Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 21 no 8

8/8/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 21 no 8

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2000

Septe

Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream


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Waterways: Poetry in the MainstreamSeptember 2000

. . . when poverty is more disgracefulthan even vice, is not moralitycut to the quick?

from THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN (17Mary Wollstonecraft


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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 21 Number 8 September, 2000Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara FisherThomas Perry, Admirable Factotum

c o n t e n t s

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

2000, Ten Penny Players Inc.

Will Inman 4-7

David Michael Nixon 8

Joy Hewitt Mann 9-10

Lyn Lifshin 11-15

Don Winter 16

Jean Sellmeyer Smith 17

Terry Thomas 18

Susan Snowden 19

Robert L Brimm 20

Matt Dennison 21

R Yurman

Ida Fasel

Herman Slotkin 2

Albert Huffstickler 2


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Mary Wollstonecraft1759-1797


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Enough Hope for the Down - Will Inman

Mass Poverty is necessary to keep paylow.

When more are unemployed, jobs are rareand need less wages to keep workersin line. Just keep

enough ready moneyto buy goods and maintain profits.

The FreeMarket is not free and is not even a marketfor everyone. Economic elements must be

kept in balance, and its a good thingto ensure sufficient numbers stay withina tables stretch of starvation.

So do notsend to ask whose stomach is swole, it isswole for thee if youre one of Godsblest exploiters.

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Be kind to those downtrodden; feed them just enough to blindtheir eyes.

If theyre ungrateful enough

to stand up for themselves, be quickto remind them about turning the othercheek in fact, all four cheeks.

Theymay contend that, in standing up forthemselves, theyre actually defendingfairness for everyone.

Too bad they cantsee fairness has nothing to do with FreeMarket success and decent living. Assurethem that patience will earn them rewardsin a later life.

7 September 1999,

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Hymn of Untouchables - Will Inman

call not untouchable what god has made clean:these rags wrap sacred incarnationsthis childs nakedness is sky come plainin human flesh. sing precious lifes elation.

lotus blooms open eyes, green stem long down mud,out of dark rise floating rounded leavesout of dark these children blossom new faces of god:

these flowers fall, now sun-dance three retrieves.

reach out to stroke these cursed creatures skin,how fingers scorch against the rotten feelof precious lives, of nobles karmic sin.cobra turned round inward, fathoms wrong with real.

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lift up these eyes, raise high these broken hands,not begging, no! affirming sacred presence hereevery child begot unique, god willing mindswalking waters of impossibles steep with fear

sound the trumpets of jeweled rajah, chief:welcome the denied ones inside the palace gate:lift every voice to heal the ages griefand sing how raptures end this longest wait!

25 Decemb

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David Michael Nixon

Hunger is coming,rattling its loose teeth like blackcastanets listen.

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In-House Special - Joy Hewitt Mann

His hunger is organized:at night he sleeps, knees drawn in tight

to touch his forehead, feetin steel-toed boots, fingerscurled in fetal protection,his body accustomed so that even awakehe carries night with him, snail-like; dayshe hunts the friendlies and the guiltiesgathering spare change from their dead faces;

evenings he builds architectural wonders quarters, dimes, nickels, loonies on the counter of the L.C.B.O.tells the clerk, Give me the most for my moneyand always gets a 2 litre jug of Catawba Redand no change.

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He dines along the George Street alley, dumpstersline up like a buffet seafood, Italian, Greek organizing his dining pleasure,

washed down with a fine red wine;then sleeps,curled tight around his bulging stomach,

just before the ratscome out to feed.

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In One Shop - Lyn Lifshin

the women dont look at you, theyare absorbed in weighing potatoes

on a scale. Then you see a smallmirror on the wall is covered witha kerchief. This house is in mourning.That is why you are not greeted atthe door. That is why there is no talkof the business that brought you here.You wonder, where are the men? Howdo their women know the rites ofmourning? Theyve had time andopportunity enough to learn by heart.There were seven of them when theycame to the ghetto, the father, the mother,

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four sons and a daughter in law. In thecity they had four rooms and a dry goodsstore. They were among the first to moveto the ghetto during the planned resettle-

ment. The oldest son, the one who wasmarried, was the first to die. He was toogentle, his heart gave up. At least he had adecent burial. A new shroud and a coffinmade of good boards. A few weeks laterthe father died. It took two days, I paidthe doctor but he came a day late, cameafter the funeral. But the money was notwasted. I needed the doctor for my secondson who was already in bed with dysentery.He never got up again. I spent my lastmoney on doctors. The shrouds, we made from

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his own shirts, 2 weeks later. My last two sonswere dead too. Three weeks. The bench I satshiva on was still warm when I had to sit again.For those 2, the house committee had to make a

collection to buy shrouds. I swore to do any workto repay but I had no money. But I tell you the truth.They sent me food coins for my 2 dead sons. At first Iwanted to return the coupons. My whole life I didnot touch what wasnt mine. But then I had anotherthought. God must know very well how I sufferover my children being buried in others shrouds. Sohe sent me those potatoes. Now I am going to sell themand give the money back to he committee. They can usethe money. Lots of people die in the ghetto.

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Bert's Restaurant and Truck Stop - Lyn Lifshin

the waitress' midriff flabs overstained white leggings that

dwindle into once white mudspattered shoes. "Herb tea?No, honey," so I order LiptonIn a Melamac cup so scorchedIts like sucking chapped lips.Fake wood Formica rubbedso hard there's just woodaround the edges. 'NO LOITER-ING" glows over a bed ofdead cacti. "Won 1000 atBingo last night," the BingoQueen grins, sprawled across

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the bench. "Gonna hit thecasinos today, tryout some newones. I like that sausage break-fast but I'm dieting. Thelma,

get me one of those friedcakes." Smoke billows up fromthe booths. Camels, cigar smoke."Gonna snow, they're predicting,"the waitress with stringy hairpromises, sloshing coffee with a spoon

you can see something like egg fleckshanging off in the middle of the cup."Yeah, promised last Sunday but nevershowed. But I'm vanilla and caramelcream I can pull open and dump in.

Don't never use pudding, makes ittaste strange. Good snow does it,delicious. I can taste it already," shesighs between drags as butter settles

into a burnt English muffin, slow as thdrawl of the man who staggers in askifor blood worms. Sunday morning,Pocumbe, a county, the church sign"of love"

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Taylor's Pawn - Don Winter

he was sitting in a rocking chairswaying just a little

smiling his broken teethwe surveyed the clutterwedding bands watch chains portable tvsframes that once held pictureshe watched usin the convex mirroras if each of uswas a loserwho'd hocked every last pieceof his life in a seriesof bum deals

where'd all this shit come from

i asked wanting to leave

before it was too latethe price tags dangledlike the morgue ticketson dead men's toes.

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On Papa's Land - Jean Sellmeyer Smith

His shack now sleeps, its planks in tangled pilesof tumbled walls that once were laughter filled.As calm and gray as dozing crocodiles,the stiff and sun-bleached, cypress boards lie still.

His rows of rose, once sweet in pinks and creamsnow reek of rum, near empty whiskey bottles.His garden, wearing weeds of broken dreams,is mulched with slivered glass where once tots toddled.

A slip of air blows dank of fields so fallow,

the sudden blast of last, hard-labored breath.His toothless plow sits rusting in the hollowto grin and gape at winter's coming death.

His crumbling stone casts shadows, long and dark.There's only the lonely call of a meadowlark.

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The Rag Man Rips His RewardTerry Thomas

A consumer in cloth

every two months he comes knocking,tick-tocking throughthe neighborhood like a beetlein cotton. What I giveis rotten, frayed, playedbeyond redemption. There is anexemption for taxes,(auditor fraught in twilland tweeds), but I usuallyhave what the raggedy man needs:

Old gown down in the pecking

order of satin, battered jeansfrom courtship time, smock whenmy tummy was tick-tockingwith Billy. Now only the pastis frilly, the comforter scored inspots, the knick-knocker pleasedwith treasures given away.

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Marginalia - Susan Snowden

Namelessgray faces

Characters cutfrom the script

Millions adriftin the margins

No room at the topno role in the storywhose winnowed textnarrowsbytheday.

Get a house.Get a job.Sober up,we insist,closing the book.

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End of the DayRobert L. Brimm

The ceiling grows vague

and cold, its tiles swirlinglike snowflakes toward me,

and I taste them, melting,the bed sways under meas though bearing me away

to some strange place, my eyesclose, and I see highway,an undulating ribbon whirring

toward me, narrow out there,broadening here where it gainsspeed, goes threading beneath

my car, as it has all day,

dull pewter funnel pullingme in, pouring me out here

where I lie on a strange bedin a cheap motel, thinkingof the events bringing me

here, thoughts driftinglike the slow, curling smokein a room suddenly empty,

being pulled toward the acheand soreness of tomorrow,not caring, not caring at all.

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Who Among Us? - Matt Dennison

Sitting here at 2:16in the morning, cutting up

my one hotdog withrusty scissors,placing each slice squarein the middle of a crackerand thenlifting it carefullyto my grateful, waitinglips, I wonder: who among uscan grasp the subtle natureof ecstasy?

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Sightings - R. Yurman

The Virgin has been seen and heardin Conyers, GA for three years now.

She says unless the U.S. turns toGod, there will be a war here.

Talk-show caller

Red-clay towns chosen at randomnot for piety or proximity;

wandering immaculataintent on saving us allnot just the few who listen.

Far from Conyers, Georgia,a woman knowing little of God or Marysits on a sidewalkan empty cup beside her feet"eating air from the bowl of her palm.

War is already here.

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Robin On My Mind - Ida Fasel

A robin sweeps downto the grass we share:

a little guy,a papa, busy to provide.

We distance each othercourteously,I with my ballpointand writing pad aspiring drudges bothwhose deep absorption doingwhat we are here to dois the measureof our achievement.

He jabs jabs jabs,

his beak a thunderclapto the squirmer securedon ancient muscles,upborne, take-home protein

while I still belabora line that, gotten right,will be my happy supper.

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Penny Candy - Herman Slotkin

When I was small and we were poor,I was lost in love with penny candy.

On those rare days we entered Candy Kingdom,glass jars glowed and glistened with many-colored joy.The sweetened air murmured 'cherry' and 'lemon' and 'licorice.'I could feel the solid ball becoming magic in my mouth,the taste of cherry growing and spreading down to my soul.

A pile of pennies lay in our tin pishke*which hung from a nail on the kitchen doorframe,a vague image on its face, swaying whenever someone brushed it.Now and then a bearded man in a black hat would empty it"to give to the orphans."

Alone, I looked long at that box with the invisible slotInto which the coins when clinking.Could two, maybe three pennies, just fall out?Could the bearded man's door be a little ajar?

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I jostled the pishke with the handle of broom.It swayed, slid forward on the nail, and dropped.The crash filled the entire kitchen,filled and froze me.

In deadly silence I glanced at what I had destroyed.The pishke lay like a stricken child on its side.On its face was the figure of a little boywith outstretched arms begging love.His eyes spoke with fear and pleading,looking upward toward an invisible fist waiting to strike.

I looked away.

A penny lay there shining with the halo of penny candy.I seized it. By the time mama returnedI had eaten a sweet ball of red,and swallowed the gall of guilt.

*a tin charity boxfirst published in Feelings, Winte

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Madonna of Bloodand Rain

Albert Huffstickler

She said she was the ladyof raindrops some days andsome days the lady ofblood but she was hardlyever the lady of roses

becauseroses didn't grow in alleys

but rain and blood came thereoften. She said she hadn'tslept in many years becauseshe had to be awake to lookafter things. She had a

wreath of plastic flowerswoven into her cornsilkhair and her eyes were more

distant than planets, moredistant than planets fromanother solar system, anothergalaxy, another universe.She said she could help meescape if I wanted fromthis prison planet. She

said some days she was thelady of lilacs thoughlilacs didn't grow in alleysbut mostly she was the ladyof blood and raindrops andstreetlamps, she added,

standing there with thelamplight streaming oveher and a slow rain falli

through her cornsilk haand over her small barefeet, blessing me withfingers fragile and fleeas sparrows and eyes todistant to ever return ia lifetime.

First puJan., Feb., MarcPoetry Depth Qu

North Highla

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Hope and Despair - Albert Huffstickler

When I finally stuck myself in the libraryas a clerk typist at the age of 45, it was

an act of both hope and despair; despairover ever finding a job that paid real moneyand would help me meet all my obligations,and hope that I could plant myself and focuson my writing and make some sort of acontribution in spite of all my failings.I've been over this before ad infinitum.There was just some part of me missing, that

part that understands how to relate to thework ethic in a creative manner: I justspaced out any time I thought about doingsomething career-wise. So that's what I didand that's where I stayed. And if one partof me just wanted to take off and keep going

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till it came to the end of the world, wellthat wasn't going to happen. And besides,I didn't really know how to take care ofmyself so it's probably just as well. I

would never have survived on the streets.So there you have it. I stuck myself in thelibrary and I stayed and poured my energyinto the writing and here I am. So many ofour actions, particularly the important ones,combine hope and despair. Or say, God usesthe carrot and the stick. Out of it camea body of work. I don't have to judge it.

I never told myself I had to only write itand get it out. And that's what I did. AndI did that because it was all I could do.I wish I could have done more. I wish Ihadn't made so many wrong turns, and madeso many promises I couldn't keep. But here

I am and there it is. I would hope thaa lot of people who ask more of themsthan they can give could read this andthat it wasn't too bad a choice and em

it. Everybody has something. It may even be what they want but they've gAnd when you come to think about it, combination of hope and despair provia pretty good motivation, there's a loenergy there or enough anyway.

September 2First printed Mojo Risin' Issue 19, F

2000, Chi

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ISSN 0197-4777

published 11 times a year since 1979very limited printingby Ten Penny Players, Inc.(a 501c3 not for profit corporation)

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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 21 no 8