Corrine De Winter( Springfield, Massachusetts )Arlene AngWisdom, FlutteringSometimes it becomes clear, a time when every window beckons for a life beyond this one, when the glass itself spells possibilities as though a child were behind it in winter forming words on frost. Just at the moment you thought the doors of the past might keep opening to strange faces, and adolescent summer afternoons revisited would hold kind mirrors up to your face without flinching, or creasing the forehead with mistakes. At about that time when you believed you had finally caught wisdom, fluttering in your hands like a monarch, It comes back again— The hour when your life discovers wings, pushing outward wildly with color like an April bloom refusing to let the long, dark months win.( Italy )Cathy McArthurPassage to GerasTransportation becomes the lesser problem once you've traveled past sixty-five. Buses cram every stop around you, destination lit by numbers you'd rather forget. Leave that seat for the elderly! A mother spirits her boy by the ears and apologizes. You accept kindness meekly, bow to the downcast avoidance of commuters. The journey was brought about by a slipped disc, that exuberance to manifest youth to children. There is no turning back now. Still you writhe against fear like an earthworm cut into fifths. Every morning cycles you closer to wheelchairs. You rise early from unslept bed, hail cabs with a cane you swore you'd never use just to watch the town pass by. Even trees look arthritic beside new shops, body-piercing services, pubs with half-drunk names. Behind windows rolled up against fresh air, you witness your own funeral in slow motion.( Bayside, New York )Michael AllenGrow Delphiniums In Your Dreamsthe horticulturalist says object of desire unattained sleep screen with lavish proportions garlands, borders a longing—survival difficult, multi-scheme, bones delicate branched hollow thirsty stalks In the pink/blue zone—pale to shimmering trumpeted headlines— delphiniums loathe the weather. Stems bend, snap.2Overcome with iridescent blues she tries sleep, eyes, ears closed rosy end of the spectrum under blue blanket botanical blights lost body fat, cervix, breasts, heart her object of desire. Midnight, she confesses missing crushed rows of glamorous blooms, her stalking memories—elaborate tall tales.( St. Louis, Missouri )Peter Roberts, Three PoemsCounter (of the) Revolution"To search the wards to dig up someone." He expected complete obedience, now he gets a rainfall. The rain is unpredictable, unreliable. Over there, on the table, are stacks of pages of names and addresses and not just anyone cared or would consent. He curses them, and wants to do something awful. "Nice job in preventing us." The winds begin to blow, and the streets get wet and messy. Hail falls. Riots occur, looting, dancing. He cringes. Where was the mandate? Where are the people? Primary opponents can't do it all, and now the people have revolted. "A bizarre group." And suddenly, a gale lifts each and every back issue of his journal into the air, and scatters them, and people locate them and use them to keep rows between vegetables-grown healthy with the rain-free of weeds. So he makes some order in the world. "Informant!" Dripping, he plans the revolution anyway, still working as the last lovers and clowns have passed out from too much fun, too many new opportunities, too much spontaneous growth.
( Mansfield, Ohio )Heather Knowles Cottingtonlake erie, near catawba(storm impending)thin-beaten-gold green, net-like, lace-like, like leaves interweaving waves form & re-form across a surface of slate-blue sky reflected in & out of existence gliding wordless, grey gliding in uncalm air, we move on a surfaceless surface, through a plenum of sound, a ubiquitous hum on the water's bright face long, sharp flashes of black appear, reappear, form a faceted void; beneath windstrewn glow on windblown waters for an instant, an instant i see through the surface into distanceless space (inconstant interface: deepnight, water, & sky)algae on the concord rivertime blooms on the river— green clusters of stars twist in long galaxies that merge & stretch downstream. in transparent interstices, voids between the spinning stars, trees, clouds, & clear blue sky mingle with smooth streambed stones. all coalesce in water's skin: earth below & air above & algae-stars join river-flows, fast currents & slow eddies. sometimes random ripples start, unexpected undulations, spreading from no central source, distorting all the other flows, disturbing this small universe.ode: ono no komachistars, like dew on grass, move a woman's heart & mind — ink dries on paper. . . . . . . the moon shines above a vacant bed. when will he come to her again? in the empty time her melancholy longing mixes with night air . . . & eternity blooms in this moment for her — pale cherry blossom. . . . . . . these few words of hers, hard, like smooth, despairing stones, have traveled the years, have come down to us, her anguish fresh & clear, as if it were our own.( Ankeny, Iowa )Nakedwe laid it all on the table sat there smoking, drinking, exposed and fragile dim bar lighting enveloped us and rubbed our backs for a moment the touch didn’t sting the way it had for months now the whole scene felt surreal déjà vu and I knew we had been here before our fingers ached from writing highs and holding so tight I climbed on your swing or maybe you on mine we kicked our feet out hard and rode pushed farther and past the safe zone until we ate clouds and sun for dessert embraced each other to wait for the harsh landing heavy and intense on cold earth at least when we fell we landed on each other and were ready with bandages and casts, stitches and antiseptic kind whispering words gypsy healing hands
I - Simple Equations
III - Defining Borders
IV - Bodies in the Rain
Featured Poet - Rebecca Loudon
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Current Issue - Summer 2004
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