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Desire Street 602a
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Desire Street
February, 1996
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 1996, The New Orleans Poety Forum
(12 poems for February, 1996)
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Contents:
Three Months
Love, Bev
The Big Easy Sway
The Bonfires of Lutcher
Winter
untitled
Hungover Love
To the Muse
Prime
Sonnet VI
12 PM Renaissance
Winter White
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Three Months
by Andrea Saunders Gereighty
You sat there, always at my table
With that look on your face, sullen
Saying nothing, impenetrable.
I imagined you wished to be elsewhere.
And where are you now?
For all I know, you have gotten your way.
I search for you
Wander unsoled, along tracks
Where the train whistles
Sonorously, like the mustered out
Immutable magic.
"Show yourself"; I meet with silence.
Compared with that ice
Even glaciers sear and boil.
I flare toward an embankment, a turning
I am entombed in the old village
the green '57 Chevy
We park, caress, I climb into your lap
Reveal the course seduction can take.
I cry out, now as then, but with a different note
I am losing you like a photo that fades in tone, in time
Tears blur the night, the tracks, the station
But I raise my head, rally, start: wonderous
At the sight of the arc, the curve, the path of a
New shooting star.
11/25/95
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Love,
Bev
by Nancy Cotton
From the very first, second mother,
Adored sister, never to lose her
Fervent admirer, whose only regret
Was failure to keep a wedding vow
To her waiting, younger sister, who met,
Reluctantly, the successful beau
of Bev's affections, which went so
Far astray on a fall, Syracuse campus,
Distant from home, sister, and promise.
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The Big Easy Sway
by Ray McNiece
for Lee Grue
The rusty sun barges westward up the Mississippi,
sinking swollen drunk over the Quarter.
Started partyin' a little early and I peaked
too soon -- hence this ballasted perspective from the edge
of the slow, bourbon whirlpool. Another reveler
tries to focus on what's left of a double hurricane
pink in its plastic souvenir cup, then starts doin'
that open-container two-step stumble, pot-belly spillin'
out from his "It's not the heat, it's the stupidity!"
T-shirt, his face red as burled crawdad.
Nawlins' summer is a greasy sauna where smells take on shapes --
presences of oyster-sloppy sexual decay hover the corners,
mingling with the ghosts of etouffee while stale beer
lingers down cool alleys mumbling to a memory
of patchouli that wafts by on a rare breeze stirring
the skirts of Spanish moss, fanning green tongues exhaling
breaths from between bricks mortared centuries ago,
and insinuating through half-open shutters
to ruffle lacy interiors over rose-petal skin.
The Delta Swamp's fevered hands peel paint from shotgun shacks
in strips of stale pastry, in strips of ancient lingerie.
Its humid touch corrodes up floral, wrought iron trellises,
always ready to reclaim the fecund dreams of her denizens
who simply push the bones of generations out
the back-hatches of cool, creole tombs and slide in
after one more night of hot, mystical carnival --
all souls blowing their first and last
breaths though brassy jazz, handkerchiefs marching skyward.
I give a nod to Tennessee's panama-hatted pale shade
deep in a dry-rot wicker chair in an upper gallery.
Lids heavy, he gives a wry smile and toasts
his glass with inky hands, ice-cubes clinking into silence
as Lady Mississippi strolls over the levee,
her brown-golden bosom swelling and sighing
from her glittering evening dress cause
she ain't gonna follow no straight and narrow,
she's gonna roll her hips any which way she pleases,
the Big Easy swayin' through everybody she passes.
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The Bonfires of Lutcher
by kevin R. johnson
about this ritual thought to be a christianized
Druid rite he answers "don't know" except that
"the same place as always" burns on Christmas
Eve in Lutcher, LA; the boy has an uncanny
knack for finding what's lost around the bonfire
in this drunken mayhem of fireworks whispers
hidden pissing: a new swiss army knife small vinyl
purse glow-in-the-dark necklace but not her
attention ("see the black-haired girl over there?");
he is in charge of his family's dying constellation
which spits at the stars killing whole logs into
halves into ash to sleep another year in factories
& trailors & cartons of Marlboro cigarettes like
his daddy & grandpa & great-grandpa before; he
knows the glory of good straight oak & black
willow no higher than 20 feet, tied together
with reeds & wire, "it takes six days to cut 'em
three to build it one to burn" for a life-time
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Winter
by Joshua Corey
The days shorten, fat candles
burning like leaves. Loneliness
falls away in summer like seersucker
retreats from your skin--August
shakes itself like a dog and becomes
the saboteur November, lighting
the fuses of the oaks along St. Charles.
The cold is here to stay; the world
is banished. I love my home
but I want to be the only moving thing,
to meander like the Mississippi.
The silence would break over me
like waves over the prow
of an oil tanker winding its way
into the Gulf. You do what you love,
or not. You make love and then
steal the covers and thrust yourself
into the pocket. I was alone.
I was in the wilderness, hoarding
my possessions: books, the commandments,
certainty in God. Now that's missing.
Like the true northern winter
with its dry maps of branches
on the ground; here it's the wet snap
of floating bones and the dead
in procession down Canal Street
while the living hide
as if under the earth. Each front
comes like a thief in the night--
rain and the shock of rain.
I'm insomniac, while my love swims
in sleep, her shoulder to the wall,
dreaming of heat. I'm alone
at last. The wind rattles the dead
wisteria against the windowpanes
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untitled
by Bonnie Crumly-Fastring
These men
in Holt County
stand like old cottonwoods
In their yards
along fenced fields
cottonseeds blow across their bodies, hot snow.
Harsh lines
from years of weather,
not-knowing-what-might-happen days of farming
are repeated, over & over in their faces
Each one
takes my father's hand
like it is a God-damned flower.
They stroke
each finger gently
touching curved petals
looking straight
into my father's eyes.
He leans
from his pick-up truck window.
He's come
to see them and the land,
come from the Nursing Home.
He can't talk
without feeling deeply,
without his voice shaking
and the words
fall like unexpected rain
splashing into rings of dust,
washing their clasped hands.
1995
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Hungover Love
by Christine Trimbo
I was not drunk
and then I was.
You closed like
Brando's fist. Didn't
wave goodbye at the
streetcar. My mad
hands were dancing
all night.
You measure your love
like sifted flour. It doesn't spill over.
Rubs to nothing.
No taste left to
delight my tongue.
Forget I once became
your only one For a time,
I would count your words
as gold coins, hoarded,
fondled, held in moonlight.
I break at the red blooming
hearts of flowers. Children
cry when I stare in their
eyes. Songless, I mutter, kick
the poor stones, Look up the sky.
Then sigh. The still night undoes
me like a straight shot of rye.
Now I know
how distant
the stars are
when once I
saw morning
smother them
in light.
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To the Muse
by Byron Clements
What's the big idea
coming in here when
I'm in the shower?
think I'll get so excited I'll
drop my towel and
make a run for the pen?
What's the big idea asking if
I'm as big a man as I seem?
You're not the first to claim
you hold my masterpiece:
you've all proved to be at best
exercises, tryouts for the real thing
When we've looked at each other
the next morning. How many times
have you set your own eyes
on others, while dangling
the gee-gaws
of yesterday's tricks?
You've the perfect idea! Right.
I've been north & south a few times
and all you types
between Avenues A and Z
are teaching me is
you spell trouble.
You call me a big man
perfect for the job
of your big idea:
is that so? Then
why have you robbed me
of the chance to woo you?
You laugh. And only now I'm
beginning to fall in love with you:
the gaps between your teeth!
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Prime
by Cedelas Hall
There you are.
Constant.
Sure in your belief
that two is
a prime number.
Soft inside.
I could crawl in,
pull you around me,
warm, safe womb.
Floating,
lost,
blind.
You want
what you had...
I never had.
Your faith hypnotizes.
The dream
that did not exist
until you came
frightens me.
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Sonnet VI
by Jeff Wilson
Oh Nymph which nail and hammer injure thus;
Oh lamb of light bent by the lake's wide wake--
Shy from further hell (born with scorn) by us--
Iris twist'd by one lett'r for progress' sake.
When glass and metal all that stand without,
How must the Hamadryad then to feel,
What black and burned banshee will cry out
With glorious fauna rutted for our wheel?
What greater tragedy than loss of elves?
In truth I see no sight in our success;
More beauty left should we destroy ourselves!
And light the flame of care to cleverness.
Oh, I--would crush industriousness' hand
So that our mother not be ground to sand.
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12 PM Renaissance
by glenn patrick amrien
After day. After Thunder.
Rust on your face, and sink
into your joyless ocean.
Shatter glass, and drink
your empty dreams. And gasp.
And shiver. Go insane
to Elvis, singing, One Night
on the radio. Drain
the last drops, into your always
thirsting mouth. And sigh
in your brandy love. Undress.
Sit naked. Read old letters. Die
like sunshine. Jack off
to the shadows on your wall,
and pray for sleep like Jesus,
to come and save your world. Call
out to Nothing. And listen
to its silent howl. In your orgasm
of loneliness, spent shuddering.
Flowing. In the chasm
of your isolation, with its cold
and tempting kiss. And hate
like rain, that bites, and stings,
and comes served upon a plate,
and drags you bleeding, through
endless dark, and endless rage;
finds you spilled upon the floor.
Just a brand new day on the very same page.
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Winter White
by Barbara Lamont
White sand, white sun, whitecaps moving swiftly over white reefs
I turn my dark face to this source of light
my body light as goose down
my brain white matter
until
the roar and splash, the windhowl and tangspray of my dreams
deferred, crushed, like glass ground fine
grey and gleaming in the sand
waiting to draw blood
from your toes.
White sand, white sun, sandpipers shaking white feet
curling, wheeling, mounting against the sky
watching, diving, hungry, blind,
waiting to exhale.
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THE POETS OF DESIRE STREET
glenn patrick amrien has not submitted a bio
Byron Clement is a Bywater resident who walks through the Quarter taking notes frequently.
Joshua Corey has not submitted a bio.
Nancy Cotton is an immigration attorney.
Bonnie Crumly-Fastring is a poet and teacher from New Orleans.
Andrea Saunders 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.
kevin R. johnson, Piscean, enjoys Tequila under the stars and writes about the physiology of nothingness.
Barbara Lamont writes about fear.
Ray McNiece has not submitted a bio
Christine Trimbo lives in a house that once neighbored Degas'
house. She has two bicycles but no cats.
Jeff Wilson has not submitted a bio
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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 background, 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 has published a monthly electronic magazine, Desire Street, for distribution on the Internet and computer bulletin boards. It is believed that Desire Street is the first e-zine published by an established group of poets. Our cyberspace chapbook contains poems that have been presented at the weekly workshop meetings, All poems presented at Forum meetings may be published in their original form unless permisssion is specifically withheld by the poet. Revisions are accepted until the publication deadline of Desire Street. Publication is 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.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Desire Street, February,1996 © 1996, The New Orleans Poetry Forum. 12 poems for February, 1996. Message format: 16 messages for February, 1996. 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.
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