waterways: poetry in the mainstream vol 21 no 6

8/8/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 21 no 6

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2000

Ju

Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream


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Waterways: Poetry in the MainstreamJune 2000

What can be a more melancholy sightto a thinking mind than to look intothe numerous carriages that drivehelter-skelter about this metropolis

in a morning, full of pale-faced creatureswho are flying from themselves!

from THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN (17Mary Wollstonecraft


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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 21 Number 6 June, 2000Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher

Thomas Perry, Assistantc 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.

Will Inman 4

Joy Hewitt Mann 5-8

Ida Fasel 9-10

Pearl Mary Wilshaw 11Gerald Zipper 12-14

Gertrude Morris 15-16

David Napolin 17

Susan Snowden 18

Lyn Lifshin 19David Michael Nixon 20-21

Herman Slotkin

Robert L. Brimm

Joanne Seltzer

Don Segal 25Albert Huffstickler 27


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detail from portr

Mary Wollstonecraft

1759-1797


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lost way back will inman

Our identities nowadays are keptlike near-extinct beasts in zoos

of history books and family records. weare no longer who we are. stepping stonesacross that creek have washed away.

wecannot cross back over. and now the bridgeto who we can be is as evanescentas a rainbow. now arches behind our eyes

sound among our ribs with futures we mustcreate even as they create us.we can

no longer draw honestly on past heritage.

Our past heritages are held togetherby death-wrappings of nostalgia and dried

ligaments on bones whose marrow antshave been at.

we look at each other in oucommon strangeness, in our shared emptinthe barrenness of our vision strips usnaked on a planet we make ugly withourselves.

our specious moralities havepacified us long enough. true connectiontrembles among us like an invisible child.we hear her cries but deny her need.

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Cries and Whispers Joy Hewitt Mann

I left the village where I grew up to rid myself of easeto seek secrecy within the noise of strangers,

indifference, even hostility. Iwas eager for my martyrdomlooking for a harder core, a discordant song, araucous cry that could shatter glass.

The secretaries whisper to each other;lovers whisper at noon, touching tongues

like pigeons; the manwho feeds the birdsthrows out the seeds in whispers whilepapers whisper open on all the parkbenches, buses, on allthe corners of the streets. Their

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voices have been compressedby the hydraulics of city life.The mechanics echo in my ears:bus doors hiss open

like giant geese, carsstorm by like horses,thunder rolls through the buildingslike God has lowered his sky.

In the villagethe housewives are calling the children,

voices louder than the summer rain.A cock crows in consternation as the childrenrush home, faces lifted to the open sky, smilesand joyous cries

criesthat could shatter glass.

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Ice Storm Joy Hewitt Mann

I have been calling myselfon the telephone

for several weeksand it seems only the swallows strungacross the linesare listening.

I heard that a farmer nearCarlsbad Springs

has switched his line out to the barnseeing as he spends most of his timethere, he says.But his wife fumes as she squeezesbetween the stallsto discuss the ways of applesand rising bread.

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I am calling the girl who wore cast-offshappily, whoslogged through manureup to her ankles;

who was willing to take shitand not answer back.

During the ice storm the lines went downbut phones were ringing everywhere;phantom phones that hauntedthe ear of the caller.

I have been calling for weeks nowhearing the echo bounceoff the wood stove, intothe open shelveswhirlpool in cups, slideoff plates

beat a rhythm with the cutlery.The farmer is in the barnstroking the flanks of a birthing cow;his wife knits and rocks

hoping for twins. Upstairstheir daughter dreams of city lights andJohn Travolta.

The telephone rings. No one is home.

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Perpetual Calendar - Ida Fasel

At firstnagged by freedom

freedom I knew if I had againI wouldn't want to live again

the words poured out stinging words, bitter wordssurprising me with their force surprising you caught up

in the same foolishness the piercing taunts, the biting retorts.

Once moremisled by memory

the same charadewe let ourselves in for the whitewater you plunged me intowe let carry us away.

As we aged, each day of the monthbegan to show February 14th,

quiet waters for both of us,as it had been, love all along.

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Looking for Something to Look atIda Fasel

1.Woman

at the window,taking the risk of acrick-in-the-neck to lean far out,is she

hopingfor a siren?protest march? flag burning?a mike to her face as shootingwitness?

2.I seechildren rocketout of rubble, poweredonly by their voices. I stowaway,

swiftly

moving inwardto the horizonlessglimmer of outermost sense, brightyellows,

zephyrblues, golden pinks,dusty plum shadows sopalpable, the perspective tips

toward me:mysticmoment in timeclear of time, pause in space,the deep-breathed quiet of a rareexchange.

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Odyssey Pearl Mary Wilshaw

Wheeled on casters fromthe delivery room, we

roll toward the on-rampwhere a flash of greensparks our entry ontothe expressway of life.Burning rubber, we roarforward to meet hot rod,truck, van, convertible

to find none downshift orstop . . . but continue togain speed,

increase velocity,attain momentum,

time, like big rigs everrolling down steep, bumpy

mountains while whirlingradials of technology allowus to perform endless tasksat an incredible tear and

we, in turn, expect tocomplete added feats asdays close in, hoursshrink, minutestick away. . . Yet,exhilarated by the rush,the urgency of our journeyin over-drive, we proceed, tolearn gears are stripped,

tires-worn,brakes-gone,

and whirringchariot wheelsapproach.

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The Bellows of Hell Gerald Zipper

crushed against the swaying stalks of riderswheels screeching metal cries

tunnels sounding the bellows of hellloneliness a black crow sitting on hunched shouldersa face floating across fissures in a subway carflash of sweetness through wing-spreads of newspapersinventing dreamsscheming fugitive loveswalking side-by-side in early morning glow

rolling out hopes in a bright sunthreading limbs in the darknesshoneyed lips brushing a hot facethe ventured smile, the risked word, the dared touch,the almost seized dreammorning ride to a place that-could-have-been.

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Faces Gerald Zipper

Mask faces stuck to subway car windowslurching downtown

riffling through mind filesM-1 bus loops from corner to cornerballoon faces strung between branches of straphandlesan old man frownsremembering the day he lost his jobhis wife's touch turned to stoneher smooth olive face stared at rice advertisementsremembering a favela on a wet slippery hillsidemother cooking fragrant chicken necksfrom a castaway worldboy with lustrous brown eyesbalanced between swaying bodiesclutching his worn-edged bookstraveling to supermarket basement

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to stack end-on-end of cartonsdreaming of quiet Sundays under warm quiltscrackling eggs and frying hamhanging on the corner

waiting for that distant pay-off daythat day they always promisewhen life is easy the hours soft and memories always Sundays.

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Old Man Gertrude Morris

Sometimes he swept the sidewalkin front of the store

paying his dues.

Usually he just sat there,even in winter, his cup

filling with snow.

The first time he didn't showI worried: Was he ill? Did he die?

Then there he was.

When he saw me he'd look away,in case I dropped a coin,

in case I didn't

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no sweat. If I did he'd bobhis head: "Yes ma'am.

Thank you ma'am."

"You don't have to do that," I said."This is not Gone With The Wind.Take care of yourself

it's cold out here." (As ifhe didn't know.) The next

time he saw me

he grinned as if we were old friends,as if his mother had said:

"It's cold out there

take care," her soft voicecalling him home. He seemed to be

getting thinner.

The weather is fine but he's goneagain, and I'm worried: If hegets sick and dies

who'll bury him? I hope notin Potter's Field, but a stone

for an old man,

no longer nameless; a quiet manwho lived on borrowed coin, till someone

called him home.

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Railroad Crossing David Napolin

The sunset left a halo down the long train tracks.It flared beneath the earth, crept along the beaded lamps

And settled like a mist upon the factory stacks.

And trains in the gold distance loomed; while beating belland fall of gate betokened the swift homeward hourOf millions from far below the sky's border well.

The dusk descended, along the rails slowly neared.Like a massed storm of gray it hung upon the fringeOf roofs, then thickened beneath to a charcoal tinge.

Peace, like a dream, rested on the blue-moving scene;But below where rails were darkening, in distanceOf the mind, were trains rolling, rolling with a scream.

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City Too Busy Susan Snowden

Atlanta,the city too busy to hate,

the city too busy to smile at a stranger,too busy to be courteous when driving,too busy to smell the magnolias.But then,Atlanta's magnolias are lostamid those vibrant, variegated perennials: orange-and-whitetraffic barrels.

First published in 'Writer's Excha

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I Think of Your Daughter Lyn Lifshin

maybe the only livingthing you loved thoyou left her too. Youdidn't love yourself,couldn't trust anyone who tried to.At ten, visiting, she

called you on air,asked where the peanutbutter was. Now she's21, maybe has babies.Your obit says 2grandchildren but itdoesn't know half

of what you left

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The Guns in Uncle Charlies's Cabinet David Michael Nixon

The guns in Uncle Charlies's cabinetwere never loaded, always locked in:

shotguns and rifles standing sentrybehind the panel of glassin the smooth-grained door.Uncle Charlie was always readyto tell a joke or prod discussion:conservation, hunting, taxesstalked around the dining room table.Sometimes, after I had pressed him,he'd open the cabinet, let mehandle the guns, if I was careful.Never point them. Keep them trained down.Uncle Charlie captured pigeonson the rooftops of the city.

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The city paid him for the pigeons,to keep their population down.Aunt Weenie died and Uncle Charlie,whose heart was bad by then, mind fading,

at last could move in with his lover.I wonder about the jokes he told her,while she nursed him as my Aunt had done.I wonder about their years together all those hunting trips when my Aunt stayed home.

First appeared in 'Poetry Mote

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Night Thoughts From the War Herman Slotkin

Long in the lonely lap of dark I lieto hear the night train's wild whooeee,

the throaty thrum of engines racing home.The sounds rise to roar and shake, then fade, are gone.

Now I am adrift on the blind seawithout lights or havens or margins.

I spend the long night looking for lights,hungry for havens, groping for any shore.

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Evening TrainRobert L. Brimm

The swing's creaking

heartbeat held mecaptive in the dark

as I sat watchingthose lighted carsswaying up the grade,

green trackside eyeblinking to red,a clear sign to me,

believer in signsand good fortune,that my young dreams

had finally melted

into that S-curve,vanished in darkness,

and there would beno college, not evenbus fare to get there.

It seems so long ago,

such a vague memorynow, scar fading like

a distant whistle,that evening trainsomewhere, echoing,

reminding me that

I finally escaped,became who I am,

but never escapedwho I was then.

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The Husband's VersionJoanne Seltzer

Marie has gone away. She left

the children.The house is still the way she planned it:antique furniture mixed with modern art.Eclectic, she called the style.I had suggested Early American. Practicalfor a family.But she said no. Too provincial, ordinary.She wanted something more exciting.

& now she has excitementa joba small apartment furnishedin salvation armynight courses at college& men

probably menalthough the menare not important

I've hired a woman to care for the house

and children.Meanwhile I'm learning to like the mix.My Dali etchings have multiplied in value.Yesterday I scraped and stainedthat old crusader's trunk which Mariefound in her grandfather's attic.Those are hand-carved figures of Christand disciples. Feel the workmanship.

I think I'll move my crusader's trunkout of the bedroom, into the foyer.It will make a fine cabinet for my audiocomponents.A conversation piece, don't you think?

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Train Window Don Segal

Lying on my backlooking out the rain window

I could only see the top of things,the top of things.

5 pm cloudy March dusk of an eveningan amorphous gray backgroundfor dark brown fingersof leafless tree tops,spindly and reaching

to the monochrome damp drizzle.

Slowly turning roof ventilators,vanes dreamy flailingcaptive circles in the wind.

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Wires, fat wires, thin wiresseem to move up and downbetween tilted Canadian pine forest polesdragged here years ago,

screamingly cut,birds flapping for their lives,squirrels scampering for safer ground,mute totemsto the need to be here and thereand here again.

It is too dark now,

only loading dock lightsback end to the train tracksare visible through chain linkand barbed wire fences,no, no one will be makingdeliveries here tonight.

Parking lots lit with pinkish glow,no parked car makes a move

and be discovered escapinginto broad spotlight.

Rolling, rockingambling traininto New York.

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The Sixties Albert Huffstickler

I don't think I have it right.I think of coffee cups and laundromats

and the dark cold walking down Guadalupein the late fall and winter in a coatnot quite thick enough and windows,windows looking out through misted glassat the wet fall of autumn rain. In mymemory, the sky always looms, dark,solemn, not threatening but bearingdown, the weight of it tangible and

awesome, a pregnant sky, pregnant withpromise and foreboding, always there,always dark. I think of small apartmentswith shabby walls and bright colorsor accents and the smell of grass andthe sound of Dylan and the wind somewhere

outside nuzzling the eaves. It's likeall these apartments were upstairsand so somehow the Sixties people wereupstairs people. And I think of trees

nuzzling the windows though the coursethat couldn't always be the case. Andalways restaurants, coffee houses, dinersthe fragrance of coffee, the windowsof night with figures silent againstthem, hands raised gesticulating, longhair flying, intensity, something washappening, something that had to be

captured and comprehended. I think ofyouth, an innocence aligned with hope(though I myself wasn't young. I wasin my thirties with the experience ofthe long-lost). Cigarette smoke, handsgesturing, the smoke from cigarettes

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trailing from them. And coffee cupsand loneliness of autumn streets, treesbowed by the wind, a wind that singslike destiny through the long nights

outside the upstairs rooms where bodiessprawled in youth's dreamless sleep.And finally, I think of stars, notalways visible through the dark and thelowering skies but the stars, alwaysthere, always.

First published in 'The Lucid Stone' Scottsdale, AZ, Winter 1999, 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 21 no 6

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