. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 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. I take no responsibility for the fate of this document, and claim ownership only to any poems I have authored. Send comments and finished contributions (please reference SRJ) to asphaug@lpl.arizona.edu. Enjoy! Erik Asphaug, Editor _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Issue 9 - Beltane 1994 First Anniversary _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ------------------ Raft of the Medusa ------------------ Gericault never painted the obverse yellow and purple wind-shells with legs open and occasionally inter-twined drunk in the brazen serendipity of too much sun Kate Armstrong kmarmstr@uoguelph.ca -------- untitled -------- child i am old pluck me from the earth with your chubby potato-chip drenched fists rip out my aged white hair to the roots hold it up to the wind let it scatter toss my stem broken body over your left shoulder make a wish child i am young crayola yellow hair i don't mind if you break my body stuff me in a pink plastic bunny cup on your kitchen table more things to see than all this grass bring my friends, will you please? Michelle A Freeman maf2d@galen.med.virginia.edu ----- Lions ----- You have seen lions yes? males females slowly and how they approach one another when it is time with open mouths and recognizant mumbles and she rolls over for him and he paws her slowly with such care as goes for gentleness among their kind and when he bites her neck it is not hostility but the irresistible generosity of her loose hide. Ralph Cherubini ralph@bga.com --------- innocence --------- little bird nodding in sleep do you know you are inside a temple bell? zita marie evensen bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu ----------------- Remembering Kitty ----------------- screams slice through heavy city air echo off faceless buildings metropolis of millions you are alone anguished cries will not be answered not today thirty-eight hear feet shuffle open windows slam shut hands reach for phones stop short thirty-eight see heads turn away from savage scene eyes close in ultimate urban denial succorless suffering unabated by kindness of strangers you die Michael Kushner mkushner@eden.rutgers.edu ------- No Moon ------- I woke and saw where my fingertips spread the dust on the windowsill the night before when I was startled by no moon. Zazu Pitts an79015@anon.penet.fi ------- Kiss #7 ------- A black pebble in your palm: a summer night. Place it in your mouth and I taste it. Alex L. Karan alk4@midway.uchicago.edu ----------------- Men Seeking Women ----------------- By grace of candle light and Chopin's Nocturnes Blythe scans the men seeking women for possible stories, but only men seeking women over five foot seven, just in case. In under fifty words, men seeking women lay their lives and longing paper thin in stranger's hands. By grace of candle light and Chopin's Nocturne Blythe cuts out a few men seeking women who are all over five foot seven. Blythe says "listen to this one" A nocturne ends, peeling away from her laughter. The candle has dripped blood-red wax on a few men seeking women. Alex L. Karan alk4@midway.uchicago.edu --------- te faruru --------- frozen in tahitian woodcut braided in passionate embrace silhouettes against the warm firelight and tropic moon lovers sinuous as the undulating flame her arm supple in sensual abandon contours of their spirits shimmer forever in a gauguin umber-rust here they love zita maria evensen bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu ------------- wait a moment ------------- night changed to day with the turning of an eye. opening a shutter new light finds us caged, solemn or silly. hearts on our sleeves, we stir fingers through hair palm fire across arched bodies. we make a new night behind shutters, sealed and caged. a sudden burst of laughter speaks another's silence. your face and shoulders smile and shake. spare the joke and we'll move on. so somebody weeps and another's tears ebb; liquid in a limited system. shed a tear, one crocodile drop, and rid me of these oceanic eyes. empty breath flows from another's body, dragging life from a dying man. suck fast gasps past puckered tongues as newborns test lungs. in a moment they shall change. yesterday glued to the day before it. we scream to separate the sheets and spin, thoughts wild, casting for a glimpse of any when. an orange sun urges us to turn another page. wait a moment Steven L. Fitzgerald sfitzge@unix.cc.emory.edu ------------------- Shifts, Invitations ------------------- How we studied it, the sea, bucking, banal. Its outbawlings, crooked finger of the seawall, its outpourings, its invitations. And how it hammered flat our moonlight, its metals, roadlike. James R.J. Sheard jsheard@kampnagel.win-uk.net ----------- Boddhisatva ----------- find brothers who went under, teach them breathing: Boddhisatva is the truth of healing. Never damage what you dare pursue, no-one stares into the glowing orb but you Erik Asphaug asphaug@lpl.arizona.edu -------- Savannah -------- Melancholy swims in your hot breath breezes Palm trees swoon and sway Houses with belle porches clutch the ground So storms may not tear away Tropical intoxication makes me dizzy And I fall on Georgia red clay Something old and rich here Despair hangs like Spanish moss Trembling twinkling in moonlight Make love to me the gardens say Jennifer Williams jaw4936@acfcluster.nyu.edu -------- untitled -------- it occurred to me, lately that in between your spontaneous corruption of my perfect world with your honest tugging eyes, you might have kissed me! or turned me on my back and rubbed me with your big, beautiful hands, or held me in an embrace of sorrow that told me that love was allright. but I forgive you, honestly - there is nothing but honesty with you, oh that part that reaches right in between my ribs and tugs and says, ``you know me... in you, I am." Sean M. Colletta mamushka@eden.rutgers.edu ------------------------ how does she eat a mango ------------------------ moths fluttering around a candle wing shadows trembling in the ritual of loving and dying upon a marble floor bits of colored paper of what may be a photograph of my day street brat slinks at dusk throwing diamonds at passersby it is from me it is free oh come on take the gift and take time to the read poems on burger wrappers and old newspapers laundry-clipped by the wind to sidewalks broken by dandelions and chain-links fencing empty parking lots of words i know i know you'd like to see what is the color of the nail-polish on the keyboard what is that book hugged too closely to the breast how does she eat a mango do her eyes change hues when she kisses in the rainforest of blue screens i lose a lot of friends this way zita maria evensen bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu ----------------------------- Catechism for a Witch's Child ----------------------------- When they ask to see your gods your book of prayers show them lines drawn delicately with veins on the underside of a bird's wing tell them you believe in giant sycamores mottled and stark against a winter sky and in nights so frozen stars crack open spilling streams of molten ice to earth and tell them how you drank the holy wine of honeysuckle on a warm spring day and of the softness of your mother who never taught you death was life's reward but who believed in the earth and the sun and a million, million light years of being Judith Stanley powell@ingres.com -------------------- Up, ant, at my Touch -------------------- Covet this, she drives along tooling her sheath--it fits well and erotically lyricizes my lobes, Laves what skin of mine is bare, Nude--and covet I do. She's defined Want her insidious disastrous Way. I wish she would hold the wheel Tighter. Some shame in me is afraid of know-not-what; She pretends not-knowing, only her Nerve endings are touched, not her Spikes. She says I'm too Serious--goddam! Those fucking potholes make my jaws click together Hard, two lovers' sudden sparked Orgasms; hurtful, she Laughs. Other cars frown at us, coveting. She fucks them all well; they veer away, seeking shelter. I had an accident in my pants, Please downshift! I yelled but the Wind grabbed my words as her mouth opened to swallow me, and still she Laughed, 'til the Wind was gone. Ann L. Knight annkni@delphi.com --------------- Like This Water --------------- I told him while the water was washing over us never to stop experience like this water just to be there while it washes over him and I held him to me as close as myself let it make you clean I said and he was crying because it hurts as if the skin is peeled back it could only be that kind of crying and I took his face in my hands and made him look at me as I told him against the stream that the other way is death. Ralph Cherubini ralph@bga.com ------------------------------- grotowski and his lovely poland ------------------------------- (Jerzy Grotowsky, Polish director, founder of The Lab Theatre, pioneer of theatrical psychotherapy.) grotowski, roaring through "Akropolis," hinted at the source of his angst: "Poland, you see, is the largest graveyard in the world." aushwitz is now a headstone, and citizens can view names and dates, realizing their soil sings with millions of earth-choked throats. no historical dialogue can erase the thunder of blitzkreig or luftwaffe. goebbel's tap-dancing can still be heard over the roar of smelting plants. so. do we stop the world in our fair poland? eh? do we cease daily life and build more tombstones? no. we go on doing what we always have done before, it served our grandfathers through all kinds of facisim. even the modern kind, that seeks to bring all filth to the light of politically correct truth. but what of dear grotowski? he is in california now, holding encountergrouptheatretherapy in the mountains. far away from the singing boneyard that is his poland. Tom Witherspoon 78witherspoo@cua.edu --------------- Scorch and Burn --------------- Work is done, then forgotten. Therefore it lasts forever. - Lao Tsu Past five o'clock, the time for reconciliation settles upon him as hard wings brush past. Wings meant for another, still near enough to startle into reflection. The countryside drapes over his life. He has spent hours picking through the folds, searching for everything that sank away. Topsoil has winnowed past, leaving a hard clay, red under nails and gray underfoot, for him to tunnel to himself. Spent tobacco overflows ashtrays, too much effort trying to internalize the land until it lay ravaged in him. A cough was the first sign of pregnancy, but the smoke warns of twins and triplets, spiraling up in fading wingbeats, hinting of hidden fires. As quarter to six approaches, the exfoliated plain is too barren for anything but rebirth. Time turns up a new soil. New seed eager to rise, crops waiting to climb. To reap. Steven L. Fitzgerald sfitzge@unix.cc.emory.edu -------- untitled -------- I wear it like a death mask Stolen from an ancient king's barrow Pallid No color Jaw clenched in the mockery of a smile A frozen scream A hideous laugh I use it as a weapon An axe to cleave what was joined A spear to pierce the unwounded I am not whole, why should you be? It is deadly poison, sprinkled liberally Would you like a glass of wine? I cherish it as a companion Always there when I am in need To be called on at a moments notice Faithful Of whom else can that be said? Ralph Haefner haefner@iastate.edu ------------------------ Ano Nuevo at Mating Time ------------------------ If only the selky's stolen cries, (broken on the water and strained upon the dunes), could fire the mind with an imaged flame remembered in caves of savage mankind. Then more completely would I find identity in the wauling song that sets to rhythm these gale-beat thrummings which chaff my ears. Thus exhumed, the light of fires long gone would mark with hi-light tabs this roiling view which unlocks its own visceral thrill. Indeed. How simple are the frothing calls which cater to nothing but that which stays wildest even when standing the cross-town queue. This ghosting companion who holds himself aloof and Free. Free to wither a parting glance at cool sensibilities mouthing their hysteric complaints. Nurture proves to be heartlessly efficient. Here in this farthest reach of sand/sea/sky; we dangle an exploring finger toward the pooled chaos and watch as a terribly real fight transpires down the beach. Stuart Tanner toadhall!stuart.tanner@netcom.com ------- Someday ------- Highland pipes, mountain mist, and ancient legends reborn; Will the great heroes walk the earth again, Will great Cormac again be king? Ask if the desert will be blessed with rain. The only answer is someday. Irish harps, emerald moors and old tales remembered; Shall we ever see the old glories made new, Will the Pirate Queen ride the waves again: Ask if a stormy sky will ever be blue. The only answer is someday. Gaelic chants, ancient songs, dance once more on the tongue; Will they dance and repeat in future history, Shall Taliesin and Merlin make magic once more? Ask if a villian is ever remorsful. The answer is the same, someday. Sheila J. Lester shiela@tcity.com ---------------------------------- In the Shape of Snakes, Our Bodies ---------------------------------- And as we were anonymous on a summer's hill You would think that we laid seige on one another- Lying as we did, in some immortal embrace With long dark hair curled over your milk face You brushed your hair away to mouth a phrase And told me that the stars Were rushing from each other I felt three times your age! Just the simplest of statements, and the stars exploded... It seemed like we were on the skin of a bubble bursting into nothingness while, up above, the shapes of men had named the stars. But, down below, the fields. And in this, dusk and perfection; In the shape of snakes our bodies carved. Niall Richard Murphy kennedys@unix1.tcd.ie -------------------- on lake monroe today -------------------- on lake monroe today the blues fuse with grays. the browns refused. brown county indiana -- a morning mess of twig and twine. the spirit, eyelining the hills, fills the hollows, fills the woods -- delicate, leafless and so. eyelashed. last night -- no wind, no sky, no coyote, just owl. Marek Lugowski lugowski@aristotle.ils.nwu.edu ---------- Haiku #437 ---------- ten thousand things left done and undone the tea steams William C. Burns, Jr. burnswcb@gvltec.gvltec.edu --------------------- Some Days To Remember --------------------- As when the great Lady herself Fell victim to the placid sea In what was otherwise a night Of silent starlit serenity And floundering in the cold waters Where no fish would dare to stray Were the faceless souls and voices Of that ever tragic day And near the lifeboats, all around Side by side, but all alone Were hands that had no raft to hold They were on their own Some slapping, splashing, {\it screaming!} For a paddle or a board And the louder they cried out The more they were ignored And soon they slipped beneath the shine- Their last eternal dive While not a single hand would reach To keep these men alive. Tim Edgar edgart@qucis.queensu.ca ------------------------------------------ In the Midnight Chill of a Winter Solstice ------------------------------------------ I remember two eager faces in the match-light sublimed in the trouble and rage of high school dances just let out...pretty girls, perfume and cologne intermingling. We had a confidence, you might say a way with manners. We kept aloof and found our solitude in Blake and in Yeats. Breathing the crackling fragrance of clove cigarettes, our bodies shivered in the cold air. The thin sandy smoke was like silver in a street-light. The dull illumination of the rock-ridden mountainside, The faint blue stars, the cherries of two cigarettes, and the gold glittering of the midnight traffic below blasted our thoughts like a symphony and spoke to our minds a religion --- an enchantment of the beautiful... The cluttered clouds against the bare, black night glimmered with the brightness of the moon. We felt the dizzy hope of spirit enkindling our dreams. And from night to night we felt a constant surfacing and resurfacing of something larger than us, threatening to smash to bits the entire order of all that held us still. As if we were the only two in a long time that ever dared to think these things, in those days we walked well dressed and in vain triumph. We quested after magnanimity--believing all our troubles and our fears could be dissolved with an subtle gesture or a sign. I remember occasionally a tear after gulping down that rusty smoke, would soak a ring around a cigarette, turn it yellow-brown, and then sizzle and vanish. Again and again against madness we tried to shake from ourselves --- to erase --- the cold --- to banish the unfeeling and the sleeping from our lives. What love did we imagine could master such vizardness? We sought out emblems from ancient Ireland and longed for ghosts within the landscape to come, to rise up and to teach us their secrets, songs and wisdom. Staring at the darkness surrounding so many lights, we heard thousand thousand questions asked in the midnight chill of a winter solstice. Daniel Newell daniel.newell@m.cc.utah.edu ------------------------- Elegy for an Older Sister ------------------------- after the day you died I went to a mountain lake all warm and piney and as I floated in the gentle water transfixed between earth and sky I thought of you dying just the plain sorrow of it and of how it would never end Judy Stanley powell@ingres.com ------- silence ------- just as an echo in an empty room is no response silence after a shout in the dark is still no proof that no one hears Michael McNeilley mmichael@halcyon.com ------------ Among Stones ------------ They have sculpted your back with cruelty those surgeons of shallow imagination did their best, in ancient time would have sent you to the temple with votive bones of clay, with prayers like futile narcotics prescribed or exposed you on the plain of Argos where the red earth is eager to reclaim what came from it. Today I will follow you to the water and every day sit among stones with paper working my only magick and seeing you change fishlike abandoning the vague gravity of earth to water you are my most precious fish of salt and lapis the touch of water again makes you supple. I wait for waves of linen, a tidal bed, the moons rhythm secure beneath the planet's wing. No sky, no stones. James Reiff jreiff@pyramid.com ------------------- after he touches me ------------------- after he touches me just his fingertips barely on just my hips it rains. there is a nighttime orange sky and there is lighting. lighting strikes i read make the air around them five times hotter than the outer edge of the sun. the air then must be very hot after he touches me but my hair is cold and wet and clings to my face and on my arms each hair stands on end. JJHemphill jjh54139@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu ---------------- heroes and fools ---------------- beloved here i am in the embrace of night confused by perfume of orange blossoms i am laughing with a sadness i do not know from where beloved, you are the madness i cannot hide the poem i cannot write love makes us such heroes and such fools zita maria evensen bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu ----------- Secret Door ----------- Where is the door, secret and hidden, that leads to the halls and chambers of your heart? Picking the lock, I softly pad down the corridors of your mind. Stopping to read the inscriptions of your love, fragile thoughts, like bone white china, carved on tablets of stone, scattered around like errant rose petals. More beautiful than angel's wings. More precious than the treasure of kings. Larry Rupp rupple@u.washington.edu -------------- Thumb Enclosed -------------- {\it A thumb enclosed in a fist denotes a suppressed will.} Concrete's bitter sting: hewn stone and pavement sprout from seeded clay. Steel mountains bloom and hundred-armed poles climb through the ground, caught in flurries of emerald moths. Their wings flutter as countless hands wring their neighbor nervously. {\it The weaker will always look away first.} Animals lurk in the shadows, a chorus imposing deathly silence on otherwise empty sound. Organic automatons following an instinctive program, pausing to rewind when gears cease whirring and clicking. Then restart. {\it We'll always turn from the eyes of a stranger.} Restraining itself, the car urges forth on spinning legs, yellow cat-eyes scanning the darkness. Pinholes in the sky's shroud let through tastes of glory. The headlights illuminate only those patches of space directly before them as tunnel vision weaves down the road. {\it And I'll refuse to match your gaze, preferring the ambiguity of our relationship. Looking past each other's shoulders, eyes halved apart and tongues filling in the graves of fresh-spent words.} An enclosed thumb smiles against a moist palm, its nervous grin reflecting lines carved into the hand's tender belly. Steven L. Fitzgerald sfitzge@unix.cc.emory.edu