Waterways:

Poetry in the Mainstream

2001

July
Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream
July 2001

Let the picture be complete, with all of its fixings:

The jigs, the singing, and the ceaseless play,
The perpetual wide-mouthed smiles.

-- Sterling Brown "All Are Gay"

 WATERWAYS: Poetry in the Mainstream
Volume 22 Number 7 July, 2001
Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher
Thomas Perry, Admirable Factotum

c o n t e n t s
Geoff Stevens 4 Fredrick Zydek 13-15 Susanne Olson 22-23
James Penha 5-8 David Michael Nixon 16-17 Arthur Winfield Knight 24
Gerald Zipper 9-10 Joanne Seltzer 18 Tara Arlene Innmon 25
Will Inman 11 Mary Bass 19 Paul Grant 26-27
Lyn Lifshin 12 Bill Roberts 20-21 Albert Huffstickler 28

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $25 a year. Sample issues -$2.60 (includes
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Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127
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http://www.tenpennyplayers.org
William Blake Oberon, Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing circa 1785
Not All Are Gay - Geoff Stevens

Not all are gay in the asylum,

and out of it, not all are glum.
But perpetual wide-mouthed smiles
are not miles and miles away
from being dumb.

4
Because Few Morning Gales Fly Through - James Penha

Because few morning gales fly through

our island villa wants birds
to take the cue from the frogs who fill
the night with croaks and the fishpond with yarns of fecundity
to wake us with life
born somehow of the lives we have conceived of
why
chromosomes.

We tried an open house--

a doorless cage
barred only for rigidity
hung from the jackfruit branch
and bated with rice leaves.

5
The bars cracked; the rice browned;
still we sang our own songs.

When the trees grew wide enough

to shade a corner all day, the grass
decided against the struggle. There
we erected a great birdhouse of stones and woods and wires
to bury the bare ground
but an empty cage
bared more than bare dirt.

At the bird market

we sang our songs and saw who harmonized
as we had put our fingers in the kennels
to find the pup who'd lick.

6
Two knew the verse
and we were told they'd sing
each to each if together separated in our yard.

And so from opposing cages like soccer goals

the home fans whistled and cheered
the score,
one to one,
and during timesout
sang as well to our duets of Sondheim, Porter and Gershwin.

They're writing songs of love

but not for me.

We danced round the garden, the birds

a gypsy chorus

7
of virtuosos
singing as long as we embraced
as long as they did not.

Were I an encaged bird

I would not sing,
and they too deserved their silences.

We sprang them
and we
we kept on singing.

8
 Fridays - Gerald Zipper

The whumping and thumping

slamming into the pulp of my brain
Monday through Friday on a dismal string
toneless notes erupting at daylight
retreating in the ache of evening
until wonderful Friday
when the gates of our captivity fling open
Richie waits for me in front of the chemical factory
where I once worked
until the pungent bubble burst in its vat
splashing my face with red-hot
Richie's old car swerves below the DeKalb El
Lantern Bar blinking its red and green

9
ice-bound drinks and hoarse laughs
dancing breath to breath in the dim blue light
steamy girls with jiggly breasts
trading wet kisses in the back seat of the car
their smooth limbs turning soon to leather
their sweet skin about to dry
their faces to flatten
and I'll be sailing off
leaving my caste-off trail of reckless Friday nights.

10
 a watermelon grin - will inman

a watermelon grin is blest double generous

hunger for good things and joy in eating
that red flesh on black skin reminds us
of cruel voices with bloody shouts
who turn those smiles to terror
and sculptures faces with grief
turn angel teeth rabid.
no one more sacred than the dancers
in whose feet a magic comes alive
old men, old women in whose bones
generations of joy wait to share love
to shuffle-jump and happy-creak
that feast kept them kin and whole
down lean decades and hearty skimp

11
May West - Lyn Lifshin

comes on, a her lips a braille keep as mirage,

blast in a she keeps you moving holy vision
feather boa, Tabu, toward. The blind that gets better the
humming yes, smell 'Big Boy' longer you long
humming baby. She swings her hair,
She's got her has you lassoed,
bank book pulls you in but not
balanced, she oozes so close you
'satisfy.' Her hips shipwreck in the cove
twitch pleasure, she knows how to

12
Naming Our Growls - Fredrick Zydek

The river of Eros runs through the growls.

Even a turn of phrase can ignite them.
Some think we could sing long before
we invented language. They are wrong

of course, the first thing we learned was

how to growl properly. The original
was gleaned at mother's breast —
its only name was pleasure. The growl

that rumbles and groans was born

in hunger and a dampness that reached
to its toes. Soon these rumbles
of wind and air learned to spell truth

13
without the crutches of adjectives you must growl back like an equal
and verbs and the peculiarity of nouns. animal. We will lick each others
They learned to flirt and woo, argue wounds, learn the fragile and sinewy
and snap back, delight, tease, fumble, secrets those deep-throated growls

covet, and name mysteries Webster give up when ecstasy pulls them from
could neither spell nor find life enough the seedbed where all grunts
to define. One day soon I will growl and groans wait for their moment
in your direction. If we are to survive, to rush into the world shouting.

14
A Cat Sleeping in the Window
Fredrick Zydek
I've been an observer
here all my life.
I know forty-seven thousand
reasons for falling in love
with the universe.
I've seen tracks I'm sure
lead to heaven.
Why is it the dead
get away with everything?
Do angels pick their toes?
15
Why do some questions
wrap themselves in such
glorious content —
all I can do is memorize
better ways to pose them?
That is the nature of things
here. We must learn to say
yes to the body, yes to the id.
Only then dare we cash
in our chips and die to what
keeps the spirit dancing
into bright and forbidden places.
Remember that great calico cat
We came upon sleeping
In the shop window? He knew.
 Round Dance who join variation
David Michael Nixon the round dance flirting,
mixer, floating,
sing partners as the old calls
and the trees changing sing and sing.
whistle a through the
tune circle.
above the song,
your head. the dance—
light that old
dances elixir
with shadow— keeps us
that old round. ranging
the ground through
gives up familiar twists,
its dead, each Appeared October 1, 1992 in
Southern Tierjerkers Newsletter
16
Folk Festival Snapshot - David Michael Nixon

The tall white geese poised in the grass

of the lawn before the red barn,
the dog ready to flee yellow
beaks, an array of pale blankets
beneath a scattering of people,
bonnets in their sun-bright colors,
the flash of clear rays of music
in the summer air, reflections
of solar splendor from a blond guitar,
and the tumble of hot breath on
the open flow of country breeze.

17
The Big Band Sound - Joanne Seltzer

Slow and easy He returns me to the wall,

I flash my dance program cuts in on a cute couple.
at the stag line,
hope to pass pimples off I clap my fingers,
as beauty marks. tap my toes,
wait for my life to happen.
At last I'm rescued by
a frog who'll never
turn into a prince.
Sex organ to sex organ
we fight for the lead.
I spear him with my heels,
admit I can't jitterbug.

18
 Fun Feet - Mary Bass

Fun Feet
bounce heel to toe with all toes wiggling then standing on
their tips, the arch stretched as if to grow taller,
coming down with a thud they dance a jig, drifting
into susurration on the sandy floor and sliding
to a stop at the door — but only for a
moment — and into a skater's glide,
using the grains of sand for
momentum to twirl and twirl
once more before
departing.

19
Grandma Played for the Yankees - Bill Roberts

Mickey Mantle she wasn't,

but she ended up playing for the same team,
the Yankees. The damned Yankees.
I was a dedicated Red Sox fan
and Ted Williams devotee,
no matter that he'd stashed away his bats.

She sat there in her wheelchair

wearing a Yankee uniform,
white with pinstripes, the big NY
emblazoned on her left breast.
She was Number 7, Mickey's number.
She wore old, faded blue socks
and no spikes, for she could no longer
chase down a fly ball
or dig in at the plate to take a hefty swing.

20
 Her broken hip several years before
had rendered her thus:
confined either to her lumpy bed
or the rickety, antique wheelchair,
only once again to leave her second floor
scouting post, where she'd survey
the surrounding trees and tell the seasons
by what was on their branches:
buds, leaves, a few brown leaves, then snow.

She was carried out in her visiting team uniform,

the drab gray the Yankees wore on the road,
still with the big NY over her left breast
and the famous Number 7 on the back.
I don't know where Dad found those pajamas,
but they suited her in that last year,
though her mind was never much in the game.
Published in George & Mertie's Place, Vol. 3, Issue 11, Dec. 1997 (as Bartlett Boswell)
21
 River Cats - Susanne Olson

While I inch my way to work

in heavy traffic
withdrawn into a somber, brooding mood,
my straying eye catches a glimpse
of surreal catlike

creatures:
mysterious lemon green mouths,
huge bright red grins
baring ferocious purple teeth.
Vicious orange eyes,
yellow surrounding
enigmatic black, elliptical,
immovably staring.

22
Hairy tufts atop the spear-like ears,
shaggy paws extending into deadly scythes. they surprise my dreary, struggling mind,
Enchanted realm of freakish monsters, transform ill humor into wonderment,
fairyland of feline the surly mien into an unbelieving smile.
Thankful to the kind magician,
sorcerers. I face the day with joy,
Floodgates, instead of anger.
technical inventions, mechanical means
of draining water from the fields
into the river,
saving homes and barns
from rainy seasons'
devastation.
Ugly iron doors,
practical and purposeful,
not designed to please the eye. Yet,
transfigured by the artist's genius,
23
 The Hitchhiker - Arthur Winfield Knight

I hitchhiked to Reno the first time I came west, then I caught a ride on a slow
freight. It was spring and the aspens were turning yellow as we crossed the Sierra-
Nevada Mountains. Everything was bursting into bloom and I knew my life was going to be
different, that I was going to open up to experience in new ways. There was something
magical waiting for me in the Golden Land, and I waved at people wearing red and green
lumberjack shirts as I passed through little towns like Truckee and Emigrant Gap and they
waved back madly. I sat there in that boxcar, my legs dangling over the side like a dipsy
doodle as the train swooped down into the Great Central Valley. We crossed a huge ele-
vated trestle west of Sacramento. Down below, the rice paddies were flooded, and you
could see the clouds reflected in the water like great finger paintings. It was dusk when
the train pulled into San Francisco. Neon signs winked on across the city as if they were
welcoming me, and I did a little dance, jumping up into the air and clicking my heels togeth-
er like a beat Charlie Chaplin, as I skipped across the railroad yard in the purple twilight.
I knew I was finally home.

24
Pictures of a Pretty Baby Boy - Tara Arlene Innmon

The mother stands shivering at the entrance

Greeting each with a hug
I shake the young father's hand
Parents for five days
The casket white closed
Small like a bread box
Priest incense singing about a little child
The mother shows off pictures of her pretty baby boy
Tubes through his nose, arms, chest
Smiling she says
She will go home
Shut the door
Between herself
And the empty nursery.

25
 Farewell to Blues - Paul Grant

I'm given a way to duplicate, though to an unknown scale,

the scene in some forgotten movie where the sticks-in-the-mud
untangle the paper streamers from their hair
and turn enviously away from the derisive horn of the liner
their venturesome friends are bound for The Continent on
to trudge more bravely than they will ever be able
to imagine themselves
home.
I'm guessing the whole thing would be in, say, 1937.

My version's set on a levee, me hunkered down in the mud

while a honeysuckle heaven hanging on a barbed-wire fence
scrubs with an old rag of next-to-no breeze
the dirt from the river's squirming undertow.

26
One of the last of the old ones is paddling by,
and some antiquated player with an antique horn
is building the bridge in the Tin Roof Blues
the length of the trench down the middle of the black

fuse sparkling its way south to the deep brown sea.

Nobody knows the trouble it’s seen, or careless love
would still be doing the same sweet nasty to just about
everyone. But hey, nobody's going anyplace but over
Jordan, and that not yet. Just give us a pig's foot
and a bottle of beer apiece, and let's us listen
to the frog-town shuffle that keeps the full moon full.

27
As Simple As That - Albert Huffstickler

Some plants root from cuttings

But sometimes when you take a cutting
and put it in the ground,
it will suddenly start to bloom
and will sprout few if any roots.
And sometimes after it blooms,
it will die because
it has no roots to feed it:
everything it had was spent
in bringing that flower to life.
And this is a metaphor that
not everyone will understand:
the bloomers will probably understand it,
and the rooters will probably not.
From Bad News Bingo, Garden Issue 2001
28
ISSN 0197-4777

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