waterways: poetry in the mainstream vol 21 no 9

8/8/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 21 no 9

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2000

Octo

Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream


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Waterways: Poetry in the MainstreamOctober 2000

We ought to dismiss our mistake as soonas it is detected; but we are taughtto cherish it.

from POLITICAL JUSTICE (1793)William Godwin


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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 21 Number 9 October, 2000Designed, 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 enveloWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

2000, Ten Penny Players Inc.

Joy Hewitt Mann 4

Joanne Seltzer 5

Herman Slotkin 6

Lyn Lifshin 7-8

Don Winter 9Robert L. Brimm 10

Pearl Mary Wilshaw 11

Susanne Olson 12-14

Susan Snowden 15

Marc Widershien 16

Terry Thomas 17Ida Fasel 18

Will Inman 19

Kit Knight

Paul D. McGlynn 24

Gerald Zipper

John Grey 27Albert Huffstickler 30


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3

William Godwin1756-1836


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After the Prom - Joy Hewitt Mann

Sometimes it was easier just to be youto pull your world into my mindlet you take my quiescence for granted.

It was the pineal gland, my armpitssmelling of three-year-old patchouli,this house,each piece we picked up at some going-

out-of-business store, at Sally Ann, or someused-to-be-my mother's sale, a metaphorof the life we had together, strippedand redone in contemporary skin.

Years later there is just enough love lto force the moans and trembles of dto hide in the shade of that first long

togethe

locked into the school gyma trampoline to break my fallbounce me to the hard floor.

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No One is Perfect - Joanne Seltzer

Uncle Al went to Hebrew schoolwith one of the ringleadersof the Purple Gang.

My uncle sometimes talkedabout his old friend,gunned by the police.

"He was big hearted, smart,devoted to his parents,a dependable buddy.

The problem was, he had a fault.Everyone is entitledto one fault, right?

Most of us have many faults.That guy had only one:he liked to kill people."

first appeHaight Ashbury Literary

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Courage - Herman Slotkin

On a grey bridge in the House of Holocaust,in lifeless light, etched in grey ground glass letters,on the roster of shattered shtetlakh, is Khaschevata:

where mama and papa were Malkele and Duvid'l;where the climate was blustery in winter,blistering in summer, muddy in between,and deadly dangerous all year long;where they learned love and marriage,

and cholera shriveled their two little boys.

From what acquifer of courage did they drawto split and shed that life to make mine?

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Thunder, June - Lyn Lifshin

Before the rain stopsand I can turn the computer

back on, I watch theburned grass and terracotta shine. In anotherhouse we lay in afternoondarkness behind shutters

rain pelted. Lights off, Ithought something that

simple could keep youhostage. By the time youwere on radio air hardly atree was dripping, as Iwas. For a day, this pewter,

sunless late afternoonsoothes. So much glistens

under the low hood ofair. Delbert McClinton'sblues on the radio, Ithink of the blue painted

juice cups my sister and I

fought over, tho far fromthe last thing we couldn't

share. Now I should usethem. Forget worryingabout what is fragile,won't stay, have thembrimming with orange

juice suns

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Large Shipments of Baggage - Lyn LifshinMay 30, 1942

Large shipments of baggage

have been sent to the ghettosince May 25. Everyone ispuzzled. The bags are full ofclothes of all sorts transportedeach day by trucks, some 5 tonvehicles. There are big warehouses for this. No one knowswhat the huge trucks are carrying.We see improvised sacks madefrom rugs, blankets, sheets,

bundles not packed by theirowners but by other hands fullof clothes, linen, bedding. Alldisinfected. Shirts and slipsrolled together. Some underwear.Nearly all the jackets and coatshave traces of having been ripped

along the seams. Documents,letters, papers, ID cards fromdifferent cities in Europe fall outof the bundles

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Eugene Walks Off the Job - Don Winter

On the lot,he unweaves the hose,

spreads the soap. He scrubs untila parking spot lightens to a dull gray.

Hosing down the foam,he thinks of the cutsin pay, in hours, of all the timeshe's wanted to leave,

and weighs these againsthis brother laid off in Wyandotte,his uncle in Coker, factories everywhereslamming shut like empty cash drawers.

He puts down the hose,walks past the parking spotswith names of people he's never met.The guards seen it

before. He smiles and nods.Farther than the last time, Eugene wapast rows of clipped hedges, pastsprinklers repeating a slow, broken soYard after yarddogs bark behind fences.A well worn emptiness

in his eyes, he won't admithis greatest fear:that he'll fling his lifeinto the distant, gray highway,past the signals blinking "don't walk,"the whistle turning him back.

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Tower of Babel - Pearl Mary WilshawP. Bruegel the Elder

Overpowered with infinite

detail, sections finished,unfinished, in ruins, roseatop a mountain, frustrationborn of confusion regardinga proper foundation. Despitemachine, life, pulley, other

tools of the day, the Tower,quasi Colosseum seven levelshigh, leaned backward, askew,(recalling Pisa), as royaltypersisted, believed ambition,species of madness renewed,

enabled goals gone astrayto be met, attained if they

would just try, go throughmotions, order supplies,construct stairs and rampsleading nowhere, hang doorsopening onto nothing,

install windows . . . views

blocked, shutters lockedtight . . . jumbled monumentto uglification doomed whenfoolish confounded the wisefor lack of communication.

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Failure - Susanne Olson

It's rare that I regret something I didfor, after all, I am a decent person,

properly raised to be a good human being.What I regret the most,what haunts me through my days and nights,are things I did not do.

The old peddler, displaying her sundry wareson a tray suspended from a string around her neck,her look, disappointed, hurt, and hopeless,

when I closed the door in her faceA pair of shoelaces, a few snaps,a package of sewing needles,how much could that have cost?

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The adolescent boy condemned to a wheelchair,excluded from young people's confident lives,longing for recognition, affection,his expectant eyes, anticipating a greeting, a smile,

unanswered by the woman afraid to intrude,to acknowledge his misfortune, his existencea kind word, a friendly gesture, a pleasant phrase,how much thought would that have needed?

The old dog, beloved but left in her kennelfor days at a time, deprived of her walks,the romps she looked forward to, lived for and neededa stroll in the park,how much planing could that have required?

The friend, struggling with a life falling apart,overwhelmed by misfortune,balancing on the brink of disasterA visit, a phone call, a spontaneous gesture,how much involvement could that have demanded?

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Elderly parents,alone, wanting, and sad at the end of their days,no child bringing her mother flowerswhen she lay ill,

no daughter to hold the father's handwhen he went to sleepA leave from work,how difficult could that have been?

Acts of kindness and consideration, omitted,drowned in the rush of everyday life,buried under self preservation

An ounce more effort,How much could that have given?

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Social Insecurity - Susan Snowden

He leaps into street light,a hungry hunter

pumped up.

She sees his weapon,flees in terror,connects him in a lineupto the identity he lostin the Office of Assistance.

All he did was greet herwith the remains of his manhood.

Shocked society caged him,to punish the crimeand polish his manners.

Free now he stalks her,"for revenge,"says the detectivewho sleeps on her futon.

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Aristotle's Bust of HomerMarc Widershien

The sad-eyed philosopher

who taught that the end is the endcontemplates the bust of the blind poet,the millstone of Alexander around his neck.

He gazes down at the prophetwho seems indifferent,the blind lids dilated.

They gaze into their own logosa bust on a table,an expression.

The voyage aged him.

The seas have opened,the earth journey done,the cosmic just begun.

Wherever Homer dwellsthe human cannot know.

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Terry Thomas

It's a Billy-be-damned day.Not because the sun is slanting

through the goblined house;not because wind blows last

year's leaves across the yardlike last week's news. No.Not even because the barometer falls,lower than yesterday's polls.It's a B-b-d daybecause goblins rule the house,the sun is settingand leaves can make a convenient grave

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Ren Magritte: The Flavor of Tears - Ida Fasel

The wormeaten leaf-bird

mourns its passing, like mypeach tree mauled by borers, cut down.In time

we bothfound happinessthe old stump with a sprigof green its way of saying Iforgive.

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We stand here saying, No. Can we grow to sing birth to ourselves - Will In

They stood there. And said, No.And those others, over yonder, they

shook their heads. I looked around. That group,beyond, they all frowned me, No.I looked into

all of them, into every pair of eyes. I took mytime. I looked all the way down deep. Theyspoke with their lips, but their eyes wanteddifferent. They all

wanted a way through.Their mouths said me, No, and kept saying me,No. But their eyes were pleading. They wantedother answers. They did not want old hard lines.They were weary of denial. They just didn't knowhow to turn it around.

They didn't know how to

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change. Part of them knew one thing, and partknew different.

What could I say? Who was Ito tell them? What did I know that might help them

beyond holding fast? I looked into me. I lookedinto them. In a quiet voice, I said, But there'sanother way. There is another way. We can let gothe Past. We can let ourselves be born naked.

Wecan mother and father ourselves, we can brother andsister each other. We can choose to be who we reallyare. We can let our mouths know what our eyes cansee. We can tell the world to sing. We cansing each other,

Yes!

The Lucid Stone #21, Spring

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Didactic Paradoxes - Will Inman

literary arguments and labelsfreeze polarities out of potentialsyntheses

hard fixes out of would-beparadoxes

: life is processnot a solid-state medium, and I willwalk two directions at the same timedown the street of partisanshipwith you

I am for anti-didacticsI am for didactics:

i tell the didactic onesMozart's 40th Symphony may not carry a noteof politics

but it affirms life all the way

even in its saddest barsand i tell

the anti-didactic onesI was glad wh

heard that Schiller first wrote his poAn Die Freiheit (to Freedom) and chanto An Die Freude (to Joy) to pass thecensor's edicts . . . and that Beethovenwhen he put Freude to music, he was sFreedom all through his Ninth Sympho

As if there can be freedom without jo

or joy without freedom!when our work invokes sereneharmony-with-all-that-is, when the hustruggle seems remote, our work is noindifferent: we're remembering a futin which joy will be the weather

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of our lives.when our work rides rage

against injustice and human suffering,our work is not only temporal: anger

reflects the larger harmonywhen it is not present in our lives: loveturns to anger turns to trustwhen we share our pain with hope,and trust working in our mutual hands can bring love deep into our daysa sundance aligning sun and moonwith earth in our every step

so, dear brother, don't tell me i must be didacticand, dear sister, never tell me truth is anti-didactic:

joy grows deeper than admonitionstruth (like freedom) does not occur in a vacuum

reality works in paradoxesi walk two ways in one street with you

when we need to sleep, sing ourselves to swhen we need to waken, sing ourselves to

if we don't know which is when, truthcan become a fiery sting in the tongue

yet sometimes we need stinging

we learn on the rundown our many ways of our many stree

of all our livesfor joy?for freedom?for truth?

Minotaur 1

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Judith Thomas, 1880Kit Knight

Twenty years ago when

it became obviousThe War Between the Stateswas going to be settledwith guns, my brotherwas one of 300 officersin the US Army withSouthern roots. I knew

George would resignand bring his traininghome. The South neededhim; he was Virginia born.George was raised knowingthe right way. Our familywas shocked and shamed

when my baby brother

refured. Promptly,I turned his portraitto the wall and I neverlooked at it again. For20 years my familyandmost of the Southhas denied him. George lednorthern troops againstNashville and Yankeesidolized him as "The Rockof Chickamauga." Today,I got a letter from some foolresearching the early livesof famous Yankee generals

wanting to know

what made them win.I winced. The damn Ydidn't win, they onlystarved usinto submission. Nothto be proud of. That Lincoln, orderedVirginia's coast blockaeven before my stateseceded. Politely,I answered the letterby writing, "Georgewas raised right."

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Here Lies - Paul D. McGlynn

Everyone agreedIt's better than he deserved,This simple stone and weeping willowBy the little stream called Apple Creek,Nearby, the old clock tower,Telling legends of kindly time.

Drank like a fool and beat his wife;Kids took off as fast as they could.One daughter says, I hope he burns in hell,And maybe that's where he is,A slab of stupid meat in sizzling juice,Senseless in nasty smoke.

But you'd never know it from this pretty place,A graceful tree and stone and streamRemembering a worthless man.

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Inventing the Dead - Paul D. McGlynn

Margaret's dead. Crabby Aunt Margaret.Found her on the kitchen floor. Died that night.First the priest, the mumbles,

Heavenly Father, forever and ever.Turned out to be such a nice day.Coffee and cake in the parish hall,The talk, I remember when she. So do I:Quick first sketch of resurrection.

Appearing in glory, the New Margaret,Generous, gentle as a baby bird,Lamb grazing in a sweet green field.Aunt Helen can't forget the day,So nice to little Billy. People new knew.Margaret transfigured, crowned with stars.Choirs of angels, Beatific Vision.Done her wonders. Should've died sooner.

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Lies I Told Myself - Gerald Zipper

I believed if I'd be good to herif I tried hard

she'd love meif I treated my enemies with respectthey'd reach outif I were strong I'd be heardbut they sneeredI believed if you showed talent they'd seek you outnot steal your precious bundleI believed if you were kind they'd love younot cannibalize your outstretched handI knew a random bullet would strike the boy beside meothers in my platoon might never come homebut not me

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It could never be meI knew age would treat me

grant me the aura of wisdothe tone of respectbut joints erodebreath weakensI still hold on to desirestill retain hopestill tell the same lies.


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Haunts - John Grey

a fear of ghostsit began as,misty figures at the

edge of the bed,scurrilous noisesin the walls, the pipes,the afterlife,this life,unable to gettheir directions straight

before I knewpeople could leave,they were already back,ganging up on my nerves,disputing the laws of naturewith my goose-bumps

that's just love,my mother had said,

this other thingthat enters the roombut doesn't quitemake itself known

that's just love,so many said to me,as much a broken record

as my nights

you get used to it,that's the stuffof life isn't it,accommodating phantoms

as you do pain,squeezing it all up

into a formacceptable to the storyou tell yourgrandchildren

fear nothingyou tell theirown previous hauntings

or at least, only fear tthey won't be by

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Sick Child Memorandum to HimselfJohn Grey

One day I felt sick but I still swam

because I adore the water and afterwards,I dutifully contracted pneumonia andwas holed up in my roomfrom where I could see the lakeand the splashing crowdsbut have no part in it.

At first, the thickness in my lungspoked at my cramped rib cage, exulted inits revenge but, tired of that,it, for the rest of its time, merely was,a heaviness that no longer hurtbut shifted my center of gravity,

dislodged the parts of me

unnecessary to the act of swimming,sent them wandering.

Thanks to it, heart and mindfound each other,melted, fused into this other whole thI could splash and play in.Sickness altered the landscape foreve

Through long solitary days,I saw my face shimmering out of the

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Trellis - John Grey

A narrow, hardy leafy vinewraps around the trellis.

While I have grown one way,it has sprouted another,not strong enough to straighten upon hardy bonesbut grabbing the wooden framefor skeletonthe wind, the light,

for sustenance, for blood.

I've learned and lived and lovedfor every inch of that wiry plant.

It felt some days,when it all broke down for me,that it became my perseverance.From the shaky vantage pointof my self-pity,I could almost see it spurt ahead,take the next cross-beam

for the sheer single-mindednessof the taking.

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Something About Windows - Albert Huffstickler

I think of my brother Jack singing "Danny Boy"at the Officers' Club at McDill Air Force Base

to much applause from his fellow officers. Thisis the same brother who played cars with the four-year-olds till he was in high school. He wasa major when he died in his early forties of acerebral hemorrhage. (this is not going to makemuch sense.) He stayed a child so long that Inever got used to him being grown and an officer.We both sang a lot growing upanything and every-

thing. He changed a lot, became party-line,politically conservative over time. And thensuddenly he died. It's a hot night in earlySeptember in Austin, Texas at Dolce Vita and Isit outside over coffee and people-watch throughthe window and there's a drunk on the bench by

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the bus stop talking to himself and laughingand if loneliness sold for a dollar a pound, he'dbe a millionaire. And I am almost seventy-two

years old. I was in the army when I paid my visit

to the Officers' Club, a private doing my twoyears. I was a terrible soldieralso a terriblehusband, father, provider. Jack was a good husband,father, provider, soldier and he died young. Andsang 'Danny boy" in a sweet clear voice at theOfficers' Club at McDill Air Force Base in Floridanot too many years before death claimed him. Andthis is what I'm remembering now in Austin, Texas

nearing my seventy-second birthday and I told youit wasn't going to make much sense and I was right.

Sept. 7, 1999

First appeRame in City USA #15, Eugene

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The Sins of the FatherAlbert Huffstickler

She thought she was holding her

family togetherin lieu of havinga life of her own. Then, one byone, they died. First, the husbandwho'd left her because he couldn'thandle her privateness, then herbipolar, alcoholic sister andfinally her mother. One daughtersuccumbed to drugs, the other

drifted away. Suddenly she wasin her sixties and alone. She solvedthe problem by going to bed. Luckily,or not, she had money, could paypeople to look after her. Time passed.

She aged without grace, skeletal

and secure in her conviction thatshe had failed. Somewhere insideher a little girl was crying, thelittle girl who cried when herfather moved out because he couldn'thandle her mother's privateness,And life went on as she watchedout the window from her bed. And

somewhere inside her, a littlegirl was crying. And crying. Andcrying. And crying.

Dolce Vita Dec. 15, 1999First pr

Cerberus Arcadia FL XXXVII

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ISSN 0197-4777

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