Eileen Tabios( St. Helena, California )Joan Payne KincaidA Triangle of Secrets
I. AcceptanceThere is conflict, conflictedness but the drowning is willed – the willingness of eyes stubbornly open before onslaught of thorns You want to know “flowers”? Oh, here is specificity of roseII. “O, There Will Be”Yes, there will be “despair” Shivering will never stop But when a certain bird leaves the pages of a legend you will see amethyst wings crack for non-virtual flightIII. “Swallow Hard”I am conflicted – why would I wish for you my inability to swim? Yes, the corals are lovely and pink and alive and lovely veins floating amidst the purple deep But to “swallow hard” (my Love) engenders aftermaths of gutting( Sea Cliff, New York )Farida MihoubJust Standing Still You Become A Sort Of RiverThat you feel like a different author different days... Today's Gertrude Stein unintentional arrival when it was to be Joyce....and separation echoes hopelessly down the years and decades through every season, these dog days of August... grind slowly until suddenly they are gone leaving only memory to melt in the garden's many little fragments. The brain kicks on and off a stroke....they say eating fish prevents Alzheimer’s but what about pervasive mercury poisoning? 2 dead fledglings in the Osprey nest? No, turns out more babies than ever before! So much for those who think they know... a stake here manure there tomato vine needs a tie Congress fights like spoiled preppies while war drags over the world. in cool woods having fled the house At the chamber music concert you were wishing time would create a repeat loop of non-stop trios, quartets, and quintets, textures, melodies, intellectual interaction between musicians and audience ... Brian Wilson kept asking the audience to sing ba ba ba ba Babrann in Britain they were standing, waving raised arms in devotion to unique and readily identifiable style... two of them dead now living on film you can have for one hundred dollars. Magically sweat appears, just standing still you become a sort of river; walking at the Harbor sun going sooner rather than later and gnats' sense of blood sport... roaring south wind saves a bit, but takes the top off the Maple out front and hurls it to the street where he quickly retrieves it lest the village in their infinite wisdom come chopping down- beautiful lichens all over it....grey green lace...and the insides moist and alive where it was ripped by nature's decision; death is amputation; the wind is unstable but steers the gnats away at last a night of sleep a/c on throughout. Another day of ambivalence; a time when insects flourish as at no other time earth worms are good company and the Turkey Vulture flying overhead just hanging on the wind. fireflies so brief their cold green light glows orange Simultaneously to be writing, gardening, attending animals, shop, study, get more meat for the dog... fed raw to keep him alive, (most of the dogs in the village are air conditioned), trudge through market collections to keep us flowing; This strange white sky tropical Summer.... take a break ...have some Vermont coffee and free cake at the counter; she's invisible...not enough help....people line up at the register but she's in the back-breaking baking bread. The world continues approaching human extinction and you feel like Virginia Woolf's character who carried tomorrow's plans to bed and died; they will be sleeping -over tomorrow in near one hundred degrees, and the animals need constant awareness; could Mrs. Bloom deal with this? Of course she could... There are survivors, and then... the brain has seen too many escapes. No sleep this summer... a/c on and off, trying window open smothering mold spores, pollen...pulling the blanket / kicking it off....another summer with no vacation. Abandonment is shrapnel ...it is scattered pain from which you can journey but few have the where-with-all and the animals need care...and love; the Beach Boys on an old film bring back the best days of summer; here at the pond electric blue damsels joust delicate helicopter thrusts; when the children were a sense of themselves, in love with life; a Pipevine Swallowtail passes revealing its signature blue as it leaves; Anzel Adams on ch 13 who after devoting 20 years to becoming a concert pianist had to conclude music is "punk" competitions, politics, favoritism, phoniness. ( you took your voice there); Steiglitz made him, but he could never make enough... on self-indulgent framed beauty. You say you may go to the next concert, but may be working... plans never possible for one reason or another...the possible remains unconsummated; those who never want to do anything at all...neither work nor play...continue like rocks at the bottom. The turkey vulture is a surprise at the preserve... last night the poor little siamese shut in the crate because droppings were found too many times outside the litter box, and the culprit must be prevented and it seems to be , and that means every night crated....poor thing. merely small islands of sanity prevail in the river's mostly chaotic rapids; (what is happiness anyway.... a carvel sundae is a good reply)! Now in the terrible tropical humidity they are planning to converge here again; the crows are screaming why me ! Yes in the van to the ocean then find beds to grumble in.... well if the little boys have fun it's worth it....what should they know of too little time, too much pressure, exhaustion of coping with the bottomless pit of expectation and desertion.... you get what you pay for juggling families that way transformation is denied ...settle for adaptation; the crows scream credo credo in nomine deo... once upon a time evolution appeared possible. We are born free- thinking evolved souls, where do we go wrong? They scream duality; blissfully alone bend and notate butterflies like a woman in a large hat on a New Yorker cover selling images to the upper class, with non-stop babble of regattas now sailing just below the cliff; on the soft aqua marine waves of Long Island Sound. Queen Anne's Lace six foot high jungle of butterflies this day will end but the river continues... start another list, listen to The Boys sing Surfing Girl fluttering petals on purple flowers Cabbage white butterflies... bird silence locust chatter falling leaves september weed cricket finale summer ends.( Paris, France )William Neumire, Three PoemsLet's Rearrange ItWhenever I step in your house, I feel like asking you 'why not rearrange everything?' The flowers on the wall paper have lost their colours making the horizons blurred. The paint on the ceiling has turned grey just like a sky shut to sunbeams. Replace the carpet with a floor that you can make shine, and take off the dark curtains to let the light inside. That way, before you get in, you'll see me through the window, sitting in the dress you prefer, waiting, ready for you.
( Syracuse, New York )Anticipating WarLying snow-angel-posed in a wheat field, spokes of sun softening the season, I say to myself, remember this like a tent one builds over the body in the rain. I say, place yourself here, warm catatonia, when the wind comes and the sun leaves like a good father gone into the dark trees with a rifle. The heat, the light, the view of no particular century. I say, carry this, if nothing else, as a repeating reel, as a reliquary. I say, the day is coming to an end. There are ways to overcome the end of a day, the erasure. There are ways to live in the burning fields, the splintering walls. I say, stand in one place and circle yourself in rick-rack so the water won’t find you. I say, this is the way you survive. Be here, repeat this, mantra, mantra, mantra. Meditate, there are no real wounds. Breathe, there is no separation of light and dark. I say, this is the afternoon of eternity, of no identifiable grace. I say, this is what you will come to call sanctuary.October Looking BackThere are walks this part of the year when I check the exhausted wells: three that no longer collect water, that never fill except with the brown milk of leaves descending, maple pods, animals that come to enjoy nothing so much as a hole. These marrowless trunks poke into the earth like a finger into a teenage beauty’s sex. Oh, ashen leaves blown back into deep perverse arbors I know, I know the way you spend your broken days seeking imitations of that first, youngest, touch of things.Montezuma RefugeA coyote paws out of the woods, behind him spruce bleed their darkness. His coal eyes assay the moon; geese scatter into shards. No one is allowed here after dusk; telephone poles hem the cattails, a car seethes with engine click and low music. Coleman road emanates its own sense of loss. It’s only by chance I’ve seen him out the rearview, mouthing whines at the moon, its dull-blue suggestions dusting the crop of marsh reeds; only chance that I’ve heard the words which rise in the night like a heat.
I - Simple Equations
II - Sleep Screen With Lavish Proportions
III - Defining Borders
Featured Poet - Rebecca Loudon
Current Issue - Summer 2004