StoryHead

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Welcome to a very specialissue of StoryHead! Thisweek has been quite aweek for us. While wewere bringing our eighthissue to press, we weredelighted to learn that oneof our featured poets, Wis-lawa Szymborska, wasawarded the 1996 NobelPrize for Literature! Twodays ago, Ms. Szymborskawas virtually unknown inthis country. Today she’s asfamous as any poet canbe. We dedicate this issueto Ms. Szymborska, andthank her for her deeplyhumane poetry. She has agreat poet’s knack for dis-covering what’s preciousabout the quotidian mo-ments of our existence,and she’s been doing it forfifty-one years! We’rehappy that the Nobel Prizewill undoubtedly create agreater audience for her. Inthis very special issue weare also delighted to bringyou the art work of NewYork artist Ed Rath. Mr.Rath is a prolific painterand he’s been a part of theNew York art scene formany years. His paintingsare both whimsical andsuddenly profound, and wefeel that they complimentMs. Szymborska’s poetryvery well. In this issue weare also featuring the po-etry of Chicago poet, NinaMarks. Ms. Marks hasbeen part of the Chicagopoetry scene since the late1980s. She blends an ex-tremely sinuous andstreet-savvy language withthemes that contemplateloss and extinction. Her

poems are lean, and stark, and often hauntingly desolate. Thank you to Salena Krug for helping us put this issue together. Weare grateful to her for her wonderful contributions. We especially thank Marek Lugowski and Joanna Trzeciak not only fortheir lovely and definitive translations, but for working so hard to introduce us and the poetry community at large to WislawaSzymborska. • Welcome to this eighth and very special issue of StoryHead. We hope you enjoy the artwork and poetry thatfollow, and we’ll see you again in number 9. Best Wishes for a Happy Autumn! Mike BrehmJoe Peterson

Trash does not pretend to be anything better than it is. —Wislawa Szymborska

Cathedral built from rubish by Justo Gallego Martínez, Spain

Cover Mike BrehmInside Cover Cathedral by Justo Gallego MartínezDrawing Mike BrehmApple Harvest Ed RathThe Circus Animals Wislawa SzymborskaAutumn Dance Ed RathThe Dream Wislawa SzymborskaWater Wislawa SzymborskaStream of Consciousness Ed RathBumper Crop Ed RathBelieve in Yourself Ed RathDodo Ode Nina Marks

Barren Joe Peterson/Mike BrehmThe Island I, II Nina MarksSpot Mike BrehmMitzi Mitten Gail ShilkeHipster Mike BrehmIce Joe PetersonSuffer Baby Suffer Ed Rath

Joe Peterson and Mike Brehm, Editors. Published 3 times a year by Story-Head. 1340 W. Granville, Chicago IL 60660. Subscriptions: $16 for 4 is-sues. All rights revert back to artists. The English translations of the threepoems by Wislawa Szymborska contained in this issue are the copyrightof Marek Lugowski and Joanna Trzeciak. This is the Autumn 1996 issuecopyright StoryHead Magazine. StoryHead is nationally distributed byBernard De Boer Inc., and Ubiquity.

“Apple Harvest” Ink on paper, 11-1/4” x 15” © Ed Rath 1995

The Circus Animals translation of Zwierzeta cyrkowe

The bears stomp to the beat,the lion spans flaming hoops,the yellow tunic-clad monkeyrides a bike,the whip crackles, the music swarms like flies,the whip crackles, swaying the animals’ eyes,the elephant carries around a water gobleton its head, the dogs are dancing,cautiously measuring each step.

I am very ashamed—I, a human.

No one had a good time that day:The cheers rolled thickly from the grandstand.A hand augmented by a whipcast harsh shadows upon the sand.

Wislawa SzymborskaTranslated from the Polish byMarek Lugowski and Joanna Trzeciak

“Autumn Dance”, Ink on paper, 15” x 21-3/4”© Ed Rath 1995

The Dream of an Old Tortoise translation of Sen starego zólwia

The tortoise dreamed of a leaf of lettuceand near the leaf—the Emperor himself suddenlyappeared alive, just so—like one-hundred-something years ago.The tortoise does not even realize what a big deal this is.

The Emperor, in truth, did not appear in his entirety,but with the sun reflecting in his black shoes with small buckles,and above them, his two calves, fairly fit, in white stockings.

The tortoise does not even realize how earthshaking this is.

Those two legs—a roadstop on the way from Austerlitz to Jena,and above them, a fog, from which a rattle of laughter scatters.Now, you may doubt the authenticity of this sceneand of the empirical nature of the small buckle-fit shoes.

It is difficult to establish an identity from fragments:the right foot or the left foot.The tortoise does not remember that much from its childhood.The tortoise does not even realize whom he just dreamed up.

Emperor or no. Does this fact in any way cast aspersions onthe phenomenon of tortoise dreaming? Somebody, identity unknown,has managed to slip unnoticed from the confines of nonexistence,slinking through the world! All of him: from his very heelsto his very knees.

Wislawa Szymborska

Translated from the Polish by Marek Lugowski and Joanna Trzeciak

“The Stream of Consciousness”, Ink on paper, 15” x 21-1/2”© Ed Rath 1995

Water translation of Woda

A rain droplet fell on my handdrawn from Ganges and the Nile,

from the enruptured frost on a seal’s whiskersfrom the broken pots of Ys and Tyre.

Upon my index fingerthe Caspian Sea is an open sea

and the Pacific flows meekly into the Rudawa,the same that flew in a cloud over Paris

in the year Seventeen Sixty Fouron the Seventh of May at three in the morning.

There are not enough lips to pronounce your incidental names, O Water.

I would have had to call you in all tonguespronouncing all the vowels simultaneously

at once keeping silent—for the sake of a lakethat never did receive a name,

and no longer is on earth—as there isn’t a starthat bathed in it in the heavens.

Someone was drowning, someone was pleading for you, dying. It was so long ago and it was yesterday.

You extinguished homes, you swept away houseslike trees, forests like cities.

You were in baptisteries and inthe bathtubs of courtesans,in kisses, in the funeral cloth,

biting stone, feeding rainbows,in the sweat and dew of pyramids, and lilac.

How utterly light all this isin the droplets of rain.How delicately the world touches me.

Whatever whenever wherever happenedis written on the water babel. babel.

Wislawa Szymborska

Translated from the Polish by Marek Lugowski and Joanna Trzeciak

“Believe in Yourself”, Ink on paper, 14-1/2” x 19-1/4”© Ed Rath 1995

“Bumper Crop”, Ink on paper, 14-1/2” x 19-1/4”© Ed Rath 1995

W A R E H O U S E S E C T I O NSTORYHEAD PAGE 13 Mo. - New Jersey - New York - Ohio - Chicago - Topeka

B A R R E NB A R R E NJ O E P E T E R S O N

these fields upon which I bleedhave no memorythese walls within which I groanbear no witnesswater, firmamenteverything barren, barren

the sky upon which I gazeis deadthe earth upon which I layis rupturedvultures descend everything barren, barren

eyes barrenvoice barrensoulbarreneverything barren, barren

the lion that strides the plainis lostthe arms that belonged to the victimsare boundmen in a circle, a deck of cardseverything barren, barren

Dodo Ode

So they laughed at me,said I was good eating.Said I tasted like chickenand laughed again.

They were savages really,come clubbing and yelling,

big stinking unconscionable louts.Brought their dogs and their rats.

They did this all over the world,the whole ball,

you know the tune.Pity the ditty should be so knownpurge of a dirge,the scourge.

Said I was ugly.

A short ungainly ugly flightlessbird,

and were glad to be rid of me.They actually said that.

Maybe I’m the lucky one.Not to have to look on them,nor to have to die againwhen they devour everyonedown to the last crone

until even the seas are emptyand there be

no dodocroaking the last quack.

Gone, gone,these scalding tears,grinning through flesh,rent between teeth.

Nina Marks

the crowd that gathered for dinner onSundays

haas been dispersedthe potatoes that we boiled in the pothave rottedthe charred stick, the broken jareverything barren, barren

booksbarrenpaintingsbarrenpoetry barreneverything barren, barren

the teachers in their schoolshave lost their signsbloated cows stumble through the streetsthe mirror, the combeverything barren, barren

the city we lovedhas been torchedthe country home we vacationed inhas been overtakenthe papers, the letterseverything barren, barren

W A R E H O U S E S E C T I O NSTORYHEAD PAGE 15 Mo. - New Jersey - New York - Ohio - Chicago - Topeka

the streets I once played ondestroyedthe house I once lived indemolishedthe lawns, the treeseverything barren, barren

mornings barrenafternoonsbarrenevenings barreneverything barren, barren

the potted geraniumon on thewindow sill

has been uprootedthe statue of venus in the

courtyardhas been overturnedthe snake in the garden, the

children in the streetseverything barren, barren

W A R E H O U S E S E C T I O NKy. - La. - Md. - Mass. - Minn. - Mo. - Omaha STORYHEAD PAGE 14

mrs kineally is deadthe dog houseis emptythe fence, the gardeneverything barren barren

W A R E H O U S E S E C T I O NSTORYHEAD PAGE 17 Mo. - New Jersey - New York - Ohio - Chicago - Topeka

the copper coinbarrenthe equestrian statuebarrenthe marble domebarreneverything barren, barren

the rivers that flooded my fieldsare infectedthe clouds that rained upon my

cropsrain firethe shade, the shadoweveryting barren, barren

the tractors that once worked theland

have been silencedthe vendors that once filled the

markethave been silencedthe laughter, the mirtheverything barren, barren

the syllablebarrenthe tonebarrenthe aura, the tungstun flameeverything barren, barren

W A R E H O U S E S E C T I O NKy. - La. - Md. - Mass. - Minn. - Mo. - Omaha STORYHEAD PAGE 16

The Island by Nina MarksI.I know an islandto take your breath away.

It did thatto a Japanese man, avery good swimmer they say,

sucked him into its shoalsand when he came uphis eyes were fixed,

an island whose gentler sideis blinding white angels,bougainvillea strangled stonesand terra cotta streets

and palms cleaved to beachlaying flat in storms,

whose gentler side stillis the tattooed hideof my loverAntonio Coraland he and his brothereat what they find.

I could go there in a heartbeatjust to shudderat the oceanwho’ll rip yourmother’s heart out,

to sleep in a hammockand get stonedbecause, as they say,you can’t ever go home.

III.I am young now,I know thisand one daywho knows but thatthe sea swallow me.

I have some money today.I will drinkuntil I am dizzy.There is no tomorrow.Tomorrowis hungerand injury.

TonightI am strong.Tonight there is no morrow.The money comes and goes.

If you want to find mego

past the white beaches,and the shops,past the Naval baseand the airstripup the cliff side.Colonia Salinas.Where the people live.

You see that womanwalkingdown the road?

That is my grandmother.

She has just beento cleanthe beds and toilets.

She is sixty years old.Walks eight kilometersto save money.The bus costs two pesos.

Now she will makedinner.Will make Generbuy the sodafrom our Auntnext door.

He is younger.Only nineteen.He started fishingyounger,

started at fifteen.Me, I stayed in schooltil sixteen.I am twenty one.We are men.

Do you see that road?

Where the people are walking?

That is the road to La Colonia.

Any time you want mefollow that road.Ask for El Tornillo.

Everyone knows me.Even the taxi drivers.El Tornillo,because I am crazy.

El Tornillo,since I was a small.

I will show you pictures.

It is easy to find me.

My brother they call The Mouse.He is small. He issmall but it doesn’t fool you.

He is stronger than me.

They do not think he is crazybecause he is quiet.

Me, they know I am dangerous.

When I wasn’t very longon the boatthey would laugh at mebecause I am small.

One tormented meuntil it had to come to blows.I fought with fairness, mano a mano,but when he was losinghe went for his knife.

Then I had to go for mine.I cut himacross his chest,slashed him open,like a hammerhead.

He fell backsuspended.

Then no one fought me.

I can go anywhere.Everyone knowsnot to bother with me.Even if I am sleeping.Even if I am dead drunk.

I might only be pretending.

That is why only womenwant me.

The girlsare afraid of me.

I had a girl,a long time.She was dark morena.That is what I like.

We walked togetheralong the Miramarin the evenings.

The air is fragrantwith night bloomingsucculents, fragranteven for the wind.

But her family didn’t want me.Wanted a shop boy for her.In timeshe disapproved also.

What is it if I sleep on the beachand only come home to eat?

What if I know rough ways?I can tell you stories.I walk everywhere.

What if the soldierscaught us

on my birthdayand thought we were poachingturtle eggs

and beat us with their rifles

and we went to the jailin Cancúnthree days?

We lived like kings.

We had everything goodin jail to eatand drink.

These lobsterI bring to a restaurant.They are dead.Packed in ice.They’ll pay me.Then I’ll meet youlater.

Look for mein my hammockin the palmerabetween the same two trees, readingor resting with my eyesclosed:Its hot today.Tonight I want to dance.

Nina Marks

“Spot” ink drawing by Mike Brehm

Mitzi Mitten Who Came Into My Like and Shined © by Gail Schilke

“Hipster” ink drawing by Mike Brehm

IceFor Myra and Marvin

A block of ice sails on marine-colored watersbeneath the cobalt night,the six stars of the Pleiades,the high arc of the moon.It travels in a path of lunar light.

A white chunk of frost on the rim,it moves slowly towards land.Its hull is barnacledwith snow and juttings of ice.It’s flat-topped, massivelarge as a ship it creeps across the bayand leaves for good the dark open waters,the blue arctic depths where it was made.

No more the paling winter sky nor the cackles of gulls.No more the breach of stormsnor the solitude of space,it comes ashore to die.

Abruptly it tips in the quiet bayits soul, nine-tenths submerged beneath the sea,is forced to surface and there but for a momentit holds its icy luminescencein plain view of the rockson the ramparts of the beach.

Joe Peterson

“Suffer Baby Suffer”, Ink on paper, 14” x 18”© Ed Rath 1995