Fabulous Finds 1999-2000
Fabulous Finds 1999-2000
Note: A link to the poet's home page or e-mail address is usually provided below each poem. A direct link from the poet's name to his/her Positively Poets page (with bio, links, and additional work) is provided when applicable.
Instruction on a Box of Japanese Colors
By: Sean Webb
Adults: experiment and ex- plain to the young. Color an ocean of cobalt blue scratch in a fish, to make it come true. Obscure the sky by using your thumb to blend the colors that border the sun. I have tried so many ways to color my soul something other than blue, for you, to make it plain for you, that your life need not be duller than a box of dead markers, little soldiers who lost their caps. I drew bright colors into groups, colored over them a shade darker, took a razor and scratched out a star. Hundreds of lines revealed a little color, but certainly not brilliant, or even bright, working in a basement, halogened from night. My life was not dull. I made sure of it. And even now, even if I have recoiled into some amiable, unsoiled parapet, I am capable of stirring new turmoil. Oh yes, I will keep experimenting, you will keep witnessing my mistakes and victories. You'll get all the breaks. Your life will be filled with unrelenting triumph and peace of mind. For I will wash away all questions and fill you in with "incredibly smooth" colors. Keep your eye on what I'm drawing, keep your eye on the I. Copyright © Sean Webb Comments to author: Sean Webb
Ninety-Nine Days
By: G.V. Stevens
She said nights in that place were colored in silence and heated by the warm breath of hundreds of sleeping women. She watched the moon creep in through notebook-sized windows and cast shadows on cinderblocks. Face pressed between metal bars, the coolness reminded her of Georgia's summer days--passed with her children in dirty-blue city swimming pools. Hell became a tiled, rectangular place where women swapped sex for cigarettes and steel tables with rounded edges were cemented to concrete floors. It was there she learned to pray, and hoped her ninety-nine days of faith would resurrect Habeas Corpus. Copyright © G.V. Stevens Comments to author: G.V. Stevens
The Clothes War
By: Sean Webb
Eventually a code of honor, a unified body of righteousness, will call up our street enlisting every able body, as it drives its shadow wherever light asks it. This is the knowledge he hauls into every fragment of his life. When he takes a new job, he knows there will be an element of unity. A factor that will lend the task one single face, one single body. He sees this in a torrid textile mill where miles of thread are joined into miles of cloth, miles of cloth feeding rapidly into grey machines, grey machines that cut fabric into shapes of clothes. After hemming and cutting of free threads, a platoon of shirts is prepped to ship. He cannot fail to recognize order, the obvious chaotic design. Scraping metal, and spools of smooth cloth, invariably remind him of sex. Muscle and flesh. Multitudes of sperm and eggs, multiply among themselves, concentrate on sheets, dog paddle home to some weary conception. This is the brand of fantasy relegated to those committed to manufacturing clothing. Those that confront daily the bodiless image of clothes produced with a unified mission to conceal a desire to expose. Copyright © Sean Webb Comments to author: sean@doug.med.utah.edu
February, 1999
Of The Month
Sparrows
By: John Horváth, Jr.
Under the branches the radical birds that winter over against the cold shelter themselves from the last winds, chatter at springtime as if to fright off new flocks. From the belfry sparrows erupt hourly like a black ermined banner unfurling, billowing, turning into and onto itself. Mourners gathered round the dark hearse watch the movements from the churchsteps overhead to the branches across cold air. Each hour some birds are lost to ringing. From branch to tower, from tower to branch the flag of the flock streams. Each hour a few fall frozen to the ground. Inside the church: teacakes and coffee. Copyright © John Horváth Jr. PoetryRepairShop
The God Listserv.
By: Paul Kloppenborg
You can DIGEST or SIGN OFF. Do not send personal thanks to the LISTSERV, but to the following addresses: God of collapsing stars. EMail Universe@faith.com God of warring nations. EMail World@ignominy.gov God of corrupted elections. EMail State@politician.net God of garbaged streets. EMail City@sanity.fail Login last used: yesterday Type ? for help in Release 1996 user / spooling / mail / Return to prompt God of ignoring neighbours. EMail House@no.welcome God of conflicting needs. EMail Bed@no.love God of aborted foetus. EMail Child@i.forget To God @ listserv.heaven Set me to NO MAIL Copyright © Paul Kloppenborg Comments to author: paulk@library.lib.rmit.edu.au
January, 1999
The Education of Adolescent School Girls
By: Peter Howard
As irresistible as white mice Smuggled, wriggling beneath a shirt, It's no surprise Schoolgirls in general are proud Of their emergent breasts. They learn Technique quickly With reinforcement from male staff. When the mask slips, like a towel In the sauna Attention to detail: precise Arrangement of button or zip Heightens effect. Lessons are assimilated Easily. This is simple stuff, Not like Science. To see the reason, consider The cleavage of the brightest girl On the front row. Such curves fascinate the teacher Far more than parabolae obtained From 'Pearls in Air.' That time, in Chemistry, he brushed By accident, her chest produced Sublime results. His pipe soothes discomfiture Caused by milky pheromones; He sucks it hard. Copyright © Peter Howard Commended in the Society of Women Writers and Journalists 1993 Poetry Competition Low Probability of Raccoons
November, 1998
Grave Dance
By: Ron Watson
Multifaceted and complex, you are like quartz Each angle a new gleam, no mere chick or babe But a woman, wise to fool's gold Who seeks gems and rare stones Who dreams unsettling dreams Who strings bead by bead This necklace of never-ending years Who tithes to motherhood its costly sum Who aches for love. And I am a man A convolution of strands That having broken now reform A startled boy inside Curious, bewildered, and ultimately Thrilled to be alive To be near you speaking softly To be enamored To be willing against all odds and common sense To believe. The rubble of the world is another matter More realistic with its demands. We have our limitations, God help us, And we do what we can. But when I think of you, and lately I have thought of you often, I think Of spirits assuming flesh Of union and bodyheat Of desire undiminished by time Unchecked by the clockwork of our lives. To make much of time Marvell wrote, Admonishing who knows how many generations So long has he lain As cold as dust in his grave. Copyright © 1998 Ron Watson biodebris
