waterways: poetry in the mainstream vol 23 no 5

8/2/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream vol 23 no 5

1/26

2002

Ma

Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream


2/26

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, May 2002

He haunts the shadowy night spots of GreenwichVillage. He is from Morocco. Less than five feet tall,he carries a hump on his back that thrusts his headslightly forward. And what a head! The head of asixteenth century Hidalgo, large, imposing; one visual-ized the white ruff, the plumed hat.

Margot de Silva, "Gil Amador"


3/26

WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 23 Number 5 Mayl, 2002Designed, 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 (ipostage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed enveWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-21272002, Ten Penny Players Inc.http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

Will Inman 4

Terry Thomas 5-8

David Michael Nixon 10

M. M. Nichols 11-12

Fredrick Zydek 13-14

Geoff Stevens 15

Lyn Lifshin 17-18

R. Yurman 19

Albert Huffstickler 20-24


4/26

Margot de Silvaon W. 12th Street


5/26

late promise - will inman

hadnt been able for years. Old now.whisper promise: if willing with the shadow one,

could do one last time, then . . .want to, but what

a cost, late last arms sudden turn bones.beautiful fetcher, arms brothering pull closemothering, naked chest to chest, raw thighsfeathering each to each, loins wrapped lappedrapt, arms circling warm holding to late sweat now

flesh paring bones glisten soulgone, self

dragged by bone fingers on bone wrist, nomemory of late last lust, dustonly, grist for wind. gristfor stars.

4


6/26

Roaming Shantytown at Midnight Terry Thomas

I always wait till the winds just right.Every third house has a dogsome mutt mixed

as much as the people living here,but each one is a Baskerville hybridand would run down and eat anythingon four legs or two.Lights glow dimly from some structures,someone staring at a kerosene lanternthe TVA never made it past Coon Creek

probably nursing a baby or a bottle of hooch,counting pennies, coupons, food stamps or mistakes.Even moon and starlight seems diffused,filtered by the high mix of ice crystalsor something oozing up from the dismal dirt.There! One of my favorite shapes in the gloom:

5


7/26

a rusted bedspring with various broken toolsstuck through the coils. How many passionsboiled on that when it was workable?how many mothers writhed in tormentdenting shanty population with one more,how many daughters or sons coweredunderneath from thunder words in the hallway?Each shack has its stack of discardeddreams, history, mystery of dead ends.Then, finally, Im to the lastbarely

standing, dark, stark in dejection,leaning left, held together by years ofgreasy food, grime and time tempting nails.A broken fence hints that it was picketedonce, a home. Roams over. I go insideand hit my own rusty springs.

6


8/26

My Indian Blood Rises Like Hair on a Scalp Terry Thomas

When I was ornery at eightNana would say it was just the meanness

coming outbut then she wouldsmile and talk about her father,a full-blooded Cherokee.Mom never knew her grandfather,so she didnt know if her mother was weavingtales like smoke from a campfire.But Id seen photos of great grandpa

black and white slices of timeand you could see the dark, fixed eyes,hawk nose . . . and the stare of a bird of prey,fixed on a rabbit.Besides, sometimes, when the meanness wasreally surging, Mom would send me outside

7


9/26

to whoop it up. And when Dad got angry with mehed say he was gonna snatch me baldheaded.So I had to believe in that little red blend.Now Im a village eldertake walks throughwhite-eyes yuppie camps, treading softlywith the wind, past brown, black and tan vanscrouching like dead buffaloes,and the blood surges.I havent buried the hatchet,havent smoked the peace pipe

my tongue is my hatchet and I broke the peacemoons ago with the AMA and SSDI settlers,taking my hide in little pieces.The meanness, the meaning in the blood, isnt

just coming out, its here: painted, feathered,notched, on horse and ready to ride.

8


10/26

9

Northern Dispensary


11/26

David Michael Nixon

I rise from my nest,

dry grasses, greyingold birdis flying! flying!

10


12/26

Metropolitan Handicap - M. M. Nichols

Our faces give it away.Frown, smoke-puff, the gracefully down mouth, the muttered oath, a

browned-out cave the eyes peer from.We elbow-jog neighbors in crowds, pass by florists futile daffodils

standing attentively in jars of water.

But here! This stopped me today. Self and two strangers, justchanging direction to cross the street.

Here comes a boy, not older than seven, on one rollerblade.A neat black cane in each hand, the left leg of black trousers tied

and hanging below the groin.

11


13/26

Ahead of him flew his dark bright eyes and wide-open smile.Black hair streaming and shining.You could see his joy: nimble smooth weaving on one sure-bladed foot,

betwixt mighty, high pedestrians.White-haired man, tall, weathered, strode at angles of deft pursuit,

caught up, hovered till the boy stopped short.Then pulled out a white handkerchief and held it to the boys nosedrip.Whose canes were steady, the small arms confident of everything.

Suddenly we had no sadness. Three smiles, gut-surprised.Wishing we could live long enough to see him be President, at least

Ambassador to a dark bright-eyed country where the wealth is nstuff but spirit.

Long enough to see it happen here.

12


14/26

Mirror Fredrick Zydek

Trapped within its silvery depths,

an overweight and balding thing,gone gray in the bonesstands behind his white beardwatching my every move.

He gives me fits at the bottom

of my soul. Ask anyone.I cannot survive this place alone.What I need is plain and ordinary,the soft spinning of an easy day,

13


15/26

fields of calico where blossoms sway.In the mirror such things are central.I must call the gray thing by name.

Being present to him is the only cure.Tonight, I think, we see no more changes.

14


16/26

Geoff Stevens

The ghost of Robert Lowellwandering its chewed-up streets?

James Baldwin waiting on tableat some dim dive?Who will you meet?Look up from Crosby Streetand can you seesix terra cotta angelson top of the Bayard Building,or have you hadone drink too manyin the Chinese Chance,been looking at too many paintingson the walls there,by the likes ofRivers and Dekooning?

15


17/26

16

Les Deux Gaminsat Sheridan Square


18/26

The Village Cowboy - Lyn Lifshin

in New England, where nobody

had a Stetson, or spurs. Hissister was ok they said, a bank

job. New lace curtains. No one

still remembers Frank, not the

way they do the vegetable boy

who couldnt talk, staggeredwith a wheel barrow of broccoli

carrots, strawberries up North

Pleasant. Frank stood out at the

17


19/26

Corner that was once a First

National and when he could,

painted a front of a building or

hauled away a load of bricks. Hetipped his hat to all ladies, was wild

eyed some afternoons by 4 when

you could see the bulge of Jack

Daniels or Boone Farm even thru a

loose pocket, talking to dogs and

trees. Youd see him in the shade

of the Episcopal Church, stretched

out, whistling to robins, staring

past the railroad tracks that ra

fewer and fewer hours. Childre

aimed b b guns, called out wer

coming. Frank threw a few stoand grinned, waved his Stetson

or lumbered from the park dow

Main Street. Even if thered be

garbage bins, hed have been too p

He strutted as if he was John Wa

and expected to be applauded.

Some say he died on the toilet

holding a stray cat in his arms

18


20/26

A Pain in the Neck - R Yurman

not somebodybut a physical acheup under the skull platesreminding menot to set my facein one directiontight vertebraethat want to move

and crackto shiftrelieving the pullbeneath the flangesof the skull

so many different handshave tried to easethis constant straintried to findthe exact pressureangle quick snapthat pops the caughtbones loose

in this necktender and unreadyto bear the weightof eyes and brain

19


21/26

Before the BeginningAlbert Huffstickler

Things die she said

shaking her goldenhead. Her hair caughtfire in the sunlight.You know how it is.After a while, you

dont care or care too much.

Her name, she said,was Sorrow-of-The-Ages. Her hair

turned grey at 25.She said it wasin mourning for

all the dead flowers.Cloudy all day.No rain.The sky has brokenanother promise.

That man therestanding inhis own shadow,feet immersedin a dry puddle.

20


22/26

Afternoon traffic:people hurrying,eager to arrive

before they haveto leave again.

If we could justlisten to the stars,she said.

If we could justsleep withthe moon for a pillow.

Its been said thatDeath rides agreen tricycle

but Im not sureif thats trueor not.

From Fireno. 14, Oxfordshire,

21


23/26

Litany - Albert Huffstickler

My doppelganger,

the old bum downtown who isalmost me, the one I givemoney to every time I seehimmy ransom to fateis looking shabbier andtireder and more hopeless

these days. I wonder ifhell die. I wonderwhat this will do to me.I think I should prayfor him. To what God?

To the God of Alleys andMidnight Sorrows. Oris it Goddess? Yes,

its a Goddess:Lady of the Alleys andMidnight Sorrows, blesshim, keep him by youtill his journeys done.Peace.

From Poetry Depth QuOct. - Dec. 2000 North Highla

22


24/26

That One Face - Albert Huffstickler

Well, I didnt see that

one face today. You knowthe one I meanthat one

face youre always looking

for without ever thinking

about it, sitting in a

caf over coffee, walkingthrough a crowd, alone

in your room, that one face

you recognize instantly,

23


25/26

that face that resonates

through you back to the

beginning and on out across

the universe and back,that face that tells you

you wont be lonely for

a while, that alpha-omega

face that tells you your

whole worlds about toendbut only to start

all over, new, again.

From Nerve Cowboy, No. 4, Fall 1997, Nerve

24


26/26

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 23 no 5

Documents