January 2005
VOL XIII Issue 1, Number 141
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Pedro Sena; Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Heather Ferguson;
Oswald LeWinter
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTION
Del Corey
Divining
CONTENTS
Jesse Ferguson
Moose
I. Fishing Trip, 1992.
II. On the Highway, 2002.
III. Trophy, Yesterday.
Nightclub
Goldfinches Near Cooper Marsh
After the Fact
Silence in December
On the Rocks
Dogs Smell
Tin Whistle
String Section
Laura Stamps
I'LL NEVER FORGET
NO MATTER
LADIES IN WAITING
TWO BOWLS OF CAT FOOD
HURRICANE SEASON
Richard Fein
BAGEL MEMORIES
IMPLODING WORLDS
ABOUT EMILY
BIRTHDAY JETTISONING
HEISENBERG'S UNCERTAINTY
GUEST LIST
NOT GOING POSTAL
Trevor Landers
1. In love with Beth Orton (again)
2. My unqualified opinion
3. Masseuse at Nikau Street
4. On why New Zealanders travel
5. Singapore
Roberta Swetlow
1. A Different Interpretation of a Familiar Word
2. Waiting for Mordechai
3. First Snow
4.Season of Discontent
rex swihart
Condemned
Nottiteln #90
Nottiteln #94
Josef Lesser
Man rounded into a ball naked rolling
We the voyeurs can only speculate
Camp of Lost People
devoid of space for extra baggage
Hokusai ---- who raised from the crib of the sea
Letter to Mr. Chagall
POST SCRIPTUM
Del Corey
Divining II
Divining III
Del Corey
Divining
~~~~~~~~
For years I've been hiding in dark bars,
sipping cabernets to set insanity aflow,
reaching for just the right glow, to write
without letting the pen trip, fall over the edge,
where Oblivion waits, tapping his foot,
and yet I must let it stumble a few times,
to the point of being outside the civilized
world, for that's really close to the point of it,
isn't it, to un-blinder ourselves?
Then's when this writing stick becomes
a dowser, a divining rod, that I hold
while it walks across the page, waiting
for some exterior force to dip it, point it
downward, vibrating, the way a compass
needle does, when excited finding true north.
Jesse Ferguson
Moose
~~~~~
I. Fishing Trip, 1992.
It was hard to tell his size
from far down the dirt road
but as we approached
I found him smaller
than I would have guessed
antlerless, young.
He looked almost black
punctuating a line of maples
and I wondered if he felt
what I did- nausea
mine from the bumpy motion of our van
his from our noisy intrusion.
II. On the Highway, 2002.
A carload of close friends
colliding with a sudden black mass
steel crumpling, safety glass crazed
antlers through the windshield
thunder without lightning.
III. Trophy, Yesterday.
A slumped and sleek mound
dangling a limp tongue over
the tailgate of a rusted pickup
lying in his own blood and waste
barreling down the highway
towards butchery and debasement.
And me, of a sudden, wishing
that his hulking frame
were smashed to pieces
on that truck's grill
rather than be gutted and mastered
by irreverent knives.
Nov. 13th 2004.
Nightclub
~~~~~~~~~
dense wall of writhing
flesh, hits you
a hot tsunami
the reptilian brain
licks itself
into power
creeps from out
its ancient burrow
beneath the cerebellum
grips the mind with
keen claws
of pent up instinct
you drown in images
of perfect limbs
curves destined for limbo
faces you won't
even remember
wanting to
Nov. 09, 2004.
Goldfinches Near Cooper Marsh
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dozens of saffron projectiles
erupting above
a sunflower field
skybound bubbles
swerving
effervescent
trajectories
carbonating
a champagne sky
Nov. 16th 2004.
After the Fact
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She went down to work every day
sometimes walking, sometimes
running. The wind would trip her
up on the way. Sidewalks pounding
under her worn shoes.
The sky would cloud dark
above her head. And no matter
the route she took, always
her son would be waiting
there for her:
thin boy's legs stretched out
cold on the pavement.
Nov. 9th 2004.
Silence in December
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
stopped
alone
under
street
light
yellow
and
gray
falling
shadowed
snow
perfectly
isolates
thought
On the Rocks
~~~~~~~~~~~~
nightclub
hopes
of
hot
touch
and
Grand
Marnier
both
dashed
both
on
the
rocks
Dogs Smell
~~~~~~~~~~
nosing
whole
and
completely
glorious
worlds
painted
in
bright
scents
on
the
steel
hydrant
Tin Whistle
~~~~~~~~~~~
bright
sweetness
of
tone,
fingers
and
sunlight
leaping
skillfully
on
the
chromed
music
created
String Section
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
from
the
gallery
outside
the
window
cricket
cellists
chirp
nocturnal
symphonies
into
the
cool
August 23rd 2004.
Laura Stamps
I'LL NEVER FORGET
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
that balmy day in August,
only an hour after sunrise,
when I opened the curtains
in the kitchen to watch a cat
rolling the black raft of her
body in wild grass, and
suddenly the skitter of four
tiny paws dashed out from
beneath the porch, and
then four more, both kittens
tumbling over their mother
like tawny leaves surfing
an autumn breeze, each a
calico tabby, mirror images
of a feral male lingering in
the neighborhood since last
winter, and it was there, while
standing beside the stove,
the sun painting the pinewoods
with a dandelion glaze, that
I realized I'd been adopted
by a new family of strays.
NO MATTER
~~~~~~~~~
what tumbles along the frantic raceway
of each day, no matter what problems
or pressures might bloom or fester,
whenever I look out the window at the
forest, time rolls as slowly as a warm
September breeze ruffling the leaves
of the oak, sunlight emptying its
pockets to fling buckets of gold coins
across milkweed and clover, trout lilies
swaying against switchgrass on an
afternoon when the wind steers a
clouded catamaran through a plotless
sky, and the dragonfly spins twenty-
three rainbows within the metal zipper
of its body. A stray kitten halts her
daily patrol to nibble food from a bowl
perched on crabgrass, a calico tabby,
her coat spackled with mottled dabs
of burnt sienna and slate gray. She
turns as if sensing my gaze from behind
the drapes, as if she might know the
answer to the soul's quest for the
harmony of being, the perfect answer
to any frazzled question I would ask.
LADIES IN WAITING
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mid-September, and a flash
of goldenrod in my neighbor's
backyard trembles, cooled by
tendrils of blueweed wrapping
its sapphire maze around
meaty stems, while the spiked
blossoms of staghorn sumac
fades. Today, the sky welcomes
everyone, yet it waits for no
one, especially this time of year,
when hurricanes thrash in the
Atlantic, and my energetic cat
loops her paw under the door
of the bathroom (her tiled cage
for the moment) to rattle it,
creating a booming noise that
sounds more like an earthquake
than just an impatient, twelve-
pound whirlwind dressed in
blackberry fur. Meanwhile,
the gray cat waits for dinner
on the porch, sprawled by the
sliding glass door, arms and
legs extended like a cliff diver.
I wave to her, as I move back and
forth, mopping the kitchen floor,
until her head drops to her paws,
exasperated as any cat with
the need for patience and the
importance of domestic chores.
TWO BOWLS OF CAT FOOD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By now a routine unrolls
as easily as a cat's tongue
lapping splattered sunshine
from its coat. Two bowls
gleam at the edge of the
pinewoods that I fill twice
a day, morning and evening,
with dry food. And a new
cat joins the troupe, always
hungry, gray and wooly as
a foggy morning, she frightens
the kittens, but slips beneath
the leaves of the linden
whenever their mother and
father appear. Almost a year
old, no more than a kitten
herself, she's as bold as this
choir of crows bickering over
crunchy manna in the bowls,
or a blue jay that gobbled
nineteen pieces yesterday.
Switchgrass fans the setting
sun, while a calico tabby
flops beside fresh food,
patiently allowing his kittens
to dine first: two silken fists
of fur, chewing a few bites,
then skipping over to chase
their father's waving tail.
HURRICANE SEASON
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I awaken this morning,
Tropical Storm Gaston grazes
the marsh north of Charleston
at the Isle of Palms, winds
churning over seventy miles
per hour. Its outer bands
snake toward us on the weather
map like verdant serpents,
determined to soak the city
within minutes. I tuck my night-
gown in sweat pants, grab the
yogurt and cat food, and dash
out to the pinewoods to feed
the kittens before the thick fur
of the morning mats with
moisture. Poppy and her father
call to me from chickweed and
wild strawberries, delighted with
my arrival, but no sign of the
other cats shivers the underbrush,
as I fill the bowls and scamper
back to the house to await the
clanging footfalls of tropical rain.
Richard Fein
BAGEL MEMORIES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Do you want some butter for the royal slice of bread?"
Then the little king slid down the bannister.
And so I slid, but across the stage while holding a photo of buttered toast
and with a paper crown on my head.
Mommies watched, especially mine.
Miss Fran pounded the piano.
How I loved sliding from curtain to curtain.
But the CEO, that Merlin, breaks the spell
by chanting, "Well, we're all waiting!"
My crown vanishes, my scepter shrinks to a ballpoint pen,
my parchment with its kingly decrees
becomes a requisition memo to that impatient CEO,
my court dissolves into the monthly working-breakfast meeting,
my throne becomes the last chair down the long conference table,
and the smiling mommies morph into coworkers,
with smiles as wide as the ones the Roman senators gave to Caesar.
But someone is sliding,
and there is butter for the royal slice of bread,
for the center of the bagel I'm gripping is a black hole,
a space-time continuum,
through which my memory just hurtled back decades
to the buttered toast I was holding,
to P.S. 216, to Miss Fran's class,
to an audience of two-dozen mommies,
to a cast of lilliputian players,
most of whom barely remembered their lines.
But some-like me-gravitated to center stage
and jockeyed for the spotlight by stepping in front of one another,
moving closer and closer to the edge,
until one wanna-be star fell off, fell off, and kept falling.
IMPLODING WORLDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Imploding world,
three sets of eyeglasses by a pillow,
water and orange juice on the night table,
crumbs in the sheets
pharmaceuticals on the dresser,
and a TV remote hiding in the blankets,
old lady weary of mornings
awakens to a shrunken world
as dad did twenty years ago
when she stood watch over him.
Lifetimes whittled down to sickbeds.
Orphan: a child deprived by death of one or usually both parents.
But I'm a child at this moment, standing here keeping vigil.
Soon I'll truly be an orphan.
And when someday my son keeps vigil over me-
ABOUT EMILY
~~~~~~~~~~~
She didn't go to the graduation, and no one missed her,
and she didn't appear at the class reunion.
The old clique reunited at the punch bowl.
One alumnus called her a two-faced actress,
who put on a thespian tragic/comic mask and every face in between.
And a now middle-aged woman, once a cheerleader with her,
called her a an overly made-up manipulator and a bitch.
And another accuser called her a psychopath.
After all, the rumor was that she was the cause of that poor boy's
(what's-his-name) suicide?
No one really knows.
She was absent the day of the school memorial,
and someone said they saw her that day standing by the river on the very spot.
Then the punch bowl party chatter stopped
and all eyes turned to the one who might have answers.
Long ago he built castles in the sandbox with Emily.
They were childhood neighbors and like brother and sister,
so if anyone saw through her day-to-day deceptions. . ..
But at the punch bowl, he just filled his glass and quietly walked away.
Once he also hated her.
Even when she was five she would knock the sand castles down and make him cry.
And the day after graduation they passed each other on the street as
strangers.
But whenever he walks on the beach and puts a seashell to his ear
there's a roaring he alone can hear.
And there must have been a roaring that haunted her ears,
a roaring she alone heard,
in that childhood sandbox and through all that came after.
Emily, ultimately a hermit,
scurrying like a hermit crab along the sand
from one discarded carapace to another,
dodging hungry jaws from which there was no real escape
and seeking hardness for her papier-mâché‚ skin.
He recalled there were times he could clearly see into her eyes.
But when he'd come too close she'd dart away,
and like the hermit crab seek comfort in a borrowed shell.
BIRTHDAY JETTISONING
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally down to serious discarding, I
go deep into the closet
and find everyone's threadbare overcoat,
older than my memory of buying it.
In a pocket, a paper
with writing faded almost to illegibility.
Something once was noted,
and I've never been known to throw something important away.
I try on the coat.
It no longer fits.
Now I'm trapped within a hoary skin.
And I clutch
a memento that's as yellowed and wrinkled
as a jaundiced old man.
It's time to pitch this rag heap.
As for the paper, my very unfolding
tore it apart.
HEISENBERG'S UNCERTAINTY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"In quantum physics the observer alters the observed.
Reality is a fast choreography of photons."
In human light,
I observe
a quarreling couple; they see me.
Voices lower, they back away into shadows.
I observe lovers.
They see me;
she puts her blouse in proper order.
Does bearing witness reveal a truth seen,
or a truth created?
While I'm standing on a street corner,
what cosmic events are changed
by my meddling eyes?
Do I end a tryst, or begin one,
prevent a crime or cause one somewhere else?
Do feet standing on a crossroad detour the path of an ant?
Even the truth-seeking hermit needs to be watched by curious eyes.
Why else does he bother avoiding them?
How long can I gaze into a mirror
and resist fixing even an out of place hair?
How long can I accept what I see,
when what faces me grows older,
and slowly, slowly, decays?
GUEST LIST
~~~~~~~~~~
That one in ten doctor who prescribes brand X,
the 0.0001% of the American electorate who vote to restore prohibition,
the premier interior decorator for trailer park denizens,
the heavy metal electric guitarist who plays Mozart softly,
a pork eating Chassid, and the Moslem who makes a haj from Mecca,
the diner who when offered either red or white wine with his truffles chooses
beer,
the pasta abhorring Italian and all Englishmen with a distaste for tea,
the rebel Zen monk who resolves a koan single-handedly by answering it
depends,
the one who never farts in a crowded room and his bean-eating cousin who
always trumpets a stampede,
and speaking of crowds,
the one who faces the rear in a packed elevator or never steps to the back a
jam-packed bus,
and to add flaming forbidden spice to the gala,
the culattone gangster who kisses his fairy godfather's anal sphincter,
all of them are invited and so are you,
for you share a common, quite a common denominator with the above invitees.
All of you who have nothing better to do than listen to this drivel have been
added to the list,
just give your name to the doorman and he'll click his heels, salute, and
open doors for you-
you who sample words as hors d'oeuvres,
who tongue sentences for their texture,
who self-stimulate orally by mouthing stanzas,
who gargle in ink while both devouring and spitting out poetry.
NOT GOING POSTAL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the post office, in any office, two-way mirrors mask snooping eyes.
But you know not to go before one and cry,
for there are watching eyes behind your own watching eyes.
If a million senders mail a million missives
but none are meant for you
except first class bills and third class ads
or if you believe that out there
every letter sent, every human connection made
is a dark conspiracy against you,
then you need a place for secret lachrymose lamentation,
some private place to retreat to between lunch hour and quitting,
where only your reflection sees you weep,
a place and time to confront yourself and bawl to hysteria,
to cry until your nose drips,
to wail until exhaustion,
an exhaustion so thorough
you couldn't go home to fetch your mail-order rifle,
even if you had one.
Trevor Landers
1. In love with Beth Orton (again)
into the gleam and glitter of stellar-star night
little act of Samaritan loves done
good deed to balance the ledger (still in overdraft)
past the inlet, bliss-trancing, spirit-dancing
& I am elevation, happy as I ever want to be
today, today, will mean what i want it to mean
your voice through the starlit coast rises like fireworks
shower me in sparkles, and cloak me iridescently
a light, a light, such a light as this.
2. My unqualified opinion
my unqualified opinion
is that you are just crying too hard to write
all of the maudlin lines and lies
to which only a conscientious psychiatrist could reasonably aspire
& there you go again, chasing after the pitch black hearses
ransacking memories from grizzled old ladies purses
fanning the fires of charcoaling griefs with your very bare hands
just waiting, for an ounce of real affection
just longing for the greatest accelerants of the human
mind: desire, indifference and baneful co-existence
for a few trinkets seek: rage, arousal, stupor and desperation
my unqualified opinion is that you are some sort of shellfish
hard outer, inner so soft and utterly out of your depth--
so, I prescribe to you, an island
with lagoons and coral reefs, & it must become you.
3. Masseuse at Nikau Street
from the motorway past Kaiwharawhara
the ink of night revivified on reflection
emeralds, azures, ambers
the snake road bayward to Eastbourne
where the masseuse and her magical fingers lurk
the leafy lane, anticipation rising
across the spine, an incompetent manager dissolves
down the flanks, three speeding tickets disappear
the mercurial elements of life fall naked to the floor
dissipated; unrealized dreams and long-cherished unwelcome enmities
unglued, fall from the gurney helplessly
the knots and knurls of unfathomable lovers & discontented allies
loose their grip
fall away into the black ether like departing valkyries
and pixie hands mesmerise stress from the body.
4. On why New Zealanders travel
Helsinki, 2001
a friend once asked me this in the Kauppatori
as we waited for the ferry to Suomenlinna
and the most plausible response is simple: distemper.
disdain for the creeping insularity of my mother's country
as if the ardent beauty of primitive mountains
found a nation at a state of seismic unease
sensing it in the visage of the people, the veneer of politeness
it would allow comfort, or unheralded difference
I don't buy displacement and transference theories
I as much an autochthnous clod there
as in Ireland, a son of two craggy islands
and still from here I can hear the totara and kauri falling
the toetoe spears on the wind lamenting
the sad shrill of the sea wailing
the uncomfortability of the people which makes the godwits fly.
5. Singapore
From Bencoolen Road
the spiny heat spikes the day
and through a window, storm-brooding clouds wrestle
a dozen sweltering gods, providence pours through.
On a sidewalk, a man's fever unquenched
a unembarassed rainlover, the sun singes his eyes
and all around, the salty smell of rain
evaporating, cools briny brow.
Roberta Swetlow
1. A Different Interpretation of a Familiar Word
When I heard
about the serial killer -
Amoral -
who tried to eradicate eunuchs -
Asexual -
I realized that I need not
babble my gratitude that you
found me when I was mired
in a morass of muddled misconceptions,
lost in a labyrinth of incongruities; that you
plucked me beyond barriers of lies,
bathed me in truth until I became crystal.
I will simply say that you
Amazed
me.
2. Waiting for Mordechai
Faint sunbeams banish messengers
with a multiplicity of paired wings,
guides to places she dare not enter.
They unveiled scenes from the battlefields
of playgrounds, alleys, busses,
markets, kitchens, waiting rooms;
then vanished in the summer dawn.
She stretches archaic bones,
arises from her loveless bed,
trembles with trepidation -
will today, at last, matter?
Should she expect a modern Mordechai,
a summons to employ
an unsuspected gift, a secret power?
Perhaps she should fix her hair,
but did Esther alter her routine
before her cousin's fateful visit?
She endures the day as always:
dines on precisely-peeled fruit,
examines every key, tests every lock,
vacuums invisible dust,
wipes the sparkling mirror
framing her haggard face.
When will the call arrive
to return the sparkle to her eyes?
She sits in front of the window motionless
like a puppet unable to pull its own strings
who has tripped over its heavy wooden feet
and sprawls, neglected
numb even to the tears of angels.
3. First Snow
Morning
arrives in a
white shroud that hides crumbled
leaves, wilted blooms; let the dead lie
in peace.
4.Season of Discontent
The snow-filled gusts of winter shriek dark mirth
like cries of banshees, piercing to the bone.
Whatever's not set firmly in the earth
is blown away; exposed skin turns to stone.
With frost-shut eyes I stumble through the door;
my frozen toes and ears begin to burn.
Icy eons will torture me before
delicious sultry summer days return.
But am I daring fortune's face to shine?
Will summer please me in her gentle rain?
Or must I always curse the lot that's mine,
compelled, in any weather, to complain?
This gloomy point of view has stained my eyes.
I'll search out glints of joy and azure skies.
rex swihart
Condemned
~~~~~~~~~
A seed planted
Attentive wet eyes cued
by adult voices
A curious young hand
tracing the curve
of speech
***
At what point begins
the inaudible Bolero
gradually crescendoing
throughout a life
to an alarming
still-soundless
blare
***
Wintering in words
you'll taste but not see
the spring
Nottiteln #90***
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Distance and light conjoin
to sculpt styrofoam fragments
into gulls catching a current
seaward
In the interstices of rock
shards of glass are scales of lizards
reflecting sunlight
An oil slick purls
into a rainbow
Froth of a wave
outschwitters Schwitters
on the sand
Anachronistic
the End of the World
begins today
Nottiteln #94
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The dog is the alarm
You'll wake to his yelping
with the thick tongue of an assassin
You'll unbutton the house
You'll trot rote through coffee
You'll troll for breakfast
The kids will require your assistance
She's 9 to 5
The cobwebs are back
***
Obeisant to another clock
the old bachelor Degas lives
in the same house
A revolving door emits
a blurring file of dancers
His elusive mistress Couleur
whirls beyond the brush
***Nottiteln translates as "Wanting or Needing a Title."
In the evening?...We will take again the white
Road which winds,
Wandering in every direction,
Like a grazing flock...
--Rimbaud
Josef Lesser
Man rounded into a ball naked rolling
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Consider this man;
Once a sigh between lips a whisper
suspended an aerial acrobat caught
in the net by tongues of desire
maybe a match warming the pupils
of innocent eyes an innocent by-stander
glued in the glare of a sun spot
delivered naked like an unwrapped gift
at the feet of us we the past gifts
having discovered the protocol for toes
aim the new ball with a subtle kick
to hit the line dividing out and in,
Consider this man;
Once a word slipped between cards
three and raise good news or bad ten
pink or blue devonshire tea for two
tricks can be won by women or men
scratch the score on the wall ink
blood the colour of red has died
great news down a beer in the pen
bet you a diamond king or queen
born from the whisper by tongues
of desire naked at the feet of us
a new ball waiting for the team.
Consider this;
Man carved from a sigh
rounded into a ball untried
naked rolling to the drain
tricks of the cards
down or pass
another hand is against
the rules. Consider;
We the voyeurs can only speculate
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(from a painting by Bergur Thorberg)
Consider this man;
a twin
brother to the girl
sharing the same pigment
coffee complexion
a mirror image jaw
eyes dark as a midnight movie,
only her sight is short
corrected by wire thin glasses,
yet in the world of twinning
they are fraternal
suspended in this moment
cold as the land of their birth.
We the voyeurs can only speculate
what dreams will be diverted
after this cafe meeting where two
cups steam as yet untouched.
Is it her wedding to-morrow?
Is the young man leaving
maybe to serve his country?
Could the twins be contemplating
their mother’s fate on life support
or their own life soon parentless.
Consider this man;
a twin
exposed with his twin sister
in a millisecond of time
within their aromatic world
of coffee beans, a world
frozen for two.
Camp of Lost People
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Consider this man;
A parcel delivered to the wrong address
activating a conference circumnavigating
the kitchen table, words drift
nonchalent as language with no conscience;
forward to -----
hand back to post
open for curiosity
discard for fear
return to sender?
Return to interlocking tongues
where thoughts trip on the cracked pavements
producing ideas with broken ribs,
and a mortgage on breathing is afforded
to the circumnavigators round the table.
Consider this man;
A parcel tied with twine of tales
brought back with the souvenir spoon
the toy kangaroo
the second cousin’s name
on the voting roll
addressed franked sealed,
life on the scales
weighing the cost
in some lost
property corner
of a lost peoples’ camp.
Consider;
when that next corner appears
out of the nowhere of nothing
reflecting in the wire of mesh
your geraniums in flower -----,
the pleading eye on the inside
is a parcel of man marking time.
devoid of space for extra baggage
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
oh for a phone
to ring up the dead
just one last call
to say what never was said..........
“you left your baggage on the stairs
i tripped exploring time”
i bruise
i bleed
i suffocate
within this place
devoid of space
to reconcile
both yours and mine.
Hokusai ---- who raised from the crib of the sea
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can only guess
dots on the dice
tricks in the palm
the numbers play,
how many survived how many limped
remaining days voiceless in confession
unable to utter the magic Hokusai
who raised from the crib of the sea
one thousand conjoined water rats
eyeing the fishermen with greed.
I play the counting game
survivors and others
in the comfort square
outside the frame
inside the sanctity of art, or the zoo
where we stare as the guide gesticulates
how many from the group would limp
voiceless through their remaining days
without the comforting square of steel
where tigers pace anticipating time.
Dots on the dice
on the evening news
the numbers play
a seismic Hokusai trick,
top on the richter chart in a foreign place
one thousand names conjoined forever,
forever ghosts confessing in silence,
so easy
this counting game inside some comfort zone
outside the event.
Letter to Mr. Chagall
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(for Edith )
dear mr. Chagall,
I am writing to ask you to be the master of ceremony at
my weding to my sweet natasha you did this work for her sister do you
remember her sister anna who maried the boy who milks the cows his
name is leo and anna said you are so good you made them feel like they
were flyng in the sky with the moon and stars my name is yury and i am
not good at words or speling i had to leave scool when ten to help with
the pigs my uncle has do you remeber uncle hyme he told me you were
master of ceremony when he had a big sixty party and your talk made
him feel he was flyng with his fiddle over the houses in our town and
all the streets had a color like he has not seen before and my other
friend nikolay who marrid katya told me a secret that your words made
them like lovers in blue at night when they kissed they saw the world in
blue my mother says you are an artist not like a painter but maybe better
you make peeple feel good and see dreams and colors and they dance
and sing and make love like i will with my natasha you are the greate
greate master of ceremony leo told me a red angel touched them on the
head and our rabbi of vitebsk remembers when you were a litle boy and
you made storys and pictures of profets moses and isiah do you still make
pictures like my other uncle grigory he knew you in school and said you
made nice pictures of a magic flute and a bird on the moon do you think
of school sometime and my uncle if i finished school i mite be good like
you and everybody wood ask me to make them fly and paint dreams
and sing and love and laugh and cry and make cows jump on stars and
fidles play in the sky but i only look after pigs mother says everybody
has to look after somthing and she told me you look after hearts and
souls and spirits i do not know what she means i have to finish now
i am going to the circus with natasha and nikolay and katya we are sad
that you are not the mc tonite rabbi shmuel said i can say mc insted of
the full word for your work he told us when he went to the circus you
were the mc and you made all the people of vitebsk see colors of life
and a boy flew on a chicken the cow played with the sun flowers waltsed
and he said even the goat had fun yes you do bring color and hapinnes
to peeple that is why natasha and me want you to be our mc please say
you will do the work i have saved money from the pigs
your friend
yury
Del Corey
Divining
II
The pen point down, not at water,
but at mental yellow nuggets,
chipped, perhaps, by ancients in caves,
then trundled down in old streams,
destined to be found by a descendant,
like me, right here, at this moment,
ores ripe with perspective, truths beyond
the pettinesses of history, the ant-like wars
we creatures obsess over, our acceptance
of over-simple answers large groups embrace,
all surface, yet which shine brightly,
for a while, then crumble like fool's gold.
Divining
III
The pen points deeper, to reveal the ores
of value, those that lie buried in mental
tunnels, truths like the fact that I'm dying,
and I must accept it, not fight it
as so many do, and let this ore
be assayed and weighed, so that
the Owner of the Scale can send
a True North, an epiphany that penetrates,
that our value is in the long line of humanity,
and, therefore, a piece of immortality,
the Divine, and we must use our mortal part
to add our little golden pebbles, humble
as they may be, to buff, protect, and present,
at last, ourselves as gifts to the earth,
to be welcomed by the open arms of the universe.
All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2005 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other
version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there.
Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
COMMENTS & SUBMISSIONS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions: kgerken@synapse.net
Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to:
