Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream volume 25 number 2

8/13/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream volume 25 number 2

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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, Volume 25, #2

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and cleNot an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar th

the rest.

Walt Whitman


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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 25 Number 2 *February, 2004Designed, 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 $3.50 (includes postage).

Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelopeWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

2004, Ten Penny Players Inc. *(This magazine is published 11/04)

http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

Ida Fasel 4-5Simon Perchik 6-7John Grey 8-9Patricia Wellingham-Jones 10-11Jeanne M. Whalen 12-14Geoff Stevens 15

Joanne Seltzer 16Richard Kostelanetz 17Bill Roberts 18-20David Michael Nixon 21-22Robert Cooperman 23-28


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More Then Meets the Eye Ida Fasel

As God preparedthe world for the world quelling the oceans,giving gilly atoms the notionto leave for land,seeding violet, bluet, veronica, daisyto flourish where they feel,

there was much to ponder and create the function of trees, favorable air and much to test and eliminate:the mammoth mammoth,the poisonous gases,the almost-man.

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Time toted up stars, galaxies, fern imprints on stone.On the sixth day, he had to get

the clumsy bird off ground,to size the animals to a fitting place.When he finally got man to standupright, did he anticipatehow late it was?

For first man lifting himself

to his feeta special wonder fireflies 9 layers deepin fields of midnight blue.Nobody had it better.

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Simon Perchik

All night the sun wider and wider.

Until I heard my namenothing lives, like in that lakewhere before the sword risesyou hear its name

from your warm neck its kissgrowing larger.I hardly recognize the lightor my name breathingalready begins to count

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until I hear my nameyour voice had no armsno eyes I feed on a voice

that follows from the wombcalling as each mother callsa word differentsurrounded by all others

these walls and your shadowroll in my mouthwithout the swallowing only a whisperand Earth pulling itself outheard its name.

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Second Honeymoon John Grey

I wake you, to remind you that were older.I think that frees you, knowing yourenearer death than yesterday. It excusesthe weaknesses in me. It cures some oldsicknesses. Were no longer compelledby anything. We can lie back here,on fancy hotel sheets, do nothing morethan wait.

We walk along the beach. As soon as weleave some place, the waves wipe ourpresence clean. All around us,terns pop tiny crabs like pills.Pelicans devour cheek-loads of fish.

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We feel like what comes for theterns and pelicans, what comes for us.

Were not tired any more. Sure, we cant

do what we used to but we can do this,whatever it happens to be. Forty yearsof great drama, so why not anothertwenty taking our bows.

I buy you an ice-cream, and you suck itdown slowly like its your last.You kiss me on the cheek so I can feelthe change in your lips.The places we go to are alreadywhat they will be likewhen were not here.

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Colonoscopy Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Camera mile deep

inside my body, I lieon my left side,eyes on the screen.Boosted by Versedand Demerol I slidealong slick pink walls.

With the camera I swingaround a deep bend,swirl in tiny swoops of the lens,

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ride joyously among lusciousrosy cavern walls.I want to reach out,

trail my fingers alongthe glistening convolutions,hear myself giggleat a dizzying dip.

Later, when the surgeons

smiling voice proclaimseverythings normalI think in my drifting waythis colon hasnt been so cleansince I was a four-month fetus.

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Shrapnel and Brandy Jeanne M. Whalen

After a while I forgot to feelthe chill of the brandy bottleagainst my thigh.

Every evening. 7:45.Big Ben stirs me from my roundsand the brandy bottle disappearsfrom a downstairs cabinet,

mocking the ether.It slips easily beneath my skirtsas I smile along shadowy hallwayspast teeming rooms of beds and men.

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My Irish soldier is proudof the six-inch cavern in his legthat once housed angry metal

and now gapes arrogantlyin spite of all weve done.

He waits with radiance.Even in the doorway I catch my breath,my heart spicing my speeding blood.

He hides his pain wellfrom his curtained roommatesand a glaring room,bare walls, white sheetsblushing from his weeping wound,

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his dark hair never wearyof standing on end.

I hold his sturdy hand

as he puts the bottle to his lips,gratitude spillingfrom his Irish eyes:

When I go to America, Love,youll be all the beauty I ever need

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Geoff Stevens

Oh for our shared inches

before filthy metrificationraised its ugly baselineits ruffian revolutionariesstormed the Imperial measurementsof England

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Public Places Joanne Seltzer

I wet the chair.Im 15 or 50 or almost 90

in this nursing home/hotelwhere I didnt quite make itto the toiletbut my bladders still fullwith a question

the chair, what will I dowith the chair?Everyones laughingpretending not to noticethat puddleshaped like a lake of tears. First published in Barbeque P

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Richard Kostelanetz

LuMineScent

PeeRedActOr

InItIAte

ImpLore

MassAge

InHaBitAnts

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For the Sake of My Voice Bill Roberts

Back before I understood what gonads

were for, I was blessed with a lovely soprano.

I sang each Sunday in the all-boys choirat wonderfully resonant St. Pauls.

Often I sang solos, the voice of an angel,rising , floating to the top of the cathedral.

Most older boys in the choir envied me,their voices having cracked in puberty.

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I asked Choirmaster after rehearsalone afternoon if my beautiful voice

also would creak and crumble one sad day,like those of my envious friends in choir.

He said, Oh, assuredly it will, when naturetook its devious course it undoubtedly would,

unless, unless . . . and he whispered some wordsin my ear that I failed to understand,

so I asked that he repeat those same wordsa second and third time so Id recall.

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At home I whispered in my fathers earThat I wanted to buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz,

and he whacked me a good one to the chops,causing, as Ive accused him so often,

my beautiful soprano voice to crack,although avoiding the risk of a delicate surgery.

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The Grey Hands David Michael Nixon

You remember the grey handson the edge of morning,

how they slowly grew lightin the March airas they scattered pollento greet the dawn.

In your mind, there is beauty

all around themand they move in harmonywith beauty;the truth of the grey handsis with you

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and you are longing to join them,to walk in beautyin your own place

far from the colored canyonsand sacred mountains.

There is beauty in cat, crow and fountain,in snow and in grass under the snow,in dandelion and gargoyle,natures beauty and the sometimes beautyhumans have layered over itin their dreadful haste to reshape the world.

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The Coldest Place Robert Cooperman

As we hike this stifling summer trail,

we argue about the coldest inhabited spotin the country: half wishful thinking humidity as heavy as a stew pot lid half the desire to find something specialin the places weve lived and loved.

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Mount Washington, New Hampshire,

Barry insists, smashed by winds,he brags like a weathermanin the middle of an apocalyptic blizzard,in excess of two hundred miles an hour.We pause and pant like houndsrun in circles by a fox.

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Gunnison, Colorado, I assert,

cold air always sinkingto the icy foot of a valley,so the most frigid temperatureson record, year in, year out.

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Back and forth we go, facts giving way

to mad claims in our fevered enthusiasm,sweats miniature thunderstormstornadoed up by our too-busy mouthsand the endless, soggy uphill trail.

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But I get my legs back

by recalling my first Gunnison winter:my ice-spiky mustache and beard,air so cold my head achedas if a frost demon had tapped mewith one mischievous finger.

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What I wouldnt give

for that playful touch right now.

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Documents

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream volume 25 number 2