/2
expectantly; the world lurching at you
chaotically; aiming to avoid
calling things by their usual names
you risk misunderstanding.
sea, the sky, sky, and all the rest,
with colors, shapes, conditions, textures
to reflect your mental weathers.
To skirt utter obscurity
mean so and so; dark and light, loud and
soft, cold and hot, dull and bright, all
opposition a music of nuance along a
private spectrum made public by your art.
from world to word and back; what means
"burnt moons" or "stung blossoms"
to one not there when
the world punched such phrases from you?
Is all communication crippled? My sense
is often to myself elusive. I'm not the same man
who now plunked down at desk to type
was last week smacked by a full-lipped sun.
tonguing that deep pink sky, as if memory
were infallible, as if you my listener
had taken a similar sun into your mouth
and
sucked it fiery down.
Austin Straus
THE PROCESS/4
I get none of it right. I don't even know
who you are.
Austin Straus
THE PROCESS/6
No words left (he said,
contradicting himself again), nothing
to paint stuff with, refusing at last
to add subtract multiply
or
divide things with words.
poetry is the end of speech.
To be. To feel. To let the world's
oomph dazzle. To be part of
the dazzle.
zap. Sizzled and singed and fried
like so many locusts in fire.
Where are words when you're ducking wild waves
trying not to drown?
blab? Words that screen us, words
that murder. Maimed and private,
out of habit I mumble. Strive
for peace, eloquence louder than drums,
quietly effective.
to the death.
Austin Straus
THE PROCESS/7/2
Words
insects
nibbling at the world
clinging to carved parts
haphazardly, unreasonably,
with little lettery teeth.
shooting off objects into my eyes with
darting vowels
poisoned consonants
dizzying arrows of noise
weltschmerz
angst
and other Germanic discomforts.
which devour things, leave hollow props
and empty outlines
as the world's real/fake pieces.
themselves become objects, the object
of symbols.
of pain.
Muriel Karr
COMING CLOSER
My truths are approximate; not shameful, as you suggest,
but noble. When in doubt, my mother used to say
throw it out. I find new ways of pulling the bow,
cut pretty feathered shapes for all my new arrows,
keep careful records, which score, which colors,
which. As if the answer lay in choosing. What if
it doesn't. I save my thousand photographs,
linger while deciding which one to show you.
Each time, I might be coming closer, very close.
Or--this might be it. If I could decide.
in the Japanese ceremony, of the artist painting
a master stroke. Where is the art? At the tip
of the brush? In the fingers? If you drink deep
from my cup, where is what filled you? What
is the source, you must ask. I ask. But everyone
grows impatient with my questions, begins to tap
an angry foot. The waiting room is full.
I labor till the baby comes.
Who will be satisfied
with its name and sex?
Douglas A. Mendini
THE LITTLE SPARROW
Sheila E. Murphy
CONTROL
week that felt right. The night shift of imagination,
uncovered for a change. Crater with mind peering into
vacuum, television comfortable forehead, little
eyeholes. Inhaling vision substitute. Return to the
blank page. Pictures form like figures on cash
register window. Reflection, what we are afraid of.
J. A. Miller
POETIC COMMISSAR
in here? He spoke almost despairing.
Ten, fifteen people raised their hands.
The other hundred some from lands
elsewhere were already beyond caring,
though listened politely to his shouting.
Pat Hoffmann Francis
I'm worried.
Either my curtain never rose
or I closed--to bad reviews--
on the road.
Seems I've always wandered
in the wings
(ever second to Electra;
never my own damned spots)
praying that an angel
marquee me, that she
buy and wrap my instadream
of Broadway immortality
in cellophane,
and flash my name by god
in a sea of 40 watts.
nanny, maid, mother--
just character stuff.
No comic order, no tragic flaw
no center stage, no curtain calls.
Screwed,
no mistress lines are mine;
sacrificed, no martyr's.
God, I'm caught
in a dream Fellini gone awry--
too great a fool to know
there's no equity, no Godot,
just a deathbed cameo.
Mike Manis
WHERE IS THERE PEACE
Where is peace home, sad bear?
Will you follow your nose through gray fog.
What peace is there?
there shall be no song.
Where is peace home, sad bear?
without sleep. Afraid to surrender. Admit truly
your defeat.
You know no other way. Slap in a cool wave.
The river. Is the river peace? Home, sad bear.
Filled with drowned trout.
Is peace home there?
This peace and home are where
All home ducks fly. Naturally, we are free
bleeders. Wait for peace and home, sad bear.
Dan Gribbin
THE PETALFALL OF DOGWOOD
No spring can hold them long
silk memos
of a bursting dawn.
Deft fingers
zephyrescent
in a swirl
tug
downward
in slant diffusion
folding
soft.
tumbles.
Their latticework
of damp wrought branch
asserts itself
defaulting
to a birdsung breeze
the parting miracle.
the wilder cat
that haunts my wood.
Grey in his thickening trance
of summer sleep
he guards their heat.
falling
here
along the grass
to stay another spring.
I see. I know.
The petalfall
of dogwood
comes.
I go.
Margaret Anne Cleek
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