waterways: poetry in the mainstream volume 24 number 9

7/27/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream volume 24 number 9

1/30

O

2003


2/30

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, October 2003

It seems to me that,

paralleling the paths of action, devotion, etc.,

there is a path called Art

A l b e r t H u f f s t i c k l e rfrom The Way of ArtWaterways, April 90


3/30

WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 24 Number 9 October, 2003Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara FisherThomas Perry, Admirable Factotum

c o n t e n t s

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 envelopeWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

2004, Ten Penny Players Inc. (This magazine is published 8/04)

http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

Ida Fasel 4-5Felicia Mitchell 6-7John Grey 8-10Geoff Stevens 11-12

Joan Payne Kincaid 13-14

Jon Petruschke 15Joanne Seltzer 16-17Joy Hewitt Mann 18-19Joan Seifert 20-22

Herman Slotkin 23

Robert Collet Tricaro 2Sylvia Manning 2Barbara Fisher


4/30


5/30

Green Peace Ida Fasel

Drown out there, someone swims to tell.

A boy looking for clams looks up.Coast Guard helicopter police boats swarm.Divers leap. Coffee and blankets appear.

But what if the room takes on water,flips, drifts out? No one with me

to call 911, no onedaily checking by phone.

Greensleeves of my green chairsoft elbow rest.

4


6/30

Green sea of silenceprivileged in timeminute to minute

this strange sense of peaceoutward bound.

A neighbor checking her thermometerwill noticea different quiet about the house.

A policeman breaking inwill trace me southeast, between windows,and not know from the lighton the scribble in my laphow close I was to the right word.

5


7/30

Hand-painted Picture Postcard on the Eve of WarFelicia Mitchell

Your dove is pink as Pepto-Bismol,But its shroud is the blue of nightfall.Would that it were a simple pigeonAnd not a harbinger of doom.

Red on white is like blood shed on soil:Over whos right, or over oil.I dont doubt your interpretation.

Your dove is pink.

6


8/30

But how much can art do at all?

While your postcard flew through the mail,Bush wasnt fooling with a crayon.He was counting soldiers, one by one.His hawk is as gray as deaths bird call.

Your dove is pink.

7


9/30

Grandmother Gave Me Books John Grey

Tiny, slow, bent like a snow-caked bough,

she fought her arthritis the length of thehall-way, stopping every few moments tostare the pain down, before struggling ontoward my bedroom, a book lovingly hidden inthe folds of her red bombazine dress.I could hear her coming from my sick bed,

Those brown buttoned boots crackling likefire on the hard-wood floor,her breath, choppy and hoarse,as distinctive as thumbprints.

8


10/30

At those times, neck puffed up, facespotted, Id be as helpless as her,aching flesh, burning throat, clutching

the tide of bright bed sheets for supportjust as her frail body grasped the whiteapron tied around her frail waist as ifthat was the veil between her and death.But she always found the strength tobring me more books, those thick tomeslike childs kites for me to fly.

Though her narrow, red eyes could nolonger unravel the print herself,she knew their value, bony fingersrubbing the binding as if each wasa Bible of a sort with a plethora of godsinside to be worshiped like sun through skylight.

9


11/30

Even now, when I prop myself up in bed,

break open a case of Steinbeck or Thackeray,I easily forget that the novel camefrom the bookshelf in my study.For isnt that a door closing at theedge of my reading lamps soft shadow.Arent those creaking footstepsretreating down the corridor.

10


12/30

Sadly Geoff Stevens

Sadly, good art often runs parallel to art,

whereas bad art collides with it.

11


13/30

Good art turns on life Geoff Stevens

Good art turns on life

and devours it with new ideas,like bacteria breaking down a tissue of illusions,or a guard dog savaging an intruder.

12


14/30

What Is . . . Is Joan Payne Kincaid

Doesnt matter what the labelif you look you will see

regardless of sun or moonor season or placeyou will see peoplediminishing othersyou will see divisivenessof class

you will see liesto protect the rulersyou will see brutalityagainst the poorwho cannot fight backas the Prison Justice System

13


15/30

ensnares themyou will see the poor increasebecoming a slave class again

you will see the wildgo extinct for lack of stewardshipyou will seefarmland turned into developmentsand subsequent food shortagesyou will see the oceansbecome empty

you will seehumanity poised on its own destructionas new forms of deathare invented for the military~you really should take a look.

14


16/30

My Work Jon Petruschke

My work

tests me dailyto give up my weapons,not fight back, but share whats there tobe said.

Its likemeditation,clearing my mind againand again, until theres room formy heart.

15


17/30

Inflammatory Eye Disease Joanne Seltzer

For years I practiced

going blind,stumbled along unlit halls,extracted underwearfrom dark drawers.

Alien specklesnow pattern my right eyelike a veil.

16


18/30

Touch is the last

of the senses to fadeinto that long shadowbodies enter all too soon,always too soon.

I rub my nightly shroud

as if I were a tailoramong the yard goodsat my grandfathers store.

17


19/30

The Pattern Joy Hewitt Mann

It is always unfinished,

a family quilt added to year by year,generations following each other through the cloth,

our lives a never ending questto pattern strengthson the strongest that came beforeand yet add something to the weave a new thread,a brighter colour,on and on and on.

18


20/30

Changing the pattern,

but always keeping it the same;wishing for an Eastern Starand making Crazy Quilts.

19


21/30

Mentor Joan Seifert

He built a strong, warm house.

A steadfast man, he strove with ordinary tools,hammer, plane, and saw.They say hed lift each plank and timber,and with help, hold it straight out,close one eye,peer down its length,and at the slightest bend or warp,reject it.He chose each board that way.

20


22/30

He built a strong, warm houseand raised a family there.And people of the town

saw aptness.

Years later, almost a century, now,other owners went to every indoor cornerwith a lit candle,searching for some give, or weakness

that had worked its way into the structure.Outside, wailing winds might find a crevicewhere the corners joined,blow in, and shift the candles flame.

21


23/30

There was no flickering,

no surrender of the light,no sound, but silence.The blustering storm,almost a hurricane,turned back on its own ferocity;all held firm.

22


24/30

Born Again Herman Slotkin

House lights go down,

buzz slides to hush,the red plush curtain trembles,then glides aloft.

Born again!

23


25/30

The Old Japanese Watchmaker Robert Collet Tricar

With its works exposed, he examinedthe stem-wind Longines, passed down to me

by my father, for signs of old age.The timepiece had been accurate, missinga tick only now and then.But after fervidly applauding Bachs D MinorConcerto last night, the watch stopped.

In spite of its age, its a noble watch, he told me,

and with cylinder loupe stuck in one eye, turnedthe stem five times which produced a minute of ticking.He explained how the rate ofgoingthat is, timekeeping,is controlled by a hairspring attached to the balance wheel,like a tiny pendulum.

24


26/30

I asked where he learned his trade.The forties in Manzanar interment camp.He quickly added, It was like studyingin a watchmakers school for three years.Not bad at all; saved my parents a bundle. Besides,that school closed down for good a long time ago.He made a few adjustments, snapped the back cover

into its case, then said, My son too works with timepieces,designing them for NASA. He also learned his trade in

California, in a different time, in a different school. Stanfor

25


27/30

Beneath all the wonder Sylvia Manning(for Albert Huffstickler)

Beneath all the wonderthis is truth: youre with me herein the City of Lights or city of love,you who loved to give of light to others.

You know everything,

says my replacement at Madame Montaiguts,when we stop for a drink after seeing the Louvre free on first Sundays of month, as today is.

26


28/30

But I who know all of why we should not got to warand much of my own countrys darknessknow so little, otherwise:

only that you, who in one waydid not come with me to learn some French,who thought English should be enough for anyone,

are even so here,beside me, learning

seeing love,seeing light, but sayingPoetry, Sylvie. Nous sommes dans une ville de posie.

First appeared in Fire 21, September 2003, Oxfordshire, E

27


29/30

28


30/30

waterways: poetry in the mainstream volume 24 number 9

Documents