-

'II TE R WAYS.~ r.po~tr~ tn the Ma(()stc~at1\

','

" ,

WII TE R WIIYS

1980 MAGAZINE SCHEDULE FEBRUA~Y

Workshops:New Yo r k &. New Jersey :NY Public Reading

.. APRIL

New Jersey Workshop NYPublic Rea.dings

JUNE

Poetry from the Populist Readings at South Street SeaDort Museum

JULY • 2-i'ssues

Fair at South Street Seaport Museum Fa lr , Coney Island Boardwalk

. AUGUST. 4-issues

F air a t G r e e n w lc h V ill age R i v e r

F air 0 n Fir e . ls I and .

Fair in Albany

·F a i ,_ .j n B u f f a J 0

.OCTOBE.R Workshops

DE_CEMBER

Pub ll c Reading & Workshop

@ 1980, Ten Penny Players. Inc. 199 GREENWICH ST~ 'NY10014

Page 2

'" 3

4

5 6 7 8 .

9 .Hl I!l. iI!.2 Jl.3 ]4 15 16

Vol. 1 No.2 JlJb V 4-6· 1980

WAiJiEFfWA YS~· .PQETR:,{ IN 1iHE MAINS·ifREAM'

$ai~s.

mSSN Olli97-47~:?'

CONiEN~$'

Ne lR0:E:Eien er :tbils JRagaziIle may IDe re]?rinteifl (except E0lr birdef reviews) wi th0U"k w.ri tl"t:en. eon.sentfpem -mhe p:mb:IlisheEs.

Ce"~ail([)rs;, iElarmara Fisher «& I="i'j,emafl€l $jpie@el·

]?ee;hs aifte!lr:' :this

Seutfl" Stl1eet Sea~ort - Mrusel!J1iTl

Reading. - Peets

Jruly" 4

JULY 5

P>a:Ericilla AquasVmvas Mik!hail H0I.'Owi'trz AJ:i:tJiur DolDrin Harrie:E B!lrown Stan.ley H. Barkan Pat.ricia Fillingham @Q.:nlelliius lEady

Jiames D. Gwyn

Arnbld M.oodtiik Don'ald Lev

.Davi.d Ge!l"shator Sus-an Sherman Baroal!a Watkins Riehard Alan Spruegel Pa1mer Hasty

Meurice S • .IfaeMson

Eniril Dame

Stanle¥ H. Barkan J'amesMor,r,is Ceneiere TayJ!canr Mia BarRan

(Child PeeiE_'S)

ChucR Neohtem ElizafueiEh MaTra!IIIfilino Phii Mintz

F!l"i~z Harnd:ll.t0TI

J ame.s D. Gwyn

Biane Burns

Richard Allan Sr;>iegeil.. (o-ahers to be scheau1l!ed)

" ",L'I "6 JII..uy

AE.L ElAY REAElING (Noon-5: 00) LE1!;;VES G>F GRASS I Walk Wfti tman Followed oy '!the Populist PoetiI'y SeEa:es - 'Walt Whieman (read by BacrDara Fisaer) and RichaEd DaviQsen reaaing

his own peet.ry; Modera-tor - Riphard Alan Spiegel

-

.

l

PATRICIA AQUASVIV AS

Black swan floats on a lake of pearl luster with' shadows lying across the surface'

broken by white boned beams of star cluster clouds, floating wraiths of a single purpose spirits veiled in leaves harnessea·to the wind whispering through the plumage of the night the swan's dream upon whose doorway is pinned your silk,· song threaded net of lunar light Alone curls like a boa constrictor

at the threshold of our love's door

behind which our union is the victor-

a depth of flame through which the night can soar where only surrender can embrace such

submission to the sermon of your touch

3

-.I

NIGHTPIECE

MIKHAL HOROWITZ·

Chirpers trillers thrumrners hummers chirring splinters of consciousness these control & animate the night

crickets racketeering in teeming cities of black grass

4

Lor.ELY FASCNAOON .

ARTKJR D08R~'·

The crane with the broken wing is not the ancient boy caressing His own reflection.

By the long window panes

He preens and dances

As a hopeful mate,

Condemned forever to hours Of lqnely fascination, Charming his solitary heart.

5

VIEW FROM'THE BROOKLYN 'BRIDGE'

r

HARRIET BROWN

Years ago, a man died walking over the Brooklyn Bridge.

r stepped over him at dawn, wL th that light just breaking, the street lamps snapping out one by one.

It was said that he died of

exertion - a sudden cramp in the heart, a giving in of the muscles that

bind, a caving inwards of body -

but r think it was the view

from the top of the bridge,

'the dizzying height, the fine

sharp air, the witnessing of change from dark to light, of the disappearance of the stars, of unforgetting:

things which he had never seen before.

II

1 6.tand he.ILe., t.i.!J.te.It.i.llg. I can

~meti the. <lea U4.iHg ltp 5r..om, .the bo an.d«

ltnde.fl mlj 6ee.t. ilIlteILe.ill the ocean?

Whelte am 11 I <I ee aile oiL-ip, a iong walj out, aimo6.t beljolld .the ho,t.i.zon.

WheILe alte .the .!Jea. b.i.ltd, to

fe·ad -it home?

There are no sea birds,

~,ere is no ocean. He sank into the smell, and was carried bv the ebb and flow of the water, while

his small, still body remained behind, a witness of the path he had taken.

I ~ ett a. 0 udden c.on.tlLaction

06 mlj lteaIL.t at tile tightening J fl.1j.

The a..{,!t loent -thin, mlj bILe.a-thi'lg 6et£. awalj. The. iong cltue.t web.! 06 the b.t.i.dge &LL,tlWlll1ded me. III the -tlt.ill a..{,,'l I waih.ed IIp the ~Qce 06 the. b,'l.idge, ba!anc.e.d de!.~c.a..te..e.!f all the ~te.ei L~.i.,te6, lllltii

1 lI.e.ac.hed the tap.

III

From the top of the bridge I can see forever. It is uncomfortable here, the air

is too thin, my fingers and toes have gone numb; but here

I can smell the murmuring sea, move with the ?ounding of the slow water, .watch the long, stately process of the sky.

I will not relinquish the viel" from the top of the bridge.

r have lost sight of the body on the oath far below ~e.

but it does not matter.

~-l!~en ! close :71~l eyes I

~·is hadow '."ashes over me,

=." ng ~y ~outh and lungs and ~~~~ i~; out t~e 5k~.

6

XBALBA

, en .Mexico)

STANLEY. tit BARKAN

On the plain

where the craftsmen come to finish

their uncut stones

I sit watching peons digging up

the fresh-filled graves

,

'picking clothes, rings, combs from bones

leaving naked skin upon the ground

burning, burnishing below the ancient sun the waterless earth

the sand-grained plants the prickly pears

in the mou:ths

stretched wide

at the base

of Sarguajo monuments

beyond the temple of the moon off the avenue of the dead.

7

ORACLE

PATRICIA FILLINGHAM

Say tears. Say farewell.

Say the Bird of Mourning Sings his song in your heart. Say the black clouds lower,

Disasters approach from the five corners.

Don't mention the mice, The banana peel,

The comic mask with bulbous nose, The slapstick pratfall,

The tumble downstairs.

Say Death.

Say Destruction.

Say the Bird of Desire, Blind by day,

Has come out in the night, Flies overhead

Losing feathers.

8

LIVING WITH GEf\a.lS'_ C'ORt£I..lJS EADY

it's sundown and we

find Gertrude Stein sitting in her parlor at the

piano. She's about

to give Alice B. Toklas the night off. Gertrude wants to be alone

when .she does this, suspecting that what she wants to do

is, insane. the sun sets and :Alice sta.:r;ts to worry

about her bOSSi what is this shit about violets, violets, violets

anyway? Gertrude

demands a glass of whiskey, the shades drawn and all

the lights turned off. with pleasure, you old

coot, Alice thinks

to herself. she does as she's told and goes to bed.

Gertrude

sits in the dark all night.

in the morning

she starts thinking about roses.

9

PBRsil . COST 9091

JAMES D~ GWYN

I know how many I drink by the number of dimes in front of me - Unless John slips one in now and then -

and he does;

It's like my female friends slipping in now and then - Then maybe they slip in others too, and they usually do,

. Then go away,

and leave me with the PBRsi

The beers are easier to count

(but you can't really buy them, only rent them for awhile)

and they still leave

me with pain,

But at least I know

where they're coming from •

10

. ..... . ..

... ~. !j"j!-

.... b

:~

"'<f

*Pab6~ Blue Ribbon6

.. "

.,~

The capital dome, glowing white Against the midnight blues.

The moon a little past

Half mast,

A low hanging cloud Makes a line of sky Turn back like a rind, Of aged Swiss Cheese.

The rockets about to commence A symbolic cybernetic war. Preview of the real thing,

A ri tual re-e.nacted

With a fore gone bong.

An ambulance screams

Setting the theme

Red white red I red white red Heavy rims hots hammer light On the retina,

Visual rhythms expand

The sky bleeds ruby crosses, Mandalas of flaming Buddhist orange, Angels wings glimmering,

Silver fish swimming the sky, Impregnating the Earth with fire. Blue stars loom

Larger than the moon,

Bouquet of roses

Rising red,

Burst upon burst

Built upon burst.

Waves of sounds

Roar louder than

The wailing fire engines police whistles

And explosions going off.

FIREWORKs_, WASHINGTON "D.C. " ARNQLD MOOONI<-

No way of quieting

The electro-static pulses," Hissing across the synapses Like scanning C.B. channels Catching snatches of snatches; Sobbing, crying, wailing, Pleading demanding hog calls, So that the pounding sound

Is bleeding

And the blood is boiling, In the fire of the night.

1 1

I ,

ENGRAVED DONALD-LEV

bvm , hrh , inri

the lucky I the plucky , the snappy , the happy the master of ceremonies at the fourth of july annual rally was henry o'malley

expert at fireworks , donor of stained glass windows , war veteran , father , friend (and-

there may be a statue of him in the park someday

12

THE POETRY CRITIC COMPLAINS END DAME

A new way

to travel the city: reading to reading

getting lost in

other people's jungles.

At intermission, I stand around

gulp lukewarm coffee on the edges

of congratulations.

In waterbugged basements in velvet attics .

in teenage dating bars

I listen to people talking

to themselves.

Some are hustlers.

Some are stand-up comics. Some are terribly sincere.

All I do

is describe

what I think I've seen.

How disappointed they are when it turns out

I didn't understand.

I never claimed to understand.

19

· SPECTRUM SEEKERS

DAVIl GERSHATOR

-,

Opticoid spectrum seekers look to the Earth

for their organic jewelry mines-reptiles and humans

are their favorite sources

they judge only by the color of one's eyes

they've come seeking . ,

certain shades of grey, opalescent blue obsidian, ~lecked amber, soft brown

& jade green

,

I '

the Opticoids may knock on your door any time of night

a metallic voice booms out

SHOW YOUR VISION SOCKETS! their electric foreheads shine their aluminoid orbs

look deep into your eyes

& you think of your irises

& hope they're the right color for you

if you're not their type they have a nasty habit of slamming the door

in your face

but you don't mind

the sound is music to your ears they have no use for ears

the sound of a door slammed horne makes you see things

for years to come

LOVE POEM / FOR A CAPRCORN SUSAN SHERMAN

With a hole in my stomach with four grey hairs with a callous on my toe with 32 years with 32 years

With a record player 53 albums desks and drawers and shelves of books rooms of thought I come to you

I come as water I come as rain as ligh"t, falling great distances I come to you

I corne to you in sleep as you walk as time

As tides form as illusion I come to you as night ·'as sea

I come to you with death inside me with the pain of death inside me with what it means to leave

I corne to" you with nothing blind mute I come to you As laughter I come to you as myself as hair hands eyes sex I come to you

In madness in love I come to you in minutes hours seconds in walking running swimming crawling flying

With a dirty apartment I come to you with an empty refrigerator with a hous~ full of cats

I come to you as water comes to earth as the sea reaches toward the sand

as lover as friend I come to you as necessity as need

14

NEW YORK CITY

BARBARA WATKINS

I can taste your black dust, see it

that haze smelling of money, claustrophobia, smelling like water in a desert, the well at the center

of the store window mirage. My hands are not well-oiled; they are dry light. bird-bone. They. have taught the trick to my eyes, the trick of walking street level but seeing from a great height, the invisible strings becoming visible, the linking of bag ladies and limousines.

Slick chauffeured. green, wrapping the world in its spit polish, automotive sheen, a go light in the tunnel

of streets, it purrs l~ke a prematur~ tomato even I could own when I'm ripe, when I'm sharpened,- calculating

the heat, beating the odds, lost ones, running the breathless stampede, clawing all the full color images until they

twist, topple, bleed.

But when I fall close enough to the cracked pavement,

I smell the faint, ghostly odor of earth, ,bird droppings, secret messages: going too straight makes me dizzy, spinning is the most productive course. The city cannot hi.de the incredible buoyancy of dirt. Black dust contains a world of thriving moneyless microorganisms. The trick is to see with the 'moon's eyes which periodically rise,

as my mother's did, those eyes she always said she had

in the back of her head.

15

1

RICHARD ALAN SPEGEL

ISMORE

There is more to America than the Fourth of July And there is else to the World than History;

In all (in all) there are Aromas (each with a Name) , There are shades of Snow and degrees of Cold;

Small Voices everyday mourn, bless, praise, condemn And 'I am only One ofi Them:

'Hear, over here,

what somewhere else was spoken once - a different time

the .memozy holds: thatched home villages, Mediterranean beach resorts

once were Moorish fortresses,

and tresses by love always are parted; no one is all - there is more.'

"

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16

THE SILENCE

PALMER HASTY

Silence

keeps its visible precision in the quartz crystal

in the blood cell and spun cocoon. With its exquisite screws of light

it holds the corners of the poem intact.

How soft, manageable it is lying down with the graphite in the smears of pencil lead,

how transparent, indestructible it stands in the carbon tetrahedron of the diamond.

Silence has no information

you can decipher, unless it is your voice calling for you.

It has no need to be tightlipped it is equally happy on either

side of the mirror. We write poems

with jackhammers and liquid tuning forks seeking its deep, unruffled discipline

where it keeps the one carved syllable locked

and whatever it is which was photographed, the musical instrument and the music

and the poet's mind. We give you such fine

through which one day it will all be released. And why expose yourself, you

inhabit everything, the camera, the photograph

clothes and jewelry to wear wi th YO',IT nothingness, bu: you as always

are thanklessl with your clean absence of mind.

17

V£NERATION

tJaRCE ~ JACKSON

IF I COULD OPEN EYES AND TAKE WF_X FROM EARS IF I COULD GRANT YOU SIGHT AND SHOW YOU TEARS IF I COULD ~mKE YOU HEAR FROM SWOLLEN GUMS OR SHON YOU KIDS THAT LIVE IN SLUMS

IF I COULD MAKE YOU TASTE OR FEEL OR S~reLL THE PLACE WHERE DYING CHILDREN DWELL WRAPPED IN THE ARMS DF OLD DISEASE WITH DRAINING WOUNDS AND NAKED KNEES

YOU'D LOCK ME IN A PADDED ROOM, A DYING LIFE AMI9 THE GLOOM AND ON A TIME, A CERTAIN DAY I YOU'D LET ME LEAVE

YOU'D MAKE ME PAY

AND I WOULD JOIN THE OTHER BUMS, IN SEARCH FOR ROOMS IN BATTERED SLUMS

AND IF ALL GOES WELL BY THEN AND THEN I' 0 PUSH A BROOM FOR JOBS AGAIN AND YOU WOULD SMILE AT OTHER MEN AND SAY: 'HE WILL NOT FIGHT AGAIN'

BUT IlliEN I'M GONE, AND BONES I'LL BE

SOMEONE ELSE WILL FOLLOI'l ~re!

AND HE WILL TRY TG GIVE YOU EYES FOR WHILE WE'RE LIVING NOTHING DIES!

FOR IN MY TIME, THERE MAY BE SLUMS, WITH WHISPERS SET AMONG THE BU~$ AND liHAT I SEE, IF I HAVE SIGHT, InLL STING MY EYES AND

MAKE ME FIGHT!

I WONDER WHY I EVEN CARE, OF BLINDED ONES AND THOSE THAT STARE PERCHA..'lCE TO lVIPE MY HANDS AND FEET AND GIVE IT UP, AND HAVE A SE.AT AND RINSE MY EYEBALLS OF ITS STING AND MAKE ~HE PEOPLE KISS MY RING AND MAKE THEM GROVEL LONG AND HARD

FOR I AM KING AND I AM GOD!!

AND SPEAKS A CHILD OF SENTIMENT: 'THE PEOPLE CRY AND I AM SENT' WHY THROW HIM IN A PADDED ROOM, FOR I, THE GOD, HAS SPOKE HIS DOOM AND THEY WILL BUILD A CHURCH OF WHITE

AND PRAY FOR ME ALL DAY, ALL NIGHT

THIS EARTH BEARS FRUIT THAT FEW SHALL EAT,-THE TABLE SET WITH WINE AND MEAT

AND WITH MY DIAMONDED HANDS AND WRAPS I'LL CAST TO YOU THE TASTELESS SCRAPS

AND YET •.. AND YET

IF I COULD OPEN EYES AND TAKE WAX FROM EARS IF I COULD GRANT YDU SIGHT AND SHOl'l YOU TEARS IF I COULD MAKE YOU HEAR FROM SWOLLEN GUMS OR SHOh' YOU KIDS THAT LIVE IN SLUHS

IF I COULD MAKE YOU TASTE OR FEEL OR SMELL THE PLACE WHERE DYING CHILDREN DWELL I'IRAPPED IN THE ARBS OF OLD DISEASE \'11TH DRAUII~G ,-IOliNDS AND NAKED KNEES

18

-- --,

THE POETRY CRITIC COMPLAINS END DAME

A new way

to travel the city: reading to reading

getting lost in

other people's jungles.

At intermission, I stand around

gulp lukewarm coffee on the edges

of congratulations.

I

In waterbugged basements in velvet attics -

in teenage dating bars

I listen to people talking

to themselves.

Some are hustlers.

Some are stand-up comics. Some are terribly sincere.

I

I

All I do

is describe

what I think I've seen.

How disappointed they are when it turns out

I didn't understand.

I never claimed to understand.

I

I

I

I

19

JAMES ~ MORRIS

MAN ABOUT TO LEAP INTO THE EAST RIVER

. .

high above the rust-eating span,

the sun knifes out with but dismal glow, and life, unsafe~

has set a ban, . leaving me no place left to go

except to meet

this water's flow.

though i'll cut brief this atmosphere,

it will be dream-song to my ear.

20·

"

I'

you put your hands

BIND MY FEET~ SO THEYLL BE: PRETTY CONCERE TAYLOR

You're good

for me.

You perfume my air

like a corpse swinging from a gibbet in a hot summer breeze

crows

pecking out the eyes. You want

more beer the eyes make you thirsty the blood gets caught in your throat you like the feeling

of strangling

around my throat

the air is forced out making a squeaking sound

like the one the rats make

in side your head when you get

those headaches

and you black out

and when you come too

I'm wearing three shades of blue and two

of black.

21

l

'THE TREE 1N·1l-E GRASS MIA' BARKAN

There I was

sitting in the long green grass fluttering green leaves

on the trees

shining water below

glossy clouds above

looking at the sad houses going to the deserted beaches finding shells

all different colors

-.t st!?pping in the mushy sand and I still thinking

about the city

22

CHILD'S STORY

CHUCK NECHTEM

23

Is our education so immense

that we forget

the beauty of a hair line a pencil mark

some glue or some ink.

Child's teacher reads a story

and turns the page quickly without stopping to pause,

Mental image is missed

as guide hurries for next word, so many poems lost,

so many minds tossed

only hurrying for the next word.

MAGETIC OR GRAVITATIONAL

atZABETH MARRAFFMl

those 2 men

in the Redding California station stepping down from

their

mountain

wide-brimmed leather hats crude sewn jackets

dusty clo:thes

overdressed for the night

gear strapped tight into soft hide sacks everything they owned bound up

with careful knots

they looked wild about the eyes the way

some old prospectors .I've seen pictures of looked in 1870

& the tall one watched me leave the restroom

walking stiff & cold to the 3 a.m.bus

his eyes were that blue I like deep sky of high places & lupin

I felt like a hunted thing as if he were sizing up my tracks

the precise weight & shape of my foot my thigh

He excited me

even though it took ~ more weeks to think about sex

24.

,

_-

A SEPARATION

PHn.. MINTZ

An unlucky bone snapping under pressure

A stick of spaghetti on the way to the pot

A rod underfoot split in rnidstride

An accident like this~ yet waving goodbye

l

25

r.,,_

HOW HARD

FRITZ HAMiLTON .

'I hav~ a g~nt to eon6~4, on~ g~6t, th~ pOW~4 06 my poem~' ••• Ov~d

Margie darling

How hard it is when you are gone and All I have to give you is my song with You too far away to hear ••• how

Singing trying to split my ribcage (darling Come quick and love me .•. free

My song before all that's left is

Notes splattered everywhere with

Hard

When everywhere I go you, not here, still Are with me .•• in

The fruits and vegetables of the 1st Ave stands •.. rolled

Into the stuffed cabbage at the Odessa restaurant ..• on The tongues of Joe Papp's actors at the Public •.. floating With the ships in New York Harbor ... shining

From Mama Liberty's light ... soaring

With the gulls behind the Staten Island Ferry ... all Teeming with my song for you and

You nowhere to hear .•• 'all

Welling too big in me to get out •.• beyond

Shreds of flesh and Splinters of bone •.. ~ )

26

I

DIANE: M. BURNS

On Lac Court Orreilles the ice is breaking up melting

succumbing to April. The Canadian geese are flying

home.

Uncle Wynaboozhoo and Grandpa

are making little birchbarK baskets and whittling spigots

(they burned through the veins of young branches with

a hot coat hanger) Waiting on the maple trees who are waiting on the

sun in late April.

But

in Washington Square Park the trees arf'- showing tips of green

and youngblackmenin Armygreenjackets advertise their ailments and medicinals (' Loose joints,

Loose joints,' they whisper) and i sit on a bench and wait for the sun.

I can smell how clean the air is back home:

I can feel electricity in the air~

My wrist twinges

from the change in weather

and I tighten the black leather brace that keeps my knife hand steady.

27

, .-

,

EXPEDIT1QN

NORMAN FREDMAN

advance battalions

scouting north from Flushing in early October

we surrender a week for every fifty miles

as we drive through Massachusetts and head toward Vermont

werre ambushed

by hidden land mines

,flashing flame out of. the ground and are ordered to deploy·

our ranks in defensive maneuvers

in Vermont we reconnoitre the clouds hanging on mountain tops

like volcanoes erupting

and the trees targeted

by massed missions of fire

forewarned. by our foray irito the future

that devastated battleground we. straggle back to New York and the ·last bulwarks of summer

living on borrowed time . to fortify the foliage

posting sentries and ·digging trenches

against November .

while transmitting urgent communiques of invisible hordes campaigning

their carnage of green from the north

which no irttelligence can forestall

PLA Y . THE" LAST' MARCH' SLOWL V' 'RlCHARD DAVDSON

(An epltaph 6o~ Hyman Levlne, 6~iend, Qliled In the Ko~ean Wa~)

Someone put a bullet through his orphan brain Somewhere in the smiling eastern evening

When air swam th~ough pits of broken shells and tearing

Whistles saluted blood-drenched bandages. ~.

Someone kissed him out of this life with a right hook of Steel above the base of the forehead

Changing his wonderful, groping condition.

The muscles relaxed; long adventure in the secret nd.qh't, Over.

Someone grabbed three dreams of twisted youth And shook them

Into nothing.

Someone blew the ripe, rich horn of the angel of death And he

Laughed at its throat and winked in its face but it took Him along nevertheless.

Nevertheless they had a funeral.

Nevertheless four bands played glowingly out of tune. Nevertheless fifty fellow orphans lined up in the rain To take their hats off; to kiss him goodbye

Across the bridge

Of night.

Nevertheless the polished senator with the .bulging toupee Spoke rapturously about sacrifice,

About glory,

About the wonderful horsemen who would come On strong white chargers and lead him home.

Nevertheless the grass grew brighter in the morning sun of Dying twilight; the birds who know death intimately;

Who pipe organ music over stilted meadows

Wept in their beaks.

They remembered him for he pulled their tails and Made them cry.

Someone put a bullet through his orphan brain Somewhere in the smiling eastern evening.

29

~. . ~ ..

ACKNOWlEDGEMENTS'

Subs'equ.ent. to the printing of our covers

BIBL.IO PRESS, PO Box 22, .Fresh Meadows NY 11365, has joined the Waterways Project.

We are grateful ;to the fol~owing for having allowed us to use these poems:

Cross-Cultural aonununications: 'Lonely Fascination' Arthur Dobrin from SUNBIRD

Home Planet Publicat,iens: -Engraved' Elonald I.ev from PECULIAR MERRIMENT

The Newscri1f>es: 'The Tree in the Grass.' Mia Barkan (Issue - Vol V Nos 1 & 2 1980)

Mulch Pres's: '16ove Poem / For a Capricorn' Susan Sherman from WITH ANGER/WITH LOVE

8enfrontation: 'The Silence' Palmer Hasty (Issue - Spring/Summer 1979)

P0EMS FOR 5/31/80 (With a Few Apologies :to the Chinese); 'Man About 'to Leap Int0 the East River' James Morris

. Heme Planet PulDlliications: I Play the Last March SILowiLy' R:ichard E>aviasCiln f!I':0m GLASS RGAElS

31

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W:A'rERWAYS is publisbed 111 ;Eimes a year. It documents eacb of the poe~s Wh0 have ~ead at our OWFl bock fairs and poeti.s who' asse making poet~ in workshops or decllaimlmg theliL'r werk in public forum. A one-year subscription to the magazine is $15.

Subscribe1O!s a.lso receive our mailings of events we are holding or at which we participate.

This p.!r'0j e ct; is supported By tax-dedac"tibie

gifts and gran-es I "the member presses" subscribers and trhe sales o!f our own pubiicatiorrs.

, ,

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ADDRESS + Zip ,

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& HAVE ENCLOSED $15 made payable to Ten Penny Players.

YES, I WOULD V[KE TO BECOME A POET MEMBER ENTlETl1..1iNG ME TO ElXHIB[T MY BQOKS AT "['HE WATERWAYS FAJI~ (and a ill-year IS subscrip:fdon to WATERWAYS ~ • I r VE ENeLOSEEl $20 made payable to Ten Penny Players.

",

I, .. J

YES, :r WOULD ].IKE T0 BEOOME A PUBLISHING MEMBEF ElNTITLillNG ME TO EXHIT:BIT MY B00KS AT '1?HE WA'.L'ERWAYS FAIRS (and a, I-years subscrip~iGn to WATERWAYS). iJ:'VE ENCL0SETIl $20 made ~ayaBle 'E.G 'TIen Penny Piliayems.

(Waterways Pro~ect, 799 Greenwich St~eet:, NY ][0014)

MEMBER PRESSES

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The Waterways Project is ayear-round s e r les o-f Book Fairs -& Poetry Readings. It is a cooperative effort of Publishers & Poets to ·mainstream Poetry and. to d ev elo p audienc es for poetry an af iiteratur .. ~

Waterways is a program of Ten P~nny Players. a

n ot-for-p ro fit NY S c ha rtered e duca tional &. literary corporation.

ISSN 0197-4777

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