Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream volume 24 no. 4

7/28/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream volume 24 no. 4

1/26

2003


2/26

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, April, 2003Volume 24, No. 4

Maybe there are just too many acts of lovethat arent acts of friendship.

from What Friends Are For

Albert HuffsticklerWaterways Nov. 91


3/26

WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 24 Number 4 April, 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 -- $33 for 11 issues. Sample issues $(includes postage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addreenvelope. Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-21272004, Ten Penny Players Inc. (This magazine is published 3/04)http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

Felicia Mitchell 4Herman Slotkin 5Geoff Stevens 6M.A.Schaffner 7-9David Jordan 10-13

Bill Roberts 14-17Robert Cooperman 18Ida Fasel 19R. Yurman 20-22Joy Hewitt Mann 23


4/26


5/26

It still had sugar in it,

her old porcelain dish with lilies of the valleyand forget-me-nots painted on the side a mirage of summer on a field of white.The sugar lay in creases,crystallized like age in mine,and the dish was just a dollar.I had to buy it.

First things first.

I did not wash the sugar bowl.I lit a candle that smelled like lilies of theand burned it till the sugar meltedand the sides of the bowl glowedlike younger, rosier cheeks.Forget me not, I whispered for her,my voice as fragile as the dish.

4

Sugar Bowl Felicia Mitchell


6/26

Reflections On That Laugh - Herman Slotkin

That laugh-was it a peal of pure pleasureor was there a wink of mischief,a sniff of mockery,a hint of malice?I detected a hard edge,a hand ax masquerading as rubble.

Was malice hermeaning?

Or is it mine?

5


7/26

What Friends Are For Geoff Stevens

Everybody needs to know someone wellwho they can blame if things go wrong,it eases the situation a lotbut doesnt work so well with strangers.

6


8/26

Capital in Wartime M. A. Schaffner

Whats fair is there, beneath the blue-green waters bothin love and war, prolific with vapid musings

from all who have gone before, the pale beams dancingto her arpeggios. It is and it isnt a timeto try mens souls for comfort and flexibility;it is the hour jets grow small and intensely mean,as if wrongly awakened, summoned to the job,and looked to for an impossible vengeance.

It is also the hour we call out the national scar,the wan testimony of attractive victims setagainst a too-familiar backdrop of dust, straw huts,and bloated infants bellies, and tell ourselves that wealso hurt, and not just in the alleys, but herean the scenic river walk, in matching coats and hands.

7


9/26

Letter to the Imperial Chancellery M. A. Schaffner

The people beyond the pale lake subsiston a diet of meat and cheese, auto

dealerships, and garagefuls of spare parts.Their noses rust in temperate weather,but cold makes them strong, if a bit morose.Being a practical tribe, they do not tryto understand their gods, but worship themin quiet rituals most often performed

within the manufacturing sector.They are devoted to their families,and are sometimes good for bail. Young womenfrequently marry their babies fathersonce they find work. Often brutal to friends,they are craven and vicious to strangers

8


10/26

not their guests. Indeed, these they feed to excess,and listen to beyond the bounds of reason.In battle they seldom flee but are knownto disappear into the earth, the bogs

later resounding with drunken cries and shotsfired at random. Under strict questioningthey have nothing to say, but with four beersthey will recount their entire historyand add opinions on current events.In light of all the above, the current

Policy of neglect is strongly endorsed.I will write to you next from Sheboygan.

9


11/26

A Lamp Like Love David Jordan

On my desk sits a lamp, a brass basewith

a gray shade. It is a lamp like love.

This lamp gives off light, like love.This lamp

gives off heat, like love.

Like love, this lamp comfortsthe frightened,

the ones who hide from night.

Lit, this lamp gleams like love new and warm.Dark,

this lamp casts a shadow like love old and cold.

10


12/26

You could club a man with this lamp. You couldbeat him to his knees.

You could us this lamp as a weapon, like love.

It is a strange and dangerousthing,

this lamp. This love.

11


13/26

Chub David Jordan

She was a plump girlbut she didnt realize it,

she was too busy ridingbikes and swimmingand playing dolls withDonna down the block, untilthe day her dad came homeearly from work and foundher eating Cocoa Krispieson the floor in frontof television cartoons.Penny, he said, youre fat.

He put her on a diet.

She was nine years old.Lots of fruit, lots of salad,bits of chicken and fish.No candy, no ice cream.

No sharing Cocoa Krispieswith Roger Ramjet.At eight a.m. each Sundayshe would present herselfat his bathroom scalesfor weighing. She would losea pound a week. If she gainedweight, he would lose an hourof daily televisionfor each sixteen ounces.

The first week, she lost

12


14/26

two pounds. Dad gave hera grin and a quarter.See? he said. You cando it. The second week,

she regained a pound.Dad gave her a frownAnd a one-hour fine.The third week, sheregained another pound.Dad gave her a frown,A five-minute lectureon self-disciplineand a two-hour fine.

The fourth week,she climbed on her bike

at seven-thirty Sunday morningand fled to Donnas house.Dad tracked her down,marched her home,

prodded her onto the scales.Her weight had climbedanother two pounds.You know, said Dad,when I was a boythey called me Chub.I just dont want youTo go through that.She began to cry.

At forty-three,she cries still.

13


15/26

The Three-Legged Dog LadyBill Roberts

The three-legged dog lady

has a severe limp whenshe walks her threethree-legged dogseach a different breedand obviously not so wellbred, plus theyredifferent sizes, yeteven the smallest onehas to slow down forthe three-legged dog ladywho takes them lovinglyto the park rain, snow

or sunshiny dayearning my deepestrespect, not just becauseshes a doggy personbut shes a true friendto animals few otherswould have chosen, possiblybecause she herself hasthat gimp leg whichshe valiantly shows

the world isnt a handicapat all but just anotherof lifes challenges thatmay slow her and herthree three-legged dogsbut damn if itll stop them.

14


16/26

Fast Learner Bill Roberts

We guys, you understand, are motivated differently,Even mechanized with different equipment

That propels us into the faster lanes of life.How well I remember that first pair of high-top

Tennis shoes the rage in my day made ofBlack canvas miraculously bonded to real rubber soles.How swift I was running to school, switchingDirections on the macadam basketball court.

And my premeditated date with Joyce, also reputedTo be fast, though not racing to class or on macadam,That was one of the fastest takeoffs of my life.But Joyce taught me to slow down: with our first kiss

15


17/26

In a darkened movie house, I forced my anxiousTongue into her mouth; she was chewing popcornAnd kept chewing. My tongue took several weeks

To recover as I walked to school, digesting the lesson.

16


18/26

My mother was fascinated to learnI could sign her tidy little name

as well as she could, even betterI crossed all the Ts, dotted every I.It really was quite amazing.

So fascinated was she that rather thanpunish me for the notes Id writtento my teacher for her, she asked meto sign numerous checks shed made outbut hadnt yet bothered to sign.

When they all bounced, she tearfullytold the cops, who showed up

at our door several weeks later, thatthe signature on the checks wasnt heshe never dotted her Is, crossed her

The befuddled cops finally leftMy mother stared at me, long and harI learned my lesson: never again did Icross Ts, dot Is or forge signaturesexcept when ab-so-lute-ly necessary.

17

Crossing Ts, Dotting Is - Bill Roberts


19/26

More Entertaining Robert Cooperman

When your grandfather died,the neighborhood saloons emptied

in his honor, patrons fillingthe church with sweet whiskey tears.The obituary read, Matey Cochran,retired law enforcement officer.

Should be, Professional waster, your father snorted, alwaysthe one who hauled him home,collapsed in a bar.

Dont leave, hed beg your father.Id get the heebie-jeebies alone,and would switch on the radioto Big Joes Happiness Exchange,

women calling in their sorrows,listeners sending donations,Matey pledging huge ones,though when the bills arrived,

he cackled, What kind ofgreenhorn do they take me for?

One night, when noneof the local gin mills calledfor Matey to be collected,

your father drove to his house.

Jesus, a woman muttered,the old coot died in the saddle.Your father called your mother,then switched on the radio,women phoning in tragediesterrible and entertaining.

18


20/26

The murmuring pines and the hemlockswill always be Longfellows.and the boy-swinging birches, Frosts.And these seven spruce treesso highI have to pull my rib cage upand tug on my headto get it hard back

into the nape of my neckfor the angle of my eyesto reach the top

belong to meankle-deep in needles and conestossed from their Gothic spires,back yard litter,

the nobody at this address.

19

The Immortal Is Always As It Was Ida Fasel


21/26

Sun City, AZ R. Yurman(for Galway Kinnell & Robert Cooperman)

tiny figure skin without color

slumped to the sideslipping lower and lowerin the wheelchair shes tied toI dont recognize herin this line-up of ancients

then I doI cant lift her weightfrom this crumpling heapand look for someoneto help set her straightthe p.t. arrives

You have to sit up, dear.Cant, the bundle mutters.Of course you can. Just try.

the p.t. hefts her to sharp uprightOw, my mother cries,Im gonna fall, Im gonna fall.

No youre not, youre in the chair.I want to lie down, take me back.Maybe you should, I break in.Im gonna fall. Im gonna fall.Without a word the p.t.wheels her down the hall

at the bedside gives the chair a quick

20


22/26

sets the brake.Im going to need your help now, Rose.Push down against the arms for me, dear.Cant no strength.

Yes you can. Come on, Ive got you.

Oo-Oo-Oo, my mother cries,ankles turned like a poor skaters.Youre hurting, youre hurting,the stroke flattened arm hangs downthe p.t. gruntsgives a wicked tug.

My mothers breath rushes outher back settles on the bedthe p.t. grabs her legs

swings them into place.Youll crack my ribs,her sharpest cry.

A final shift and the pillowssurround whats left of her hairYoure all right, dear,the p.t. chatters onplumps the pillows raises the side railand is gone.

At rest sheet pulled to her chinhint of color returnedto her transparent cheeksshe is my mother againalive enough to shape the bed

21


23/26

I want you to help me die, she says.None of the others willbut I knew youd understand.

when have we ever understoodeach other I want to reply

Get me a gun, she says.A gun? What would you do with a gun,

you cant even lift a spoon?I thought shed laugh with me thenmy Rosie still.

I reach for her good handbut she wraps it around the bedrailso I cant take it

turns her head awayand leaves me.

first appeared ina chapbook by R.

March Street Pres

22


24/26

Crab grass and the palm of the hand Joy Hewitt Mann

Crab grass and the palm of the hand:something

my father taught me while Iwas contemplating the blue of his eyestryingto get the whistling right.

Love makes us more deaf than blind.I misheard your indecision as

thoughtfulnessyour arrogance as maturity.

You guide my lips along the bladeremove the bloodwith a kiss.

23


25/26

24


26/26

Documents

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream volume 24 no. 4