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Opening
Words from your scribe
A
Review or two
Poetry
from around the world
A
few closing thoughts
If
you can read this, it means that you have power, your computer is working
and all those Y2K disaster books can be bought in the cheap bin for $0.99.
Depending on your point
of view, this is the first month of the new millenium or the first month
of the last year of the old millenium. The hype is over, the confetti
has been scattered, the champagne has been drunk and all the resolutions
have been broken.
The year 2000, we made
it. This is the future. My question, where are the flying cars,
the nuclear power that was to be abundant and cheap and the colonies on
the moon. In fact, wasn't rocket travel supposed to be common place
by now? I guess the future isn't anything more then the present with
a few gadgets. Where they were right is the whole computer thing- can you
imagine we're all sitting down at our computers reading stuff that was
written on another computer from a different country. Maybe even
a different continent. We're talking and trading ideas- that's the
future my friend, and we're still revolutionaires in it. So what if the
revolution is not televised, we can put up on web sites, we can still write
and read poetry.
What's in this month?
Poetry from around the world, a 'site of the month', a review, and more
of my words.
A Review or
two
This
month's book is from the Australian writer, Murray Bail. His novel,
"Eucalyptus" was the winner of the Commonwealth Writers' Prize for Best
Book. The novel is centred around the life of a man named Holland.
His is an interesting fellow, who buys land in the outback and proceeds
to grow Eucalyptus trees throughout the property. It's his desire
to grow a tree from each of the various species. With trees from the various
climates, this is no mean feat.
He also has a daughter.
The majority if the story deals with a plan he has for his daughter.
He becomes aware that she is quite beautiful and attracting a number of
suitors. He devises a contest; the one who will marry his daughter
must name each and every tree on his estate. Many come from the surrounding
area, but they all fail. Word spreads of this odd contest and prospective
suitors from all over come and attempt the challenge. They too meet
with failure.
Then a man arrives
to take the challenge. He begins to name the trees. Day after
day he goes out with Holland and names the trees. As they walk, the
stranger begins to relate stories to the Holland and later to the daughter.
The daughter at first fears this stranger may succeed, but as they walk
together, she falls in love. At the end, he succeeds and can claim
the daughter.
Certainly this book
is one part botany lesson, one part interesting story. You will learn
a great deal about the various species of eucalyptus and read a well composed
story. This is a book worthy of the accolades. Read it
to expand your reading beyond the shores of north america.
As I have mentioned in the past, the quality and quantity of submissions continues to impress me. Each month brings old friends and new contributors to my mail box. If you've wondered about contributing to the zine, please do. All I ask is that you read the guidelines in the main page. If your work has themes and styles that are alternative or adult, you can send it to my other ezine Avant Garde Times. Enough of me, let's get reading:
J.
Kevin Wolfe, Jan
Houston,
Theresa
Hanson , Les
Wicks , Dragos
,Sheila
Barrera
I still hear his footsteps
They scuff slowly behind
me in uncomfortable shoes
His criticisms were so
matter of fact
as if they were never
mentioned
but sharp praise always
tasted of pride
Money couldn't understand
him
Just his presence made
life an overwilling marionette
For me, my father never
pulled strings
Strings were last resorts
His talk danced a circle
and a smile would cameo
at the right place
All would be done
He knew I'd have to learn
to pull strings for
myself
I thank him for that
Now I'm cursed to wonder:
is he pulling a few
for me now?
The talk has stopped
but I hear the shoes
van Gogh Says
van Gogh says to God
"I do not like
your gawky use of trees
in your landscapes so
I made my own.
You make the starry night
breathe
but do not show the
dynamics except
for in creeping shadows
of leaves.
You pottered a flawless
conch shell
a billion years ago
but
what were you doing during post impressionism?"
I write and talk too much. I write and sidekick
for the nationally
syndicated Weekly Rear View Radio Show. I co-host
the regionally
syndicated "Everybody's Cooking" on public radio.
My fourth cookbook
is in the works. I just completed editing and
retranslating (with the
author) the war diary of a 12-year-old Bosnian poet
(published in two
languages in Europe and being typeset for US publication.)
When I grow
up wanna to be a poet; a journalist for the soul.
Gorgeous
!
stunning Autumn
suns the afternoon
in splendor
sweeping her hem
o're summer's
castoff cloak
dried and drifted
golden-flecked
in spent brown
showers
to mound the forest
floor
She bows her final
encore
to grand guardians
towering ablaze
in regal
clinging
reds and oranges
steadfast upright
nobles
standing watch
until relentless
Winter wind arrives
to strip them
stoic
until Spring
~ 28 November 1999 ~
Copyright©1999 Jan Houston
All Rights Reserved
Who will be a mirror for me?
Is it those I oppose?
or
will it be
all I see?
Some
reflect brillance
Some
reflect annoyance
Who am I?
Who do you see?
Will you be a mirror for me?
Walk out now
See me prowl
No thicket
No underbrush
No burrow
suffices need
the hunter scours
all senses acute
No vision
No restraint
No prey
suffices need.
A tennis racquet is useful
as a fake guitar, you strum your favourite tune
(use a cricket bat if bass required).
Netball hoops are fine to use
as halo props when taken down
& held above the holy.
The only time I met Bob Hawke
we talked sport.
Whenever I met Liberal politicians
we talked art.
I worked with John Newman
on the issue of cigarette adds.
He was a karate champion
who chose cremation.
Olympics are a good time in
& of themselves
the hookers the money the power.
Soccer is a much more
aerobic exercise than war
though the excessively straight white lines
resemble trenches &
with the crowd
distances between the two is lessened.
There's the odd brolga dance of the swimmer -
head cocked to shake water from the ear -
one foot hopping from the sea urchin spike.
& sport is still men leaping
not bad
or silly (unless you see it so).
It entertains & placates.
Gives us a plate for our struggle
without leaving the couch.
Because we are ALL sport -
sweat & beaten friends/
shaking hands with clenched teeth
then a desperate lunge towards after match drinks.
Note: John Newman - murdered Labor MP.
SHOAL
Like bluebottles
the colourful disemployed are
washed up on the sand,
lethal & lazy beneath
waves falling like a baby's pat.
I have a contract with the day
& must walk.
The volcano drools dolmens,
caring little for struggles of the flesh.
One day I passed a woman, said she was washing
but the bucket she carried was cloudy
with her own curdled milk.
The magic wins in the pests' nests
& the starling chicks have no manners.
Most paths are the same but
leave one for a week then there's
an overhead spray of arachnid monstrosity black stars.
Freed from people, spiders spin a loose extravagance
over all open space.
By the creek
a sweep of mosquitoes - like junkies (marriage
of syringe with vein) they're
flying forays through flailing hands
with a welcome humanity rarely receives elsewhere.
"Come back come back".
One day I am walking by a woman with a basket full of phlegm.
She stoops to harvest. We're all on different trips.
The disemployed are hanging beach towels on verandahs
like medieval banners, the business
& indolence of festival.
By night I am behind a tree,
splashed light by passing cars....
astonished "ahs" at each immoderate shadow.
I am walking on the roof in dainty steps/
the ghost on an old TV/
falling branches during storms.
Then remember how it was
to make love in the seed of morning -
mouths angry nests of ants, the limbs like topography - only
joined from the widest of angles.
Which comes first, the bum or the poet? I've
been making notes by the same headland,
a fire in a balloon, wearing
stone to instability.
Spy & spectacle are co-conspirators.
Time only exists through our eyes.
In addition he has publicly performed widely in venues
ranging from festivals to prison
to Parliament House. He edits Artransit (bus poetry)
programme in Sydney &
Newcastle.
MONTREAL:
"...My friends around
the world you can,
Observe these things,
but even then,
No matter how your eyes
are open for:
To know, you have to
feel before.
Respectfully creating
words to see,
Either the essence,
or the tree,
Alternative as you have
been,
Let out the darkness,
come and WIN!..."
Dragos writes:"I'm a Romanian aspiring to a Canadian visa (very soon I hope). Please let me offer to you one of my poems, written for my future home,
I sit here counting all
I've got
feeling a bit too short-changed
only enough small bills
to last
just a few days, that
is... if
I don't pay my health
insurance
it's due the first,
of all days
What would health insurance
be
if it all does go down,
really?
I sit here counting all
I've got
it's not really a lot,
but then
it would keep me warm
and safe
maybe the garden could
even feed us
afterall, we planted
peppers, tomatoes...
Oh my God! What would
I do without coffee!
Then again, the simplest
life, devoid
would I need coffee,
really?
I sit here counting all
I've got
so many lives placed
in my hands
wondering if I'll be
able to help
the little ones, the
old, the frail
wondering if my own
health will fail
or if I'll keep this,
my inner strength
Then again, it would
be so hard to see
all this, no more
to be... really.
May the New Millennium
bring you prosperity
Joy and peace to you
and yours, always.
© S. Barrera '99
AQUA CLARA MOTEL ~ http://aquaclaramotel.hypermart.net/
Your Hosts, Sheila & Enrique (Henry) Barrera
Gulf Coast Waterway/ Tampa Bay Area, Florida, U.S.A.
I know I've written
about various mp3's I've found on the 'net. Forget the commercial
radio stuff- I'm beginning to enjoy the indie stuff. Here's one band
B'ehl
. By the time this ezine is out, their new cd will be available.
If you're interested write me and I'll give you the details.
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this poetry site contains inspirational
poetry from Bill MacFeat. The opening page features a very nice looking
black cat. Pay a visit and enjoy the words. Plus the music
is great.
If you have a site that you would like featured, just e-mail me with a description.
| join the community at Cjacks Magazine. For more information email:
cjacksmagazine@hotmail.com |
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Above Ground Testing is produced
monthly by Paul, from his computer. All works are copyright by the
various authors. © 1999-2000. Support poetry- write it
and read it.
Submissions are welcome!
Music for the ezine: Sarah
Mclaughlan- "MirrorBall"
issn# 1488-0024
Theme for next
month: the two sides of Love.. send your poems and prose of love,
romance and Valentine.
pabear_7@yahoo.com