agt71

MARIANNE’S TANGO 36

Marianne and I departed in Livorno
By an inlet of coastal rocks,
The water was covered with sea lettuce.
We stood by a sea wall when she slipped,
Slid down red soil to redden her dark blue slacks.
As she slid, as her slack redden,
She disappeared. When she was
Supposed to have reached
The water, I never heard a splash.
I never saw one drop of water rise
Up through the still surface of the sea lettuce.
I can still see he sea lettuce, Stranger,
But Marianne disappeared before
Splashing into the coastal
Sea-lettuce covered waters.
I remember that before the fall we stood
By this old, insubstantial sea wall,
We had drunk many glasses of Chianti.
Stranger, now as I review my past,
I cannot ascertain where Marianne
Was there or not. It seemed her presence
Was a vision stimulated by the Chianti,
But yet I remember her disobedient remarks,
I am certain the sea lettuce was there,
But I am not certain that Marianne was there.
Stranger, I am not even certain
I was there. I checked my travel notes,
I checked the tickets I had bought.
There is no record I was ever in Livorno,
Yet when I recall being in Livorno,
Drinking Chianti with Marianne,
Running my hand down the side of her arm,
Down the side of her blue-slacked clothed leg.
Stranger, this was one
Of the most happy moments in my life.

MARIANNE’S TANGO 37

By the ocean with its shore of coral rocks
And its madrigal music, morose and stoic,
Of its morning waves, I saw a white curtain
Of fog making the curve in the distance
Uniform and Platonic, an Idea without a particular,
But breaking through this idea was Marianne,
She ran past a fallen Australian pine,
Whose roots were caked with shells.
She brought with her some of the fog,
She seemed wrapped
In scraps of white ribbon.
It was as if Marianne’s body was
Disconnected and floated as fragments.
This was the first time I had ever seen
Marianne, if what I saw was Marianne.
It was weeks before I saw Marianne again,
If the person I saw weeks later
Was the same person I saw
Running naked through fog down a beach.

MARIANNE’S TANGO 38

I was watching silence slowly stumble
Across the ragged and rugged horizon
When all turned to confusing noise
When Marianne suddenly appeared in a wicker chair
By me and handed me an upturned
Mussel shell, “Look at these colors,
The colors of a black pearl rainbow”
I no longer saw the shape and edges
Of the shell, but disembodied colors
Of no known origin. I gazed at Marianne,
But she dazzled, too dazzling
To look at for a long time, so I
Gazed at the dark behind her, a dark
That seems to go out in space, become infinite,
This darkness looked like the plumage
Of a dark bird, its wings were uplifted
As to fly away. I gazed again at Marianne.
She was gone. The upturned mussel shell glowed.

MARIANNE’S TANGO 39

This Italian evening was becoming dark poppies,
Motionless. The odor of the earth
Changed from a strong pungent smell
Into the smell of dark, moist grasses.
I gazed at clusters of hazy bushes, close together.
There was a passageway on the left side
Where the bushes and the landscape disappeared.
Marianne walked out of the passageway,
Stood still, as still as the dark poppies
On this windless evening. She appeared silver.
I called her name, but as I spoke the words,
The words became silence. I spoke
Many times, but each time, silence.
It was uncanny, my words had no sounds.
The silver Marianne turned around.
Her back faced me. She went
Back into the passageway and disappeared.
I called her name again. This time
My words had sounds, but no answer.
I heard the echo of my words.

MARIANNE’S TANGO 40

The odor of the perfume in my empty room
Has changed. Marianne has replaced
My Guardian Angel.

Now shirez sits on the blue box,
Not tea. The guardian angel throw the tea pot
To the floor when she walked through the wall
To go away.

The angel also knocked over two pots of ferns
Upon departure. There is dirt, uprooted ferms,
And fragments of glass on my white rug.

There is a strong, pre-storm wind today, and even
The sun is shaking, little
Squids of orange has torn off the sun and blown
Through the blue.

There is a fire in the corner of my white rug
From one of the fragments of the sun
That was blown through my opened window..
But when I went over to see the flames,
There was only ashes.

The ashes were the same color as Marianne’s
Eyelashes.

Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy, English Renaissance literature,
Professor Emeritus of the Humanities was Poet in Residence at the University of Tampa for over 20 years.

Has had over 5,000 poems published. As of October, 2004 5,408 poems published.

Over 2,000 were published in print magazines, such as American Poetry Review, Nation, and Bitter Oleander. In September 1999, he became a cyber poet, added over 3,000 poems published in E zines.

Is the author of 14 print books of poetry, and in 2002, added 3 E books,
The Squids Dark Ink, From a Tiny Room, and The Death of Daphne.

The entire Spring 2004 issue of the magazine Bitter Oleander is
devoted to a 92 page interview with Duane Locke and will include sixty of his poems.

In August 2004, e book, 45 poems, Observations, from Poetic Inhalation.

In August 2004, feature poet in Adagio Poetry Quarterly

He is also a painter, having many exhibitions, his latest at the city art museum in Gainesville, Florida. A recent book, Extraordinary Interpretations by Gary Monroe, published by University of Florida Press,
Has a discussion of Duane Locke’s paintings.

Also, a photographer, now has over 194 photos in e zines. He does close-ups of trash tossed away in alleys and on sidewalks.

His old biographical notes, published many time, are now obsolete. The notes stated that he lived in an old decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums, populated largely by drug dealers and the homeless.

The house was condemned by the city of Tampa inspectors, and after his living at this location for fifty years, he was forced to leave within six days.
The forced move was due to the fall of the bungalow in his large back yard.
The bungalow contained a priceless literary scholarly library which is now under debris. An army of inspectors descended and decided he could no longer live in his home, so Duane Locke left Tampa to relocate in Lakeland, Florida. He lives by a lake with swans and many wild birds. The fall was a “Fortunate Fall,” for he now lives in a more desirable and pleasant location
At Lake Morton Plaza. The only disadvantage is that he can find no trash to photograph, no broken beer bottles on sidewalk, no litter as it was in Tampa.

Same's Infinity

of Difference

by Len Bourret

What is 'rational'?

What is 'logical'?

As human beings

can we explain,

without making

definitions?

But, what about

'context'?

And, what about

'setting'?

Do 'definitions'

explain our

'perspectives',

or 'world

view'?

And, perspectives

can 'vary' by

context.

And, world views

can 'vary' by

setting.

In an increasingly

complicated and

ever-changing

technological

world,

there is an infinite

set of 'variables',

and each one may

be subject to an

infinite set of

'constants'.

In its simplest form,

there is a dependent

and independent

variable, which relies

on one or more

constants.

And, there are even

unknown variables,

which affect an

outcome, and make

research less than

reliable and valid.

And, there are

constants that

are not always

the same, when

subjected to

different variables.

Even when someone

says that 'variables'

are a 'constant',

what is the 'constant'?

A 'constant', for example,

may be 'peace' or 'chaos',

or in the form of 'something

else' (another 'concept').

And, some human beings

define 'men' as 'chaos'.

But, is this an 'assessment'

for 'accuracy' of 'evaluation'?

If one says it is, what about

'multi-dimensional assessment',

an 'evaluation' based on many

sets of measures?

Defining terms,

without dealing

with meaning

and purpose.

But, what is

anything,

without a

meaning?

Although

defined,

the event

will have

little or no

significance.

And, there

will be

little or no

reason

to pursue

the event.

A defining

philosophy

deals with

details only.

It is not an

approach,

but may be

considered

an essential

part of a

system.

As a contrast

to classical

philosophy,

it is non-

traditional,

and may

even be

unconventional,

but may not be

a philosophy in

the strictest

sense of

classical

definition.

Humanism is

not perfect,

nor is it

always

optimistic.

Without a

bridge

between

a philosophy,

or an approach,

the definitions

cannot go anywhere,

without meaning and

purpose.

Because the 'concrete',

or 'what is seen, feel,

and touched', cannot

be implemented,

one must have implicit

faith to go beyond that

which cannot be

absolutely proven.

And, a philosophy

can become no

more than 'ideas',

restricting one to

a narrow confine,

rather harsh, and

rather rigid. The

'idealistic' limits

one to a certain

level, out of an

infinite level of

possibilities.

An approach,

also, has its

limitations.

There are strengths

and weaknesses, to

any philosophy, and

any approach.

Unless allegations

are able to be

positively supported,

they remain nothing

more than theory.

As human beings

learn in life, what

is 'alleged to be'

in 'theory' does

not always prove

itself 'to be' in

'reality' as we

know it, and

a 'reality' which,

in fact, is not

the same for

every individual.

There is a

diversity in

the simultaneity.

Even what appears

to be 'the same' may

have an 'infinity of

difference'.

Each note reverberates in my mind,

sounds like a voice, base and dark,

repeating the same melody,

melancholy and morose.

Its knell calls me to a home

I no longer wish to know.

Wrapped in the silent song

of an inner night that never ends

I dream a fractured life that melds

with a reality I've tried to drown

in the cacophonic symphony

Wondering if it will ever end,

I listen to it play and communicate

without words or many tones.

Colors are in the sounds

and within their confines

Is it true that I am trying

hard enough to break away?

You said the moon was nice tonight

full and low, calling me to a better place,

but I take the sight only on your word

for how can I know, blinded

as I am by this thick and deadly,

Valerie Noir

Poem from the Past

Ode to Melanchody

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
    Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
    By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
    Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
        Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
    For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
        And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
    Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
    And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
    Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
        Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
    Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
        And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die;
    And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
    Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
    Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
        Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
    Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
        And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

John Keats

I decided to include this work for a few reasons, one it is a classic work and two, it does speak of the feelings of the late winter. There is a time when life is a fit of melanchody, you hope for spring, but it flirts and teases but quickly disappears behind the blast of the next winter storm. As well, after Valerie's work, it does continue the theme doesn't it.

For information regarding this poem, I invite you to visit this site for further information.

A new poet to these pages:

Reinvention

By: Jeffrey Lee Williams, Junior

Within the depths of my soul,

It's...

No, I cannot say that

It is not me

Its boring, useless and cliché

It's repetitive, corny and dull

This is rewritten trash,

Recycled vomit

No, I cannot do this

I don't want to be this person

Repeat what has already been said a million times

By a million people

On a million pages

I need refreshing

I cannot mimic what I have seen

Rather experiment with what I am afraid of

I cannot read drivel anymore

No more sad and sappy stories with a plot that leads to love

No more "I was hurt" stories,

Recovery stories, survival stories

No more "my mommy beat me" stories or "my daddy touched me"stories

I can't read about it and I won't write about it

There are no bleeding hearts

That metaphor has been used and abused

I will change the face of creation

With this,

The dawn of a new era

The era of unadulterated,

Genuine and sheer

Creativity

The Phases of Success

(In Mangled Order)

By: J.L. Williams

Chaos, fame, chaos

Backlash, torture, struggle

Heartache, tears, depression

Laughter, love, pain

Blood, determination, drive

Agitation, exhaustion, brilliance

Brownnosing, hospitalization, debt

First draft, second draft, final draft

Development, production, show time

Success, money, failure

Rebound, comeback, obscurity

"When it Rains it Pours"

By: J. L. Williams

Feeling alone--(yes) you're all alone

Wishing for something to call your own

But nothing is for you

So there is but one thing to do

All I can say is that when you find your way

Please rest your head down and pray

For with open eyes you'll foretell

The distant darkness and fiery Hell

Don't live too fast

For the feeling may not last

Take advantage of this;

The happiness you so seek

Look to the future but be careful not to peek

Relish the comfort light as a feather

Every storm you can now weather

"Follow the circle of love--as it leads you through the clouds. Trust fully in its purity or live forever in your destructive fury."

JLW

One Night Stand

By: J.L Williams

Ask me my name

Pick me up at a club

Take me to your home

Offer me a drink

Chat for a moment

Head to the bedroom and

Throw me on the bed

Remove all my clothes

Treat my body like an object

Have your way with me

Forget my name

Roll over after you've finished

Fall asleep and wake at sunrise

Ask me to leave

Bathe, repeat

Brief Biography

"Unlike many writers, I have not been writing for years and years. In fact, it wasn't until I was in my late teens that I decided that I wanted to be a writer. For many people that would be considered late in life to decide what they wanted to do with their lives but for me, it wasn't. I didn't begin to think about writing until one hot summer night I sat in my bedroom channel surfing. In my endless search for some form of entertainment, I came across an episode of the Golden Girls. This particular episode had Blanche find her "calling" to be a great southern writer. From that day forward, I felt like a lightening bolt had hit me. I began writing that day and haven't stopped since. I was nineteen years old. Today I am in my early twenties and I contribute to a lifestyles magazine regularly and I also freelance. I currently have over seventy publishing credits and all it took was an episode from a canceled 80's sitcom."

With Apologies to Robert Herrick and Julia's Clothes



whenever she wears
that simple cotton dress
and walks that walk
that sets it swishing here there
my God who needs silk
Which is life itself.

[first published in Poetic Voices, March 2002]







THE PLOW BREAKS THE SOD






The plow breaks the sod,
Turning the dry grass over,
Leaving the naked soil furrowed,
Ready for planting.

The teamster guides the oxen,
The farmer guides the plow,
All are in harmony with the life-giving earth:
Teamster, farmer, oxen,
Who came from the earth,
And to the earth shall return,
Being sustained by the earth upon which they work;
Even the plow,
Extension of the hand of man,
Made from the elements of earth,
Shall one day return to the earth from whence it came.

The harmony of living drawn from the good earth,
The cycle of seasons,
The cycle of life,
Man and beast,
Man and tool,
Drawing their being from the good earth,
The intention of God,
Working with Nature His handiwork,
Who are also His handiwork,
Their purpose fulfilling according to the Original's plan.

The planting of seed,
The growing of plants,
The harvesting of seed,
And the death of that which bore the seed,
Returned to earth to nourish the seed,
The cycle of life which is living itself:

The life of the farmer,
The life of the teamster,
The life of the ox,
The life of the earth,
The harmony of living which is life itself.

The plow breaks the sod,
Turning the dry grass over,
Leaving the naked soil furrowed,
Ready for planting,
And the farmer sows his seed,

Soon

The Spring

Will come soon ,

The ice

Will melt soon,

And the flowers

Will blossom soon.

But only if

you would be

near to me,

would Winter leave.

---------------------------------------

2 version of this poem:

Soon

Soon ice will thaw,

Soon the spring will come,

And flowers will blossom.

If only you would be with me!

To you

Blizzard

Goes mad

behind a window,

Shadows dance

On roofs of houses.

You sleep?

What you see in your dream?

The moon

Not shines too brightly ?

Whether the wind blows into a window?

Star

Whether has fallen beside?

Trains

Whether are shouting

Too loudly?

Just now the wind

Has brought

To me all your troubles

On his wing.

I shall read at their night

And I shall cry

Instead of you.

You will wake up in the morning

And even

Do not recollect them!

Dina Televitskaya

ArtWork

Valerie Noir

Salvation
by Bremandy Beal

As I mentioned last issue, I'm going to try the theme of Poetry Noir or Poetic Noir, words thoughts and pictures that are inspired by the
Film Noir genre of the thirties and forties. You must remember them, they featured a loner gumshoe who had a chip on his shoulder and while
usually tended to be amoral rather then immoral, had a heart for justice. He wanted to see justice done and was willing to use whatever method
at his disposal. There was also and this might be the theme of interest, the femme fatale, the woman in red, or white or black, with deep red lips
legs that stretch for miles. She was the one who introduced the gumshoe into her problem or would be the temptress, seeking to draw him to
fall for the side of wrong. There was the criminals, the police and all seeking the same thing, for different reasons.

Some interesting sites you may want to read for information and inspiration are:

Film Noir
High Heels on Wet Pavement

So put on the fedora, tighten your raincoat, find a seedy bar and wait for the mysterious woman in red to show up. You'll hear her by the sound of
high heels clicking on the floor. She'll ask you for a light and then after a few puffs, will say, "Mister. I wonder if you'd help a lady with a problem..."

For the ladies, wear the dress with the large shoulder pads, the pillbox hat and adjust the seam of your expensive silk stockings and get ready to
find trouble, because trouble is looking for you.

Visit my CafePress Store

As always the address for your submissions of poetry, short stories or artworks can be sent to abovegroundtesting@yahoo.com
The home page is still www.angelfire.com/on/abovegroundtesting,yes and one day I will work on it.

All work is copyright by the various authors. My work is under a creative commons licence. Go to Creative Commons for more information.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.