Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream vol. 24 no. 2

7/29/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream vol. 24 no. 2

1/30

Feb

2003


2/30

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, February 2003

Gordy compared my working in the librarywhile my heart was really in poetryto a bunch he knew in his home townwho worked in the shipyardbut who all owned little farms.

Albert Huffsticklerfrom CropsWaterways, March 90


3/30

WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 24 Number 2 February, 2003Designed, 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 (ipostage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed enveWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-21272003, Ten Penny Players Inc.http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

Richard Luftig 4-5John Grey 6Ida Fasel 7-10Will Inman 11-12Bill Roberts 13-17

David Michael Nixon 18-21

Geoff Stevens 22Don Winter 23Joanne Seltzer 24R. Yurman 25Joy Hewitt Mann 26-28


4/30

3


5/30

Ghosts Richard Luftig

The old roundhouse is desertedhas been for years, its back

and shoulders crumblingwith age. It can affordnow to sleep late or notrouse at all no oneto call or keep the clock.

If you could find the dead

tracks through the weedsthat lead out to the endof the spur, youd seethe rusted caboose, floor planksloose and littered with beer canscrumpled schedules, the cable spindle

4


6/30

turned bottom-down waitingfor someone to dealthe next hand. Out beyond,

the old warehouse, the doorsall bashed, letting in the windto knife through the rotting hallways,and whistle bravely in the dark.

And the broken windows,their mouths agape

with shame and shocklike church folk caught in the actof sinning, the only ones leftto mourn over jobs and dreamsshattered about in broken shards.

5


7/30

The works unconscious by this.

Then the life is.

Fingers are a running motor,cant stray from the patterneven if they wanted to.

Now no patternhas a loose thread,a frayed edge,not even thosewhose blueprintincludes other people.

You are weaving

what you longto wrap yourself inside.but even before youre doneyou have.

6

After Your Divorce, Weaving the Throw John Grey


8/30

Snow is

starting, idlingin air, gaining inmomentum, filling with no moreeffect

than to

mound. It is notsnowing at all, said Earle,I looked where he looked. The airblossomed

fragrant.

summertime inwinter. The calendarsaid impossible. Yet that dayI stood

In two realities

the snow only naturedoing her part, the apple treeall mine.

7

Perspectives Ida Fasel


9/30

Piano Lesson Ida Fasel

They said she had won an international first prize,

had played with symphony orchestrasin the great capitals of the world,had concertized in Boston and New York.She did not even have her certificatefrom the New England Conservatory of Musicon the wall.

My last lesson before we moved away,my fingers ran the keys of a Liszt passagelike a cart in a downhill spill.She sat, as usual, intensely listening,left hand in her lap, right ready for gentle

8


10/30

correction, head bent to my flip-flopping handswith their clear show of lack of practice.

On the third tryabruptly

her left hand, mute so long, leaped acrossmy shoulder with a force that nearlyknocked me off the bench, and linkedwith the right in a demonstration where even Idetected more than virtuosity, swift and sureas it was something of the magicalinherent in the music, just as a waterfallcascading from pool to pool down a hillside

9


11/30

is more than a spectacular performance of nature.Hands busy at the outer limits of technique,she matched her own internal rhythms

to the brilliant notation.And in that sound, so faultless and full,So radiant and free,I became her huge audience, all applauding.

10


12/30

living alone - will inman

living alone in an unkempt house

sitting down on a loose pile of papers and clothesfallingeverything changes

crawl around on floorunable to stand, injured, soon dehydrated, ruptured spleen, damaged small intfound by an alert friend 911 hospitalmonths slowly recovering

for two weeks not expected to livea second hospital . . . a third . . . a nursing facilityassisted living home . . . cramped two-men roomsfirst roommate cougher off-key singersecond roommate considerate on dialysis thrice a week

11


13/30

beginning to catch up on lost sleepbeginning to feel alive

attending poetry workshop on monday nights

fetched to and fro by membersassisted in shower by one caring friendbut, yet, everything has changed, try to catch up on maila student from 1970s classes sends an electric typewriternow released from parkinsons handscriptcan compose letters and poems(!) on typewriterlife becomes worthy againthe broken dimension begins suturinglots have far greater troubles than i have

14 Marc

12


14/30

Depending on Ambrose Bill Roberts

You can get used to seeing someone

almost everyday, the way I didwith Ambrose the street sweeperwho came by whistlingmost every morning, wielding his twomulti-branched whisk brooms,slowly pushing along his waste barrelon wheels, quietly efficient,cleaning out the gutters as if it werethe most important andmost rewarding job on earth.

13


15/30

Only thirteen, even then I knew thatselling newspapers on a cornerin the early morning when

people sleepily waited for busesand streetcars to transport themdowntown in the Nations Capitalwas just the means to an end:providing me with enough moneyfor lunch and after-school socializing.Dependable Ambrose failed to show upone Monday and the cluttered guttersremained choked with refuseuntil I was nearly ready to start

14


16/30

my long run to get to school.This gigantic groaning truckswung around the corner,

belching a spray of water andnoisily sucking up the refusewith its hungry rotary whisk wheel,its driver up so highI couldnt see his face.Certainly it wasnt Ambrose,who would never have leftthe errant clutter behind thatthe new-age truck driver did.

15


17/30

Fourteenth Street Diane Bill Roberts

Fourteenth Street Diane was the mostfamous whore in Washington, D.C.

from the late thirties to mid-sixties,giving almost thirty years of head andbody to her work, tirelessly on dutythroughout afternoon and evening hours.Id sell her both papers in the morningbefore Id bike off to school, she

often giving me a quarter for herdimes worth of reading pleasure.I knew who she was, so infamouswas she in the neighborhood, andsome mornings wed chat, she askinghow I was doing in sixth, then seventh

16


18/30

grade, me not daring to ask howand what she was up to those days.It was hard to tell her age, but myfellow newsboys figured somewherearound fifty, an antique by our reckoning.I never badmouthed her and lookedforward to seeing her around seveneach weekday morning, pretty earlyfor someone in her trade, some dayssporting a black eye or busted lip,

still able to smile, goad me to keep upthe grades, go to college, get a formaleducation, not the doctorate degreeshed earned on the streets of D.C.

Published in the 7/02/01 issue of Spare

17


19/30

Work Song David Michael Nixon

I felt I had to workand my hands grew silent.

I thought I had to workand my mute feet suffered.

But when my work sprang fromlove, my bones sang and danced.

18


20/30

The Poet as Worker: More Bread! - David Michael Nixon

Some weeks, the poet sells a book,

some weeks, three; no cash comes from tradesand gifts or from magazines which

pay in copies. When the poet

gives a guest reading, part or all

of the donations make a fee.

Of course, the poet applies for

grants, and, in 90, won a small

one. In 93, the poet

won a slam in the Bronx and got

19


21/30

one hundred dollars out of the

till, just in time to not go broke.

Sometimes, a magazine pays the

poet in money; sometimes areading provides a set fee, not

as much as E. Gordon Liddy

gets to talk, but the poet was

never a plumber, which is one

more reason the poet is poor

not, mind you, a poor poet, but

a poet without sufficient

funds. To bring in more bread, there are

20


22/30

many unfun jobs the poet

sometimes does: housecleaner, model,

yardworker, office help. But, of

course, the poet also teaches,which is the kind of fun that breeds

more poets. But thats alright the

poet needs inspiration, is

used to competition, can eat

poems and flowers when food gets scarce.Some weeks, the poet writes a poem.

21


23/30

While I was employed - Geoff Stevens

While I was employed at the library,

poetry was working there too,

but we never bumped into each other

until one evening we met

in a downtown bar.

First appeared in Despera

22


24/30

Since she came to Burger ChefVera is all he thinks about.

She calls backTwo double cheese, hold the onions,and he slides downthat voice onto a sofawhere they sit frenching, blowingin each others ears.She makes changeand he makes it underher sweater, her nipples lilacin the space heaters flames.

You fucked up, or what? boss one night when hes already boo

the radio in his headto 10, Veras throat wild with wyeah baby, oh baby, yeah,her butt wriggling,her skinny legs jitteringlike electric rubber bands.Im fine, he swears,sweeping buns into a dustpanand secretly believinghe and Vera have the whole night ah

23

The Grill Cooks Dream Don Winter


25/30

Cant you do somethingto make yourselfless frumpy?Your flashy matehas chosen you(plain as you are)but when those spotted,pale blue eggscome along

youll be stuck inyour well-made cup of grasswhile he goes offgallivantingwith the boysand youll wonder

why he doesnt showhis bright red streaksor come comfort youwith his clear,musical voice.Paint your eyebrows whitPut rouge on your cheeksLiven up the gray.And dont act so smug

househuntingin early springafter you move outthat structure will haveno resale value.

24

To a Female House Finch Joanne Seltzer


26/30

Iron-Maidens Skullcap R. Yurman

The frames of my glassesweigh on the bridge of my nose

clamp behind my ears my temples throb.

What do I hope to seethat prevents metaking them offand rubbing my eyes?

Late afternoon clouds clear,the sun supports long shadows my self-imposed smalltorture rivets me.

25


27/30

. . . and a kiss Joy Hewitt Mann

Its this paper, this pen, this hand, allthese poems Ill never get to write. Its

the houses on all the streets, one light, oneperson up before the dawn. Its this town, thisstreet, this house taking all this time fromdays that hold words like a sieve.

Theres a contest on the radio, Kiss

the Subaru, keep lips lockedon metal to win a car. Mylips lock on ten years ago, beforeI entered this purgatory of raising words:

26


28/30

time enough for kisseswaiting, waiting, justwaiting for time to catch us,

one step forward, two back,and who cares; the smellof fresh coffee, rising slowand the slow rising, up bynoon on weekends and loll-ing, lolling around all day.

Its this paper, this pen, this hand thatwont move, these words that slip on the soft mushof 5 a.m., but

theres nowhere else to find time to write.27


29/30

Its the kids, the getting them to school; itsthe husband, the making lunch, the missinga kiss goodbye; its the three-year-old, the

morning cartoons, the struggling, struggling intoclothes; its this dry cleaning, this day care, thispick up something for dinner this day, this day, thisbloody workday. Its you forgot this . . . forgot this . . .time, time, time and . . .

words stuck in my mouth.Time is moneyand a kissis a bright redSubaru.

28


30/30

Documents

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream vol. 24 no. 2