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Desire Street 512a
Subj: December 1995
Date: 95-12-03 16:35:19 EST
From: desire.street@sstar.com
Reply-to: desire@sstar.com
To: culicchia@aol.com
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Desire Street
December, 1995
cyberspace chapbook of
The New Orleans Poetry Forum
established 1971
Desire, Cemeteries, Elysium
Listserv: DESIRE-Request@Sstar.Com
Email: Robert Menuet, Publisher
robmenuet@aol.com
Mail: Andrea S. Gereighty, President
New Orleans Poetry Forum
257 Bonnabel Blvd.
Metairie, La 70005
Programmer: Kevin R. Johnson
Copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poety Forum
(12 poems for December, 1995)
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CONTENTS:
}Twelve Poems
Bogue Chitto River
Good Friday Blues
Her Full of Misery
Jim Martin
Made to Scale
One Crow, Sorrow, Two Crows, Joy
Petit Mal Incantations
Shall I say that I have come to tell you all?
Smell
Thanksgiving
Toledano Street Near the Projects
Two-dollar restroom
}The Poets
}About the New Orleans Poetry Forum
}Copyright Notice
_________________________________________________________
TWELVE POEMS
Bogue Chitto River
by Cedelas Hall
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Near Moak's bridge
there was a still, deep spot
in the river, a summer gathering place
for the residents of Bogue Chitto
and beyond.
We spent hot summer days
dipped in the cool waters
and dappled shadows of the bridge.
Daddies taught the young 'uns
to swim their first
awkward, splashing strokes.
Mamas reclined in the shallows
watching fat, naked babies.
They yelled mother mantras
at raucous boys.
"Get down from there;
you'll break your neck."
"Don't go back in the water so soon.
You'll get a cramp and drown."
Tires of cars thumped wooden music
on the planks of the bridge.
Dust sifted through the cracks,
filmed the surface of the water.
I float face up,
sunlight filtered through trees,
lazy strobe above my closed eyes,
squeals of laughter muffled
by silty water in my ears,
gentle current urges my viscous body
past the bridge,
past Antioch Baptist Church
where I arose from a watery grave
in the name of the Father,
the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
I pass black and white Holsteins
drinking at the water's edge,
red clay banks climbing
to riverside homes with rope swings,
tiny rivulets dripping down
miniature hills of moss
in water sculpted mud embankments.
My body liquifies,
becomes one with the river,
merges with the Pearl,
flows into the Gulf of Mexico.
Good Friday Blues
by Stan Bemis
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
God
(as we all know)
is a Man
He stands erect
against the urinal
and pisses like a Regular
Fellow
He's white, Middle class & Protestant
He goes out w/
the spook
& spends His weekly check
After working six days
He rests on
the seventh.
The Mother of His now dead son
tries to catch Him
before He
goes
out the door
He beats her
(or, so I've been told)
annually
in the Spring
He's bottled up
w/ grief
over the pain
of the sustained mutual loss
of
the Son
who got killed
due to some agitation
against
one injustice or another
& when the anniversary pops up
The Father
just goes wild
Like most men
He can't express his emotions
very well
He leaves most of that to
Mary
She does enough for both of them
(so he'd like to think &
put it out
of his mind)
"I got the whole damn world to
attend to" He says & leaves her
holding the bag
He's into management
God's a powerful man &
at one time
could do most anything
His powerlessness to save His boy
has left him feeling fairly impotent
there just wasn't anything
he could do about it
He had had other things to do
Now, He weeps like David
over Absolem
& says he wished
he'd died in his son's stead
He doesnt attend church
since the incident
although, previously,
He'd been the pious sort
He & spook now go over to the Bethlehem Inn
& rack up a few
in a lonely solitude.
Her Full of Misery
by Athena O. Kildegaard
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Her hands
fall in great
lumps of sound
and her ears
close
against themselves.
Sing me out
of this loneliness,
sing me.
She makes herself
small and walks
into the day.
Squirrels chide.
From her eyes
sparks of trial.
No traffic stops
lights stay red
she turns back,
her great hands
rising into the air
of their own accord.
Jim Martin
by Cedelas Hall
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
He was "Paw-paw"
and I was "Tooch"
in those walking summers
spent on the red roads
of Lincoln County.
He used a cane
because old men
are supposed to walk
with canes.
I'd shuffle down the middle
of the road,
hot feet scattering
cool gravel
piled up by cars.
He was a healer
and they came
from all over
the county
to have warts removed,
and babies
cured of thrush.
And he was a mystery,
a lover of people,
a teller of stories,
with a history
that whispered of
Whitfield and shock therapy.
But that was before
they paved the road
between the stores
where he fought out
his politics
every election year.
Before I put on shoes
and became thirteen.
Before his daughters
moved him out
for his own good.
Before "taking it easy"
broke him
the way
a lifetime of walking seasons
never could.
MADE TO SCALE
from "The Great Lionel Train Robbery"
by Mary Riley
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
How seldom we get to climb towards what we really long for,
Those days of goofy ambition over mountains made exactly to scale,
But some days it happens, my longings fit me, are my bought
And paid for possessions and I am doing my own, no one else's
Small exacting thing, and oh so rightly.
On those days I think of you my son and your cousin-friend, Rahim,
Hooking train and track together over an always expanding
Landscape, a strong-friends-for-life thing between you
Even starting way back then,
Finally you had saved up enough to buy, not steal this time,
Thinking toughly, "Hell just too motherfuckin dangerous!"
So you zipped your parkas to go upstreet
To buy the roundhouse, then you did just that
That turnaround we must get to in our teens to inch our
Maddeningly small gleanings into place,
Then you stood up, loins aching and left this place you made behind,
Two tall, gangly looking youth, parting right on schedule.
One Crow, Sorrow, Two Crows, Joy
by Bonnie Crumly-Fastring
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
O.K. Gretel--
this is my question,
after you shoved her into the oven
and slammed the door shut,
the heat rising up to consume
the screams, moving from quieter
to quiet, did you become part
of the dark smoke pouring
out of the chimney,
later finding joy
because you knew you could kill,
your eyes like two black crows?
Or did you lose, forever,
your nerve, a lump
of black cindered stone
like one black crow
walking the edge of a shadow
between the woods and the open field
forever balancing in your mind,
a nine-year-old girl
on the wooden two-by-four fence,
carefully learning not to fall
to the right or to the left.
Tell me, Gretel
what happened after the oven?
Petite Mort Incantations
by Andrea S. Gereighty
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
I was in my 45th year
quarante-cinq, the wild card five
aces wild, wild-assed when we met.
A hot, tall, Mississippi man country
Skinny-boned, big-muscled, big-
shouldered daddy worked with weights
avoided ex-wife of 16 to hear him tell it
had incest with her step-daddy the whole while
Mr. Muscles and she were wed.
Whose baby was the boy, anyway?
He looks like me the Ms. man mused.
Old Mississippi spoke the worst grammar
In that soft, slightly nasal southern twang
Yet brought roses every week--two dozen
So many roses, every color I swore that
he fucked the florist/he said no and
we rocked the waterbed 6-8 times every weekend
Fri. pm to Sun. noon, about 39 hours
that's at least once every 6 hrs.
And damn--did it 3 hrs. each time.
Too sore for any more we slept, read poetry
watched videos, tv movies, I wrote
We ate out, marched in the Krewe de Vieux
danced at the Mardi Gras ball/head-banger
stuff I'd never get into but with him
and the Mystic Krewe of Nutria band
Stoned on homegrown/Tess's Northshore sativa
We could dance for hours/it was like foreplay
It was foreplay.
I knew what I wanted/just what I had to cure the blues
this trash-hauling sanitation engineer from a
Ms. trailer community.
My screams startled the dogs, set them to humpin' each other
seagulls screamed/I outdid them and lights went on
At camps 1000 yards away
We did not care, WE couldn't say whose lights
But we continued to burn till dawn
Then followed the La. grey herons
in Little Woods out to the island
Nothin' really, but a spit of uncovered lake bottom
at low-tide we played in the sand that sparkled more
after each hit of acid sparked those many-faceted prisms
in our minds/we were diggin/with kiddie shovels and
buckets/rerouted the path the Pontchartrain took in one afternoon.
Camp Gris-Gris is like that.
In the evening, seagulls flew a feeding frenzy
a hot, pink afterglow sucked at the horizon.
This place history of abuse/suicide/murder/mystery
violence we pacify with sighs, kisses
I still hear wails in the water
Voices under the windows at night the mirrors
break. We continue our exorcism.
SHALL I SAY THAT I HAVE COME TO TELL YOU ALL?
by Robert Menuet
email: robmenuet@aol.com
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
They made Him a supper; and Martha served: but
Lazarus was one of them that sat at table with Him.
--John 12:2
Martha, I do not want this company. Our sister prayed that he
heal me, but he did not come. In darkness I dreamt four days of the
fathers of Israel. They'd gathered me up to the bosom of Abraham; there
I was in comfort. I have no appetite for this food, and the sunlight of
Bethany hurts my eyes. Once I loved it here.
Joshua, you told them roll the stone away, and bid me come.
Something began to stink. Without willing I walked out in graveclothes,
my face bound about with a napkin. I can not eat this spring lamb;
I think of rot, and Mary weeping. Who is the guest of honor at this
supper? The Son of man has been glorified by these events.
Please pour the wine, Martha. I cannot live with this knowledge.
They will not hear me, they starve me with ears of stone. Already the
priests talk of putting me to death again. I cannot drink from this
chalice. I have no heart for table talk. I regret your supper disgusts
me. So do you, my sister, and all mankind.
Joshua, what am I, now that you have called me back? How will men
remember me? What of my works and days, my poems? I look down at my
napkin. You want me to be grateful, but it's You that are the
resurrection and the life.
Smell
by Athena O. Kildegaard
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
She sits, naked from the bath,
her soles resting drily
against one another, knees
flopped out, her smooth buttocks
curved away from the floor,
and one finger pressing her clit.
Her eyes avoid me, her mother.
She pretends to be alone.
And is. Then she sniffs
her finger, a deep
taking in of that earth
between her legs,
the smell she knows is her,
but that seems like something
passed down, like pants worn
smooth by many washes,
still too big, but ample.
Thanksgiving
by Bonnie Crumly-Fastring
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Guilt is the lady in the
yellow flowered hat
waiting outside the iron gates
of the French Quarter apartment.
Silently she holds out her hand
for my penance, singing a few words
of some old hymn. Her voice scrapes
like a streetcar changing directions.
Drunk, she follows me
down the neutral ground*
of Esplanade. We are looking
for my car. "Any good mother,"
she whispers, "gets home before her son."
She slips her arm around my shoulders,
kisses me softly on my cheek.
"And your cat is out of food,"
she screams, winking at me gaily.
* colloquial term for median in New Orleans
Toledano Street Near the Projects
by Andrea S. Gereighty
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
He leaped forward in the darkness
A well-shaped abstraction defining
Itself
Outlined in dusk his
Jacket seemed like the setting sun.
He pounded the Gospels like a rug
He could beat free of dust
And throw to the floor, one rug
For each living room in America
Salvation, as easy as that.
Hours later I passed Toledano again
He was still there, preaching
Atop a wrecked Chevy
As though the dust were mud
And he'd grown roots
Fertilized by patience and sole-
less shoes right through the
coupe's hardtop.
Up close
His face was like a city pawnbroker
Lending hope.
Two-dollar restroom
by Christine Trimbo
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
We can't move fast
enough through the blur
of crowd along St. Charles Avenue, this
drunk is good, whirling me fast-action movie
through waving arms, bleary eyes, brass noise,
corn dog beer yells, up and through
ladders, down the side street,
St. Mary has emptied itself.
He is standing outside smoking rings,
watching the beads on the ground,
the drizzle melting their crayon colors
into the cobblestones, we get a deal
three pees for two bucks,
because "we are so cute,"
he winks like a neon beer sign.
He lives in an appliance museum.
refrigerators, clothes washers, a rocking
chair stacked on two T.V.s.
It seems he fixes things for a
living he says, it does get
lonely, it is hard to meet
people, he has lived here
two years, he is making
chicken, red beans and rice
he has one beer, he can get more,
we can stay, here is his number, you can
buy a drier for cheap, what's your number?
You can stay. You can party.
But we are done. "You can come
back. Anytime you want." As we
leave, the sky throws
the rain down.
"Happy Mardi Gras" he cries
but we are gone.
________________________________________________________
THE POETS
Stan Bemis, originally from California, is an artist & writer.
He is a frequent visitor to the Maple Leaf Bar's Sunday poetry
readings. He is currently working on a book of religious poetry
atempting to, in the words of the theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
"speak of God in a secular fashion." He has been a member of the
New Orleans Poetry Forum for some years.
Bonnie Fastring is a poet and teacher from New Orleans.
Andrea S. Gereighty owns and manages New Orleans Field
Services Associates, a public opinion polls business and is
currently the president of the New Orleans Poetry Forum. Her poetry
has appeared in many journals, as well as in her book, ILLUSIONS
AND OTHER REALITIES.
Cedelas Hall has returned to poetry writing after a 20 year hiatus.
Her works range in subject matter from nostalgia to sex.
Athena O. Kildegaard is a freelancer writer and mother and
makes time between for writing poetry.
Robert Menuet is a psychotherapist, marital therapist, and
clinical supervisor. He is a bicyclist and former social planner.
Mary Riley is a semi-retired 30-plus-years social worker/child
care worker finally taking the time to write full time. Her current
project in addition to her poetry is a non-fiction book "A Year in
New Orleans" dealing with the paradoxes--the delights--the deaths
she has met in her five years there.
Christine Trimbo lives in a house that once neighbored Degas'
house. She has two bicycles but no cats.
_________________________________________________________
ABOUT THE NEW ORLEANS POETRY FORUM
The New Orleans Poetry Forum, a non-profit organization, was founded
in 1971 to provide a structure for organized readings and workshops.
Poets meet weekly in a pleasant atmosphere to critique works presented
for the purpose of improving the writing skills of the presenters.
From its inception, the Forum has sponsored public readings, guest
teaching in local schools, and poetry workshops in prisons. For many
years the Forum sponsored the publication of the New Laurel Review,
underwritten by foundation and government grants. The New Orleans
Poetry Forum receives and administers grant funds for its activities
and the activities of individual poets.
Meetings are open to the public, and guest presenters are welcome.
The meetings generally average ten to 15 participants, with a core
of regulars. A format is followed which assures support for what is
good in each poem, as well as suggestions for improvement. In many
cases it is possible to trace a poet's developing skill from works
presented over time. The group is varied in age ranges, ethnic and
cultural backgrounds, and styles of writing and experience levels of
participants. This diversity provides a continuing liveliness and energy
in each workshop session. Many current and past participants are
published poets and experienced readers at universities and coffeehouses
worldwide. One member, Yusef Komunyakaa, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize
for Poetry for 1994. Members have won other distinguished prizes and
have taken advanced degrees in creative writing at local and national
universities.
Beginning in 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum will publish a monthly
electronic magazine, Desire Street, for distribution on the Internet
and computer bulletin boards. It is believed that Desire Street will
be the first e-zine published by an established group of poets. Our
cyberspace chapbook will contain poems that have been presented at the
weekly workshop meetings, and submitted by members for publication.
Publication will be in both message and file formats in various
locations in cyberspace.
Workshops are held every Wednesday from 8:00 PM until 10:30 at the
Broadmoor Branch of the New Orleans Public Library, 4300 South Broad,
at Napoleon. Annual dues of $10.00 include admission to Forum events
and a one-year subscription to the Forum newsletter, Lend Us An Ear.
To present, contact us for details and bring 15 copies of your poem
to the workshop.
The mailing address is as follows:
Andrea S. Gereighty, President
New Orleans Poetry Forum
257 Bonnabel Boulevard
Metairie, Louisiana 70005
Email: Robert Menuet
robmenuet@aol.com
_________________________________________________________
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Desire Street, December, 1995, copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum.
12 poems for December, 1995. Message format: 16 messages for December, 1995.
Various file formats.
Desire Street is a monthly electronic publication of the New Orleans
Poetry Forum. All poems published have been presented at weekly meetings
of the New Orleans Poetry Forum by members of the Forum.
The New Orleans Poetry Forum encourages widespread electronic
reproduction and distribution of its monthly magazine without cost,
subject to the few limitations described below. A request is made
to electronic publishers and bulletin board system operators that
they notify us by email when the publication is converted to
executable, text, or compressed file formats, or otherwise stored
for retrieval and download. This is not a requirement for publication,
but we would like to know who is reading us and where we are being
distributed. Email: robmenuet@aol.com (Robert Menuet). We also publish
this magazine in various file formats and in several locations in
cyberspace.
Copyright of individual poems is owned by the writer of each poem.
In addition, the monthly edition of Desire Street is copyright by
the New Orleans Poetry Forum. Individual copyright owners and the
New Orleans Poetry Forum hereby permit the reproduction of this
publication subject to the following limitations:
The entire monthly edition, consisting of the number of poems and/or
messages stated above for the current month, also shown above, may be
reproduced electronically in either message or file format for
distribution by computer bulletin boards, file transfer protocol,
other methods of file transfer, and in public conferences and
newsgroups. The entire monthly edition may be converted to executable,
text, or compressed file formats, and from one file format to another,
for the purpose of distribution. Reproduction of this publication must
be whole and intact, including this notice, the masthead, table of
contents, and other parts as originally published. Portions (i.e.,
individual poems) of this edition may not be excerpted and reproduced
except for the personal use of an individual.
Individual poems may be reproduced electronically only by express
paper-written permission of the author(s). To obtain express permission,
contact the publisher for details. Neither Desire Street nor the
individual poems may be reproduced on CD-ROM without the express
permission of The New Orleans Poetry Forum and the individual copyright
owners. Email robmenuet@aol.com (Robert Menuet) for details.
Hardcopy printouts are permitted for the personal use of a single
individual. Distribution of hardcopy printouts will be permitted
for educational purposes only, by express permission of the publisher;
such distribution must be of the entire contents of the edition
in question of Desire Street. This publication may not be sold in
either hardcopy or electronic forms without the express paper-written
permission of the copyright owners.
end.
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Subject: December 1995
To: culicchia@aol.com
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Errors-To: desire.street@sstar.com
Subj: Ygdrasil
Date: 95-12-03 14:18:32 EST
From: Robmenuet
To: Culicchia
I don't remember the answer to your question.
I never look at Ygdrasil. Good production values, but our poems are better.
Here's the Ygdrasil Web site:
http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil
robert
