Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 22 no 4

8/8/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 22 no 4

1/34

2001

Ap

Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream


2/34

Waterways: Poetry in the MainstreamApril 2001

Piping in silvery thinSweet staccatoOf children's laughter

Lola Ridge "The Ghetto"


3/34

WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 22 Number 4 April, 2001Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara FisherThomas Perry, Admirable Factotum

c o n t e n t s

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $25 a year. Sample issues -$2.60 (incpostage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-21272001, Ten Penny Players Inc.

http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

James Penha 4-6Will Inman 7-9Joy Hewitt Mann 10-11Geoff Stevens 12Sylvia Manning 13-16

Paula Alida Roy 17-20Terry Thomas 21

Bill Roberts 22-25Lyn Lifshin 26Kit Knight 27-30Albert Huffstickler 31-32

cover photograph by B. Fisherfrontispiece Settei Hasegawa(1819-1882)
http://www.tenpennyplayers.org/http://www.tenpennyplayers.org/


4/34


5/34

School Crossing - James Penha

A red light stops mestranger here:I recognize scents of seepingseamsof hundreds of tiny cartons of milkand cookies,sawdust absorbing themonce eaten.

Elementary, my dear,as mine the yellow school busaccepting at threea skinny towhead with pink-framed glasses fighting myopiafrom filtrum to astonished eyebrows.I see them slide,

4


6/34

fall to the groundas he spins to beratethe little freckled girl whose nervescharge her brass-armored briefcase

pendulouslyfore and after enemies.Someone has stepped on his glasses!She laughs at blond tears,but comes to cry contrapuntallywhen told by a toothless mouth from somewhere inside the bus

that the cross-eyed fellow,one with a splotch on his shirt,has drawn a beagle brightly in yellowhighlighter on her briefcase.Screams and weeps!scabbed knees

5


7/34

and dry elbows,runny noses,no reposes!when all day foreheads knot with sumsthat will face times and divisions,x and y (or perhaps 2x),imaginary numbers and geometries, planeand solid!In the rear-view mirror I part my hairnow, know limits and probabilities,

but would not fly back with Peter Panhad I to learn all those vectors and angles again.I drive on

6


8/34

heavy swelter - will inman

heavy swelter. sun screams wet aira strong lad hoists a wrench, opens a fire plug, letsheaven rush pell-mell down a brick street. water costsbut what price that ferocious bursts of blisson near-naked bodies . . . hollering, laughing,

jumping like young goats. God for a little whilelooks the other way

7


9/34

hymn of untouchables - will inman

call not untouchable what god has made clean;these rags wrap sacred incarnationsthis child's nakedness is sky come plainin human flesh. Sing precious life's elation.

lotus blooms open eyes, green stem long down mud,out of dark rise floating rounded leavesout of dark these children blossom new faces of god;

these flowers fall, now sun-dance tree retrieves.

reach out to stroke these cursed creatures' skin,how fingers scorch against the rotten feelof precious lives, of nobles' karmic sin.cobra turned round inward, fathoms wrong with real.

8


10/34

lift up these eyes, raise high these broken hands,not begging, no! affirming sacred presence hereevery child begot unique, god willing minds

walking waters of impossibles steep fear

sound the trumpets of jeweled rajah, chief:welcome the denied ones inside the palace gate:lift every voice to heal the ages' briefand sing how raptures end this longest wait!

9


11/34

Dancing to the Radio - Joy Hewitt Mann

FatherI can still see your army boots, "spit-

polished" you liked to say, and my own patent-leathersblack and shiny as a cat's eye, balancedzig-zag to your dancing feetone-twoone-twoaround the kitchen tabledodging mother as she cleared the dishes.Your hands held my wrists gently, lifting me tip-toesas A String of Pearls caught us both.

10


12/34

I saw you turn and wink, and when you reached one handto pat her in retreatI almost fell.

I can still see your smileand hers.I have never quite regained my balance.

11


13/34

Laughter - Geoff Stevens

Laughter is a silvery sunshine mosaicoscillating on a stream of elation,

flowing from a tilted throatflung backwards to the sky,a tinkling of flowing waters,a gurgle, a gravel dragging surge,a racing emotion towards the roar of rapids,the crescendo, the echo, and the reverberation

12


14/34

East Texas Back-door Fugue - Sylvia Manning

Woodpecker in mid-winter oak

one of first or last in Appalachian hardwood chain

for here begins the hickory-oakthat go throughKentucky and beyondto shade the Long Trailto the northern border

hits it fast, relentless staccato, rat-a-tat-tat

Then moves over only yards of freeze-

tanned golden grass to trees

just barely north of first percussion taps

13


15/34

to rap againwith eight or ten hard"Nothing here matters but me"repeats, amazingly mechanically

like his first rift

Then drifts still farther north

letting wind chimeshear their sweetnessswiftly dominant in time

and unleafed space again

Letting your near silence, near the lake, reign.

Malakof

14


16/34

He Played for Jack - Sylvia Manning

He played for JackHe played for me

He played in the festival nightfor nobody

saxophone in darkparc des enfants

long after crowdsfor that spectcle had gone

sitting but unseenbeneath black treesbeside St. Lawrence

flowing diamond black itselfbelow deepest indigo, July sky

15


17/34

midnight, Kerouaclong back to sleep of course

alone, and the sax-man alone,the good healing Dr. Sax, as Jackwould have it

playing only by gift from the nightfor anyone who wandered off bright-lit beatific streetsto hear, in the hear and nowmade whole by perfect tone,the lonely saxophone.

Ju

16


18/34

A Fall Through Ice - Paula Alida Roy

Last winter he waddled across solid ice;his diaper wadded into red snowpants.

Back and forth behind his brotherhe flapped unfeathered wingsuntil his legs slid under the dock's edgewhere punky ice sucked his feetor maybe his bright boots tapdancingawakened a lake god who lured the sturdy boyto trade easy air for mysterious water,ride turtles to the beaver lodge,dive with loons, float beneath the water liliesfar beyond our watchful eyes.

17


19/34

However it was, the boots slipped in,but the wings angled to catch the dockand his soggy bottom came to rest

on slushy ice at the edge of sullen water.so he was plucked up cold and shaken,his bright blood slow while ours beat fast.

Later he steamed in the tubas we laughed at his narrative of the fall:"I went to say hi to the fishes," he explained,but we were not consoled and now we plothow to freeze solid all the dark waters of his world.

18


20/34

One Year - Paula Alida Ray

We watch from behind old masks as youtotter from table to bookcase,

careen off corners and staggerinto the dollhouse where you wobble,a towering baby giant.

Your sister watches waryas a gazelle at the watering hole:she knows what she has to lose as you toddlearound like a medicine man peddling

your blue eyes like snake oil.

19


21/34

You wear neither mask nor halo,just the badges of one year's survival:tiny scars, an appetite for more,

a tentative string of vowels and consonants,and now and then other faces.

They inhabit yours, familiar and unknown,claimed and disowned we're not surewe want to see them and even if we do,how do they see us through your eyes?

20


22/34

A Fear of White Falling - Terry Thomas

Heard more snow dropping from junipers.

Scared me the first time,

like white spadefulls in a shallow

hole. I could imagine a melt,

then freeze, everything locked in glassy

ice, eyes and smile fixed, snow person

staring toward April . . .

but now I don't care.

21


23/34

Memorial - Bill Roberts

Maybe, after all, this is the perfect tributeTo the sudden death storm that happened here:

The shrill sound of children laughing,Though it seems out of place.

I am moved to cover my eyes,Suppress tears, reach for my wife's hand,Finally seek out the laughing faces.There may be a hundred,

Enjoying this perfect morning,The sun having risen quicklyOver this solemn place and now blessingYouthful visitors to a shrine

22


24/34

Of man's hatred for fellow man.The children's laughter and innocent playOn the barge ride over to the sunken warship

Make me reflect: we've come

Such a long way since I learned the wordsTo "Remember Pearl Harbor,"The very same site being invaded this day by gleefulBoys and girls waving miniature rising-sun flags.

published in the March 2001 online issue of Little Brown

23


25/34

Little Chocolate Lips - Bill Roberts

Your pouty lips don't fool me, paintedSo recklessly with sticky chocolate

From a candy bar or an ice cream stick.You want me and everyone passing byTo notice you. I do and marvel atThe sensation you've made of your sweet face.

Soon enough you'll grow up and put on realLipstick, shocking pink or mouth-watering

Red, maybe ripened brown, applied withGreat precision, provoking passersbyTo notice you and your moist, puckered lips,Pursed coquettishly, full of youthful disdain.

24


26/34

Then, soon enough, you'll advance to an ageWhen your lips will tell quite another tale,Your mouth crinkled and again smeared with the

Sweet chocolate of youth, quivering, perhapsQuestioning a forgotten endearment,Eating a bonbon or an ice cream cone,Again making a display of yourself.Don't grow up too fast, Little Chocolate Lips.

25


27/34

Leaving Blues - Lyn Lifshin

moths twist in the lilies.a cherry branch left

on the blue slatelike an SOS in codetwitches against stucco.Turquoise pulls fromthe silver, like a loverin a 1940's movie,the frames speeding

up as what's comingunglued swirls in itsstaccato and whatisn't bleats likea blues sax, shimmers,iridescent as abalone.

26


28/34

Sister Regis: The First Statue, 1884 - Kit Knight

It's my job to supervisethe chapel. Margaret's statue

isn't the first ever erectedon an American street, buthers is the first ever castto honora woman. Margaret touchedthousands, and when she diedtwo years ago, thousands

marched in her funeralprocession. Both her parentsdied when Margaret wasnine, barely a yearafter they'd arrived in

27


29/34

this country; Margaret knewthe angels couldn't help herbecause they'd all goneaway. Ten years later,

a yellow fever epidemickilled 10,000 peopleincluding Margaret's husbandand baby. There were hundredsof widows and orphans. Usingsavings from her job asa washer woman, Margaret built

the first orphanage inNew Orleans. Ten years later,fever again devastatedthe city and over 11,000people died. Everywhere,

children and babies werescared, hungry andhomeless. Margaret bakedbread and bought a dairy.

She gave free milk andloaves to the destituteand the sick. Margaret alsobuilt three more orphanagesand a chapel. She spoke withfighting courage, passionateconviction and from a heart

that was breaking. In stone,she's seated, smiling, embracinga child and the raised lettersread simply MARGARET.

28


30/34

The German Orphan, 1869 - Kit Knight

Every night Poppa held meOn his lap and whispered,

"She was beautiful andyour momma died giving youlife, so you mustbe worthy." Poppa passed onwhen I was six and my heartmade silent promises.Father had given me

to another German couplewho owned a saloonand their house wasattached. That saloonwas the only reason

29


31/34

Quantrill didn't burnthe house. I was 12when Quantrill's Raidersinvaded Lawrence. I watched

my heart in my eyes as dozens of men wereshot, gutted and scalped.The hot Kansas sun shoneover the riddled bodyof a kind saloon keeper.The Raiders had attacked

other towns duringThe Civil War; we expectedno mercy. Quantrill snarled,"This town is full ofliving dead men." Eighty wives

became widows that day. Iwas forced to pourdrinks; homes and businesseswere in flames. Two

Raiders on horses chaseda stranger on foot; the manwas about to die. Running,I screamed, "Pleasedon't kill him; he is mine!I'm an orphan and he ismy only brother!" Throbbing,

the town rebuilt. It's beensix years since thatremarkable introduction,and tomorrowwe're getting married.

30


32/34

The Passion - Albert Huffstickler

Before you were bornBefore you were ever born

Before your first memory

Debra, at work,showing me red maple leaves:they vibratedin the palm of her hand

Entering this worldis like being electrocuted.Later, you forgetbut somewhere beneath the surfacethe shock lingers

31


33/34

which is whycertain peak experiencesare shot with unbearable pain.We learn to live sparingly,

always alert for the sudden jolt,the crucifixion of the red maple leaf.It's not death we fear:it's the shock of transition.

Love is a red maple leaf.Love is remembering where you

came from.Love is the shock of transition.Love is continuing to carewhen the current jolts through you

Red maple leavesin a small brown hand

before you were born

before you were ever bornbefore your first(and only)memory.

from Rattle, Summer 2000, Los Ang

32


34/34

ISSN 0197-4777

published 11 times a year since 1979very limited printingby Ten Penny Players, Inc.(a 501c3 not for profit corporation)

$2.50 an issue

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 22 no 4

Documents

Transcript of Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 22 no 4