WORM 30
Qaaf
Your green/gold
diary of Palestine
has a map that stretches from Safad
to the Gulf of Aqaba. Districts and towns
are dark dots: Nablus, Jenin, Bethlehem...
I practise your
alphabet,
stumble on the Qaaf. You laugh,
'You should feel it in the throat.
It's a strong sound: an unvoiced plosive.'
Last week you gave
me words
to mimic for the Ayn - Arab,
arif, afwan - Arab, knowing,
you're welcome.
Now you teach me
to repeat
qalb, qobbat, El Quds. Qalb, qobbat
El Quds - heart, dome, Jerusalem.
I feel them in the throat.
(Note: Qaaf
is closest to a 'k'. It rhymes with laugh).
© Christina
Fletcher
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Hot Flash
That bastard moon
shows every line in my face.
Bargain basement moon, fluorescent dressing-
room terrorist.
I stick my finger
in the doorbell's eye. Backslappers
pull me out of asthmatic breezes, rub my silk blouse
raw, show me to a bed humped high with coats.
There's a vase
of flowers on the dresser. I tuck one
behind my ear, return the VCR's red wink.
In the living room,
tongues wag every head.
One voice floats above the white noise,
a man strumming guitar; he builds his case
with six steel strings.
Lyrics that threaten
danger are wasted on me
tonight. I finger the flower's clef-shaped stem.
Its lunar bloom opens one petal at a time.
© Cheryl
Snell
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Rilke -
Blumenmuskel, der der Anemone...
Muscle that spreads
the anemone
wide in the meadow dawn,
catching the whole polyphony
of sunlight streaming down,
you hold the silent
star of day
braced like a fishing net,
sometimes too full to obey
the call to rest of the sunset
when it orders
the broad bower
of petals to close on the core:
you possess the unnameable power.
We are violent,
we will survive.
We stack up the years like gold, too poor
to open ourselves and receive.
(Rainer Maria
Rilke:1875-1926.Translation 24.6.04)
© Rod
Riesco
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Schrödinger's Cat
Avert your eye.
There, but for the glaze of glass,
and distraction of a newspaper
rubbing wildly round your feet
in the cold wind, go you.
Don't go there.
How the step springs
renewed
from the joy of casual starlings
- for they do not see.
They do not see the smear of shit
that fouls the street's clean facade;
they do not hear the clatter
of rattling starter motors;
they do not smell the phlegm
or taste the ethyl clouds of morning
condensed in thick speech.
They wait.
Avert your eye,
train it on the blind side of the street;
don't let nausea overcome you,
gag, and smother you;
hide in the noxious emissions of the traffic.
Ignore the streaming
crucifix of piss
that threatens you with cold forgiveness,
while he still steams in his last passion.
Ignore the white chevaux de frise
above his weeping eyes,
as they deflect the officer on the horse,
hands buried in the mane.
Avert your
eye,
and walk.
© Nigel Holt
(Schrödinger's
Cat: Editor's Choice of K.R. Copeland, 'A smart take
on Erwin Schrödinger's proposed quantum mechanics "thought
experiment". The cat allusion in L2/3:"newspaper rubbing wildly
round your feet"is a pleasant introduction. From there, the movement
of multiple happenings and things that do
not happen are incredibly effective., as are the blatant contradictions
in direction, eg:" in the cold wind, go you. Don't go there".
Steeped in vivid imagery, this tug and pull of scientific reality kept
me centered and yet pleasantly off balance.')
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Rondeau
For Garrison (1962-1990)
The virus came
in 'eighty-one
as if to spoil all our fun
and render beauty skeletal,
Narcissus trapped in Buchenwald,
jeunesse dorée now gaunt and dun.
From Provincetown
to Washington
a toxic fog obscured the sun,
an iron-spiked and daunting wall -
the virus came.
Unchiseled marble
by the ton,
unwritten plays that never run.
We froze at first, distraught, appalled
at judgments that afflict and scald.
But out of grief came warmth that shone
despite the loss since, sparing none,
the virus came.
© Mitchell
Geller
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Maximillian
recollects an emotion he had in 1984
I was sitting in
the bath when the emotion happened.
It started near the taps, deep underwater,
and flushed the water pink from plug to sponge
before exploding in a jazz impromptu:
six thousand, four hundred and twenty-two
point two of tiny bubbles -
and all of them singing.
I was only sitting
in the bath.
It wasn't my fault.
© Helena
Nelson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Saint
(for Jude)
You scratch the
page, all night. By fading watts,
the ink is blood, the words a devil's oath;
the stanzas metamorphose, Rorschach blots
that form a possibly malignant growth.
You suckle what
may prove unholy spawn,
an imp that lisps with murder in its heart,
a Nosferatu feeding till the dawn
on you who practice at the blackest art-
You burn. The world
& all you love's at stake,
wrists bound behind your back, as ashes fly;
the sinews of your craft begin to break,
& by the fire's light, your visions die.
But what you've
written, what you've made a shrine,
keeps vigil - & its singing is divine.
© Mike
Alexander
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A Winter
Funeral in Fulmer
(for RJ)
The church was
cold in a sullen light
as we lowered our heads in prayer.
Over the bier a moth took flight,
though the church was cold. In the sullen light
it fluttered down as a blessing might
through ancient dust on the air.
And the church was gold in a sudden light
as we lowered our heads in prayer.
© David Anthony
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Why Does Monosyllabic Have Five Syllables?
The words in this
poem
have been certified
organic; however,
despite their nutritive
value, chew them
carefully lest they get
caught between your cerebral
hemispheres. Floss and paste
will flood your mind's
mouth to no avail. Septic
phonemes will turn to rotting
rants, and you will beg
me to use a toilet bowl
metaphor so that you can
flush your brain.
© Fred
Longworth
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Sorrow
'Just as water mirrors your face,so your face mirrors your heart.'
- Proverbs 27
The smoky aftertaste
of burnt maize absorbs
the color of river water at dusk,
seeps into the bush, shadow art
drawn with nubbed point. It penetrates
pores in decimals; metal
against tarmac, a rabbit's cry,
the red choking cough sucked airless
by negative force, fists
that quiver before they fall
like quails shot from the sky.
It mews in the
hushed tones
of the lost and alone, the constant
flutter of the weaver bird in the acacia tree,
the sudden blending of lines
a baby zebra's stripes, the underbelly
of any beast.
Each night in the
mirror
she lifts a finger, maps out
footpaths through endless
banana groves, great rifts
forged by the rains and scorching sun.
© Barbara
Ostrander
(Sorrow: Editor's Choice of M.A.Griffiths,'
I found the series of images in this poem very poignant. The African
references - the wildlife, the oppressive heat, the landscape of the
final strophe - combine a sense of powerful forces and personal sadness,
of the innate connection of the author with the natural world.')
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Rondeau
Redouble
A woman is never
a man's best friend.
She will always embrace the same subtext -
an affair in the air, how it will end.
A dog is a mate. A woman affects
to confide in a
guy, but all is vexed
by ulterior scheming. Quick to offend
when his mind is elsewhere, she casts the hex -
a woman is never a man's best friend.
Her shrewd mind
cannot rest, will always tend
to find a fault with sport, to seize the next
good goal-mouth incident your ear to bend.
She will always embrace the same subtext
of neglect (of
her, by you) Why no sex?
This bothers her. He sublimates. He sends
no token of love to confirm, reject,
an affair in the air, how it will end -
so she will growl
that she cannot depend
any more on chummy charm and your treks
in passionless logic. Do you intend.?
A dog is a mate. A woman affects
to want to know
where she stands, and detects
no irony in the phrase. I append,
.on a limb. All comradeship she rejects -
prefers the break to the generous mend.
A woman is never a man.
© Philip
Burton
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I'm All Ears Tonight
I love your way
of going on and on,
long after my intentions are made clear.
Silently, I switch your brains for brawn.
I love your way of going on and on.
It's getting late - I stifle one more yawn,
then bare my breasts and draw, on each, an ear.
I love your way of going on and on,
long after my intentions are made clear.
© Christy
Armistead
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Chintz
Pastor Trotmyre
can't sleep.
He studies Deuteronomy, jots
copious annotations to himself.
Beads of sweat
spackle his
upper lip as he recalls
the girl in the playground,
the way her yellow
chintz
frock swept up her pink thighs
as she rushed down the slide.
The infernal midnight
sun oozes
through the shutters; he feels
the throbbing urge in his loins.
A yellow moth batters
the shade.
II.
She notices him
ogle her.
The old geezer pretends to study
his Bible, glances furtively
through the black
iron fence.
She sees the neckcloth of a pastor.
Filthy slobbering bugger! She vows
to let him roast
on his spit,
simmer in his juices; her chintz
frock flutters as she works
the swing higher,
dreams how
the farmer's blond son wades
through the cranberry bog,
and she lifts her
hem.
© Christopher
T. George
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Penal Rosary
Since childhood
I have had a secret
habit of tapping my fingers during
...him we can
implement the feature by
meetings and movies
and even
while reading. My tapping takes
a symmetrical shape and has a tune
next Wednesday?
They've agreed to
composed for an
invisible piano. I finger
the keys unconsciously, twitching
the tips in a pocket when drumming
provide a read-only
interface to
would be impolite.
It's white
noise in my head, not distracting,
a second heartbeat created
their database,
but I told them it
independently by
small muscles
with agendas of their own.
They want to play this five-note
was going to
be difficult without
song and draw in
the air an M
connected across the top and bottom
making a perfect loop of three
being able
to add records. We'll
equilateral triangles,
not superimposed
but subimposed, burning through
all the upper layers of vision
have to agree
on a procedure for
like the memory
of a lightbulb
on closed eyelids, the tune a sound
from inside like a ringing in the ear
keeping our
dropdown lists in synch
repeating always
under and through
everything yet easily concealed
with theirs.
inside a fist.
© Rose
M. Kelleher
( Penal Rosary: Editor's Choice of Sandy
McKinney, ' This impressed me because it is so redolent of how our mind
works two ways at the same time -the examination of a present agenda
with the intrusion of memory, association, and completely nutty comments
from some unknown source. I thought the poet was especially clever in
the way she separated the agenda from the intrusions and ended with
a line that can fit both.' )
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Procrastinator's
Paradox
Uneasy lie the
lies that aren't thought through.
They niggle at the mind and fester there,
toy with the cards you thought you'd placed with care,
and make them seem a Pisa -- all askew.
They totter late at night. Work overdue,
you've covered up, but colleagues seem aware
that you've been playing Windows solitaire,
and that there's no such thing as Grecian flu.
You're still a
step ahead. They've got no proof,
just inklings that your stories are too pat,
but one of them is bound to smell a rat,
and then you know your boss will hit the roof.
Your subterfuge is hard work and, perhaps,
may still prevent the pack of cards' collapse.
© Geertjan
Wielenga
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Acknowledgement:
Schrödinger's Cat previously appeared in Artemis Magazine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's contact
details:
Mike Alexander.....................GuignolP@aol.com
David Anthony.......................http://www.davidgwilymanthony.co.uk
Christy Armistead..................carmistead5213@charter.net
Philip Burton........................ burtophil@hotmail.com
Christina Fletcher................. christinasjf2@aol.com
Mitchell Geller.......................PMMGBOB@aol.com
Christopher T. George............editorcg@yahoo.com
Nigel Holt............................. nigel_holt@yahoo.com
Rose M.Kelleher................... kelleher@ramblingrose.com
Fred Longworth .................. stereo1@cox.net
Helena Nelson......................HE11@beatonh.freeserve.co.uk
Barbara Ostrander.................bbostr0@aol.com
Rod Riesco...........................Jumpcatrod@aol.com
Cheryl Snell..........................cherylsnell@hotmail.com
Geertjan Wielenga ................g_wielenga@yahoo.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Compiling Editor: M.A.Griffiths (grasshopper@wordbug.freeserve.co.uk).
Associate Editors: K.R.Copeland (andre-kim1@comcast.net) and Sandy McKinney(mckinney3@earthlink.net)
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