Thanks Grasshopper for another great selection.
Really enjoying your poem, Arthur - very evocative.
Best wishes,
Matt
>From: grasshopper <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: WORM 37~~~~~~~~~Poetry e-zine
>Date: Fri, 3 Nov 2006 01:47:45 -0000
>
>
>
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~ 37
>
>
>Welcome to WORM 37. We hope you enjoy this juicy selection of poems.
>
>All poets appearing in ~ (the poetry) Worm ~ have granted a limited
>copyright waiver for electronic replication [only] of the relevant
>collection as a whole [only]. If you like this Worm, please forward it,
>intact, to others. Many thanks to all who have contributed to WORM 37 .
>
>WORM will continue to be archived at
>http://www.villarana.freeserve.co.uk/wormhome.htm
>Many of the poets appearing in ~ (the poetry) Worm ~ feature on The Works
>email forum.
>The Works provides peer group review of work-in-progress, plus links, news
>and general
>discussion on all things poetic. The Works is not a talking shop. It is
>serious, international,
>and is free. You can join in. Just send a blank email to:
>[log in to unmask]
>
>Don't forget that submissions are welcomed for WORM 38 and all future
>issues.
>Send up to 5 poems, free verse or formal, to Margaret Griffiths at
>[log in to unmask] .
>Please address any queries about WORM 37 to the same address.
>All the poems I receive are forwarded (without authors' names) to my
>co-editors for each issue, and the selection is made on our combined
>scores.
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Talking to Lord Newborough
>
> I'd perch beside your gravestone years ago,
> a boy who thought you old at forty-three.
> I knew you loved this quiet place, like me.
> We'd gaze towards Maentwrog far below,
> kindred spirits, and I'd talk to you.
> Sometimes I asked what it was like to die-
> were you afraid? You never did reply,
> and silence rested lightly on us two.
>
> These days the past is nearer, so I came
> to our remembered refuge on the hill,
> expecting change yet finding little there:
> my village and the Moelwyns look the same,
> Saint Michael's Church commands the valley still-
> but you, old friend, are younger than you were.
>
>
> (Lt. William Charles Wynn, 1873-1916, 4th Baron Newborough,
> whose grave overlooks the Vale of Ffestiniog in North
>Wales)
>
> © David Anthony
>
>
>(Talking to Lord Newborough: Editor's Choice of Paul Stevens,' I like the
>wholly-integrated voice of this, which, despite the quiet
> traditionalism of the form, still manages to say something fresh. And I
>like too the way the poem is firmly located within a sense
> of place, how it creates its world for us in a few lines.')
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> The First War I Knew
> (Civil Defense)
>
> It was constant, smoldering like cigarettes
> on black and white TV. Mom's vacuum
> transmitted beads of static, glittery interference,
> but no flash bright enough for The Bomb.
> On the public service announcement,
> a woman in a smoke-hued skirt nipped
> down a flight of stairs from city sidewalk
> to fallout shelter. I loved her sober face, the click
> of her high heeled descent, that echoey grown-up tip
> into darkness.
>
> Constant: white-shirted, formal
> announcers talking of Cuba. The round CD badge
> at two places on the dial of my mother's car radio,
> the tests of the Emergency Broadcast System.
> The day it said go to the basement and pretend,
> every kid on my block fled by the moaning end
> of the siren's take cover; no one used a kick-stand,
> just tossed his bike over. Except Mom
> practiced Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words
> on the piano, opened the sunporch windows,
> and sent me out to play.
>
> It was constant, until the war faded into color-
> jungle green, the rust of old blood. Then, for a while,
> it was gone. I never learned to walk in heels.
> I never learned to calmly run away.
>
> © Christine Potter
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> He Fought in Desert Storm
>
> so he reads a poem about an ambush-
> how Corporal Tyrone Jackson grabbed
> a machine gun and held off an entire company
> of the Republican Guard allowing fourteen
> of his comrades to take cover in the rubble
> of a bombed-out building. A grenade ended
> Jackson's life. When the audience realizes
> he was a Marine, they boo and make snide
> comments. Before he begins his second piece,
> the host takes the mic from his hand.
>
> Later, in the parking lot of the Coffee Moon,
> three young men who believe his poem
> is warmongering, male-hegemonic tripe
> beat the shit out of him. I watch.
>
> Do not give them torches and gasoline.
> Do not give them sheets to wear. Do not
> give them a long board and a short board,
> a hammer and nails. Do not let them bring
> a rope, and wherever their pack of cars
> stops to howl, let there be no tree.
>
> © Fred Longworth
>
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
> Quaker Meeting
>
> A Quaker meeting house; a studied silence.
> Child gathers all this seriousness of listening.
> Twice in the hour somebody rises to speak
> about ideas, not why her family's leaving.
>
> She watches: how grained boards turn river, atlas;
> imagines thought balloons moored in mid-air,
> just out of reach; storms moulded in cracked plaster;
> reads library spines and spells out emigration.
>
> She hears old words, 'intolerance', 'Meeting for
>Sufferings'.
> She knows she ought to remember what they mean,
> looks up through high glass at the high tide of trees.
>
> Non-one else raises their eyes above their searching.
> The child draws. Later, someone speaks to her
> about her ship, this coastline, that new world.
>
> © Martyn Halsall
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Letters from Crete
>
>
> ( i )
>
>
>
> The orange Yamaha rasps, tears
>
> the silence of the streets, echoes riot,
>
> yammer along the shuttered walls.
>
> The invading centaur, dark, erect and arrogant,
>
> flicks his pony tail; light glints from cool shades.
>
> One last rasp of revs and he is gone.
>
>
>
> Silence resettles, dust glimmers in the air.
>
> Beetle-black the bent dame busies,
>
> sweeps the dust of Knossos from her path,
>
> tidies her place and pride; grants me a glance.
>
> Beyond the street, beyond the glimmering silence,
>
> beyond the plumes of swept ruin, the Aegean gleams.
>
>
>
> A departing jet climbs over the city, soars with a bellow,
>
> drags its shadow over the maze of streets.
>
> We leave the back ways and the tall cool walls,
>
> follow the aroma of roasting coffee
>
> and the sea odours of the fish market,
>
> drift with the crowds through the hot square.
>
>
>
>
>
> ( ii )
>
>
>
> The folded paper on the chair
>
> hides the bleak despatches.
>
> White walls of the hotel are strutted
>
> with shadows where stairways climb
>
> and cut back baffling the perspectives.
>
> In the pool, plunge of brown skin,
>
>
>
> shot with gold, the dive spouts
>
> syllables of bright water.
>
> The sun burns on the sea's tent
>
> melts into the deep gloom of its heart.
>
> The afternoon holds like a pent breath.
>
> Light pins each of us, vulnerable in our frailty,
>
>
>
> alone on the earth. We look to gather
>
> our shattered civilities, these quiet times,
>
> when the sun flares from polished cutlery,
>
> light through wine dances over the cloth,
>
> 'Vien Malika' eloquent from a plucked guitar,
>
> silhouettes of vine leaves on the floor.
>
>
>
> Shadows beyond this enclave
>
> crowd our sanctuary,
>
> winds from the sea press in,
>
> flap the corner of the tablecloth,
>
> bulge the canopy,
>
> shake the dusty leaves.
>
>
>
> ( iii )
>
>
>
>
> In the shade of a dark-leafed grove,
>
> out of the sun, I rest and watch
>
> the sea, far below, burnished shield-bright.
>
> Blades of thorn and thistle knife
>
> coronets of blue flowers,
>
> fiery daisies blaze and poppies bleed.
>
>
>
> In the silence and heat, the ass and goat
>
> graze the long slow golden hours away.
>
> An age ago farmers and shepherds toiled
>
> here, turned the dry soil, until the gods
>
> goaded them, toyed with their lives,
>
> whispered of glory in other lands.
>
>
>
> They left their dark-leafed olive groves
>
> to venture on the blood-dark seas;
>
> became heroes and warriors.
>
> Under the silent sky, women wept
>
> and waited; the ass and goat grazed
>
> the long dark years away.
>
>
>
> Now lizards bask on broken columns
>
> and the belled goat tolls doleful among thorns.
>
> Wine and song memorialize the time,
>
> the battle's clamour, shouts of pain,
>
> deaths on foreign hills,
>
> flame and slaughter in the night;
>
>
>
> tell how Jason's sail cracked
>
> and bellied in the fabling winds,
>
> Odysseus tricked the Trojan gate
>
> and Alexander bestrode the world.
>
>
>
> ( iv )
>
>
>
> Under the brooding mountains,
>
> the level plain burns at noon,
>
> its seared skin drum for an August sun.
>
> Down from the hills, over the arid fields, shapes
>
> move through dust and stiff weeds, scrub and litter,
>
> weary donkeys traipse under laden panniers.
>
>
>
> The line of the mountains and sky merge
>
> into the single coherence of the dazzling sea.
>
> I await my departure, delayed.
>
> A carafe gathers light, dances and streaks
> cusped and winged patterns of Cretan sunlight,
>
> on the white cloth. Pegasus and Medusa bleed and die.
>
>
>
> Droplet, flame and nebulae, Hubble-views of earlier aeons,
>
> shapes in the dance of glowing flames
>
> views dreamed upon, now and once upon a childhood,
>
> the vast dispersions of darkness,
>
> the flare of gaseous masses
>
> now convolute and billow over the table.
>
>
>
> There tomorrow is as meaningless as yesterday,
>
> words without use where only now is,
>
> where sun neither rises nor sets
>
> and no days dawn,
>
> no flecks of gold and wine;
>
> neither morning nor dusk.
>
>
>
> Lids melt into a drowse,
>
> the hum descends into a dream.
>
> Here is only the long exhalation of forever
>
> as the universe breathes.
>
> A book slips from a sleeper's hand.
>
> Fans slowly stir the thick air.
>
>
>
> Strangers to each other, trapped,
>
> keep their space, distanced, locked-in selves
>
> wait despatches to our worlds of donkey-tasks,
>
> the chase of lives strapped to time,
>
> ploddings over arid plains without horizons,
>
> the daily task of scraping life into dry heaps.
>
>
>
> Chimes!
>
> Heads lift. Buttocks shift.
>
> A soft female voice intones in Greek.
>
> Hope flutters from its empty box,
>
> dozing children whimper in complaint,
>
> forgotten toys, litter, crusts and crumbs lay strewn.
>
> Burdens are shouldered and ways sought.
>
>
> © Arthur Seeley
>
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Ithaca
> (after C P Cafavy)
>
> Leave me no photographs,
> leave me nothing
> but a quick note scribbled in black biro on a memo pad,
> or if you insist,
> the postcard from Ithaca:
> Sun woke us early, went diving, caught an octopus.
>
> I remember Ithaca,
> arriving without sleep on the ferry,
> the old sand and olive trees with nothing to sell me.
>
> Two hands on this postcard,
> an unmatched pair,
> but the same sure, agile cross to the T.
>
> This postcard-
> dog-eared,
> gloss-coated sea cracked,
> pine trees bleached yellow:
> two greetings inscribed in pale ballpoint,
> ink over-franked Airmail,
> indenting the card,
> strong enough to read.
>
> © Matt Williams
>
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> April
>
> She busied herself outside. He wrote a poem about her
> and a four-leaved clover.
> She knew it was not about her, but him.
> Did she tell? Never.
>
> Why should she tell? She knew what she knew.
> Let him discover
> his own secrets. In her heart she invoked
> a makeless lover
>
> whose little pen neither fussed nor scratched
> and did not cover
> the world with words. How soon
> Spring's over.
>
> © Helena Nelson
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Desperate Times, Desperate Measures
>
> She will not stop at anything, it seems.
> First she craved Nigel, who was after me,
> now it's the stranger. Mad with jealousy,
> she meddles with my own and Digby's dreams.
>
> In mine she threatens she will spill the beans
> on mannish Ethel and on me. The liar
> scoffs, "I saw your eyes, full of desire,
> gaze at her sturdy buttocks in tight jeans."
>
> In his dreams, he already knows. She ties
> him to the bed, caresses chest and thighs,
> implants her name in Digby's future life-
>
> Angie-embellished with pink curlicues.
> This will be left of me: a palm-shaped bruise
> that fades beneath the fingers of his wife.
>
>
>
> © michaela a.gabriel
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Last Cricket of Summer
>
> Under the wild white clematis,
> one last defiant chirp, as behind
> me, leaves clatter past.
>
> © Christopher T. George
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> On Visiting Lasseter's Cave
>
>
>
> Here lay a man who chanced upon and lost
> the way to paradise. A driven man,
>
> he sought the way again, but somewhere crossed
>
> the line that marked where fantasy began
>
> and reason ended. He would leave no stone
>
> unturned or track untravelled till the day
>
> he rediscovered paradise. Alone,
>
> he haunted wildernesses far away.
>
>
>
> And down the years he wandered by unbeaten
>
> paths, and traversed gibbered plains to grope
>
> among the hieroglyphs and cuneiforms
>
> of desert lore, seeking and seeking, till, eaten
>
> hollow in mind and soul by rabid hope,
>
> he grasped his dream and perished in its arms.
>
>
>
>
> © Peter Moltoni
>
>
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> What Mrs. Stannard Said
>
> Cut up National Geographic articles about Chinese Opera
> or Mickey Mantle. If you draw the baseball bat
> on the cover of your report, it isn't copying, even if
> you glue the words in, too. She takes you aside. She says
>
> pick someone who isn't in your family, someone popular
> like Meg Miller. Imitate her tight brown ponytail,
> her red cardigan and knee socks. She says how much
> happier you'll be, and calls your mother when you
>
> use new vocabulary in The Story of my Life. You stole it
> from somewhere, she says, perhaps Collier's Encyclopedia.
> But the words are the same ones you use over fish sticks
> and tartar sauce with your father. They aren't even big.
>
> You know that you're sad. The weight of your childhood
> is a new coat with stiff buttons. It's your own fault
> if you don't fasten the one at the top and catch cold.
> You secretly want to be Meg Miller. You beg your mother
>
> not to call the principal. Your mother says the principal
> is an ex-WAC who doesn't know the war is over. Besides,
> how could you look yourself up in an encyclopedia?
> You aren't famous. You know you will never be.
>
> In the bubbling fish tank, one gourami has died
> and is being eaten by the other. You stare at them
> from your place at the dinner table. It's awful,
> but at least now you can tell them apart.
>
> © Christine Potter
>
>(What Mrs. Stannard Said: Editor's Choice of M.A.Griffiths,' I found this a
>wonderfully evocative and understated description of the sheer
> uncomfortableness of childhood as experienced by an intelligent child:
>the bewilderments, embarrassments and uncertainies, all conveyed
> in a very engaging voice.')
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Two Old Blind Men From My Childhood
>
> Piano tuner Harry Ziggenbein
> materialized precisely once a year.
> No sense of humor, silent, and austere,
> he'd bristle at a hoot or monkey shine.
>
> The other, Frank, came home with dad to dine
> with us from time to time. He loved to hear
> my mother play. We'd stalk him from the rear
> and make him guess our names, but that was fine
> with him.
> When Harry put away his tools,
> he'd sit and, by some rule of opposites,
> conjure up ragtime like a thaumaturge,
>
> while Frank, although more tolerant of fools
> and disrespectful little thimblewits,
> would always ask for Chopin's funeral dirge.
>
> © Vaughn Fritts
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Water Road
>
> ended with sockets in a rock, sized up for ropes
> by the 0 between finger and thumb, a frame for stars
> in the navigator's hand, from Norway to Scotland
> and the Bay of Shells, gouged deeper by dragon prows.
>
> Water became shingle, became pasture, heather, rock
> during that legend voyage when Magnus Barefoot
> captained a longboat overland to claim
> "All the land you can sail round in a day."
>
> All day his men hauled, sweating over the isthmus,
> wrestling incline and drag, keel rawing shoulders,
> jamming in scree, leached rakes among the birch fleets;
> a ridge pause while chafed ropes were threaded for descent.
>
> He offered them gold if the boat was in the west loch
> before the sky became a hoard of silver-
> that was the story. Today, just this cored stone
> and a similar breeze they judged to edge to landfall.
>
> © Martyn Halsall
>
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Smells of Umbra
>
> Fragrances have returned
> to the loft at half-light;
>
> I'm not sure why ginger
> haunts the closet. We've fumigated
>
> twice with vanilla,
> like one adds to milk-toast.
>
> A medicine man from Rancheria
> shook his denial feather, chanted
>
> in high Cherokee and low scat, but guests
> still imagine an Asian odor.
>
> I should invite them to my study to whiff
> the fresh "Prince Albert" burning
>
> as spit and Cavendish
> in my late grandfather's pipe.
>
> © Jim Corner
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> For my Uncle
>
> You were the one with an eye for the crowd.
> In the grainy rain of celluloid,
> the march of legs regular as pistons,
> the greatcoats stiffly bonded row to row,
> I should have known it would be you
>
> who flashed out feathers like a bird of Paradise,
> lit the greyness with your startling smile,
> broke the slope of guns to raise a cheerful hand,
> saluting crowd and camera man.
>
> © Gill McEvoy
>
> ( For my Uncle: Editor's Choice of Kei Miller,'I was quite impressed by
>the way it literally builds a picture, each line bringing the image more
> and more into focus. Ironic, because the subject of the poem is a man
>in a blurry black and white picture, standing with several other men
> uniformly dressed. But by the end of the poem when we too see the uncle
>clearly, standing out from the crowd as it were, lighting up the entire
> scene and waving; we too feel warmth and affection towards him. A
>fitting tribute.' )
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
> Concerning Mother
> (a sestina)
>
> 'Let's revisit last week's conversation
> and think through why the stories you make up
> concern abuse and cruel sarcasm.
> You said, I quote, My childhood seemed a waste,
> so many futile sunny days; singing
> Happy Birthday made me cry. I felt diseased.
>
> I wonder why you chose that word-diseased,
> not lonely, or anxious? Conversation-
> you claimed it helped. Maybe the words we waste
> stave off white space, and I, through you, make up
> a paltry life, and feel fulfilled singing
> from your hymn sheet. Was that your sarcasm?'
>
> 'No, more like the crumbling edge. Sarcasm
> is just a puritan's social disease'
> smiles, takes notes, as if to say why waste
> your humour on a shrink; so I make up
> to please her, a bogus conversation
> with mother, how I hated her singing.
>
> 'I cannot see her face; I hear her singing,
> a rich contralto voice; my sarcasm-
> shielding the cat's ears as she sang..''Why make up
> these tales? Last week's concerned childhood disease -
> your allergy to cats.' Conversation
> falters, costly moments go to waste.
>
> 'Like litter blown across a weed strewn waste,
> her songs are lost..' ' No, think about her singing.
> I know how hard you find this conversation,
> don't hide behind your phony sarcasm'
> 'Towards the end she lost her voice; the disease
> stole it. She mouthed the words, doing her make-up.
>
> Memories I make up-my Mother's singing,
> her terminal disease, the sarcasm
> I waste today in ritual conversation.
>
> © Alan Wickes
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Flysong
>
> Is this piece of you,
> deaf, dumb and blind
> that remains behind
> -worn out, cast off shoe-
> the sum of all our kind, or is that madness?
>
>
> Is this shell of you
> that has the smell of you,
> just a vessel for the worms and for the flies?
>
>
> If I find it's true
> that it's really you,
> and that heaven's just another pack of lies,
>
>
> then I'll stay with you
> for a day or two,
> till there's nothing left of us except the flies.
>
> © Nigel Holt
>
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Meat Packing
>
> Don't stop to wipe the gore
> from your face, just move
> to the next set of cuts.
> Try to keep the keen on your blade,
> it's got to be sharp to slice
> through the beef without any drag
> on your bones, your flesh.
> With four thousand head a day,
> the grab and trim becomes your world,
> the fat on the floor, you step
> through the grume, it splashes
> your boots. But don't
> look down, watch the knife,
> the hilt in your hand, it might
> stick then fly and you're packed
> in close. As the belt speeds up,
> check your metal apron,
> cinch it tight, seven pounds of mail
> all that protects your belly and back.
> Hide the small wounds, ten stitches
> or less, the boss won't look,
> he's got numbers to make.
> Remember the speed of the line,
> think only of steel and meat.
>
> © Amy MacLennan
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> The Shed
> (to Rudolph Lewis)
>
> I hope that you, old friend, toiling away
> to fix the roof of your store shed
> all day for days in overwhelming heat,
> the sweat of natural Florida,
> that makes this too-warm English summer
> seem temperate again,
> I hope you win. I hope your father's store
> is gloried with the roof that it deserves
> I hope that you don't fall.
>
> I want my friends in Africa
> pinned down in Mogadishu
> by flying lead, not nails,
> to know about your shed.
> I want as many people now
> to know about your shed
> as stand to learn from it,
> because it's more than shed
> we talking here.
>
> Fine as it no doubt is as shed,
> this one is more than timber,
> more than tar paper and sweat,
> more than determination,
> more than a health and safety risk,
> more than some slabs of wood
> arranged with more or less regard
> to canons of structural integrity:
> It is a thing of spirit,
> creation of a living poet.
>
> Architecture. Frozen blues, maybe.
> Cathedrals come to mind.
>
> Not that they should come
> en masse to make a pilgrimage,
> although in fact when you have gone
> they might well come,
> for few are famous while they breathe,
> and of the ones that are,
> it would be better for us all
> that they were not,
> maybe.
>
> The point is that this shed
> is getting built.
>
> Trees are our brothers.
> They live and die
> just like John Barleycorn,
> and willingly give up the sap
> to win new life in service to their family.
>
> This shed was once alive,
> bi-placentate in form,
> a joiner-up of earth and sky
> the fusion point in its green sap
> to all four elements.
> Like Shiva's locks that broke the flood
> Its leaves gave shade from blazing sun.
> Trees give us unconditional love,
> like dogs and gods;
> some gods,
> sadly not
>all.
>
> It died to find itself becoming shed.
>
> Frozen blues? In Florida now
> the only frozen things
> are found in white machines
> humming beneath their breath
> just while the juice is on.
> Not frozen: solid blues
> from far away, blown out by Buddy Bolden,
> crossing a river wider, deeper,
> cooler than Pontchartrain
> to celebrate one poet's work.
>
> It's up there with the wolf and owl
> and in the end, I dare say
> up there with
> Eli, Eli Lama Sabacthani,
> if all the Truth be known.
>
> The point is this:
> this is a shed that's going up.
> Rudy is in the business of building sheds,
> not breaking them.
>
> He does not use his strength to knock down sheds.
> He does not bulldoze structures.
> He brings no lethal force to bear on others' work.
> There are no bombs in Rudy's bag.
> That's all. That's good. That's all we need.
>
> © Richard Lawson
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Thé Dansant 1910
>
> The crisp eroticism of the waltz
> is infinitely sexier to me,
> (although admittedly inclined to schmaltz)
> than tangos from the Argentine could be.
> The strong 3/4 of Lehár and of Strauss-
> libido under bombazine and lace:
> tumescent tunes-unlikely that they'd dowse
> the flames that flush décolleté and face.
> A final sweep around the ballroom floor-
> the swelling horns, the throbbing of the strings.
> A dance-card filled: no room for any more,
> and febrile words that make a heart grow wings.
> Her breathlessness required smelling salts-
> I blame the man, the music and the waltz.
>
> © Mitchell Geller
>
>
>
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
>Acknowledgements:
>For my Uncle previously appeared in 'Seam' magazine.
>Meat Packing previously appeared in 'Tattoo Highway#9'
>Concerning Mother previously in 'Loch Raven Review'
>The Shed previously appeared in 'ChickenBones' online Journal
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>Author's contact details:
>
>David Anthony..................... http://www.davidgwilymanthony.co.uk
>Jim Corner............................ [log in to unmask]
>Vaughn Fritts.......................... [log in to unmask]
>michaela a.gabriel.............. .
>http://members.chello.at/michaela.a.gabriel
>Mitchell Geller....................... [log in to unmask]
>Christopher T. George.......... [log in to unmask]
>Martyn Halsall......................... [log in to unmask]
>Nigel Holt............................. [log in to unmask]
>Richard [log in to unmask]
>Fred Longworth ..................... [log in to unmask]
>Amy [log in to unmask]
>Gill McEvoy [log in to unmask]
>Peter Moltoni.......................... [log in to unmask]
>Helena Nelson......................... [log in to unmask]
>Christine Potter....................... [log in to unmask]
>Arthur Seeley ...................... [log in to unmask]
>Alan Wickes .......................... http://www.alanwickes.com
>Matt Williams......................... [log in to unmask]
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>Compiling Editor: M.A.Griffiths ( [log in to unmask] ).
>Associate Editors: Kei Miller ( [log in to unmask] ) and Paul Stevens (
>[log in to unmask] ).
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
>
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