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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, Volume 25, #5

The boatmen and clamdiggers arose early and stopped for me, I tucked my trowser ends in my boots and went and had a good time, You should have been with us that day round the chowder kettle.

Walt Whitman

WATERWAYS: Poetry in the Mainstream

Volume 25 Number 5 Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher Thomas Perry, Admirable Factotum *May

c o n t e n t s
D.T.Bolling Joan Payne Kincaid Andrew Fader Ida Fasel Herman Slotkin Jonathan Friedman 4-5 6 7 8-9 10 11-12 Geoff Stevens David Michael Nixon Lee Evans Jeanne Whalen Cynthia dEste 13 14 15-17 18 19-20

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $33 for 11 issues. Sample issues $3.50 (includes postage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelope. Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127 2005 Ten Penny Players Inc. *(This magazine is published 3/05)

We mourn the recent deaths of long time supporter Sylvia Spiegel and poet, Herman Slotkin, whose work will continue to appear in this magazine.

Coastal Motions D. T. Bolling This returning to what never withers, thought quickening along shore as though worlds slow grind already fades in sea gulls swift flight carrying mind along up there where air sings, blooms, opens beyond stale episteme, tropism below, whitecaps race in rhythms of wind and sea speaking in tongues scorning historys cage, conjuring of desire wanting salt air and dreaming clouds

a sea gulls flight great white wings lofting in grace of motion free of all fear endlessly I want them never to die, or always over water, wings cruising air smoothly as sleep in warm beds of winter, all cruelty and cold banished to somewhere else, or never not to find gulls wings or bills or talons askew in the sand or

rotting among rocks indifferent, busy insects having their timeless fill, precious soarings broken apart in deaths ignorant maw thinking and matter the stone and the dream of the stone dreaming within the stone, outside our collars of hardness, our flights toward edges of things and beyond

Joan Payne Kincaid phragmites line the trail we stumble past mud and puddles Great Black-backs watch the sea

Deep in the Grove of Maples Andrew Fader on the south side away from the rock ledge that falls off to the creek below, we finish the last wall of our fort by ten, crawl through its low door to that small green meadow cut by time from the grove, then lay on our backs to watch scuds whose way is slow, uncharted. All the while the creek below overruns its banks, empties into a pool, and calms. The one creates the two, the two create the ten thousand.

Stymied Ida Fasel A man named Green assigned you to oblivion, Whitman. Emerson took his praise back fast. A Gay* insisted you werent gay, but how much you comforted and coveted your dear boys.
*Gay Wilson Allen 8

Clean young Americans preferred to foreigners. Your letters show you up. You are a fraud. Your yawp distresses me, yet there are times the sky breaks out your Sound and Light show to my ah! Times, too, I want to let it all out, whoop it up as you do, barbaric, then run and hide.

GOOD DAY Herman Slotkin Crow caw, burble of dove, drifting in the sweet of new-cut grass, wing my morning walk. Cackle of cutlery, simmer of sauce, spearing the musk of golden curry, fill the afternoon.

Tattle of talk, clatter of ideas, stretching me out to dear, near people, enrich my evening. Silence of sleep, dumb-show of dream.

The Fishermen Jonathan Friedman The water teemed with fins. The waters wobbling waves devoured them as the salt-air streamed from where the ocean roared. Their hands laid low; their eyes were shrouded by their hands. A voice sang strongly; from a raspy throat it soared. Then silence crept upon the men, lips arced to sky in bated breaths swimming, musing dreamily of fish.

They matched the tides slow sigh to the rowing rhythm far from shore and crest to tow, toes laid low anchored in sand where crabs pinched and dragged their jagged claws along the shifting sands.


Never Mind Never Again Geoff Stevens There are not plenty more anymore we cannot all of us go fishing quotas have been handed out less are to be landed than before. Our opportunities have been diminished. There are plenty less fish in the sea.


In Cold Sun David Michael Nixon I am a fish I am life I swim on you are a bird you are flight you fly off she is a turtle she is earth she remains in cold sun in cold sun in cold sun

Beachcombing Lee Evans Nothing: dazed fog, windy awesome surf rain; eyeglasses steaming nowhere; ocean flounders restlessly. White waves leonine manes leap crash against pier pilings, fierce predatory splash, roar foggy muffled. Boardwalk shops invisible facade; shadows where gulls fly; murmured seashell voices; dark tracks bare feet; beachcombing lost tide.

End of Summer Lee Evans Giggles of delight: Two babies squeal and splash at the beach, while Mama and Aunt hold them under the armpits; waves coming up from behind, soaking the ladies rear ends. Look at those diapers bloated with brine! I limp on the sand, my ankle still throbbing

from yesterday, when I was knocked down right on the living room rug by a Samoyed whirlwind. Four little hands pat down the meek waves that vanish at four naked feet. Two smiles without teeth flash instamatically with the cameras wink. (If you want them again, just look in the album they wait for you there.)

Did you ever, I asked the Old Man of The Sea, as he leaned on his trident and stared at the waves, have so much fun playing out there in the water, you forgot who you were and became Everything?

Orcas Island Jeanne M. Whalen Everything cold, water, wind, ending a perfect day of beaches and barbecued salmon, dark snuggled us on the ferry ride back to reality while we wrapped ourselves in sleeping-bag defense, spit cherry pits into black liquid glass, shouted Pearl Jam lyrics

until we cleared the deck and made it ours. I loved you then, but I knew it was a paradise disease, that I would be quarantined until the summer ended and my hormone-cardiologist called me home.

Hearth Tender Cynthia dEste Morning early, the moons just finished scoring symphonies on snow. The easts awash with ice cream. Its very cold. I must go to where the wood is buried, deep under white drifts, so I might feed the hearth a teasing feast of sticks

and dry branches offer it some locust logs in sacrifice for heat. The morning fire follows a ritual progression but seems each time new. A new day a new fire set with new fuel.


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