May 4, 2005
Rose snap
Quiet flows no sun. Or was it "son" I meant to say?
One prays in the morning for each to unbend into life.
The woman who appears uncombed to shout atop a long
Open balustrade of white, yellow, red and pale-apricot roses.
I have never heard a rose shout. When stepped on
The odor released is said to be "the order of forgiveness."
When stepped on, as inevitable, may I breathe roses, and you, too,
And your son and/or daughter, fresh petals, crowns among thorns.
Stephen Vincent
***
All About Canaries
In a middling Melbourne suburb not far from here
certain Mediterranean gentlemen
disport themselves on Sundays at bocce,
fiercely competitive, given that
the winners take home smallgoods
of the best quality, even a whole side of bacon.
Their other pastime involves canaries
of which there are two types,
singers and flyers.
The latter are for canary racing.
In a secure wire enclosure
the chosen creatures, male, variously brilliant,
perch at the starting pole,
intent on the enticing beauty of a star female
who awaits them beyond the finishing line.
They¹re off! The winner¹s quickness has been fuelled
by more canary testosterone than his rivals
could muster in the moment.
And is he rewarded? I must enquire further.
As for the champion canary¹s owner,
we may be confident he scoops the pool
of delectable Mediterranean smallgoods
(with perhaps a consolation prize for second canary).
Bad sportsmanship must be rare, but
I am given to understand that a surreptitious
watering of one¹s rival¹s bird¹s feathers
can lead to a disastrous downward fluttering
and a dubious triumph for the unsporting.
Should you like your canary to turn orange,
boil chicken eggs and feed it the yolks.
This is all I know about canaries,
not firsthand but from a reliable eyewitness.
Max Richards
10.15am, 6 May 2005
***
Thanks Max, your snap [which I loved] brought this on.
_______________________________________________
My father raised racing pigeons
Sleek and aerodynamic
Mostly American Trentons I suspect
Although I can't be sure
I do know they were not Capuchines, fantails
Or the oddly off-balanced Dragoon
They were certainly not orange yet I saw him once feed them
Rogue eggs, perhaps blue jay or trash starling
One came home from a 500 mile race
With a limp pinioned wing
I watched him sew the phalange back to the carpometacarpus
With a needle and a piece of orange thread
Then wrap the wings to the body
With a piece of white cotton cloth
"Will it work again?"
-"No doubt"
I was standing in the coop
Above the garage
Looking through the wooden dowels
Of the one-way latch
on the entry ramp.
"at least he didn't get the
behind-the-garage treatment
several weeks later
the pigeon was flying again
this time on a short jaunt
from Bear Mountain to Port Washington
when my father opened the trap door
white clouds began to swirl about us
and let them fly
I watched the injured bird hesitate for a moment
then soar into the brilliant sky
It looped down and around several times
then followed the brood
As they reconnaissanced
And settled into a tailwind
They arced over the treetops
And became smaller and smaller
Until they were no longer there
- Peter Ciccariello
***
Grot among root
Still thaw
But the chill
Crawls a glimmer
Dawn dark's cold
Hasten and haze
Hill line's blurr
Ground brown
Seed furred
Branch flare
Splay to orange
Ochre and flange
Year's fit
Now for fire
Jill Jones
Marrickville, 8am, 4 May
2005
***
Eating Roses
shining
morn -
in the bedroom
he woke
her -
one eye open
unicorn
in the garden
eating roses
he fed
the myth
a lily…
the alibi?
he waved
bye, bye...
Deborah Russell
Fort Collins, Co
***
CATFLAP
for douglas
cat
sits by
his catflap
patiently
stoically
waiting for
someone to
open the door.
Pmcmanus7am
Raynespark London
***
patrick
the trouble with catflaps
is that
they don't
allow the cat
to sit
on the threshold
inspect
the outside world
disdainfully
and then
turn round
and
stalk back inside
Roger Collett
***
iceberg roses
sway
drunk in
'the wettest beginning
to May
in over 100 years'
my cat
drinks only
running water -
(strange the
accommodations
we make for love)
then after
my shower
she licks
my ankles in
thirst or love
as i dry my hair
_envoi:_
on the path
iceberg petals -
pawprints on the floor
Andrew Burke
mt lawley
4th april 2005
***
i am ever more
a creature
of habit
or so am becoming
bananas first
in the bottom
of the cereal bowl
the right amount
of milk added
to the everyday
coffee
in a favored mug
that joins yesterday's
as i sit
opening my email
like holiday surprises
tell me something
that will cheer me
flatter me, inspire me
make the possible
combination of words
infinite and within reach
tell me something
that pulls me
out of the house
carrying images
like boxes to the car
roses and fix-it for cat doors
and the rituals for making
the sun rise
the day manageable
Deborah Humphreys
Newark, NJ
6:34
***
These days grow longer,
their nights offer soccer
practice and t-ball games,
and at least the next
bewilderment. These
are the facts, but something
rolls them in as close
and as far away as my I.D.,
then, like ribbons strung--
breezing in trees in starlight
(so bruised by grace)-- an all
all-at-once seems aware of
the everyday world and
the literal one-- or maybe
this is just how our moments
seem to last, lingering
like a snail's trail I just
saw at the beginning of
this May-lengthened day.
Gerald Schwartz
West Irondequoit, New York 14617
8:10 AM
***
Such A
Such a mixup.
Such a ballyhoo.
Such a holiday
for all for me for three,
and you?
You who?
Who roam the streets of Guinea,
who sail the sea of Gallilee,
you who?
Oh, who is the runaway
who frisks like dog,
a boy in the hay?
Oh, who?
You.
Harriet Zinnes
***
A TRUE DOG STORY
Dog, man, woman
wagging their tails.
"When I was a child the dachshund
would lick me for hours. I trained it,"
she said.
When she grew up she took for a lover
a man who studied dogs,
who taught her
their language.
Once on a walk we encountered a dog
and she stopped
for a chat:
wiggles and wags and snuffles and barks.
That's when she told me her story.
Mark Weiss
***
WHY CATS LIKE US
To a cat a hand
is a large dry tongue--
good for stroking.
It also brings food.
Mark Weiss
***
WHY CATS LIKE US
We are patsies for the housecat
but we are self-aware
that we are patsies for the housecat
and the cat if we are lucky
comes to us for love
as well as for a bowl of stuff.
We know the touch of the long hair
is the touch of the human hand,
mutual comfort,
in petting
a forgetting,
loss of self
in loving this other self.
Is this love then?
Why not?
Ken Wolman
***
a lowering of the light, but not contrast;
an increase there, and fresher;
a stronger wind, and cooler;
easier to see; less easy to stand still
enhanced edges on each wave -
diluted white over each drabbed rolling colour,
red with much green becoming
green becoming
blue with persistent reddening
but a finger nail below the sky chalked blue
where the sea is shallow,
one line, a sudden yellow
where it becomes beach sand
frayed the other way in a deeper blue -
the concertina-ed miles of Irish Sea
beyond my scope or interest today
Inshore it's all froth
where rock and concrete break the lunar flow
tourists in overcoats ashore
Lawrence Upton
***
memory twists & resists across sixty years yet this one has always
it seems been there as i always remember it the same way or is it
the story it's become in my mind that somehow stays the same as
i look up at my mother standing there a shadowy silhouette above
me dark against new bright light streaming through the window now
she'd raised the blinds (always down for years now? always? i
cannot remember that or not) telling me this is such a great day
dougie the war is over isn't that a great thing?
VE Day memory Wednesday May 7 2005 (1 day early)
Douglas Barbour
***
DAYS OF BEING WILD
[via Wong Kar-Wai & Leslie Cheung]
DAYS OF BEING WILD
Didn't get any sleep--
are your ears red?
You can't deny it.
Sure,
once,
for that day,
boring.
End.
I wonder what she's doing
now?
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DAYS OF BEING WILD
Didn't want to see me.
As I was leaving
you switched from cop to
sailor.
Owe you this one.
Flew & flew, never touching down until it died.
Beautiful day,
each other,
I remember
nothing.
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, Md US / 5-4-05 (11:36 PM)
When Wong Kar-Wai's 1991 feature film starring Leslie Cheung was first
revived in a new print for a one week commercial run, I've was intrigued by
two reviews I read but not quite enough to motivate me to face a drive
downtown during rush hour and uncertain parking. Then, a few weeks later,
I was surprised to discover that it was available for rental as a DVD but
anticipated that it might not be within the taste range of my viewing
partner. Regretting the missed opportunities and assuming that my next
chance to see it in a theatre wouldn't occur for a few years, I took
advantage of a most unexpected retrospective (itself anticipating the 2005
release of two new works) of this director's films a few months later at
the American Film Institute in Silver Spring. Although I much
preferred “CHUNGKING EXPRESS” and “IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE” to “DAYS OF BEING
WILD”, only the twice-missed film provoked any writing during my viewing of
it. On top of that, my viewing partner independently decided to rent the
DVD of “DAYS OF BEING WILD” and during our experience of the film made
certain suggestions for revision which I incorporated. I still have on
hand an unrevised draft of 14 lines from my second viewing (a new
beginning which might function as an odd middle), but decided to present my
first and last texts together at this time because of their uncanny matched
lengths of 10 lines.
***
Because I do not write, ink dries
in the pen. The moon hides its face
in rain. Tulips fade. Dreams scatter
into frailty, they putter along on canes.
Cupboards empty and shopping
leaves me exhausted on the chaise.
The dogs complain. A neighbor
clears the rain gutters. A small child
shovels puddles with a dust pan. One
friend wonders where I am; another
hunts for temple windows at an auction
in Bangkok. The tulips' petals drop.
Sharon Brogan
***
Must I Follow
You walk ahead
leaving nothing behind.
All the important things,
you are taking with you.
What matters is
how your footsteps
wake the sleeper in me,
the one not quite following you
since looking back
and hiding are ways
we learn to grieve.
You've always led,
me being the weaker
one to stay, the stronger one
to leave behind.
I wave back now,
finding my strength
at last in the distance,
the ever shy distance.
Jill Chan
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