waterways: poetry in the mainstream vol 22 no 1

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Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream



Waterways: Poetry in the MainstreamJanuary 2001

Last night I had an oboe dream—

Maxwell Bodenheim, "Bringing Ja



WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 22 Number 1 January, 2001Designed, 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

©2001, Ten Penny Players Inc.

Joy Hewitt Mann 4

Gertrude Morris 5-7

Joanne Seltzer 8

Lyn Lifshin 9R. Yurman 10

Joan Payne Kincaid 11-12

Ida Fasel 13-14

Bill Roberts 15

Paul Grant 16-18Robert Cooperman 19-20

Gerald Zipper 2

John Grey 2

Terry Thomas

Don WinterAlbert Huffstickler 2



Muriel's Father Played Heavenly Jazz - Joy Hewitt Mann

Muriel's father lies in bed, coughs,smells of feces and phlegm, and longs

for the little nurse who washes himso gently, and never looks.

Muriel's father plays jazz . . . puttee . . .puttee . . . against the side bars, dreamsof Harlem nights filtered with reefer smokeand city voice skat, fingers the metal

like a woman's breast.

Muriel's father waits for the needle that eatsthe pain, and waits, and waits . . .then wanders out on Fifth to play the saxfor sidewalk angels. Best gig he's ever had.

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Sax Man - Gertrude Morris

He died, hugging the sax.He just blew, faded away

like the sounds he used to play —in the tunnel — day after day.

Did his heart go firstor flutter to the last,like the crazy riff of a drummer?

Poor white boy, too young to die,who wanted to be black,to blow like Bird and Trane.Well, maybe he did. For all we knowmaybe he's blowing now.

We never knew his namebut we knew he was saying something

when he blew Freddy Free-loaderand Bloomdido down the long tunnelfrom 6th to 7th Avenue.Even running late,they'd drop a dollar, or two.

His old spot is taken now

by a kid playing bad guitar;out of pity you'd slip him a coin.

But we remember that sax manwho talked the talk, and walked the wsax in hand — to bird land.

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Sleeper Awake - Gertrude Morris

They never tell you, do they children,

that prince and princess do not alwayslive happily ever after. You see,

when Beauty was awakened by Florimond,she gazed at him "with eyes more tenderthan a first sight of him might seem to

excuse: — 'Is it you, my prince?' she said.

'You have been a long while coming!'At first their union was true love's paradigm.

But having been too long "away,"she could no more content herselfwith embroidery, or conjuring potions.

And perfumes from simple herbs, or fEssence of patchouli caravanedFrom India. Restlessly she paced

the formal gardens in purple silk peignwhose liquifactions stirred the cockatimprinted there to fly like living

birds, so real, one could imagine theirharsh cries behind the purlingof the doves. Her own voice, tremulo

from long disuse, now grew stronger.Poor prince, dismayed by such copiaverborum, practiced patience and pray

But when she intruded in the businessof his manorial demesne, he calledfor wicked Uglyane to witch the

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Princess Beauty's winding sheet.Only a shred of pity saved her. When"Ugly" magicked Beauty full awake

instead, the prince was most displeased,but knowing a hellhag's powerheld his peace. Sweet Beauty

held no grudge against Uglyane.In fact, she called her "Annie," and theysoon became fast friends. A new name

and the affection of a friend —

the first she ever had — was balmto a tortured spirit. Made nearly

beautiful by love, yet she would castone last spell — upon the princehimself. Thus he became a peasant,

with no memory of higher estate.Further charity provided hima little land, a horse and plow,

And a squawk of chickens. He washumbly grateful, and, in time,he provided leeks and sorrel

for the castle kitchens, and fodderfor the stables. Beauty, of course,became Mistress of the Realm.

Did he deserve his fate, you ask?

Only Blind Justice knows.Still, even friends may live happy

Ever after. And so children,Most happily, the story ends.

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Morning Song - Joanne Seltzer

Do I hearoriental music?

A birdhas brought me out of sleepbefore the devil could makehis morning round.

But the song I hearis not some wild birdwho doesn't care

if the world wakes up,It is a prisonergone mad,banging her headagainst a window, thinkingshe has found infinity.

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The Mourning Ribbons in Boxes of Jewelry - Lyn Lifshin

crushed in a tangleof pearls and cameos,

the black smelling of

her cologne andold lace huddledin the plum velvet

like old men underan eave in rain,

their night cloth

sleek but crumpled,each wing cut,wounded blackbirds

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I've Begun to Get Used to the Rain - R. Yurman

It's gone on for days nowso many I've lost count

dumping walls of waterover the eastern hills.Even the wind at nightsounds like rain.

I'm no worshipper of sun,My skin doesn't lovewhat the ozone starved airlets in. But I do missthe clear darkthe clean bright starsVenus falling through the western skyToward a visible sea.

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Laughing Island - Joan Payne Kincaid

january's wavesturn harbor into ocean

crashing on the shoresmashing someone's too late boat~carried away by the tide

ice sun strikesthrashing harbor foambeating too fastlight lines coil violentlysplash-battered monotony

the loon have arrivedlaughing up and down in wavesbills pointed sky-ward

they perform ghostly yodelslike cowboys breaking horses

here at Point Lookoutgannets plunge in the foambehind a surfing seala small sandpiper

vies with gulls where waves wash-upa rapid smiling bouquet

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In a Glass Restaurant II - Joan Payne Kincaid

for Lobsters, glasses gleam transparent promise;it was worth the trip to get out to Port

particularly considering the alternativesof too many opaque cubby holes;we sip, laugh, and slide down iced oysters;at a place like this you tune to dreamand walls fall awayalone in a picturesque momentsafe in side this glass womb

cross from the open-maw ferrypossessing cars like ants in clenched jaws;cloud images alternate violent spray and light;vicariously separate from white-capped ocean. . . we are smiling reflections.

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Rhapsody in Blue: Opening NightIda Fasel

(New York City, February 12, 1924)

Busyelsewhere, he roused,reminded five weeks left.first the trunk, no — double trunk,classy

modernand classicalrhythmically combined.Where branches lacked, he improvised,Whiteman

watchfulfor the cue tobring the orchestra in —

inspired spontaneityat need.

A worldin the makinguniquely enthrallingthe listener with its brainy,lyric,

brash jazz,musicianshipsolid, the love affairsecure from the clarinet's longsweet wail

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to theblast of trombones,the tender violins.

Anxieties are mulled over,duly

dismissed.Tempo and phrasechange from ebullienceto meditative calm, statelycadence

of closeconversationwith his keyboard. But allhis words seem to be gladly meantfor us.

Epilogue

Death boughthis teeming brainearly with a teardroppearl, but for the diamondswas outbid.

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I'm dreaming someone else's dreamsBill Roberts

not mine any more.

They're vivid, full of action,chase scenes, victory over thebad guys (and sometimes gals),then lots long kisses, passionate groping,heated desire, even sex —then the alarm clock goes off.I haven't seen his face,this guy I'm standing in for,but he's glamorous, trim, muscular,no doubt movie-star handsome.I try to get to bed early,get back into his dreams,fulfill my desire for more action,more wet kisses, more sex.

My wife asks why I groan so much

in my sleep, toss and turn.,have such dark circles under my eyes,and always seem to feel so tired.I hardly ever lie to her.I tell her I'm cross-wiredwith this Hollywood type guywho's taken over my dreams,doing all sorts of exciting things.She says maybe I need therapy.I agree, telling her I'm getting allthe therapy I need in this guy's dream

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Touch - Paul Grant

It's been a while. The dark of woodsagainst the darker night

is no less comforting than ever, and nomore threatening. The wind's all over the hill, jittering among the crowns of treesas if they were tables in an after-hoursand it obliged to weave among themin time to some sky-high, low-down musicto prove it can hold its humidity(which, of course, it only sometimes can).

The strips of wielded metal thatdefine my chair are blind-embossingparallel depressions on my assand there's no sign of the scarred box-turtleI rescued last night from my cinder-block

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footstool (Does it even count as rescueif the one rescued is carryinghis coffin around with himand living in it? Probably not.).

Anyway, it's been a while, and if I don'tgo looking, there may nevercome another. This the windinsists while sweeping the smoke awayand trying to interest me inanother of its casual caresses.Pay attention, it whistle-whispers,this could easily be the last you'll gettill that sweet old whore the earthwraps you in her nasty, loving arms.

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St. Dymphna's Hill - Paul Grant

The afternoon belongs to violetsAnd the others lying low and looking nifty —

snowdrop, dandelion, wild strawberry.A layer of sunshine has crept just in timeup from the river to insinuateitself beneath a mumble of apoplecticclouds rolled over the strip-mined-then-deserted West Virginia hills.

And as he contemplates the templatesused to draft his life, and spasmsvellicate this bit and thatof the muscular past's necrotic musicwith hands grown callused tryingto dispense with even those bits,

he just knows — again, again (the omerepetition refuses to be underestimat

red-tails will rise on unseen thermalsout of the valley of the shadow,to help the violets and their kin —high-centered in the driveway's curvepreserve him from the Big Fugue'srelentlessly insane seductions.

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Cheese Dreams - Robert Cooperman

"The royal family prefers not to eat cheese in the evening. They find it gives them unpredictadreams." —Prince Charles, quoted in The Times of London

Perhaps Princess Anne dreamsof being ridden by donkeys,their small, sharp hoovesdigging into her sides.She wakes, the scent of cheesea suffocating mist.

Prince Andrew dreams himself

A prisoner on the Malvinas,chained to a dungeon wall,the stench of Stiltonfilling his nostrilslike seeping sewer gas.

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The Queen does sneakan occasional wedge of Brie,her elder son and heirwarning her about the dreams

that will swarm like the beeshe'd laugh, to watch — as a boy —attacking the gardeners.

"Besides Mater," he gulpsnow, "one doesn't wishto put it tactlessly,but you cut the nightlike a foghorn."His mother scowls,"Your Bowles woman'sloud enough to wakethe dead in Westminster."

Charles fumes, reachesfor the cheddar in revenge,and to hell with his dreamsthat trumpet like elephants.

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A Cup of Coffee and a Slice of That Pie - Gerald Zipper

Rode the patchwork cornfieldsthe highway a string tied to the rim of horizon

the corn standing in military ranks of stiff-necked stalkstheir silky hair waving cowlicks"GOOD FOOD — STOP HERE!"chrome diner was an alien landed in this patch of fieldsHERTZ car smelling of chemical freshnesswhere are the birds?silence holding its breath inside Diner's formica worldwaitress with pleated handkerchief pinned to her breasthenna hair topping her defoliated eyes"What'll you have, dear, pie's fresh?"a cup of coffee and a slice of that pie"Where you heading?"Peoria Bloomington Terre Haute"Doing 'em all, are you?"

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Evansville Louisville Lexingtondoing all the wall-eyed tired retailers"I got a son in New YorkI'll get there someday

see those Broadway shows big stars and all"I rest my head there nights I'm not on the roada tired egg nestingwaiting for my next cluster of cities my next cornfieldnext chemically refreshed car next tired retailernext slice of that fresh apple pie.

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The Snake Killer - John Grey

It's as if he camefrom many miles away

to do this thing,to crack the backof a long black snakesunning on the road.

We both saw it atthe same momentand I wished it slither awayto safetyand he begged under his breathfor it to stay there,a long, thin unknowing target.

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He couldn't have comefrom the place weboth had come from,where a woman made

many a sign of the crosswith shirts on a lineand young girlsplayed hopscotchon the drive-waywhile dogs danced crazily underfoot.

He must have comefrom over that dark mountain,a booming wordfrom his God in his ear,a thunderous instructionto gun the engine,press hard down on the accelerator,slay the beast.

He must have gonethe minute we were beyondthat writhing death scenefor there was another

in the car beside me then,pointing out the cattlenibbling the low hill grass,fiddling with the radiofor that perfect country station.

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Inscription - Terry Thomas

Is it normal to dream music?Heard a bugle last night/

early this morning. Was ina field sprouting stones,like giant's teeth. Beneath,the ground gummed, hummingto the lonely notes.I couldn't move —like a goat staked, baitfor the hidden tiger.Woke with a wet face.

Yesterday Sgt. Swank calledfor my son. An Army re-

booter. Made it throughthe congy jungle myself,never met a large cat,but Swank's voice purredand rumbled; I could feelme, son, tumble intoa gaping mouth.

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Silent in America - Don Winter

If you were fifty-fiveand your speech had been crushed

by factories and divorceto a single vowel, you might drift,as he did, transient as a dream,beneath the random letteringof a broken marquee, beyondall bittersweet efforts to connect,to make sense, to endure.You might stumble at duskto the Shelter Workshop,listen to a revivalistswollen like a tent, in tradefor a few hours of coldcomfort. It’s taken years to forgetwhat's missing in your life:

the woman who bore youeight children, the beater Dodge,

the engines hung from the rafterlike hams. Here, a pale blobof cold light gasps

you awake. The heat takes careof itself. You mechanically eata doughnut, drink a cup of coffee.The door closes, finalas a slap. You wander neighborhoods wrin sleep, past dogs barkingwho are you and cars and the earof a basketball hoop that listensfor its one song.What can anyone do for you now?

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Notes of an Alien- Albert Huffstickler

I honestly believe I thought in myderanged and benighted conditionthat when you told people that

you were a writer, word went outand less was expected of youso that when you went on a joband wandered around half lostand not ever figuring out whatwas going on, nobody would geton your case. Somebody would

nod in your direction and say,"Well, he's a writer," and theothers would nod and after thatthey'd leave you alone to wanderin that alien space where artwas created — in the firm faiththat this was justified, or

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would be, by the product createdat a later date. And in themeantime, well everybody elsewould have to do more because,after all, you couldn't justfire a writer, could you? Thegreat awakening came, of course,after I was fired a few times.I really was supposed to focusand do something, no matterhow hard it was, no matter howunfair it seemed. And it was

hard. How could anybody expect you to go on doing the sameold thing over and over foreight hours a day five days aweek. It was preposterous.Especially since most of what

you were doing was dull, dull,

dull. I understood just whatthey meant when they said ofJesus, "He was not of this world."But here I was, stranded in time,certain I was in the wrong placebut unable to leave. Now, many

years and miles away, I stillfeel the shock that came withthe realization that I was reallyexpected to work. And you wantto know a secret? Fifty yearslater, I'm still convinced that

I'm on the wrong planet, stillscanning the skies for that UFOthat dropped me here when itpicked up all those earth people.

— December 1, 1997 —First published CerbeNovember 2000, Arc

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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 22 no 1

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