July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Sick Day
I’m taking the day off
to mourn my life
which is not something
I can do at work
surrounded by computers
and codes.
Grief and regret – that one
we’re implored to deny –
can’t be codified.
They can be washed in tears
or taken for a walk
to the park, in the rain.
Or written down and out
in the hope of freedom
or better yet, redemption.
They can’t be summarized
into a memo to a choice few,
and copied to a few more.
Written quickly
and typed from memory,
that memo would be
an embarrassment
to the Professionals.
They would think, well,
she’s really lost it now,
telling us this. All the while
keeping back their own tears
welling up inside.
The Color of Wind
The end of his fingertips are pressed tightly against his eyelids,
praying for a color, a pink, a deep blue –
he knows nothing of pink or deep blue.
He knows the smell of watermelon
on a hot, humid day.
A seed gets spit onto a paper plate.
He knows the feel of seersucker against his legs –
that soft, corrugated cotton
moving with the breeze.
A bell rings on a quiet porch.
The wind blows an easy hello while he
makes his way through the living room.
Sitting on a chair in the shade
he listens to the bell chime
for his sound heart
and his telling tongue.
The wind greets him across the morning
through the wildflower fields
filled with the deep reds of poppies
the purple of flowering salvia.
Review of a Lifetime
There are angels in this city
with cameras slung round their necks.
Disguised as tourists, they take pictures
of us. Documenting our time on Earth.
Did you give the bum
a quarter or a smoke?
Did you cross at the light
or run when you could?
Did you smile at the stranger
as she snapped your photo
taking it to God for the review
of your life?
There are angels in this city
on the sidewalks, in the streets.
They are the cabdrivers, the waitresses,
the docents at the museum.
They are the clerks at Duane Reade
and the millionaires in their town cars.
They are the journalists of heaven
under the cover of humanity
watching over and watching us,
making sure we keep the pact
made at birth.
The deal of innocence
played out over a lifetime,
a wingspan, encompassing
all the hours
from birth to death.
–Nickie Albert
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
I’ll Not Pay The Piper
I’ll not pay the piper
Nor shall I sing
And forget about
That long flung shout
Which makes a man feel dumb
Have a little care
The grave is just down there
and with but a stoke
Of dumb luck or perhaps a joke
Pinch a penny and drag a shoe
There is much we ought to know
Just in time to get on by
And past the day or time we die
What Are You Thinking
(Bev asked me)
I am so glad that you are you
And I am so glad you are you
I am just so dang glad
As well as happy too
And in as much as that may bore you
I will tell you again and true
I am so glad that you are you
And I am so glad you are you
I’ve Got A Smile On My Face
G David Schwartz
I’ve got a smile on my face
And I take it every place
Every single place I go
–G David Schwartz
Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
tough guy in moonlight
in 7th grade he sat
last row last seat
head on desk asleep Sister
Cleopha slapped
his ear he laughed her face red
hand
trembling on the playground no one
looked him in the eye afraid
to wake his hands
two furious stones tearing
holes in God’s light
seven years later I poured
drinks in a seaside bar I’d learned
to know a little
about a lot
could talk to the toughest guy who’d
be in the Series where
to find parts for a ’63
Impala how
he knocked that motheringfucking
bartender from down the street flat
out I gave him free drinks
to cool
the bad drunks
now he leans
on a thick
stick worn
smooth by broken
hand & muscled
weight the woman the nuns
warned 7th grade
girls they’d become if
they danced with the tough guy holds
his empty hand full
moon sways
him to her
light
street preacher
when I close my eyes I hear
the father’s voice not
his son’s as he cautiously becomes
man not
the spirit’s tongue
of feathers & fire I hear
continents grind
time’s big drum the voice of no
not what could or should not
being’s eternal quarrel
but when I speak a starling
argues
with its own
reflection
I know
one day I’ll open
my eyes see
his voice a pillar
of sound my breath
braids around & you
will stop & you
you & you
will listen
–Frank Rossini
Frank Rossini has been published in various magazines including Poetry Now, The Seattle Review, and Wisconsin Review.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
(Notes on) A Suburban Landscape
Where dwelling is a mode
Of citizenship
Not self
Not text / landschaft
Because the world
Has been always
Made even not here
But the proprietary between-places
That poetry occupies
‘Filling [one]’—like Lewis or
Clark—‘with vague cravings
Impossible
To satisfy’
Privacy
Beyond the formal
Supervised
Without authority
The daft all-over metropoles
And their back-
Ground of ordinances
Gridding the rural
Mile square mile
Mostly what we notice mostly:
Slightly interesting events
Things to be scared of
Persons with dogs
Taking the place
Of reference anxiety
It’s true:
If the way through
Were not also the way in
We would be lost
Taking Turns
Soon I too will
Carry my string
Into the wilderness
Without
Useful language
Or handsome shadow
I know change
Is not easy
But I resent
The silence
My body makes
Space around it to live in
To have an ideal
When I get back there
To the terror I hope
That song
You used to sing
When you
Thought I wasn’t
Listening still
Has the old
Stardusted magic
–Eric Rawson
Eric’s work has recently appeared in a number of periodicals, including Ploughshares, Agni, and Denver Quarterly. My book The Hummingbird Hour was published in October.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Those bright blue eyes
Rain.
I’ve seen how much she cries.
They drain her longing,
Desperate,
For what I don’t know.
But I showed her
Where to go,
Who to love,
How to be.
And she picked it up
Like no one I’ve ever seen.
She asked,
He answered.
I just saw the change in her
After
The fall before grace,
Fulfilled.
Those bright blue eyes
Rain.
She changes people around her.
Joyfully
Exploding
His love.
– Shawna Polmateer
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
At yon round table sprawls a rake,
A dissolute, belov’d by girls
Who cannot but great notice take
Of how that handsome flaunts his curls.
For nothing draws a maid like hair
On heads or chests or arms or cocks,
Or makes the fair sex wish him bare
So much as long and golden locks.
The lad kicks back and quaffs his wine
While ladies hasten to undress;
He’ll have them here if he’s inclined,
There’s not one craving he’ll suppress.
It’s almost midnight by the clocks
When he espies a spirited mare
Of ivory breast and ruddy hocks
And silken cheeks and ankle fair.
Soon thinks he of the sounds she’ll make
When once beneath him she’s supine:
Moans and sighs, she will not fake
The thrilling trembling down her spine.
But as he dreams, this other pearl—
Her hand maneuv’ring in his shirt
To toy with all his hairy swirls—
Does show herself a worthy flirt.
“You are some wench,” he says, “a fox,
I’d like you, both, I must confess,
And if I did not fear the pox,
‘Tis a desire I’d soon address.”
Thus Hogarth did with Beauty’s Line
Portray an Orgy for our Rake:
All youthful flesh, and joy divine,
And time well-spent for pleasure’s sake.
Why pass the time with other jocks
At checkers, horses, cards or chess?
This lad will say when old age knocks,
“I fondled girls, and thus, progressed.”
– Susan Pashman
The poem, “On Hogarth’s…” was composed upon viewing Hogarth’s “The Orgy,” from his series, “A Rake’s Progress.” Susan Pashman’s first novel, “The Speed of Light,” was published in 1997. In addition to novels. she has also published stories and essays in such journals as The Texas Review, The Portland Review and Dan River Anthology.
