waterways poetry in the mainstream vol 22 no 7

8/8/2019 Waterways Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 22 no 7

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2001

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Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream


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Waterways: Poetry in the MainstreamJuly 2001

Let the picture be complete, with all of its fixingsThe jigs, the singing, and the ceaseless play,The perpetual wide-mouthed smiles.

-- Sterling Brown "All Are Gay"


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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 22 Number 7 July, 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 10304-2127

2001, Ten Penny Players Inc.

http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

Geoff Stevens 4

James Penha 5-8

Gerald Zipper 9-10

Will Inman 11

Lyn Lifshin 12

Fredrick Zydek 13-15

David Michael Nixon 16-17

Joanne Seltzer 18

Mary Bass 19

Bill Roberts 20-21

Susanne Olson

Arthur Winfield Knigh

Tara Arlene Innmon

Paul Grant

Albert Huffstickler


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William Blake Oberon, Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing circa 1785


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Not All Are Gay - Geoff Stevens

Not all are gay in the asylum,and out of it, not all are glum.But perpetual wide-mouthed smilesare not miles and miles awayfrom being dumb.

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Because Few Morning Gales Fly Through - James Penha

Because few morning gales fly throughour island villa wants birdsto take the cue from the frogs who fillthe night with croaks and the fishpond with yarns of fecundityto wake us with lifeborn somehow of the lives we have conceived ofwhychromosomes.

We tried an open house--a doorless cagebarred only for rigidityhung from the jackfruit branchand bated with rice leaves.

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The bars cracked; the rice browned;still we sang our own songs.

When the trees grew wide enoughto shade a corner all day, the grassdecided against the struggle. Therewe erected a great birdhouse of stones and woods and wiresto bury the bare groundbut an empty cage

bared more than bare dirt.

At the bird marketwe sang our songs and saw who harmonizedas we had put our fingers in the kennelsto find the pup who'd lick.

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Two knew the verseand we were told they'd singeach to each if together separated in our yard.

And so from opposing cages like soccer goalsthe home fans whistled and cheeredthe score,one to one,and during timesoutsang as well to our duets of Sondheim, Porter and Gershwin.

They're writing songs of lovebut not for me.

We danced round the garden, the birdsa gypsy chorus

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of virtuosossinging as long as we embracedas long as they did not.

Were I an encaged birdI would not sing,and they too deserved their silences.

We sprang themand we

we kept on singing.

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Fridays - Gerald Zipper

The whumping and thumpingslamming into the pulp of my brainMonday through Friday on a dismal stringtoneless notes erupting at daylightretreating in the ache of eveninguntil wonderful Fridaywhen the gates of our captivity fling openRichie waits for me in front of the chemical factory

where I once workeduntil the pungent bubble burst in its vatsplashing my face with red-hotRichie's old car swerves below the DeKalb ElLantern Bar blinking its red and green

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ice-bound drinks and hoarse laughsdancing breath to breath in the dim blue lightsteamy girls with jiggly breaststrading wet kisses in the back seat of the cartheir smooth limbs turning soon to leathertheir sweet skin about to drytheir faces to flattenand I'll be sailing offleaving my caste-off trail of reckless Friday nights.

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a watermelon grin - will inman

a watermelon grin is blest double generoushunger for good things and joy in eating

that red flesh on black skin reminds usof cruel voices with bloody shoutswho turn those smiles to terrorand sculptures faces with griefturn angel teeth rabid.no one more sacred than the dancersin whose feet a magic comes aliveold men, old women in whose bonesgenerations of joy wait to share loveto shuffle-jump and happy-creakthat feast kept them kin and wholedown lean decades and hearty skimp

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May West - Lyn Lifshin

comes on, ablast in a

feather boa, Tabu,humming yes,humming baby.She's got herbank bookbalanced, she oozes'satisfy.' Her hipstwitch pleasure,

her lips a brailleshe keeps you moving

toward. The blindsmell 'Big Boy'She swings her hair,has you lassoed,pulls you in but notso close youshipwreck in the coveshe knows how to

keep as mirage,holy vision

that gets better tlonger you long

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Naming Our Growls - Fredrick Zydek

The river of Eros runs through the growls.Even a turn of phrase can ignite them.

Some think we could sing long beforewe invented language. They are wrong

of course, the first thing we learned washow to growl properly. The originalwas gleaned at mother's breast its only name was pleasure. The growl

that rumbles and groans was bornin hunger and a dampness that reachedto its toes. Soon these rumblesof wind and air learned to spell truth

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without the crutches of adjectivesand verbs and the peculiarity of nouns.They learned to flirt and woo, argue

and snap back, delight, tease, fumble,

covet, and name mysteries Webstercould neither spell nor find life enoughto define. One day soon I will growlin your direction. If we are to survive,

you must growl back like an equalanimal. We will lick each otherswounds, learn the fragile and sinew

secrets those deep-throated grow

give up when ecstasy pulls them frthe seedbed where all gruntsand groans wait for their momentto rush into the world shouting.

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A Cat Sleeping in the WindowFredrick Zydek

I've been an observer

here all my life.I know forty-seven thousandreasons for falling in lovewith the universe.

I've seen tracks I'm surelead to heaven.

Why is it the deadget away with everything?Do angels pick their toes?

Why do some questionswrap themselves in suchglorious content all I can do is memorize

better ways to pose them?

That is the nature of thingshere. We must learn to say

yes to the body, yes to the id.Only then dare we cashin our chips and die to what

keeps the spirit dancinginto bright and forbidden places.Remember that great calico catWe came upon sleepingIn the shop window? He knew.

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Round DanceDavid Michael Nixon

sing

and the treeswhistle atuneabove

your head.lightdanceswith shadowthat old round.the groundgives upits dead,

who jointhe round dancemixer,partners

changingthrough thecircle.the song,the dancethat oldelixirkeeps usrangingthroughfamiliar twists,each

variationflirting,floating,as the old calls

sing and sing.

Appeared October 1, Southern Tierjerkers New

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Folk Festival Snapshot - David Michael Nixon

The tall white geese poised in the grassof the lawn before the red barn,

the dog ready to flee yellowbeaks, an array of pale blanketsbeneath a scattering of people,bonnets in their sun-bright colors,the flash of clear rays of musicin the summer air, reflectionsof solar splendor from a blond guitar,and the tumble of hot breath onthe open flow of country breeze.

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The Big Band Sound - Joanne Seltzer

Slow and easyI flash my dance program

at the stag line,hope to pass pimples offas beauty marks.

At last I'm rescued bya frog who'll neverturn into a prince.Sex organ to sex organwe fight for the lead.I spear him with my heels,admit I can't jitterbug.

He returns me to the wall,cuts in on a cute couple.

I clap my fingers,tap my toes,wait for my life to happen.

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Fun Feet - Mary Bass

Fun Feet

bounce heel to toe with all toes wiggling then standing on

their tips, the arch stretched as if to grow taller,

coming down with a thud they dance a jig, drifting

into susurration on the sandy floor and sliding

to a stop at the door but only for a

moment and into a skater's glide,

using the grains of sand formomentum to twirl and

once more befo

departin

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Grandma Played for the Yankees - Bill Roberts

Mickey Mantle she wasn't,but she ended up playing for the same team,

the Yankees. The damned Yankees.I was a dedicated Red Sox fanand Ted Williams devotee,no matter that he'd stashed away his bats.

She sat there in her wheelchairwearing a Yankee uniform,white with pinstripes, the big NY

emblazoned on her left breast.She was Number 7, Mickey's number.She wore old, faded blue socksand no spikes, for she could no longerchase down a fly ballor dig in at the plate to take a hefty swing.

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Her broken hip several years beforehad rendered her thus:confined either to her lumpy bedor the rickety, antique wheelchair,

only once again to leave her second floorscouting post, where she'd surveythe surrounding trees and tell the seasonsby what was on their branches:buds, leaves, a few brown leaves, then snow.

She was carried out in her visiting team uniform,the drab gray the Yankees wore on the road,

still with the big NY over her left breastand the famous Number 7 on the back.I don't know where Dad found those pajamas,but they suited her in that last year,though her mind was never much in the game.

Published in George & Mertie's Place, Vol. 3, Issue 11, Dec. 1997 (as Bartlett B

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River Cats - Susanne Olson

While I inch my way to workin heavy traffic

withdrawn into a somber, brooding mood,my straying eye catches a glimpseof surreal catlike

creatures:mysterious lemon green mouths,huge bright red grins

baring ferocious purple teeth.Vicious orange eyes,yellow surroundingenigmatic black, elliptical,immovably staring.

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Hairy tufts atop the spear-like ears,shaggy paws extending into deadly scythes.Enchanted realm of freakish monsters,fairyland of feline

sorcerers.Floodgates,technical inventions, mechanical meansof draining water from the fieldsinto the river,saving homes and barns

from rainy seasons'devastation.Ugly iron doors,practical and purposeful,not designed to please the eye. Yet,transfigured by the artist's genius,

they surprise my dreary, struggling mtransform ill humor into wonderment,the surly mien into an unbelieving smil

Thankful to the kind magician,I face the day with joy,

instead of ange

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The Hitchhiker - Arthur Winfield Knight

I hitchhiked to Reno the first time I came west, then I caught a ride on a slfreight. It was spring and the aspens were turning yellow as we crossed the Sierra-

Nevada Mountains. Everything was bursting into bloom and I knew my life was going different, that I was going to open up to experience in new ways. There was somethmagical waiting for me in the Golden Land, and I waved at people wearing red and grelumberjack shirts as I passed through little towns like Truckee and Emigrant Gap andwaved back madly. I sat there in that boxcar, my legs dangling over the side like a ddoodle as the train swooped down into the Great Central Valley. We crossed a huge vated trestle west of Sacramento. Down below, the rice paddies were flooded, and y

could see the clouds reflected in the water like great finger paintings. It was dusk wthe train pulled into San Francisco. Neon signs winked on across the city as if they wwelcoming me, and I did a little dance, jumping up into the air and clicking my heels ter like a beat Charlie Chaplin, as I skipped across the railroad yard in the purple twilI knew I was finally home.

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Pictures of a Pretty Baby Boy - Tara Arlene Innmon

The mother stands shivering at the entranceGreeting each with a hug

I shake the young father's handParents for five daysThe casket white closedSmall like a bread boxPriest incense singing about a little childThe mother shows off pictures of her pretty baby boyTubes through his nose, arms, chest

Smiling she saysShe will go homeShut the doorBetween herselfAnd the empty nursery.

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Farewell to Blues - Paul Grant

I'm given a way to duplicate, though to an unknown scale,the scene in some forgotten movie where the sticks-in-the-mud

untangle the paper streamers from their hairand turn enviously away from the derisive horn of the linertheir venturesome friends are bound for The Continent onto trudge more bravely than they will ever be ableto imagine themselves

home.I'm guessing the whole thing would be in, say, 1937.

My version's set on a levee, me hunkered down in the mudwhile a honeysuckle heaven hanging on a barbed-wire fencescrubs with an old rag of next-to-no breezethe dirt from the river's squirming undertow.

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One of the last of the old ones is paddling by,and some antiquated player with an antique hornis building the bridge in the Tin Roof Bluesthe length of the trench down the middle of the black

fuse sparkling its way south to the deep brown sea.Nobody knows the trouble its seen, or careless lovewould still be doing the same sweet nasty to just abouteveryone. But hey, nobody's going anyplace but overJordan, and that not yet. Just give us a pig's footand a bottle of beer apiece, and let's us listen

to the frog-town shuffle that keeps the full moon full.

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As Simple As That - Albert Huffstickler

Some plants root from cuttingsBut sometimes when you take a cutting

and put it in the ground,it will suddenly start to bloomand will sprout few if any roots.And sometimes after it blooms,it will die becauseit has no roots to feed it:everything it had was spent

in bringing that flower to life.And this is a metaphor thatnot everyone will understand:the bloomers will probably understand it,and the rooters will probably not.

From Bad News Bingo, Garden Iss

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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 7

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