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Text File  |  1991-12-14  |  15KB  |  227 lines
  1. sheets in the wind, 11/09/91 issue of ST.MAWR, WordWright's online poetry
  2. broadside at 212-787-9653 (mail  ┌───────────────────────────────────────────┐
  3. to 496a Hudson, K118, New York,  │                                           │
  4. NY 10014) ...                    │                 Dublin                    │
  5.                                  │                                           │
  6.                                  │ Strange how sinistral the street stands;  │
  7. The cover illustration is a      │ not emerald yet, but fertile,             │
  8. the file ICHING.ZIP in area      │                                           │
  9. D.                               │ The Liffey banks bundle over the weight   │
  10.                                  │      of water,                            │
  11.                                  │ and streetsingers buttress the buildings  │
  12.                                  │ they lean on,                             │
  13.                                  │                                           │
  14.                                  │ guitar cases with coin faces.             │
  15.                                  │ The language half-learned                 │
  16.                                  │ over a Guinness in Bruxelle's,            │
  17.                                  │                                           │
  18.                                  │ to the beggar-kid in the doorway,         │
  19.                                  │ I toss 50 pence                           │
  20.                                  │ and another innocence      -William Dubie │
  21.                                  └───────────────────────────────────────────┘
  22. ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
  23. │ Addiction to Life                                      │
  24. │                                                        │
  25. │ Some thoughts elude you for days or for years.         │
  26. │ You can't get at them                                  │
  27. │ in order to digest their bitterness                    │
  28. │ or to taste their                                      │
  29. │ candy-coating as they glide swiftly down.              │
  30. │ Is this what life is about? This searching?            │
  31. │ This standing in the dark in a flourescent room        │
  32. │ rummaging through the cabinet for the correct bottle,  │
  33. │ that one with the white label that says                │
  34. │ "refillable endlessly."  Is this what life             │
  35. │ is?  That finally the small vessel                     │
  36. │ reveals itself as there all along                      │
  37. │ on an accessible shelf, upright and                    │
  38. │ within reach (like a tree in your own backyard).       │
  39. │ Eagerly the mind reaches                               │
  40. │ toward expected heights to seize, finally,             │
  41. │ the contents.  Fingers clutch                          │
  42. │ the receptacle that fits                               │
  43. │ easily into one hand.  And here,                       │
  44. │ alas, is life.  It is now in your hand                 │
  45. │ but the bottle will not open.  It is                   │
  46. │ "child resistant" of course.  Somehow                  │
  47. │ you always knew it would be.  Still, you               │
  48. │ stand there in the light                               │
  49. │ twisting the lid clockwise, almost happy.              │
  50. │                                                        │
  51. │ Patricia    ┌──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┐
  52. │ Donahue     │                                                       │
  53. └─────────────┤                  Sketch Pad                           │
  54.               │                                                       │
  55.               │                                                       │
  56.               │  The convex plate imitating the bay,                  │
  57.               │  One bench tipped against a few childish shrieks      │
  58.               │  Framed by branches of rusted wind                    │
  59.               │  Pushed around the shore and turned in at the bell,   │
  60.               │  Small boats scattered like stars                     │
  61.  
  62.               │  Or like books propped at nether ends by islands      │
  63.               │  Which form the underwater reef                       │
  64.               │  Of which the bell warns.                             │
  65.               │                                                       │
  66.               │  One branch, dead center, like a basket;              │
  67.               │  As the light fades, the leaves turn black, merge     │
  68.               │  Shapeless with the sea and islands - no colors,      │
  69.               │  No shadings of light - just white clothlike covering │
  70.               │  Of what is outside my eyes.                          │
  71.               │                                                       │
  72.               │  I sit awake in the midst of fitful sleeping          │
  73.               │  And think this is the way to die - full of movement  │
  74.               │  But still; empty of intent,                          │
  75.               │  Everything shapes itself to the gently curving       │
  76.               │      boundary                                         │
  77.               │  Of my eye - all outside, all not me but              │
  78.               │  Active, alive.                                       │
  79.    ┌──────────┴──────────────┐                                        │
  80.    │ The inside illustration │                 J. H. Kennedy          │
  81.    │ is the file TAROT.ZIP   │                                        │
  82.    │ in area D.        -Eds. ├────────────────────────────────────────┘
  83.    └─────────────────────────┘
  84.                        ┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
  85.                        │                                         │
  86.                        │              CONJUGAL ANGLES            │
  87.                        │                                         │
  88.                        │     What is said, or                    │
  89.                        │     that is left unsaid:                │
  90.                        │                                         │
  91.                        │     Words meeting otherness             │
  92.                        │     or, silence itself.                 │
  93.                        │                                         │
  94.                        │     Is it a confrontation               │
  95.                        │     or is it a mirror;                  │
  96.                        │                                         │
  97.                        │     Or do these distinctions            │
  98.                        │     merge and then dissolve?            │
  99.                        │                                         │
  100.                        │     Identity is the hard question       │
  101.                        │     always pressing towards light.      │
  102.                        │                                         │
  103.                        │     Wordless my limbs hold you          │
  104.                              While we sleep at night.
  105. ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
  106. │  Astrology                                     │     Patricia Donauhe
  107. │                                                │
  108. │  Undressing in the dry winter dark,            │
  109. │  Unattended things on the nightstand,          │
  110. │  I see my wool sweater let go some spark,      │
  111. │  Then another, zodiacal from my hand.          │
  112. │  These quick constellations become an arc,     │
  113. │  And illuminate the fabric of my flesh         │
  114. │  Before drying.  I fold my flesh for work,     │
  115. │  And whatever I would wish                     │
  116. │  I save for the suit I must assume --          │
  117. │  The pin-striped, worsted effigy               │
  118. │  Whose abandon inhabits this room,             │
  119. │  This night, and who exhaustedly               │
  120. │  Resurrects, delivering the dead,              │
  121. │  Charting the stars that fell on his bed.      │
  122. │                                                │
  123. │                               William Dubie    │
  124. └────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
  125.                           ┌───────────────────────────────────────────┐
  126.                           │    TIME SHEET                             │
  127.                           │                                           │
  128.                           │    Days disappear it seems                │
  129.                           │    more quickly now, and the hours        │
  130.                           │    that once seemed near                  │
  131.                           │    go away from me endlessly              │
  132.                           │    like light falling                     │
  133.                           │    during long days.  Maybe               │
  134.                           │    it will all work out                   │
  135.                           │    for the best.  And yet                 │
  136.                           │    why is my soul wrested from me         │
  137.                           │    as a toy is taken away                 │
  138.                           │    from a child needlessly?               │
  139.                           │                                           │
  140.                           │    Desire must be met                     │
  141.                           │    head-on, a collision                   │
  142.                           │    if need be, some sort of               │
  143.                           │    contact with this air                  │
  144.                           │    that breathes around me                │
  145.                           │    requiring breath in return -           │
  146.                                Even if it be a turning                │
  147.                           │    away from the light                    │
  148.                           │    streaking the unspeakable              │
  149.                           │    sky.  I am only alone                  │
  150.                           │    for a little while, here               │
  151.                           │    in this world of ours.                 │
  152.                           │                                           │
  153.                           │    The moon is full                       │
  154.                           │    in a darkening sky;                    │
  155.                           │    the season is about to change.         │
  156.                           │                                           │
  157.                           │                      Patricia Donahue     │
  158.                           └───────────────────────────────────────────┘
  159.  
  160.   ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
  161.   │                                                                │
  162.   │   Sitting in the Hurricane                                     │
  163.   │                                                                │
  164.   │   The rain sails in like an army of winged feet
  165.       Through the wooden posts that separate floor and roof.       │
  166.   │   It hushes what calls to me, "John?"                          │
  167.   │   I hear nothing except brief bursts of                        │
  168.   │   Bird, door and tire.                                         │
  169.   │   My eyes are heavy, the ringing in my ears subsides           │
  170.   │   No traffic brakes and shouts but a single voicew not heard;  │
  171.   │                                                                │
  172.   │   Words become heavy, somewhat stupid; something wakens        │
  173.   │   In the rain and wind-filled trees - it doesn't know me,      │
  174.   │   I've grown apart not older, always apart from what           │
  175.   │   Is seen, felt heard ... and departed.  The rain is not       │
  176.   │   cold, and neither am I; it is the temperature of skin,       │
  177.   │   The wind is hot and remembers thunder, blood, the sweep      │
  178.   │   of a blade, accidental remorse                               │
  179.   │   Falling like a stone in skies constructed of leaded glass.   │
  180.   │                                                                │
  181.   │                                          J. H. Kennedy         │
  182.   │                                                                │
  183.   └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
  184.                                              .. temporary end of issue
  185.   The other inside illustration is           (11-09-91); not yet filed
  186.   a poetry generator named INVENT.
  187.   EXE in area D
  188.   ┌───────────────────────────┐
  189.   │  NEW ...................  ├─────────────────────┐
  190.   └──┬────────────────────────┘                     │
  191.      │                                              │
  192.      │   I Knew A Young Man Long Ago                │
  193.      │                                              │
  194.      │   I knew a young man long ago                │
  195.      │   Who was a saint to me.                     │
  196.      │   We worked together in a place              │
  197.      │   Where many'd disagree.                     │
  198.      │   But this young man stuck to his plan       │
  199.      │   And let his love shine through.            │
  200.      │   And some of us became like him             │
  201.      │   And changed old things to new.             │
  202.      │   And then he left one summer day            │
  203.      │   And never did return.                      │
  204.      │   And we went back to our old ways           │
  205.      │   Which took so long to learn.               │
  206.      │                                              │
  207.      │                       John Rodriguez         │
  208.      │                                              │
  209.      └──────────────────────────────────────────────┘
  210.              ┌────────────────────────────────────────┐
  211.              │   FINAL PARAGRAPH                      │
  212.              │                                        │
  213.              │   What else?   My hair is              │
  214.              │   short.   The white                   │
  215.              │   impatiens are still alive but        │
  216.              │   not for long.   Our                  │
  217.              │   white walls now hold a Modigliani    │
  218.              │   nude and a Verrocchio angel.   All   │
  219.              │   my winter clothes are too long.      │
  220.              │   The leaves in Central Park have not  │
  221.              │   begun to change                      │
  222.              │   from green to gold.                  │
  223.              │   Miles Davis is dead.                 │
  224.              │                                        │
  225.              │                          Ricia McKenna │     11/15/91
  226.              └────────────────────────────────────────┘     End of Issue
  227.