Professional Documents
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ISSN 0 1 9 7 - 4777
WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstrealTI March, 1997
~ A TER ~ A YS: Poetry in the Mainstream
Volume 18 Number 3 March, 1997
Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher
Thomas Perry, Assistant
contents
Lyn Lifshin 4 Geoff Stevens 15
Ida Fasel 5- 6 Joan Payne Kincaid 16-17
Kit Knight 7-10 Billie Lou Cantwell IB
Arthur Winfield Knight II-I2 Karen Kirby 19-20
David Michael Nixon 13 James Penha 21-22
Joy Hewitt Mann 14 Albert Huffstickler 23-2B Waterways is published II times a year. Subscriptions - $20 a year. Sample issues -$]..60 (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
© 1997. Ten Penny Players Inc.
2
RAGE - LynLifshin
is that
stuffed tiger on the wall that explodes.
The fur and glass eye a disguise from
what was wounded,
to ribbons
as it slams fire thru the house, leaves you lips
and hair ashes
4
bleeding -- wilder now, intent on clawing what came after it
PORTRAIT OF A MARRIAGE Ida Fasel
How neatly a triangle, pure form, fits the tabloid poster --
in one base corner the fallen woman, in another the priestly con soler falling, and commanding the heights,
the wronged husband with a blow making his point at the topmost point, exalted in rage,
himself about to fall,
on the very cutting edge that also must be answerable
to the laws of gravity, heaven and heart.
I
I
But look, she is rising
in the full fierce force of her face and the long straight line
of her outstretched arms -
not to uphold him, you may be sure, but to keep love on its course
the way up the side the way down, defining itself by its inner turndesire fulfilled or not,
everlasting desire.
5
A VERY SHORT SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE Ida Fasel
She was standing in line
for Bruce Springsteen tickets. Girls around her were already fainting ahead of schedule.
A TV news reporter
put a mike to her mouth. Last time she went,
the Boss had kissed her. What was he like? Hewas!ike
a spirit in the night.
Martin, I plagiarized.
6
SOMEBODY NAMED LAURA 1871
Kit Knight
Two mounted men rode up to my ranch; one led a horse carrying a man doubled over. I held
my late husband's shotgun steady--rny kids behind me-ready for whatever grief these strangers brought. They took off their hats
and said, "Ma'am,
we're part of a posse
after John Wesley Hardin, and Ben here," they pointed to the slumped man,
"found him." Yankee laws ran Texas after the War
and many rebels felt it was only proper
to be an outlaw. These deputies wanted to continue the search and leave Ben with me. I lowered my gun and reached
to help lower Ben. He took three pain filled hours
to die. Mostly, he raved
and muttered about his home
7
in Maine. He begged for water and I knew
a gut shot man would scream like a devil in grief
if he drank. I moistened his lips and kept his head in my lap. Finally,
he pleaded for somebody named Laura. Swearing
he loved her. In a poem about a Confederate soldier dying far far from home, the poet urges the reader
to kiss the dying rebel because "he's somebody's darling."
I t was northern men who killed my husband. Feeling oddly heroic and breakable, I wet
Ben's lips with my own,
saying, 111 love you, too."
8
CLARA'S MOTHER, 1894- EXPLAINING GRIEF Kit Knight
It's been 31 years
and over a thousand nights since President Lincoln was shot. My daughter --who always held me gently
in the palm of her handand her beau were sharing the Presidential box
that night as theater guests
of the President. When Booth
9
shot Lincoln in the head Clara's beau lunged
forward and Booth slashed Henry's left arm to the bone. And forever after
he was filled with remorse over his failure
to protect
the President. Always sad, Henry would say, "I should have been more alert,"
and then add =sadly-r'been faster,
been better." Henry never wanted children
-it didn't matter
that my Clara did--
because he felt he wasn't good enough. Clara said, "His shame was greater
than my forgiveness. II As years passed, Henry became a haunted soul
waiting. His anguish
drove him mad and he murdered my Clara. People tell me
I don't need to explain
why he did what he did,
and I say, "I'm not explaining, I'm grieving."
10
BILL ANDERSON: ACCIDENTS Arthur Winfield Knight
I was nursing a beer, standing at the bar in Rowdy Joe Lowe's when this fellow pulled his pistol
and started firing. He hit
a woman who worked there in the stomach. She said,
"I never did anything to you, Red. \Xlhy?" I remember the blood on her dress:
red on red. Remember
II
her surprised look; Red's too,
when someone shot at him. None of us had time to duck. Later, the barkeep told me
it took him hours
to wash the glasses,
and the cherry wood glistened by the time he was through wiping down the bar.
I want to know why; too.
I t was my blood he washed away. People who saw it happen
all call it an accident
and say I'm lucky to be alive
--yeah, lucky--
but they don't have to
tap their way along the street with a cane, stumbling on curbs, falling down--tapping-
living in darkness.
Nothing is accidental.
12
ADEEPGULLY David Michael Nixon
There was a deep gully
and it was filled with hope,
so there was no room for
air, and at the bottom, searchers found calm corpses.
13
THE MOUTH OF DARKNESS Joy Hewitt Mann
The wind breathes chill tonight and leaden clouds
suck in the belly of the sky --
but Rose dreams of summer dresses pink
and pin-prick points of diamond sky orchids
and sunsets
all coloured like the bruises on her arms.
Geoff Stevens
Brain damage can be permanent, but love's punch drunk jealousies are often a miss match,
a bout of infatuation.
A detached retina would see that, but at the time it seems to be
a fight for the World Champion.
15
Joan Payne Kincaid
You sometimes get the impression that a wolf is hiding somewhere on the left
taking a careful measure of your world
gritting its teeth of tough promises
as things are swept on unprotected wind yet it all is so poorly drawn
you can't be deleted or enlarged to escape its tears and rips
victims and potential vulnerable beings reach pathetically as Dante's characters when anyone passes through hell.
16
OVER THE EDGE Joan Payne Kincaid
You wanted to punch hit stir-up trouble even scream
just in time
someone pinned your arms
not before pinging some empty beer bottles at two figures when the day seemed forever preparing, serving, then told "Hurry up"
things flew that day
of the party in the wind,
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"I DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE."
Billie Lou Cantwell
. .
carnes you, carnes you
until
the sorrow is only echo and a ringing
in your head
until
the lap of water on sandy beach mocks your calm
until loneliness surges
once more, once more, endlessly
Thunder with all the power within your wounded soul. Scream and roar like
the locomotive
until
only the c1ackety clack of wheels against rails
BOOKED Karen Kirby
The affair I compared to a book put down unwillingly
halfw-ay through
with ache and frustration
for the undisclosed final chapter. So only I saw the irony
in the shirt you wore
bearing the question
Are you booked for the evening?
Strange you should ask. Yes I am booked
19
for life it seems
death forever whichever comes first But then again one
can never have too many
books one for each
mood sad silly mad morose like men perhaps ...
He wouldn't agree see the humor in my unspeakable thoughts
You threaten him
appear in dreams he awakes accusing wanting
assurance ...
I t's the unfinished that nags the lack of closure
He knows my weakness yet made me stop just as the plot thickened
the characters developed. He wonders why I'm still stewing over the ending ...
20
THE FIGHTER James Penha
When the right eyelid swells so with blood run amok,
cells sprung suddenly
from the routine action of capillaries
the pounding of rounds
has dissolved
like the embolism of ants upon a dead
cockroach
21
and the left eye bears a nut hard and shiny ready
for a crack
so that he sees
only a narrow letterbox of wet and brown
with no perspective how handily a fist
will wallop him again.
Long since
the fractured nose has ceased
its roar.
Hold. Hold.
So he commands
no shallow even reservoir of energy
to amass a last mean flurry
to thrill the crowd, but moves the other to end this
finally
for him.
22
OCCASION Albert Huffstickler
That's enough, she said and she meant it. She turned halfway away from him and her hand dipped into her purse and came up with a little blade,
it looked like a paring knife, just the weapon
for a midget, she couldn't have been more than four feet eight. He was
big, six feet or more
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but he backed off. He backed off because that thing in her eyes said she'd gut him like
a fish, yes even if he was holding her by the throat. She was wearing this peasant blouse and cut-off jeans and
black pantyhose and red stiletto heels.
Her eyes were small and she had this thick mascara on and you could barely see the
pupils. She looked
like she's just come
up from a coal mine.
All this in an alley
back of the bar, dark except for the light above the back door.
He backed off and stared at her, hands
at his side. He was scared. There was something crazy in
her eyes. I thought
we had a deal, he said. You thought, she snarled
waving the blade. It was a paring knife but the look in her eyes gave it weight, made
it a weapon. I could kill you, she said and meant it. He backed on out of the alley to the street, looking big and very humble. She waved the blade and he
- fled. Then she stood there crying, using the hand that held the knife to wipe her nose,
then dropped the knife in the bag and dug out
a much-abused kleenex and holding it to her nose walked up the alley still crying and vanished into
the street.
October II, 1991
25
THE BOY WHO DIED Albert Huffstickler
He was the one who risked all, loved and believed,
then fell, wings burning, out of the sky,
fell from the love
that would not let him be, fell to the ground, died, then, reviving, sought water
and burnt his mouth on the molten chalice but stumbled up,
first dead, then wounded where it would not heal,
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and went on without himself
as we all go on without ourselves, wounded in a place
that will not heal-
having died of love,
died out of love into this world.
I buried him back there-that boy-in the earth of his father's mortality, buried him next to his father's bones and walked on.
27
Brazos Restaurant Downtown A ustin
from T a/us and Scree Waldport, OR #! 1996
-- ----------
SURVIVING TWIN - Albert Huffstickler
How can you grieve something that never was?
Where do you begin to mend a heart born unwhole, the loss implicit in its structure? There must be a word for grief never born, for a loss not real
but only a flickering of loss = Iike light on the surface of water.
And stilL.all those million shifting specks of light moving inside me, an explosion that continues through my whole life and none of it real,
This happening that never happened in this world yet dominates it. And where was the body laid? Or was it laid?
Did they bury it like something real?
There's no one to say now.
And even as I write, I begin to doubt. It was never real.
There was nothing lost.
There is just me here this way -- from
as though something of total value was lost totally before I ever was. The Milknium Children
1997. Clearwater, FL
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