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THE NEW VORK STI;;fE W'AITERWAYS PR0JECT grew out of a desire to present t.o N'ew York !

Vesidents the artistEry of the word in a ,Ilovel se-tti!hg. The waterways ca1.1@"ID.t IDUl: imarginatfuons from a con ce.r-n fOlr aesthet.ics and the ecol0g;y of New York rivers and lakes. We "thank the Bel:lth SlEreet seaport Museum. the Na'Eionai Maritime HisterJical Society,ebe New Y0rk Harbor J11est.d. val and th.e Depa.r"kment. Gf Ports and Terminals for the:Lr aoo]peraiti'on ana Fecommenaations. Peets and ilRdependent presses haiVe responded by offe~ilng taeir talent: as perfor-mers and in the expense.We will be exh~bi ting and readin.g at. the 8m:1'I:11 st!l:'eet. Seqpoct. Museum on. July 4th, at Piel? 13 in S~atefl Isllalld on Jruily 21st, PieE 84 at Wes'E 44th S~reet: in 011 July 29, at NC±t: Avenue and 44th Crive in Queens OE. August 12, at tne N0rth River Balkhead in Greenwioh Vill1age (West stlfeet ana Bank Street) OB August 19th, a:t the Fult0n Ferry Landing Brooklyn of] August 2!5th and 26th and in Kingston on Septemaer 8-th and 9th.



South Street Seaport - July 4th - 1979

noon 12:15 12:30 12:45

1:00 1 :"15 1:30 1:45 2:00 2:15 2:30 2:45 3:00 3:15 3:30 3:45 4:00 4:15 4:30 4:45 5:00 5:15 5:30 5:45 6:00

Louis Reyes Rivera Marlowe Ferrara

Dan Stokes

Dorothy Friedman & Carol Polcovar Maurice Kenny

Stanley Ba r-k an

Susan Kronenberg Virginia Scott Suzanne Dstro Zavrian Janet Bloom

Richard Spiegel

Pat Fillingham 'If Elizabeth Marraffino Ellen Marie Bissert Barbara Fisher

Rose Sher

Emilie Glen

Enid Dame

Joel Zeltzer

Leah Gilliard Magdalena Gomez Sidney Bernard

Peter Scarpa

Donald Lev

Gwen Whitehead

Eulogy for Charlie

Marlowe Ferrara

Until now ... Friends were lost,

Through time and distance, On occasion by choice. Death has never stolen one, Not ... until now.


Death ... chose my rare friend, swiftly Without preparation ... or warning, Like a kidnapping without ransom.

There are so many conversations left unfinished. So many ideas left unexchanged.

I am angry ... at his destiny ... and mine without him. I feel a helpless anger, I never felt ..•

Until now.

I cannot accept his absence, nor believe,

His voice is trapped, in a place where my ears can't hear, Or my eyes will not see him behind a shadow called DEATH. God ... forgive my blasphemy

In my loss

In my selfishness In my resentment

I never felt, until now. And in my very humanness,

I question ... love of God, and hatred of death

Solace in faith and the cold emptiness ... called eternity. Where has he gone, with death to lead the way?

t1y friend who was always here for me God

Until now.

it didn't help

Dan Stokes

the torn black curtain fell

breaking the silence and

cornering the actors with

the mounds of flowing breakers

it was the ocean again

and the tender flowing that

bought the time with

screaming obscenities and

there, by the entrance a

man with little else to do than

watch the flowing of the curtain

his eyes clouded with tears
his belly filled with beer The House

Dorothy Friedman


In the house we could imagine ourselves as men and women. You'd bring me a loaf of bread and I'd bring you a book and together we'd read between the lines and be nourished. In the house you were a boy even though you were married.

Once you were told that when you were married you became a man. Once I was tala that when I married I became a woman.

But we lived in the house with small sad faces until

I could not eat your bread and you could not read my book. So we separated.

I became a stone caught between two trees, and you, a rock hiding between two houses.

And now I can not dream because when I dream I rem~mber the house.


The house is empty. We gave it up to enemies

on a dark cold night. We offered it up like our hands. Standing in the cold, we offered our house up to strangers.

And now we stand in the street, each of us wearing a dark overcoat, knowing it can never be revisited.

And when it rains we lie to ourselves that we are not really getting wet or do not mind the rain at all

and even tell ourselves that we would be even more wet if we were still in the house. where we would .remember we were once warm together.

For Linda

Carol Polcovar

What have we learned by growing old? That holdings not having

Nor havings hold

That the world hangs icicles To make winter cold.

Hudson River

[vIaurice Kenny

duck blinds, geese, mallards

Catskills guard

the flesh of the river

poltroon mansion' rots at the edge of slavery

sun sun

east west

rising setting

trains drum Mohawk

sipping coffee

oil tankers split through the hide

of Harlem


(for David B. Axelrod)

Stanley Barkan

Itls all a p~ot-they I re the re . behind the walls. Each of them

is a bug

listening, recording, reporting.

One day, after the long hours of dark, weill return

from the lamplit streets, step into the corridors, inch our way

up the narrow stairwells, unlock the latch,

slide through the doorway into the blackened room, flash on the lights--

and catch

all the cockroaches scattering

across the walls,

under the chairs & doors, out of the boxes,

cans & bowls,

. across the tables,

under the wallpaper-exploding into our faces with their Rorschach design moving,

moving back



from our unlit consciousness ... but always there~


Susan Kronenberg

This is how it will be

when you let go of your name

and the breeze wraps itself around your fingers and clouds cover the places where you stood:

You'll hear flowers open and close, feel a breath too soft to stir

the thinnest blade of grass.

Some current will lead you towards a stone the insistent rain has worked on.

Then you'll stretch out along a dry stream bed, and give yourself up to the rain,

let it soothe you over centuries.



Virginia Scott

a doe stands at the roadside

spirit of those who have lived here and passed known through our memory

the doe stands at the edge of the icy road then darts back into the woods

snow falling mother-spirit hovering

white on the drops in the road and fields light from the windows

of the old house

brightening the snow

presences mother

grandmother here in their place at the foot of ben lomand'

green trees black in the hemlock night

a doe stands at the roadside

spirit of those who have lived here and passed known through our memory the doe stands at the edge of the road then darts back into the woods

Golden Grove, New Brunswick January, 1977

Drowned Daughter of the Sea ....

Suzanne astra Zavrian

Drowned daughter of the sea,

Come to me with your great lost eyes Smelling of resin and tar

And the crushed shells of clams;

Through your open mouth, sea-child, The distant thunder and swell Subside on your inarticulate tongue To a summer murmur of shells;

Open-armed, before me you stand

Entreating (blossoms of algae fill your hands) Me to drown in the tidal pools of your eyes.


He Dares My Shyness

Janet Bloom

Why is it a man

with whom 11m friendly,

a man of joy, of sparkling currents and of flashing springing fish

can suddenly turn terrified,

narrowing his eyelids as we talk. holding his head back stiff

as if lid thrown a boulder

that would utterly displace him?

lid no idea lid said something monstrous.

And then why is it I

was afraid

to embrace him,

gather those terrors in my arms

and pet them til they all calm down?

His privacy, his crystalline cage I honor it

as one honors the air under birdls wings. Yet I feel what's required

are the arms. the breast

of a mother goddess.

If I opened mine

it would be an invitation for both of us to dive

into each otherls Spuyten Duyvil.

Note: Spuyten Duyvil - 17th century Dutch meaning Spitting Devil; the dangerous waters where the Harlem & Hudson Rivers meet.

I have reservations

Richard Alan Spiegel

venture out with me

into the long tunnels of night in hasty departure

visa provided

& expenses paid

the hostess awaits

who will end the random lot hang the villain by the neck till dead

(and bake pastries)

the blue evening

sky of silhouetted branches and frozen gutter puddles

accompany us in passage to

the subways

what are the mean~ngs of the moon? there are craters in the eyes

of approaching glances,

wading in the undercurrents of a pulling tide


our mortal members

how will we find our way back together 'lie ask the question estimating our strength

against the effort

one of us must be certain of our strength resisting res1sting the contrary


& change directions

you know of course where

we're going don't you places


Analogy and Metaphor

Pat Fillingham

Some foods are ·self-indulgent.

They may be self-indulgent by analogy, As those white with marshmallow,

Afloat in a slow-moving stream of hot fudge, With the fragrance of spices,

Carmelized, soft, smooth.

self-indulgent to lie back in a mound of whipped cream, Feeling it slithering into armpits, between toes,

Or to wallow in a breast stroJee up the stream of hot fudge, With a bow-wave curling away from the chin in a V.

Some foods are self-indulgent by metaphor, Like snails or anchovies,

Pomegranates or caviar.

[They may be initially unpleasant, J I

But people school themselves to like them. Eaten as publicly as possible,

Suitable for potlatches

These foods are metaphors for money.

Photo Album

Elizabeth Marraffino

As a child I was

so public with laughter so full of joy

you looked at my picture & smiled

& said that I was made for happiness sorrow doesn't become me at all

& look I sd at your pictur~

your mouth open, your eyes

looking up seeking the stars you were filled with wonder you still are

& she

well she was a sturdy child

but light flooded out of her face as if all her sturdiness

were transparent

she'd not perfected her carapace she was a secret not yet dangerous

joy wonder mysterious light

triangles are always like that.


Ellen Marie Bissert

you are a woman

i have no defenses in love against you i cannot stop

i cannot love you less than myself now as before someone calls

she is leaving", you

i know

i know this despair as sex burns love out i hold you

loving the blood that drips like wine from our bodies you kiss me hard

& go to her


Barbara Fisher

sometimes it seems

as though words should be enough

for two who live for words and with them.

But they never are, enough,

that is.

And looks

and hugs

and fingers coiled together speak more to the sense

of what it is

and what we are


to meld

when we merged the books ..• your books

and my books

on the shelves.

And we haven't stopped to count or to remind each other

which tomes belong to you

and which ones once were mine.

I Donlt Want

Rose Sher

To love you

11m the mime in the box hot white

My hands outstretched pushing out space Glass encased to escape you.

It seems to me I donlt want to love at all. My bloodls oler boiled drinking up

Its own spoiled potions.

Let me be serene lacey cool unloved

Ideally encased. sui ted to mysel f temperature 98.6 Capillaries just so placed

Red white corpuscles need balanced. adrenalin dried out ... All those roetgens empounded not withstanding.

Crooked my nose in the middle of my face.

Lips that curl beneath. eyebrows above, lashes on lids. Two straight eyes on either side

Only NOT like a crooked Picasso x-rayed.

Just a composition. straight plain intelligent Representational, quiet.

stepping Stones

Emilie Glen

Back to moss slippery stepping stones my brother leaving fearful me

across the brook

star stepping stones now as I search after him

in the spaces of the dawn so vast in his silence

I cower back to the mossy brook of small fears

The First Day Without Meat

-Enid Dame

The first day without meat

was the day of the demonstration. The rain hammered down

on us and the nuclear reactor we'd gathered to stop. Sailboats balanced on gun-metal water, delicate as umbrellas. I picked shells on the beach. They

look like potatoes. r1y jeans grew heavy and wetter than tents. people spoke. I couldn't concentrate. We kept losing

our eleven year old vegetarian. back to the bus before we did. I a bean curd sandwich

and" a Solar Power button.



She made it bought

Back home: you grew anxious

listened for newscasts. Five hundred people arresteda The rain

kept falling in our apartment. You'd lost your new raincoat downtown.

You knew I'd be angry.

That was five days ago. I haven't eaten meat since.

r don't

know why. It wasn't

exactly a decision. I simply slid from one place to another. No doubt I'll slide back.


I've learned to cook bean curd. My mother writes that ito's nice

young people are still demonstrating. You found your raincoat

on a coffee shop hook

while eating a hamburger.

The Ballad of the Seas' Water 'la balada del agua del mar' Federico Garcia Lorca

Joel Zeltzer, Translator

Ithe sea

smiles from distances teeth of foam

lips of heave~

young woman of darkness

what are you offering with bared breast

sir i offer you the seas' water

oh dark child what are you carrying mixed within your blood

sir i am carrying the seas 'water

these tears salt-filled where do they come from mother

i am crying sir the seas' water

heart this deep bitterness where was it born

what bitterness

in the seas' water

the sea

smiles from distances teeth of foam

lips of heaven

Leah Gilliard

from my window

i watched death outline the depth of lines

around his nutmeg-colored eyes he just sits there on that bench

i see him now

as i had

in the afternoon of my growing he smiles at times

accepting her touch

knowing her secret

i watch and am jealous

on his bench near the tree old and almost naked the old man

lifting his hand pointing

as the brown leaf shivered on the branch then fell

silently crumbling to his feet amazing i thought

still not really thinking he turned slowly

until our eyes touched smiled again

and died

To an Old Salt

Magdalena Gomez

With you I can speak

of purple Morroccan hills

and know you will understand how the thought could make me tremble

you have been there too

yoUr heart open to the smells and sounds of the marketplace

the dirty feet of scampering children stealing apples to stay alive

the black eyes of gypsies haunting the Pyrenees

the spotless streets of Amsterdam with tulips blooming fearlessly knowing the people understand

to look and not to touch

the beer songs of Germany

youth's blue eyes melting into blue skies people walking fast to forget

that it w'asn' t always beautiful there

the brothels of France

have lost their watercolors the ladies are tired

of red satin illusions

but the candle still burns

as francs slip into lacey garters

married to the sea

and faithful to her smell you will always remember

and live in the thrashing memories of water kissing stone

Promenade, Brooklyn Heights

Sidney Bernard


Brooklyn Heights is soaked in back bay,

turn of century languors. Random village of low contoured homes, on streets where I hear a strange stirring of iron shod horses drawing velvet hansoms on bumpy rides.


I walk on, shadowed by crusty elms. Bearded stick-in-hand Walt Whitman strolled here. West on Remson Street. Redstone church fronts

give way to tumult, to wide expanse of slate harbor. Dizzying commerce of cars and ships below. It cracks over the past like a raw welt.

Peter Scarpa


I call again on the chessboard of memory

When sunrise warms the blue pebble of a dream And clouds hang with promise over the sea. Another beach, another dawn, another walk.

I have thought too deep and labored too little tried again and again and fallen empty

hands have reached out an d never touched;

and nothing is eternal but sea and beaches.

I tire of words and pause for symbols that will snap the frailty of time

yet I know that the aegis of soul grows weary of pacing feet halting for decision.

It is dawn, I watch the diving seagulls

I try to light a cigarette against the breeze I hurl a pebble of defiance against the surf and putting my hands in my pockets, walk on.


The Circus

Don Lev

pitted against the first lion was the gladiator Nicholas master of the hammer

he broke two of the beast's fangs before he was torn apart next was a slender girl named April

who tried charming h~r lion

out of h~s wits, and almost succeeded

she was followed by forty young christians, pacifist and vegetarian to a man

but by that time most of the crowd had gone home.

To Desire You

Gwen Whitehead

To desire your eyes To climb into them

To wander forever lost To be inside

To desire your mouth

To explore every curve, every angle To know your tongue with mine

To stay there

To desire your body

To caress with my mouth, hands, breasts To walk around feeling you inside me

To desire you


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