January 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
fuck this idea of
poetry reaching back to
embrace the past
i will not worship
the martyred or the immortal
it’s enough to be stuck in
this town of defeated old men
as they shuffle aimlessly
up and down anonymous streets
it’s enough to watch the
factories burn
and i have driven in every direction
and i have seen nothing but
more of the same
and i am only waiting for the news
that reagan is dead
i am only waiting to hear
from a friend
who hasn’t written in a decade
that all is forgiven
and i have a job that will never be
anything worth describing
and i have a son who will someday
want nothing more than to
escape his father
what i give you hear is a
pale blue november sky bleached to white at the edges
the drone of a plane and the
sound of wind through bare trees
and there is a house of
delicate bones in this picture
that i call my home
there is a river that holds
the body of
a fifteen year-old boy
it doesn’t bother me that i’ve
outlived him
but maybe it should
January 2002 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Ruminations over morning tea[/b]
Maybe it’s time to start again
and reinvent myself
in warmer weather wearing wool
only when winter thoughts
plague me at night
as I miss the morning snow
and white Christmases I used to know
and white pages of books printed on good paper
not newsprint, brown and rough as I turn pages
of my days
to see what comes after
the heroine decides
that maybe it’s time to start again
and reinvent herself
on other shelves
turn her life from drama/mystery
into bestselling comedy
erasing all the misery
of missing midnight cups of tea
with people giving sympathy
like crumbs to park pond ducks
like candy to a crying child
like coins to a weeping fountain
that one day thinks
maybe it’s time to start again
and reinvent myself
as water in a bedside glass
or rain that falls on suburban grass
or holy water blessing multitudes at mass
and so the repentant prodigal child
comes home
to start again and reinvent herself
as fatted calf.
[b]They spoke about a sunrise[/b]
If you could, would you,
he asked at the crossroads
of Cross Street and High.
She smiled with eyes
that didn’t answer his question
or give reason why she should.
Listen, he said,
close your impenetrable eyes
and I’ll ask you again.
Could you, if I would–
she stopped him there,
I don’t know if I should.
Let’s walk awhile
a mile, maybe two
down to where the sky roses
grow, says he.
Maybe, and she stepped
lightly on his toes
with a teasing smile.
And the shadows held hands
and left empty spaces
where they would have stood.
[b]When the doorbell didn’t ring as promised[/b]
You left me hanging
by the rope
woven from the ever-tightening,
lengthening list
of ways the world doesn’t look
like the fingerpainted fiction
I foolishly fashioned as a child.
You left me holding
on to what I thought were wishes
blown from birthday candles
that turned out to be the smoke
that chokes me,
black like the scarf I wear
in memorium
as I bury you every day
(yet you rise up, always, won’t you stop).
You filled me with
the tears that every poem is made of.
In the hole left from your absences
I will drown,
I will drown.
by Shiloah Matic � 2002
([email]smatic [at] wesleyan [dot] edu[/email])
[b]Author’s Note:[/b]
Shiloah currently has poetry published online at gerationrice.com and has contributed to the December issue of Soapbox Girls, a webzine for women.
January 2002 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Therapy and Dreams[/b]
I pay a therapist $90 an hour
to say Aaawww… Which is what
I want to hear. And she’s awfully
cute with her little pout and pucker.
So, you see, it’s entirely symbiotic.
The problem with me, she surmises,
is that I’m afraid to get in touch
with my inner child.
She may have something there.
For I have this recurring dream
of a beautiful blonde vixen in pigtails,
hiding Turkish Taffy under a Mickey Mouse
tank top. It’s always hot and humid in my dreams,
so gooey globs stick to her nipples
as she pulls out the candy
and offers me a bite or two.
But its only a dream!, I yell,
as I run frantically for cover
in the nearby bushes,
being but a young boy,
lacking pubic hair,
and frightened of cavities.
In the bushes, I am greeted
by a giant hedgehog, who licks
and licks the clothes
clear from my body, except for my socks,
which are not very tasty, apparently.
And just when I’m getting accustomed
to saliva and spines, the feisty critter
turns into God and fries
the taffy temptress with
a crooked bolt of lightning.
Then he turns to me and proclaims
with booming voice (because he’s God):
My son, where I come from,
$90 an hour is rather steep.
I know a lovely lady
who can set you straight
in three easy installments
of a mere $19.99,
but you must act fast.
At that, he vanishes with a poof,
leaving behind, as proof of his existence,
a stack of glossy business cards
and a few gray whiskers.
For some reason, that’s the point
at which I invariably wake up
and check my pulse, which
is the pulse of a middle-aged man
with a wife who lives 500 miles away,
two mortgages, a boss with perpetual
sardine breath, a cat who misses
the litter box, and a therapist
who’s writing a Masters Thesis
on dreams and hallucinosis.
[b]Recess[/b]
If only he hadn’t kicked the class bully
in the nuts during lunch. But it was either that
or snorting lime Jell-O and tomato sauce
through a dirty straw in front
of the entire Glee Club.
Let the rest of them dodge that wacky red ball.
Let them choke on dust clouds and Gummi Bears.
There’s something to be said
for lying face down in a dumpster
atop a stack of Playboy centerfolds.
[b]The Poet Inspects Precision Engineering[/b]
It was a lovely morning.
The birds outside were chipper,
my bowels were fine, and I was
about to do something very important,
or at least somewhat creative, until
I unscrewed my precision engineered
mechanical pencil to inspect the ultrafine
graphite and the crafty
Japanese workmanship.
Engineers are so darn fastidious.
Their toaster ovens are shiny
and crumbless. Their microwaves glisten
inside and out. They sweep
the sinewy brown strands
and toe jam from the space between
the foot of the bed
and the polished antique chest,
which is packed optimally with potpourri.
flannel nighties, and a spare set
of metric Allen wrenches.
I, by contrast, do my best
to avoid mysterious, dark crevices.
At night, I wrap my arms tightly
around my wife’s waist to keep
from falling off the end
of the bed into the creepiness.
When my wife is away, I sleep
on the decaying couch in my study,
and imagine that the old, creaking
mechanisms are happy crickets
procreating under a winking moon.
I also eat fat bacon and fried eggs
on buttered rolls, chain-smoke
unfiltered Camels, and laze
in front of the TV all day watching
re-runs of 70’s sitcoms and telethons.
But all that is another story.
Note to myself:
Buy a fountain pen.
[b]Whatever Happened?[/b]
Whatever happened to that crazy old bugger?
You know, the guy who wore a filthy wool
cap all summer long? He had torn, greasy trousers,
and his shirt was held together with safety pins.
One time, I gave him a few cigarettes,
three, I think, and he patted me on the butt
and whispered in my ear, somewhat accusingly,
“Rasputin only eats raw lamb,
and sometimes boiled carrots”.
Last time I saw him, he was fishing
for bicycle tires in the Potomac River.
I was jogging by, and he adjusted his crotch
in my general direction
while giving me the one finger salute.
I suppose now that it’s cold,
he’s living in a shelter downtown,
passing out soap and handkerchiefs
to all the bag ladies who stop by for biscuits,
gravy, and some good, old-fashioned groping.
Every now and then, he stares out
a cracked, dirty window on the third floor
and snorts at the pathetic gnome-like
creatures on the sidewalk below,
randomly bumping into one another
on the way to Hell.
[b]A Poem Written After an Evening of Reading Darwin And the Scriptures, In That Order[/b]
The master magician waved his wand,
And I tumbled from a long, black sleeve,
An ornery five-legged dragon, coughing
Up flames and charred feathers. With a sneeze,
He turned me into a rabid rodent,
Sending his accomplice into a panic,
As she lifted her skirt, and danced a jig
Across the stage. Next, he snapped
His fingers, transforming me into a troll,
Complete with oily facial blemishes
And patches of dark fur in mysterious,
Yet sensible places. And this is how
I shall remain, having sawed my creator
In two, after poking him with a blunt,
Shiny sword, whilst devouring his
bony, but delicious assistant.
But there’s no reason for alarm.
They didn’t feel a thing.
And the only blood spilled
Was my own.
by Richard Jordan (c) 2001
([email]sdjordan1 [at] juno [dot] com[/email])
[b]Author’s Note:[/b] Richard Jordan is a PhD mathematician and also a poet. He currently resides in Virginia, where by day, he works on the mathematical modeling and analysis of the spread of infectious diseases, and by night, he tries his best not to contract any such diseases.
January 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
there is a point
where solitude
becomes religion
a small house
in a wide open field
beneath a brutal
white sky
two young sons sleeping
through the
hottest part of the day
and a husband who
may or may not
love you
who may or may not
be with another woman
as you stand in the back yard
feeling the curve of the earth
beneath your feet
and you are too small
to break the silence
of the day
you are afraid of
the sound of
your heart
something this fragile
cannot last forever
January 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
and i am not the man
who tells you
your scars are luminous
i am poor company
even on the best of days
am worse when
the sky is an iridescent grey
and the rain begins
to fall
what i remember
from my childhood is my
mother crying in the bedroom
while rocks pelted the
front of the house
laughter from the
wooded lot across the street
and the recurring dream
of fire spreading from
room to room
and i wanted to scream
but nothing came out
and so i grew up
to be a poet
disappointed my family
with each new choice and
learned not to care
there are
ways to survive on
nothing but anger and
fear
there are reasons to
step back and let the
addicts of this world
destroy themselves
none of us were ever
promised
beauty without a price
December 2001 | back-issues, poetry
[b]I Once Knew a Woman[/b]
I once knew a woman as sharp
as a spike, (or is it a tack?)
and as hard as nails,
who thought she could fly
and blazed like a meteor
-no that’s not right-
sparkled like those sparklers
that are so hard to light.
I studied her body,
would read it like a book.
She had moveable parts and
parts that stood still
as the wind in the trees
with places to kiss
and down on her arms.
And this was a time when
women had hair and were sharp
as a tack or that razor blade
you always played with
and always got cut
and the blood would be much
darker than the red you imagine.
I remember liking that woman
like the force of the tide.
We would walk around
in the city at night
or go for a ride and you
could smoke then and it was
great to walk and smoke and make words,
blow rings at the neon lights.
I once knew a woman
a shout in the street,
or a sound that makes you
suddenly turn and check
over your shoulder
for what ever might be there,
but never is,
but you’re left with a little
unnamable fear.
I once knew a woman like that.
[b]The Lord Said[/b]
It was easier before
there were so many of them.
You could keep tabs,
help out a Roman or Greek,
check in with the Chosen.
They’d slice up their sheep,
roll some rocks around
and scream at the sky.
I’d give them green pastures and sleep.
But now it’s totally out of control.
Who can keep up?
I mean there’s what’s left
of the birds of the air
and lilies of the field
to consider.
And if I turn my back
to intervene in Andromeda,
they set out to slaughter
one another
and send me the souls
of their children
as if I had room in my heart
or any tears left.
[b]Remembrance Day (U.K.)[/b]
I don’t remember much.
The way the sunlight played
on red brick walls
with painted white window frames.
The dry mouth and search
for another cigarette,
the studied garden, the goldenrod,
the purple dead men’s fingers,
the whistling howl of winter wind.
It’s not much is it?
Your hair, your eyes,
your scent have sunk
into a miasma of leaf mold
and rotting shapes.
Of war I know nothing,
bodies on TV, Friday night Teach-Ins.
We’d drive high to the protest.
Now is all there is –
floating time told
by the phases of the moon,
blown like smoke exhaled
or like a leaf falls
and is lost in the crowd,
a sea of fallen leaves.
by Michael Crowley (c)2001
([email]miklcrowly [at] hotmail [dot] com[/email])
