. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - S A N D R I V E R J O U R N A L - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sand River Journal is a collection of poems gathered from the newsgroup rec.arts.poems; it is posted monthly in ascii and \TeX\ formats to r.a.p. and related newsgroups. Current and archive issues may be retrieved by anonymous ftp at the site etext.archive.umich.edu in the directory /pub/Poetry. This archive includes PostScript versions of the formatted journal, which is publication quality and can be printed on most laser printers. Poems appear by authors' permission and constitute copyrighted material. Free transmission of this document (electronic or otherwise) is permitted only in its entire and unaltered form; to inquire about individual poems contact the authors by their email addresses. The editor takes no responsibility for the fate of this document, nor does he claim ownership to any of the contents herein. Send comments and finished contributions (please reference SRJ) to asphaug@lpl.arizona.edu. Enjoy! Erik Asphaug, Editor _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Issue 8 - March 21 1994 Vernal Equinox _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ----- Matin ----- Later, in the chill of morning, you lie silent, still, as if sculpted from ivory. I look in your eyes and I am lost, lost -- that is sufficient bribery, and enough reward; my soul would cost you nothing more. I will keep this memory, like a scar. Out the window, the trembling rays of the sun gather strength to bully the fading stars. Over the river, the full moon dances; it dances, spins, and sinks behind the trees. Edward Gaillard gaillard@panix.com --------- wind-poem --------- on leaves of silk i wrote poem-prayers and strung them to the wind like butterflies a few drifted on apricot flowers in shangri-la ... perhaps a few found their way home to you zita maria evensen ac869@freenet.hsc.colorado.edu --------------------------------------- Rilke Drunk, in a Cafe with Rodin, 1902 --------------------------------------- He sees: not the throbbing flicker of the room nor even the particular radiance of angels, but the sculptor's carved Mosaic face undulating before him, dissolving in candle flame, rippled like the black cat's muscles he watched that afternoon in the Jardin Des Plantes. He can see through the artifice of shaping to find the darkness at their hearts. Kenneth Wolman woldoc@woldoc.jvnc.net -------------- I remember her -------------- I remember her as a young woman in white hair and a flashing heart like no traffic light and lucid going down for the third time. Ralph Cherubini ralph@bga.com --------------------- d is for down and out --------------------- we sleep a lot of children in our facility. we sleep your children, dallas. we sleep your unkempt children. say hello. say hello to calcutta, big d dallas. Marek Wojciech Lugowski lugowski@aristotle.ils.nwu.edu ------------ sneak attack ------------ the night was nice, a movie and too much to eat we got home and it was late enough already and we went to bed only you couldn't get to sleep, there was this funny pain in your shoulder and it was nothing but it was something so we called the doctor early saturday morning and he was asleep so maybe tums would do, or an aspirin but it didn't so we called back and just to be on the safe side, let's go to the hospital and see, you know? and it was early saturday morning and we were tired but we were worried too so we went they took you inside and I filled out the papers and after the xray and the ekg they let me in and you were pale in the paper gown but smiling a little and the docs and nurses said it was something about your heart but they weren't sure what so they gave you steroids because thats what you do when it's something about your heart and about three minutes later everything went crazy and you were thrashing and yelling and the doctors were giving quick orders and the nurses were holding you and the monitor was beeping and there was no room to get close so I stood back and cried well, you made your point I love you, all right now cut this out and let's go home together Alan Schlutsmeyer alan@sentinel.jpl.nasa.gov ------- Clarity ------- I see now that your immobility is a knife aimed at my heart your nonchalance a roving gun your dispassionate stance a seeping poison. My love you are a band of assassins disguised as a man. Ralph Cherubini ralph@wixer.bga.com ---------- First Snow ---------- And then one day you wake to find the world is white; the blemishes are bleached, the rough edges chipped away, leaving an alabaster harmony behind. Despite yourself your thoughts turn to cause and effect, to creation. Enough! It is time to leave. You open the door and flinch: it is cold outside. Arif Dalvi dalviai@ucbeh.san.uc.edu ---------- Reliquary ---------- Carry me in a charm about your neck, a strand of hair, a tooth, a spot of dust. Toss me in a cerebral ocean, to wallow a few decades longer. Carve me in granite, pink and enduring, and plant me in a garden with daffodils and mud. Catch me in dye and silver specks, and keep me in a frame upon the window sill. Scan me into one hundred thousand sintered dots, and store me on magnetic film. Do this in remembrance of me. Karen Tellefsen kt1@cc.bellcore.com --------------------- meaning that I should --------------------- the only Carmen I have known is the shadow in my desire to hold and to be held to behold the life long eyes in shroud black hair draped skin sharded bone obscuring sight inscripted lines unsung we meet: to talk anticipate one chapter sent one seraphim as night caresses candles wane anew in moonlit tress again I found this precious language words and murmurs seeking lips sweet nectar singing praises alleluias one note not taken recompensed in Carmen's song of lies confessed John Adam Kaune jkaune@trentu.ca ------------------ Consequential Star ------------------ Is the gift of light any less itself for its coming from afar? Look around and span the sky at night who can say a star's no consequence: oh star, where did you come from, and star, only you, as star, can tell of original creation and why we are entrained within this universal amber night... And what came before, and what's outside? Only a star might know (if any know at all) and for that, and for its gift of light (no less a gift for its have come from far!) R. Bloom rbloom@netcom.com ----------------- Isabelle Brasseur ----------------- the white shadow of her father dances in this requiem she drops from the throw on a sharp edge scribing an arc that eases her deep recoil l'ombre blanc de son p\`ere danse dans ce requiem elle tombe du lancement sur une vive ar\`ete tout en gravant un arc qui att\'enue sa d\'etente profonde E. Russell Smith ab297@freenet.carleton.ca ---------------------- Washington Square Park ---------------------- And so here we are sitting on a park bench, watching a soot covered squirrel climb a dead tree. You're acting paranoid about being downtown and I'm kicking myself for bringing you here. I keep making the same mistake over and over again, as if programmed into some compulsive loop. The odds are against us, Maria. You've come with too much baggage, anyway. Your kid's afraid of carrousels and your husband's got a gun. Virgil Hervey virgo@panix.com ----------- Birth-Pains ----------- (to D.J.E.) Don't you know that you are as a child to me? When I scold you with the sharpness of labor pains, my hard-edged caresses folding over your fears upon these sheets, canceling daylight with the thought of dark warmth-- I am pleading inside: I am the first-time mother who tries too hard to flood your life, to draw you into my skin each night and flush you out anew each dawn. Soft, you are soft, floating away from me through time. I ought to be the Amazon queen who eats her young; then I could keep you inside me, rolling you 'round the back of my mouth slowly, like a thought. I burn red-hot to see you draw close to another, one who will not lose you in her darkness. But I know darkness created the light before you and I gave birth to one another, and darkness will again swallow us. Although your after-birth rots in my memory still, I will carry you in dreams-- through wars and adolescence, and your marriage to another. I was born to bear this sorrow, and I will continue to pain every year; as long as it takes your place, as long as this mother of a dead son still loves inside. Sylvia Chong schong1@cc.swarthmore.edu - 4 - Four four for? just for the beat is the beat is the beat is a beast the beat is a beast that wants to breed it lives in your body and moves your feet four four for? just for the nature of rhythm is to mate to fraternise and integrate a lustful eye on the neighbours' cousins four four for? just for the rhumba shall lie with the acid jazz and the zouk with techno, merengue and the children shall be brown and lovely four four for? just for purity pedigree forro martillo reggae takada and irish reels the blues had a baby by everyman's culture four four for? just for the avant-garde is a planned mutation saving the gene pool from stagnation we love and hate the stranger babies four four for? just for batucada ceilidh rave to lock your body into time your heart your brain and genitals four four for? just for becoming, creating a generation the children shall be brown and lovely rich and healthy, randy, fertile four four for? just for the children shall be brown and lovely rich and healthy, randy, fertile dump you for a younger model four four for? just for the beat will dump your generation take up with your sons and daughters blind them to your waving finger four four for? just for the beat is a beast that wants to breed infecting with the gift of lust it reinvents the wheel of life four four for? just for Michael J Norris michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au ------- Rafting ------- (When I thought I lived alone, in air) I saw, mostly reflections. I learned, I learned at length To slow that frequency of shimmering and speed it up again at will. Useful, that. Submerged now, I see Sirens high, and M! M's still spinning Priceless threads, pale honey to Catch the glances, hair, smiles I too will use. Because On "low" at last, humming, I float upwards, lost to gravity, Limbs dancing in light before The Buddha. Marie D. Schneider mds@utdallas.edu --------------------------------------------- do you know the taste of a tangerine sunrise? --------------------------------------------- do you know the taste of a tangerine sunrise over cairo or pepper-hot rice served on a ti leaf on the brown river markets of bangkok how would you know five-spice days and saffron nights a hunger for the taste of bitter melons a passion for bird's nest and shark fins and chocolate hugs and kisses do you know the taste of viking fires taunting the midnight sun or the alpha rush of running barefoot at the edge of kilauea i am a splash of gauguin colors on rain-washed mornings i am a starry night van gogh woven with notes of the blues zita maria evensen ac869@freenet.hsc.colorado.edu -------- machtlos -------- at The Only, night: Friday. pinball hammer stone blond spike hair smoke candle-lit ashtray she whispers to a friend "i don't care - fuckit, i'm living now - ." the one be/inside her caught in frills & chains speaking of long-worn leather copper & brass - ornamental (h)air frostingravedglass illuminated tree below font of Avonlea, a doe's eyes - with a lips' quiver I know she is young john adam kaune jkaune@trentu.ca ---------------------------------------- olive sweater olive garden i hate olives ---------------------------------------- oh scurvy flusterer. oh if this is how it is supposed to be then i don't want it. understand? understood. would biting my lip not saying a word... could. we try. again? i am i am i am your disconcertina. heave a sigh oh won't you sta-aye. heave a sigh. hang the wisp of a curtin across your eyes. the top of your head feels so very hot. why did my ogling reduce you to white spots. i promise to reform and act like a mature adult that i am not. but. you will have to help me. please start wearing a black chadora to cover that stupid grin of yours that stu pid grin. i find myself toxically fond of you without you within. Marek Lugowski marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu ----------- Celebration ----------- They are brown like two coffee beans. I don't know why this surprises me, except mine are pink. I guess I just never thought about it. Your other things are also different shades of brown. Mine are pink, more or less. You are called "yellow". I have trouble grasping this. You even tell me so, "I ama yerrow." and poking your finger into my chest, "You are a gwei-lo." (white ghost) I lay my arm next to yours on the sun streaked pillow. Sure enough, I am a ghost. But for gender, I thought we were the same. We spend the afternoon celebrating the differences. Virgil Hervey virgo@panix.com ---- girl ---- all I got was a first impression, my vision stained the sharp and bitter details slowly eroded in time until now a softly curved image remains carved into my mind. Luus lucienk@wfw.wtb.tue.nl ------------ Reggae Melee ------------ Eight of limbs atwine our sinews mon a coca bowl of rasta fazool. Come didja know salvation mutters how tools for tyrants don't arch their backs To blink. The high sun bounces, pick up your things and hide the bones. Ee I so dread the {\it oso} dusk of my head, aye so soon after a wailin noon. Seth Graham sethg@utxvms.cc.utexas.edu ------ sheets ------ i'm a sheet lost to the wind as grandma would say when i didn't know what that meant blowing insideoutside around the yard loose from my line crumpled against the garage my lord how the boy carries-on and look at him now, all tuckered-out up against the garage now, but like a sheet to the wind before how he carried-on you could say he done run out of air keep that liquor from him, grandma would say if she were still around, that is she's off her line, in her own way lost to the wind, or the ground, you could say and me, i'm just enjoying the breeze Chris Losinger cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu ---- seen ---- the confines of security. I saw essences. wave wanderers in airs above us. lamb shied from sun spun glade. He is Essene, Escher squared. dust-found books in shelves have bound me. Inside avocado greenglass eye. tell us, cope alone above in star - ob serve. John Adam Kaune jkaune@trentu.ca ----- hawks ----- spongy beach climbing down roots from steep hill above forbidden lake muddy prints on chilled water merciless miracle ice island beckoning hawks circle and swoon too risky, he said island beckons uttermost coolness he isn't here not now: island beckons hawks circle and swoon cool zephyrs eyes above eyes below ice between no eyes to see noone to know cirrus dreams abandoned beach alone with hawks Barbara Taylor bit00@cas.org ---------------- Loving His Loves ---------------- Life is a house of cards. (I thought.) Blow, Holy wind, On Sappho's oaks -- so his loves Imbricated me, all leafy smiles and glances. Don't breathe! His Gravity inverting (Eddington) Made light of my insight. Refractions then. Beaming Through water, a filigree, Gold threads through me shivered, Weaving on the sandy bottom. White holes in Vermeer, Bonnard's unpainted patches, Left "Spaces in your togetherness"... Marie D. Schneider mds@utdallas.edu ------------- You will know ------------- You will know if it grows and grows if each shoot from the one calls forth a shoot from the other you will feel it a growing together a walking next to one another down a beach of infinite duration on a journey which seems of utmost importance though you sense it to have no end and no destination yet will it seem of crucial significance you will know and at some point on the journey mid-step you will turn your head slightly to the left and you will see the companion whom you have grown to love as your very self you will look and you will know. Ralph Cherubini ralph@bga.com ----- Dream ----- Dried grass and three leaves adorn the lawn. Ruined temples to Gods long lost are strategically placed throughout the town. Ammo sings in the streets. Exiles are still an improvement. The burnings at twelve o'clock low have stopped. Under the sand, the grass, the growth so green it dazzles you. And you are alone... you've traveled here before. You know the path, well-worn, the road that goes to nowhere that you know of... the dream so strong the guilt now dim. Perhaps you'll return, in terms of commitments. Windy days seem lost without the magic of your words. The sounds pile up upon the scrapheap, I still try to touch the sky... My failing in your twilight your best hour your demise... my memories clash and run the steps that I would take for you... the only things I want to say. My words to tell you what it's like out there... Awaken at dawn for the light to come. You've known for a thousand years just what will pass... Compromise the truth scratch at the wall... Only pray that you can dream of home. Jack Godsey kane@online.oau.org ---------------------- the air is the essence ---------------------- you want me to give you metaphores, parallels outlining you so i tell you that you touch me like the glass filled mistral from deserted plains like that hurtful breath of life that blinds, like the essence of you in the air is how much air you are to me like the air is the essence Luus lucienk@wfw.wtb.tue.nl ------- Reverie ------- Seasons roll along with their undying repetition: Four years later, still I haven't changed. Erik Asphaug asphaug@cosmic.arc.nasa.gov ----------- deliverance ----------- ambrosia milk-filled sky I see half-moon glare atop the treeline severance of moon and sky what night is this that brings the shadow of stars to eyes of awe and contemplation? the leaves know not of change - for Autumn only does death infuse imagination leaving wind in colours, invitations to the chrysalid Winter circle Spring What transformation sees my eyes in passing? john adam kaune jkaune@trentu.ca