Waterways Vol 20 no 7

8/8/2019 Waterways Vol 20 no 7

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1999

20th

Annivers

ary

J

Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream


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Waterways: Poetry in the MainstreamJuly 1999

Answer motion with motion, be birds flyingbe the enormous movements of the snows,be rain, be love, remain equilibrated

The Structure of the Plane

THEORY OF FLIGHT (1935)Muriel Rukeyser


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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 20 Number 7 July, 1999Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher

Thomas Perry, Assistantcontents

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $25 a year. Sample issues -$2.60 (incpostage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

1999, Ten Penny Players Inc.

Rich Spiegel 4

Geoff Stevens 5

Lyn Lifshin 6-7

Ida Fasel 8-9

Joan Payne Kincaid 10-11David Michael Nixon 12-15

Joanne Seltzer 16-17

Marguerite Maria Rivas 18-21

Joy Hewitt Mann 22-23

Herman Slotkin 24

R. Yurman 25

will inman 26Albert Huffstickler 27-28


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In Lieu of Hubris - Rich Spiegel

Mist clothes his waiting.His tongues trapped in a riddle.The craft to Ifland taxis forward;This journey makes a separateMotion over his absence from it all.

The moon is bedded inAn anxious cup of coffee.

He looks to prepare hisBargain with inexperienceFor a conscious spark in the sea.

The plane rages againstAn aggravation of sky;And once his lament collidesWith events, he dropsA moment into memory.

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Geoff St

Until its equilibrium is broken.my head is a dovecotewith thoughts flying in and out.

I feed as ancients fed, on pigeons,their messages eaten with humble pie,

to be unwrapped and read

like mottoes in Christmas crackers.

I pull both ways, until it all goes bang,and then I wear a funny hat,and sing Good King Wensleslas.

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The Mourning Doves - Lyn Lifshin

for a week theyshuffle twig afterstick, pulling a bit oftwine into the hangingpurple Fuchsia, cling tothe plastic edgeweaving pale branches.There seems no

place to stand. Thebirds beat their wingsbalancing on the edge,hovering like hugehumming birds whilefrantically trying to

place the twig in theright spot, make something simple as aShaker chair. Theircool olive grey coatspunctuated by iridescentguava, solid blacksmoldering eyes. Themale dove watchesby day, on the roof of

the deck even at 2 AM,neither leave the nest.Pale white eggs,the size of Milk Duds.I could lie on the deckand watch the mother

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in the deep Fuchsia petals,her eyes like a doe. Then,she wasnt there. Thepurple petals, acamouflage for the eggs.It must have been acrow, perching on thefence, watching, swooping,the black of shadows oredges around somebody

dead. Even in the wildrain the dove hadnt moved,was deep in the flowers. Itmust have been those darkwings, the dove pullinginto herself, closer over the

eggs she might havealready felt the hearts beatinthe eggs already moving.And then, nothing. In myth,the crow is a bearer of badnews, misfortune, a messengerof death. It feeds on carrionthe rotting corpses of whatsgone wrong. A marauder,pillager, flying black spike.

A dove carcass someone saysnear the pines, half the pondaway. The crow, a splashof cold water.

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After Watching Nova on Public TV - Ida Fasel

Bones hunted, hacked, exploded from rock --long bones, connecting bones, a jawbone perhaps,gently gently scraped and brusheddesired objects laid out lovinglyon a scale of hundreds of millions of yearstoward a name those creatures never knew they had --next year or the next with luck fetal bones

the phantom in the fossil for methe robin I time-share my backyard with.We illustrate ourselves to each othercourteously distanced, Iin my weathered sailcloth chairlocked in Gobi desert mind for a line,

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he fast-frisking earthjab jab jabhis beak a thunderclap

to the squirmer securedon ancient muscles, upborne, danglinga miniature banner floatedfrom a miniature blimp advertisingprotein for supper

diminishing on hold

fieldwork, far as he goes, far as I.

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Lessons Learned from a Hawk - Joan Payne Kincaid

You should not be herenear too much need

and absent loveobserving the harrier hawks old wild wayssipping Lapsang Souchongin a dead vocal teachers memoryof a life so bright you thought its murmuringwould never crash like a false PC...the virus of discontent and manipulationsnuck in unobserved eroding warmthand tender lips became bellowing mouthfulsand men like Guston could maintainas always sacred belief in being,being male

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a sacred foolishness(for which they put womenin sanitariums, rest homesor marriages that last too long

in company of purveyors of cruelty);rather click yourself into some quiz showor holodeck that replicates delightbeing careful not to be dragged and droppedin cyberspace where your little PC (personal castle)sinks beyond redemption;scream like the hawkwith his mottled feathers and hooked lipshis glassy eyes searching vanished prey.

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Bagels and Burgundy for Breakfast - David Michael Nixon

This morning the lantern was still burning,hung from the crossbeam in the kitchen,

when the sun first began to grey the worlds rimbeyond the pond outside the window.

I sat at the redwood tableand ate the last of the garlic bagels,toasted and soaked with salted butter,washing them down with a tankard of Burgundy.The sun slowly altered the horizon,staining it burgundy as my mug drained.

Dimly the lantern and the sunlightshone on the painting on the side wall,

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beginning to bring out theiridescent shapes which shiftedacross that seascape: sails and water,triangles, rectangles of sunlight

shining with sea and sailing colors,Feininger floating in the kitchen.

The sun was beating on the water,turning the pond to fine gold plate.I switched the lantern off and stepped outinto the slowly aging morning,Feininger dead and Donne long undone,everything turning toward the evening.

first published in Blue Water Line Blues, Mott Calligraph

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The Street of Constant Birdsong - David Michael Nixon

This is the street of constant birdsong,a high chatter matched by the white and

fruit stains under the corner bird trees.Only the desperate or obliviouspark their cars beneath those swarming branches.This is the temperate, feathered jungle,here in Kew Gardens, Queens, the New York Citywhere poets and air-line workershuddle in white rooms, as the grey birds throng.

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Love Before BreakfastDavid Michael Nixon

(Variations on a Theme from LaVilla-Havelin)

1Flying to Persia in the morning,she passed my pillow, a soft breeze,her wings sapphire, manganese,and emerald in new light.

2Flying to Mexico this morning,her grey wings filled the patch of skywhich had been beating on our window.It softened to a blur of feathers,brushing a light-remembered song.

3Flying to Canada at sunrise,her long neck passionate black in red ashe called and called, a raptured honk

that woke us in our warm down bed.

4The sea was bright at early morning.We heard the waves lap, felt the shimThe shadow of a bird was passingover the water far from land:dark boat which sped her to Calcutta,as we rocked in our dry bed,hand in hand.

appeared in Poeand in the David Michael Nixon

Season of the Totem, Linear Art

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First Bird - Joanne Seltzer

Flying into the futureviolates our concept

of realityscoffed the other dinosaurs.

First Bird stretched, grew her soul,trembled compulsively,imagined rising toward the sun.

Summer scorch, winter frost,sandstorm, hail, hurricane,unforgiving hostile airwarned the other dinosaurs.

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First Bird hopped, felt feathers pop,renamed her arms wings,tried to visualize Gods face.

Where will you lay your eggs?In the clouds? And when they crash

you wont unscramble yolks from shellstaunted the other dinosaurs.

First Birds mouth, hardset,trilled the song praising treesthat angels try to imitate.

God gave us everythingwe need: food, water, love,

community nurserieswhined the other dinosaurs.

First Bird knew velocitydepends on aerodynamicsand soared and glided hom

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June Song at Allison Pond Park - Summer Solstice, 1998Marguerite Maria Rivas

No more shall I splay myself,

the old equation -- self = sacrificeor ride the wind like cindersdissolving

Shall I fold myself intowhat springs from the earth?

Garland of ivyfairy ring of clover?

Study the dragonflys flight,skimming and unpredictable?

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Crawl into the petals of spotted touch-me-nots,rest on a bed of violets,bare my breasts to dewy moss,

lean bareback against a beech tree in the woodshoneysuckle drenching the air,mate in the moonlightlike some she-creature whose bloodebbs at full moon --a tide inside mefold myselfinto the wavefold myselfinto the moonlightlaughingnaked.

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Speaking of Mating RitualMarguerite Maria Rivas

There are barn swallows singing

lustily on barge mooringsat the esplanade.

With blue-black heads andrusty breasts, they summonlove from the depthsof abandoned buildings.

They sing sex;it echoes through the courtyard,bounces off red granite,rose quartz hardened,

mica schist dusted.They dive-bomb

edgy and full of desire.

Their wings are boomerang;they return in springtimemigration to cull sweetnessfrom oily tarred pylons.

Metallic blue loverssail on currents above NY harbomouths open wide, consumingunsuspecting insectsand an occasional lone dreamer.

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Spiderweb at Silver Lake, July 1997 - Marguerite Maria

Shaken from the realms of possibilityto the reality of the spiderweb in the streetlamp,

love lives in a place of no surety,unmappable yet not unnavigable.

Love spins like a spidertossing filament from streetlampto tree

where it will remainuntil the winds of autumn churn,or a small child throws a rock,or too many insect carcasseslitter the trap.

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The Barn - Joy Hewitt Mann

Above the broken wall of weathered pineday escapes

as pigeons rise with the sound of clapping hands;dust and feathers float down upon my upturned facelike a benediction.We listento only ourselves, the birds say. Wingslike assuasive voicescan heal the smothered scream.

I fling off my work-hot hands,breaking silence as they soar upto the light.

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Music - Herman Slotkin

Music talks to me.I answer with

a tapping of my toes,a trembling of my lipsa turning of my mind.

What is it saying?What am I answering?Why do I feel enriched?

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Dawn - R. Y

before the sunsqualling cats climb the porch

challenge battle-scrambleoverturn a chair

raven circlesin the icy airand cawscalling the brightness down

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enter the steep organ - will inman

not just to fly, not only to spandistances

no. not merely reach.to wake at live cores of mountains,to rise with their liftings, to swimgreat waves of rock and rocking.

to rangewith weathers, spread wide arms of winds,grow feathers of storms, beat down, twist,

swoop, surge, high ascending, circlingsheaths of breath and breathing, laughter:rage

in the wild dance of ocean come inland,swell pulsing, shrill through tree-limbs,

rack rain roar runshrink

to buds of flowers, fold into zinniasdrink down sky readying bloom

spin and burr with beesbe all in

little . . . immanent in all . . . throttlegodsong, temper wingbeat, shake struand wing-flap, enter the steep organsounding, surf wide shoulders, speakinto ears of furies, listen how they

curse you, bless you, damn youwho you are

11 October 1998

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The Song - Albert Huffst

My brother and I sang and sanggrowing up, sang love songs from

operettas, sang pop, sang countrywestern. We didnt think aboutit, we just sang because we likedthe way the sound came out of us,didnt think about the words, justsang because it felt good to havemusic come out of your body and

we tied our feelings to the musicand let it all go like a kitesailing up, out of sight. Nouse asking us why, we just didit, just sang and sang. And

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sang our way then into anothertime where music was scarce andit was harder to find the musicto tie the feelings to. I dont

remember when I stopped singing.Jack stopped when he died, notforty yet, still a young man,.Tonight I sit and think about timeand music and where peoples livesgo and its night and theres asmall breeze and I think about

people like Pavarotti and LouisArmstrong and Ray Charles, singerswho can put peoples joy andsorrow into music and sing itfor them and I believe to my soul

that there is no more wonderfulthing to do in this world thanto sing and that of all the thingsin the world a man can do, there

is no more honorable occupation.

first published in Heeltap1999, St. P

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ISSN 0197-4777

published 11 times a year since 1979

very limited printingby Ten Penny Players, Inc.(a 501c3 not for profit corporation)

$2.50 an issue

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Waterways Vol 20 no 7