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Desire Street 504a
Desire Street
April, 1995
cyberspace chapbook of
The New Orleans Poetry Forum
established 1971
Desire, Cemeteries, Elysium
Listserv: DESIRE-ST@SOUBELLE.JAXX.COM
Email: Robert Menuet, Publisher
robmenuet@aol.com
Mail: Andrea S. Gereighty, President
New Orleans Poetry Forum
257 Bonnabel Blvd.
Metairie, La 70005
Contents
:Copyright Notice
:16 Poems
:The Poets
:About the New Orleans Poetry Forum
The Back Seat
by Barbara Lamont
The night my mom died
i climbed in the back seat
when we went to the nursing home
to gather a lifetime of possessions
distilled into one small room
with name tags.
It was the first time in 21 years
that my Lisa got to sit up front
with Daddy driving.
"That's the daughter's seat Mom," she said.
i knew that.
i was no one's daughter any more
nor would i ever be.
That's why
i climbed in the back seat
pretending, curled up, crying,
trying to hold back time,
protected against head-on collisions
which had already happened,
knowing I would never again call anyone
mom.
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.
Bourbon Street Blitz
by Stan Bemis
Let that horn screech
Like two sex-starved
Alley Cats
Who've come together
Through the melting of
The fur.
Let it come rumbling
Like hot scalding lava
From a volcano
Bursting, moaning.
Let that sound come.
Let it come,
Let it come,
Let it come!
As You Desire Me
by Robert Menuet
I go down,
trenchcoat, scarf, raybans.
One of you I think the doorman
exacts his Nod,
My smile.
I've looked down
into puddles as I stroll
(their forbearances are free)
but today into
Faces.
It made me tired to be down
where it's clear the air
and the hunger there
are killing
Many.
Double Vision I
Wolf Eyes
by Bonnie-Fastring Crumley
I
She turned
in evening mist,
stared straight at me,
gray hair rising,
silver fur
streaked with dark.
Two legs, not four,
the shebeast
dream
hunted.
When she entered the dark woods
I followed.
I followed.
II
I'd seen the eyes before.
Three years ago in a dream.
They'd pulled me
through words
I never dreamed I'd find.
"Make the frame of the poster
dark," I told the professional,
my physical vision threatened.
I hang the poster
over the music I haven't played
since my mother's funeral,
by the picture of my daughter,
her head turned away,
eyes looking back,
triple-matting
one darkness over the other.
Drinking Litany
by Stan Bemis
We had <sex on the beach>
on the rocks
And a <slow comfortable screw.>
She had a <pink squirrel>
And an <orgasm> or two
And I was happy as can be
with the <climax> and the blend
and strain on my <creamsickle>
and we didn't give a fuck
for any <Flaming Jesus>
that night.
Huldah Martin
by Cedelas Hall
I hear Maw-Maw
sweeping in the kitchen,
scolding chickens
from the back steps
through the open door.
The water from her dishpan slaps
the hard ground.
Grand-daughter
of a plantation owner,
Eloped with
an illiterate sharecropper.
Rough cabin,
rusty tin roof,
hand cranked well,
chamber pots and privy.
Proud shoulders stooped by age
and garden hoeing.
Hands gnarled from grasping
the homemade broom,
iron pots,
cow's teats.
Breasts stretched and deflated
from feeding her many children.
Face hardened, jaw set,
by their dying.
We work side by side
silently scraping the weeds
from her garden path.
I pause, complain.
She deftly sharpens my hoe.
Softness steals in at bedtime
when Paw-Paw retires to his room.
She reads to him from her Bible,
voice carrying
through the cracks in the walls,
over the bare rafters.
We sit on the side of her bed.
I brush her long grey hair.
Tomorrow if I behave
and do my chores,
I can braid it after lunch.
In Search of Academic Excellence
by Bob Rainer
Grades like A, and A+ and
Stars with golden glows
Are not acquired by work alone,
But by browning of the nose.
Suck up to him or her who gives
The grades both hard and fair
And bring to class such wondrous things
To make them glad you're there.
Awaken when the class begins
and strive to stay alert
And even when your 'ludes kick in
Look attentive, cute and pert.
Respond to all their stupid jokes
And laugh on cue and loud.
Then when the extra points go 'round
You know you will be proud.
For study doth a scholar embrace
and attendance doth affirm.
But it's where you your proboscis place
That gets you through the term.
Mardi Gras is Coming
by Mary Riley
I shall stand sometimes with the little kids
From the project or other times
On the porches of the wealthier people
With people who know people
Who know people, who
Know people
Who live along the St. Charles Avenue parade route,
And the wrong and the right
Side, the people who live along Jackson Avenue.
I shall go and stand
Just inside,
Just outside
And be squeezed in
Between all the sides of all the people
Who come to watch for the
First signs of the first parade, the tall truck
From public service that measures for getting under
The power lines, the motorcycle drivers, wearing
Maybe 10 or 20 or more ropes of long pearls,
The children running back and forth across the street,
Shouting, the children perched high on ladders,
Shouting, I shall yell with them, we will all yell,
Inside, outside, from all sides, we will yell,
"It's coming, it's coming!
Season of the Crane, I
(to my daughter, Deni)
by Andrea S. Gereighty
I
Egrets cling to
winter-stripped trees:
cotton plants in bloom.
II
This is not a time of blossoms.
The crane, head-high, stalks
the pier to Camp Gris-Gris.
The year is turning.
III
She returns annually
at this precise season
to reclaim the kitchen,
rummage for bread
make the dog mourn
her lost dead at dusk
in low-keyed moans.
IV
I wish the years would retrogress
I could carry my knowledge
devoid of stress, like old
books, into September
and to your birth.
Versed in Wicca, literature,
Tarot, unharried, prepared for
autumnal eclipses, cranes
and the steady, sub-tropical
monsoon in my heart.
Season of the Crane II
by Andrea S. Gereighty
In mid-October shadows outside
Go to any length to touch the
Pecan tree,
Heavy with the burden of
Winter's approach.
Shafts of sunlight spread leaves
Of the willing pecan.
The crane leaves Camp Gris-Gris
her season over for one more year.
At least I have been told this.
I do not believe it.
I myself have seen the crane
Near the island in the time
Between dusk and deep dark
Her cobalt grey blending with
Horizon and waves.
I have watched her wander in May
In the heat of July with no mate
But a young crane: perhaps an offspring?
August brings the lake to boiling
I no longer startle the crane,
No longer hear her whoops of surprise
When I come upon her suddenly as
She forages beneath the pier.
Perhaps she waits somewhere to return
Restless, as I am, for cool weather.
Teenager Sunbathing
by Athena O. Kildegaard
On a rusty bicycle,
down a familiar dirt road
she trades care
for the far-off sluggish
brush of grain trucks on asphalt,
a glint of the river,
and cottonwoods, peeling birch,
a patch of high grass.
Down in it,
the grass bristles,
sounds of spiders,
crusty beetles,
the surprise of her desire.
Then a truck from the highway
skids close. She listens:
two men, voices rising,
there one minute,
then into the truck,
gone back to the highway,
to town and another purpose.
She would ride
with them, she thinks,
talk of switch boxes,
hold their hands,
palm against rough callouses.
Then jump!
she wanted to jump
from their dusty truck
and spit--and saunter
as they do, she thinks,
these workmen in jeans
and rolled sleeves.
She holds her hands
above her face
to block the sun,
and in this moment feels cold.
What she had come for has passed,
even the dust has settled.
Valentines Day
by Mary Riley
You always shop for the same right things
Flowers, candy or perfume, a card,
A pin with a chip of semiprecious stone,
This year pink roses, the red too full blown,
We give into each other, it is better than winter,
Become soft as a bird in a good hound's mouth,
Then we browse some more for a way to describe
How it is between lovers when it's pretty good.
I've met you, it's payday, we'll walk to the ferry,
Taking care in the crush where crowds rush to depart
That we have what we carry, you your New York Times,
I my roses, my poems, my chocolate filled heart.
Weird Luck
by Christine Trimbo
I reach for the Mirror
and it falls to the floor
becoming diamonds.
Seven Years pass like
falling asleep with
the television on. The
Mirror was the only
high school graduation
gift I can remember. It
Follows me like a little
sister, asking questions
about the sky I'll never
Answer. My face pleads,
The Mirror shows me
what alone is. Tomorrow,
I will take my coins and
buy another Mirror and
hang it, carefully.
Who Is This Bitch Wolf
by Bonnie Crumly-Fastring
Who is this bitch wolf?
"Someone you hide behind,"
My poet friend contends,
"Come out from the wolf,"
she critiques my poetry,
suggests wolf is cowardly.
My son calls wolf my god
or goddess, if he feels like pleasing.
Thinks she's a good luck omen,
like the sign on his Daddy's truck
BUCKLE UP WITH JESUS
my weird religion, my son laughs,
gives me a wolf necklace anyway.
My daughter jeers, says in disgust,
"You know you don't give
a fucking damn about wolves."
She sends me a tape of howling
when she forgives me
that we love each other,
other times she ignores my poetry
like it's her own bad dream.
"It came from a dream,"
about five years ago.
Poems erupted, like double vision,
the wolf and I, undecided,
who was who,
each image changing us
as we changed it.
A gray shadow
that twists my vision
has become a part
of my reality.
Behind, beside, over, under,
it makes union with my images.
What is sight but an idea,
not this act of physical will.
Combination of shadow, light.
Who is this bitch wolf?
Winnowing
by Athena O. Kildegaard
Titmice and housesparrows fight
over sunflower seeds we've poured for them.
There is no wind to carry
away the flotsam of their feast.
I should go out with a broom
and sweep it into the holly bushes
and Johnson grass where it will compost--
these tiny shells, dry pirogues, left behind.
When we haggle with one another
over laundry and wounded egos
do we spill chaff to be swept away?
Or mar the air with our words?
Or do we barter against time,
each argument a winnowing out of desire
from desire? I will leave the sunflower husks
for the small birds, reminders of sustenance.
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.
Barbara Lamont writes about fear.
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.
Bob Rainer is an Alabama redneck who lives in Metairie, Louisiana.
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, April, 1995, copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum.
16 poems for April, 1995. Message format: 20 messages for April, 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.
