Mar '03 [Home] Poetry Feature: Departures Guest Editor's Preface by George Wallace A Departure ~ Steve Abbott | Getting Free ~ David B. Axelrod | Leaving ~ Anny Ballardini | Leaving ~ Joseph Bruchac | Against The Flow ~ Bill Costley | Bittersweet ~ Ruth Daigon | Of Lavendar and Wool ~ Adriana DiGennaro | At Fair Street Fair ~ Charles Fishman | Remnant ~ Carol Hamilton | I Worry About Your Seizures ~ C. E. Hegarty | Leaving ~ Tamara Jenkinson | The Art of Finding Shelter ~ Kate Kelly | Birthday Poem ~ Charles Levenstein B Tempting Traffic ~ Stefanie Lipsey | Unemployment ~ J. Rutherford Moss | The Little Yellow Wheel ~ R. S. Plath | Cedar Beach Under Snow ~ Orel Protopopescu | Blended Space: Seascape With Buildings ~ Lauri Ramey | Fiddling While Rome Burns ~ Michael Rothenberg | Greedy ~ Patti Tana | Bedside Observations ~ Mary Jane Tenerelli | Old Girl's Self-Portrait Collage ~ Susan Terris | Traps ~ Jim Tyack | The Geometry of Dreams ~ Barbara Nightingale | My Father Said, Reading The News, "It's A Good Time To Be 90" ~ Barry Wallenstein | The Dense Forest ~ Marc Widershein Contributor Notes |
. | . | . | Departure Steve Abbott This moment, the one before the mumbling train lurches toward memory, catches itself, a hand half-raised toward the departing coach. We stand frozen, unable to form another word, unable to alter this image in the cascade of still photos that shaped us. The past piled like baggage on the platform, somber as the brakeman thinking of home, slapping his leather hands together in time with the night's clear whistle, a harmonica's blue vibrato in his ears, and thinking of home this moment. Each impulse to move is suspect. Each thought borders a foreign country, the conductor's timepiece and its sober limitations are as close to truth as the eternal graveled distance between the rails. ~ . ~ Getting Free David B. Axelrod Used to be we spoke of being "clear" of memories that haunt us. Now it's "freedom" I crave and cry to get it, attached to electrodes, interrogated for whatever truth. Don't they know I've nothing to con- fess? The hostage can't be guilty if the crime's coerced. So what about Patty Hearst? The Stockholm syndrome. Lord, I love my captors. Take me out and shoot me. Any- thing to stop this suffering. How can a man love with nails under his nails? Over the gates "Arbeit macht frei." I've worked my ass off. By now you'd think that I'd be free. Lying bastards. Not even a hearing for parole. ~ . ~ Leaving Anny Ballardini little light beings look lost over the deep beam separating /in a backward image an inclement invisible hand slashes down cuts detaches cracks the enemy is watchful and attacks a cry mixes with the roaring of the storm leaves torn apart from almost barren sights /// departure /// i am leaving seas and seas and sails and wings of winds sprouting blossoms on the eternal thinking no more time to waste and pick up this and upturn that and see see the habits a promised youth secures how stars are different and brighten anew new the sound of it sinuously constructed attentively desired absorbingly believed in unimaginable left and he wakes up and looks for her and she is not there walls are empty and home home where is it? ~ . ~ Leaving Joseph Bruchac Already almost too late to leave, my son off to one state and me to another and both of us deep in the state of confusion, phones ringing, and usually welcome friends unexpectedly knocking on our opened door, our dog vomiting on the rug and the furnace in the old house coughing, then breaking down for one final time as I say to my son while we struggle suitcases out the door, put this bag in the backseat for me and he does—his backseat, though, not mine and then, before we know it, roars off in his big Ford Expedition. My heart is clenched like a boxer's fist, my head feels as if this ultimate turn of a crazy day's vise will make it pop like a cantaloupe under a tractor tread. Already almost too late to leave, my luggage gone with my dutiful son and the airport still forty miles away. All of my own father's familiar anger, and all those old unforgotten phrases begin to fill my mouth with bile — then I push them away before my face grows as red as my shirt and before my wife leaps out the door of the moving car that I'm driving too fast and then slow down. I am on that plane now, although left behind are books and catalogs, audio tapes and all my new folded underwear. In flight, on my way, I begin to recall so many other hurried departures, some of them too early and all of them much easier than we ever expected. As earth falls beneath me, I need to remember how little it is that we truly take with us, how soon we all will be on our way. ~ . ~ Against The Flow (contra success) Bill Costley (from "The City of Virtue" series) Almost nobody's heading outside the suburban perimeter, contra-Success, against the flow to the City of Virtue; you're alone @ your stop, awaiting the outbound 07:14 a.m. reading Bertram D. Wolfe's A Life In Two Centuries (knowing yours will likely span this one & the next); this is the economic low-riders' milktrain, riders: some random Spanish-speakers, 2 young illegal-Irish navvies, 1 young (black, female) Private Jones, U.S. Army. & a sniped-butt ignites dark-brown oil-soaked timbers under the outbound platform, curling white smoke gradually chokes all fleeing disembarkees until 1 silent red firetruck arrives & douses & pickaxes the smoking timbers, leaving them intact. Nothing happens here not plainly rationally planned-for-in-advance. The firetruck leaves as silently. Smoke dissipates. Image dissipates. ~ . ~ Bittersweet Ruth Daigon these are the falling years for them they will go deep and remember how they flew the ecstatic moments and returned to an indifferent earth and what they never knew they invented caressed by a wind stirring their deepest sleep where the elders walked the paths of earth leading them step by step stone by stone until parachutes of light announced the dawn youth was once a gift they could afford to lose but now as the moments spin retreats every day is strung and restrung like broken beads the storehouse of the past guards the silken clefts of the body the straight secret of the spine the winged scapulae with their recurrent hints of flight and the blind hours before dawn to midnight's blaze the heart recalls the suddenness of trees and flawless entrance of morning light spring blooms and impermanent buds flowers so fragile and generous willing to fade giving way to the fruits of summer ripe and bursting to bloom the juice flowing from within abundant and the rich life reaching down to the roots again ~ . ~ Of Lavender and Wool Adriana DiGennaro With the first step in comes a heavy floral scent a fragrant prelude something vague and womanly that I don't recognize filling the still air I ask what it is, knocked woozy by its beauty and wanting to fall over Lavender, she tells me. I recall the perfume I once kept in a tiny brown bottle and used to wear on my pulse If this room is a heaven, each drop in that bottle was a prayer This place has always been fascinating, elusive from outside a door always kept closed. Time and again I've stood looking at that door, facing the whiteness the hinges and knob she let it go unadorned and kept silence within. Before we met I remember thinking I loved that mystery. And everything is a mystery now that I'm on the other side, writing questions in my head to ask her and wondering Will this shell I'm in be lifted, will she ever know me? Insecurity is cumbersome, a load I buckle under and each cap I put on each valve in my mind promptly comes unscrewed. Listening long and hard is new to me where each pause, each inflection is gilded. I concentrate the way I never can when I'm working I absorb every word about her organ lessons as a child, nodding in attempt to disguise how I'm studying her face taking in the features of this dryad-nymph- fairy-woman and her living-space This dancer, with a grim past, a grim voice Everywhere thin tapestries, a small wooden altar, crushed butts in a strange ashtray The bed a futon mattress in the corner— perfect for a danseuse who rolls in sleepless slumber and hunkers toward the floor. From a pile of fabric she wove herself in her room, barefoot, on a loom, she shows me scarves, off-white accented with blues, reds that stare back at me blankly while I consider every thread set into a pattern she created and everything glows mutedly everything is almost holy In her room, even air is precious. This is the space she fills with her body, her things and any peace found. I have found that something warm inside me is cracking open and I've been entered and stirred and lavender has crept into my very marrow. ~ . ~ At Fair Street Fair Charles Fishman At Fair Street fair, sunlight lit the church pews with the torch of the great front door the sexton had flung open. It was a day of sweetness and danger: cotton candy disappeared from a small boy's hand, jugglers tossed sharpened knives and wands that were gaily, showily burning, and little girls, cherubs, still floated on the fresh dew of the morning: angel wings and scepters. It was noontide in Nantucket, silver-white and golden. Then an ambulance shrilled, its red lights tolling. The sunlight grew turbulent, the paved street buckled. A young child was being carried on a stretcher, held rigid like a bier. She was kneeling, her forehead angled forward: village police and firemen bore the weight of her most vulnerable moment. They would not let her move, not to see the fair grow dim nor to weep to her frantic mother: she was their blonde-haired daughter, too. They would make a lane for her and carry her to safety or, at worst, to dignified stillness. Yet they knew she would not die, though death would be changed by her, for they had chosen her to live. ~ . ~ Remnants Carol Hamilton I left her long ago, young, there kneeling at the low window, painting with white enamel over chipped paints of the past, a child tucked asleep in one layer of the house as in a wall of the dead piled one above another. I heard the news that last day might come tomorrow, all for a political posture, one among millions of such dares. She is still there when I go back and when I return to here and now. She waits to say goodbye to the scent of enamel, the frame house with its long history, the child, especially her own muddled self. I don't know what to tell her, even now. Only that she will be gone tomorrow and can never return. She will only sometimes remember that one moment of that one long day. Tomorrow the faint furnace hum that just switched off, the grainy creaks and high whine of the computer shifting uneasily, waiting for me to notice, these will have slipped into limbo, and I am too busy now even to tell them goodbye forever. ~ . ~ I Worry About Your Seizures C. E. Hegarty & the nun who rides your knee As you swim, rising Sadly through broken water When you can't hear anything but The buzz of the big machine That runs the world, especially you Who survives by ordering The hearsay of important events With a red, coercive pen The nun is anachronous She wears a habit & a shoulder-holstered gun In her big pockets Drugs in tissue paper, you see Through the scented aura of her skirt She holds a crucifix to your cheek After your money Shoving your empty Wallet in your mouth Sleepy & buzzing, you want sex & before electricity Becomes volition She shoots you in the face And you are still not quite here & you are not dead Rubber time Grounds you — bullet tight Before you sit up, saying, "I'm all right" & Wet yourself with tears ~ . ~ Leaving Tamara Jenkinson She is so happy preparing. She loves this part, mostly the repeated, "I won't need that And I won't need that." She dwells on the concept of lightness. She is so happy because she is leaving but not yet gone. All the things she will leave behind, She must first put in order, sort through the mess and present it the very best she can. There are some things she just won't Have time to throw away Although she'd like to. ~ . ~ The Art Of Finding Shelter Kate Kelly there is a path and a clearing mountains of ice shifting frozen rivers thawing in your skin the hunt you swallow light of day a great downpour douses the fire it is an arduous task to face the opening where sorrow holes up it is the place you belong to there is a longing for morning there is a hearth inside the painting in your eye an impregnable silence cloaks you the beast eyes you you gesture and say nothing lying in wait to surprise your kill you've reached another shore on the other side of an unnamed sea you sniff the salt on your skin fashion from clay the dish make of fish bone a spoon partly open your mouth black teeth tongue saliva and feast the walls with openings tamped earth thatch cover and fire fear pride suspicion in half darkness naked odor of prey on a spit turning ~ . ~ Birthday Poem Charles Levenstein The Fall is officially launched, radiators squalling in honor of my 64th birthday: No denying it — something I say, watchwords, every year now. Cancer is sprouting among friends and acquaintances, diseases of age, of misspent youth or chemical dessert. This summer when the miners went helmeted into my gut they clipped a polyp and threw it on the pile of parts for recycling. In time I'll have my skin scraped to see if any of these new flaps and warts are interesting or just the usual secret ugliness of old age. I wonder if I will kiss my grandchildren with sloppy kisses, forget to speak English, complain that my children have abandoned me. Will I be reduced to bananas and milk, leap from a Bronx roof rather than go on welfare? Perhaps I am destined to become a Miami geezer when E. leaves me for a handsome young painter — I'll buy a short-sleeved floral shirt to mask my belly. I'll buy a gun and pay for sex. Maybe not. October's flaming trees are late this year, the leaves are gnarled and old, but still green: I could pass for 62. I creak and groan like the radiators in yoga class; the heat of asana, of the sun, of Kali inspire me. Some cells die, others flourish, still others are born: no suicides, heavy traffic does the job. Weightwatcher ladies induct me into the cult of conscious eating, I meditate on points, transported by the mindful child's eye, Kabat-Zinn attention taught in the basement of Holiday Inn! And why stop there? I leap on the stationary bike, play basketball, ride into the lives of Mexican soaps and MASH, catalogue ER and Seinfeld, and when sufficiently bored, stop to lift tiny weights for old people. When I am fit and slim as a Yankee tanned in the Everglades, I will contemplate Thanksgiving, prepare a seder plate for indigenous people, including bitter herbs and tortillas, wonder what the children of Iraq are eating, not much, but they pay the price that Texas exacts from uppity rivals. It's good to be old, the mind can wander after Hansel and Gretel, nibble the crumbs of hope they left behind. What mad Designer did this to us! Just when I am becoming not-an-asshole, the innkeeper announces last call! Oh, Lula, if you had only won on the first round, I would dance in Bahia, I would be a child again with wide eyes and hope for the human race. B |