home *** CD-ROM | disk | FTP | other *** search
- sheets in the wind, 11/09/91 issue of ST.MAWR, WordWright's online poetry
- broadside at 212-787-9653 (mail ┌───────────────────────────────────────────┐
- to 496a Hudson, K118, New York, │ │
- NY 10014) ... │ Dublin │
- │ │
- │ Strange how sinistral the street stands; │
- The cover illustration is a │ not emerald yet, but fertile, │
- the file ICHING.ZIP in area │ │
- D. │ The Liffey banks bundle over the weight │
- │ of water, │
- │ and streetsingers buttress the buildings │
- │ they lean on, │
- │ │
- │ guitar cases with coin faces. │
- │ The language half-learned │
- │ over a Guinness in Bruxelle's, │
- │ │
- │ to the beggar-kid in the doorway, │
- │ I toss 50 pence │
- │ and another innocence -William Dubie │
- └───────────────────────────────────────────┘
- ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
- │ Addiction to Life │
- │ │
- │ Some thoughts elude you for days or for years. │
- │ You can't get at them │
- │ in order to digest their bitterness │
- │ or to taste their │
- │ candy-coating as they glide swiftly down. │
- │ Is this what life is about? This searching? │
- │ This standing in the dark in a flourescent room │
- │ rummaging through the cabinet for the correct bottle, │
- │ that one with the white label that says │
- │ "refillable endlessly." Is this what life │
- │ is? That finally the small vessel │
- │ reveals itself as there all along │
- │ on an accessible shelf, upright and │
- │ within reach (like a tree in your own backyard). │
- │ Eagerly the mind reaches │
- │ toward expected heights to seize, finally, │
- │ the contents. Fingers clutch │
- │ the receptacle that fits │
- │ easily into one hand. And here, │
- │ alas, is life. It is now in your hand │
- │ but the bottle will not open. It is │
- │ "child resistant" of course. Somehow │
- │ you always knew it would be. Still, you │
- │ stand there in the light │
- │ twisting the lid clockwise, almost happy. │
- │ │
- │ Patricia ┌──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┐
- │ Donahue │ │
- └─────────────┤ Sketch Pad │
- │ │
- │ │
- │ The convex plate imitating the bay, │
- │ One bench tipped against a few childish shrieks │
- │ Framed by branches of rusted wind │
- │ Pushed around the shore and turned in at the bell, │
- │ Small boats scattered like stars │
-
- │ Or like books propped at nether ends by islands │
- │ Which form the underwater reef │
- │ Of which the bell warns. │
- │ │
- │ One branch, dead center, like a basket; │
- │ As the light fades, the leaves turn black, merge │
- │ Shapeless with the sea and islands - no colors, │
- │ No shadings of light - just white clothlike covering │
- │ Of what is outside my eyes. │
- │ │
- │ I sit awake in the midst of fitful sleeping │
- │ And think this is the way to die - full of movement │
- │ But still; empty of intent, │
- │ Everything shapes itself to the gently curving │
- │ boundary │
- │ Of my eye - all outside, all not me but │
- │ Active, alive. │
- ┌──────────┴──────────────┐ │
- │ The inside illustration │ J. H. Kennedy │
- │ is the file TAROT.ZIP │ │
- │ in area D. -Eds. ├────────────────────────────────────────┘
- └─────────────────────────┘
- ┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
- │ │
- │ CONJUGAL ANGLES │
- │ │
- │ What is said, or │
- │ that is left unsaid: │
- │ │
- │ Words meeting otherness │
- │ or, silence itself. │
- │ │
- │ Is it a confrontation │
- │ or is it a mirror; │
- │ │
- │ Or do these distinctions │
- │ merge and then dissolve? │
- │ │
- │ Identity is the hard question │
- │ always pressing towards light. │
- │ │
- │ Wordless my limbs hold you │
- While we sleep at night.
- ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
- │ Astrology │ Patricia Donauhe
- │ │
- │ Undressing in the dry winter dark, │
- │ Unattended things on the nightstand, │
- │ I see my wool sweater let go some spark, │
- │ Then another, zodiacal from my hand. │
- │ These quick constellations become an arc, │
- │ And illuminate the fabric of my flesh │
- │ Before drying. I fold my flesh for work, │
- │ And whatever I would wish │
- │ I save for the suit I must assume -- │
- │ The pin-striped, worsted effigy │
- │ Whose abandon inhabits this room, │
- │ This night, and who exhaustedly │
- │ Resurrects, delivering the dead, │
- │ Charting the stars that fell on his bed. │
- │ │
- │ William Dubie │
- └────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
- ┌───────────────────────────────────────────┐
- │ TIME SHEET │
- │ │
- │ Days disappear it seems │
- │ more quickly now, and the hours │
- │ that once seemed near │
- │ go away from me endlessly │
- │ like light falling │
- │ during long days. Maybe │
- │ it will all work out │
- │ for the best. And yet │
- │ why is my soul wrested from me │
- │ as a toy is taken away │
- │ from a child needlessly? │
- │ │
- │ Desire must be met │
- │ head-on, a collision │
- │ if need be, some sort of │
- │ contact with this air │
- │ that breathes around me │
- │ requiring breath in return - │
- Even if it be a turning │
- │ away from the light │
- │ streaking the unspeakable │
- │ sky. I am only alone │
- │ for a little while, here │
- │ in this world of ours. │
- │ │
- │ The moon is full │
- │ in a darkening sky; │
- │ the season is about to change. │
- │ │
- │ Patricia Donahue │
- └───────────────────────────────────────────┘
-
- ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
- │ │
- │ Sitting in the Hurricane │
- │ │
- │ The rain sails in like an army of winged feet
- Through the wooden posts that separate floor and roof. │
- │ It hushes what calls to me, "John?" │
- │ I hear nothing except brief bursts of │
- │ Bird, door and tire. │
- │ My eyes are heavy, the ringing in my ears subsides │
- │ No traffic brakes and shouts but a single voicew not heard; │
- │ │
- │ Words become heavy, somewhat stupid; something wakens │
- │ In the rain and wind-filled trees - it doesn't know me, │
- │ I've grown apart not older, always apart from what │
- │ Is seen, felt heard ... and departed. The rain is not │
- │ cold, and neither am I; it is the temperature of skin, │
- │ The wind is hot and remembers thunder, blood, the sweep │
- │ of a blade, accidental remorse │
- │ Falling like a stone in skies constructed of leaded glass. │
- │ │
- │ J. H. Kennedy │
- │ │
- └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
- .. temporary end of issue
- The other inside illustration is (11-09-91); not yet filed
- a poetry generator named INVENT.
- EXE in area D
- ┌───────────────────────────┐
- │ NEW ................... ├─────────────────────┐
- └──┬────────────────────────┘ │
- │ │
- │ I Knew A Young Man Long Ago │
- │ │
- │ I knew a young man long ago │
- │ Who was a saint to me. │
- │ We worked together in a place │
- │ Where many'd disagree. │
- │ But this young man stuck to his plan │
- │ And let his love shine through. │
- │ And some of us became like him │
- │ And changed old things to new. │
- │ And then he left one summer day │
- │ And never did return. │
- │ And we went back to our old ways │
- │ Which took so long to learn. │
- │ │
- │ John Rodriguez │
- │ │
- └──────────────────────────────────────────────┘
- ┌────────────────────────────────────────┐
- │ FINAL PARAGRAPH │
- │ │
- │ What else? My hair is │
- │ short. The white │
- │ impatiens are still alive but │
- │ not for long. Our │
- │ white walls now hold a Modigliani │
- │ nude and a Verrocchio angel. All │
- │ my winter clothes are too long. │
- │ The leaves in Central Park have not │
- │ begun to change │
- │ from green to gold. │
- │ Miles Davis is dead. │
- │ │
- │ Ricia McKenna │ 11/15/91
- └────────────────────────────────────────┘ End of Issue
