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June, 2004 issue of the magazine presented poems that resonate with Walt Whitman's lines --
"Which of the young men does she like the best?/ Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her."
Judul Asli
Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream volume 25 number 6
June, 2004 issue of the magazine presented poems that resonate with Walt Whitman's lines --
"Which of the young men does she like the best?/ Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her."
June, 2004 issue of the magazine presented poems that resonate with Walt Whitman's lines --
"Which of the young men does she like the best?/ Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her."
Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, Volume 25, #6
Which of the young men does she like the best? Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. Walt Whitman 1 WATERWAYS: Poetry in the Mainstream Volume 25 Number 6* Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher Thomas Perry, Admirable Factotum c o n t e n t s Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $33 for 11 issues. Sample issues $3.50 (includes postage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelope. Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127 2005 Ten Penny Players Inc. *(This magazine is published 4/05) http://www.tenpennyplayers.org James Penha 4-5 Geoff Stevens 6 Susanne Olson 7-8 Patricia Wellingham Jones 9 Joan Seifert 10-11 Jeanne M. Whalen 12 Joanne Seltzer 13 Herman Slotkin 14-15 Robert Collet Tricaro 16-20 Shannon Connor 21-23 Ida Fasel 24-26 Fran Farrell Kraft 27-28 TV RECEPTION James Penha On Kuta Beach, Bali Dawn had not enlightened the volcano when I saw Salimi still posted at the trunk of a palm, feet planted in the sand. Ingenuously he scratched his butt just enough to raise the shade of his skirt to show a copper thigh. 4 But it was only I, Bad night? Nothing dropped by. He unhooked a finger from his pout and straightened it pointing up past his nose. Only one of those. Salimi kicked the coconut. And elbow leveraged as Bacall would, or Mae West, he brushed a finger across his cheek where in moonlight a patina clotted now. And how can I hide this, may I ask, when sometimes they look at my face. 5 Geoff Stevens Does he match the curtains? Is his coloring sympathetic to the scheme? Will he fit into the scale of the room? Have I got space for him? Do I need to purchase new furniture? Do I need to redecorate? Will we need to buy a bigger house? 6 Union Susanne Olson We live under the same roof share name and mortgage, fused together by the small gold band, a piece of paper the stubborn will. Two plants grasses grown in different worlds dropped onto the same patch of earth. Roots hesitant to mingle strive for nourishment of another kind. 7 Each lives uncompromising freedom. I know not when and where he goes he knows not of my ways. The twofold plant survives yet will it flourish green and blossom and bear fruit? What need drove us to find this plot of land hold onto it, cling to the soil tenaciously? Are we each others shield? Against what loss? Or like two trees need air, and space and time to grow unfold and thrive? 8 The Last Thing I See Patricia Wellingham Jones The first thing I saw when I swam up from anesthesia was your face furrowed with worry lines, your smile. I felt your hand clasp mine, warm below the IV, felt your butterfly lips touch my forehead. Since then mine was the face furrowed over yours, then you were there again for me. Although you say youd rather not tread the path without me, I hope you will be the last thing I will see. 9 Laughing Janies Upstaged Life Joan Seifert The eager, outreaching girl whod always had the urge to entertain, be in front of crowds, get applause, instead, went down the aisle with a quiet, charming boy, and had three kids. 10 Learned cooking on a budget and to sew her own curtains, wore her clothes year after year, saving dollars for things the little dumplings needed, Shed always wanted center stage but pedaled briskly in the background now, just keeping up. When her kids were grown they were so solemn; doctor, scientist, nurse, they wore white jackets, worked in hospitals, laboratories, one was helping find a cure for some dread disease. (it was her husbands genes, all those brainy ventures, she laughed generously.) She would never hear those entrances, flourishes, wild applause, though her grin was wide and bold and her heart took standing ovations when people spoke about her kids. 11 Piano Jeanne M Whalen Mist-swept outside an island cottage I submit to breeze and the breath of a forgotten piano newly blessed by a teenaged boy in sandals who plays with avid emotion that never performs on his docile face or in his stoic frame but only in his passionate dexterity. 12 Assisted Living Joanne Seltzer One of the newly admitted ladies calls herself a madam, the other female residents her girls. Mother worries people will think her loose. Bald, bent, shrunken, three potential customers dont buy. 13 QUIET ELOQUENCE Herman Slotkin In the darkest night, In the deepest silence, I mark your talking. The satin ribbon of your finger on my face is declaration. The lilt of your hips as you come and go is suggestion. Your smile- the eye-lit flash of teeth- is meaning. 14 Your mute moves tell me what I need to know- your expectations and promises, your assurances and desires. 15 My Lady Heron Robert Collet Tricaro Its likeness stood behind the glass, beside some plastic plants, I drew closer to hear what the expert would say, hoping hed agree that these avian ladies are divine. I learned a heron lacks good sense of smell has no lips, its hand is its beak. It has an oversized heart, an undersized trunk and no Circe of Willis in its brain. Its bones are porous, its hearing poor and while similar to, it is not a crane. 16 The curator continued by lamenting its penchant: its beak is guided by an oversized eye, to peck at eyeballs of trout, mouse, or curious people. I slipped away from the crowd that night and strolled by the campus pond, to catch one last look at what was then my not so perfect avian prima donna. There she was. The haughty, imperious fraud. Adorned in white silken contour plumes, wearing a pendulant tuft like a broach. 17 Then, resembling an opera priestess, she lifted the toes of her saffron shoes, and slowly raised her plumed arms high. Dense as cotton candy, she sprang onto a cushion of head wind to her three-dimensional stage. The moon her spotlight, she turned briefly my way before soaring to the stars. 18 Lucy Robert Collet Tricaro Comeliness and disposition may mean much to most, but I avert my eyes to looks she lacks and ignore those who say her image is a scowl standing with arms akimbo. Who then, if not Aphrodite, if shed deflate the moon and hang a digital clock in that space? 19 Bright? From one to ten where six is average, Lucy might be five-point-two. Who then if not Athena; if she thinks Chanticleer is a ceiling fixture? We go back a long way. At age fifteen minutes, I was in mothers arms. At age fourteen minutes, Lucy was on a respirator. 20 The Wrong Thing To Say Shannon Connor I have seen the color of madness in your eyes. I have seen you punch holes in walls. Ive seen my name spelled out in scabs on the soft part of your wrist. I have seen the pictures from your dresser drawer. Thats why its the parts of you I dont know that scare me. Its why I lift up every sentence you speak and look underneath for what hasnt been said. 21 Because I know how much deeper you can go. And when you speak to me like this, greeting cards of conversation, might as well be talking of the weather might as well hold up a mirror to everything weve said before when you speak to me like this then fall silent I fall to pieces. 22 Maybe its better to let you pretend you are the reflection on the water, telling me what you think I want to hear. Maybe its best to imagine I love myself only, that you are my lovely Echo, and if I drown, I will drown at least in beauty rather than in the arms of the beast below. Youll swear that you are neither. But then, as always, my dearest love, youll rip my heart out and disappear. 23 Simple Arithmetic Ida Fasel Sleeping Beauty, a hundred years older than the Prince, reckoned Martin. Call it a fairy tale, a silly story. We were latecomers to love, too, zigzagging the continent to separate trips, planes late, cars broken down, yet we arrived precisely to the minute when we were in the same place. Call it coincidence. Call it unlikely. All is love, all is meeting. And what then? work and bills, nagging decisions, slashing headlines, 24 family and friendly interruptions, hurts and hiddens of our own making. Love has a career too explores, develops; as day follow day probes a little farther, looks back, stops to consider, consolidates, breaks through. Can happiness be complete? Can we be two blooms growing on one stem? Love is the fine print of exalted feeling, intense, abidingly peaceful; in the margins top and sides and bottom of everything we do away from each other and in between the lines of everything we do apart. It is 25 the constant in the endless repetition of each others company. The ballet dancers firm position to leap from. The bold rhythms of the body electric, the silent eloquence of hand-in-hand, the listened-to, listened-for voice. Fulfilled yearning longing for fulfillment. Call our life together a fairy tale. Call it a silly story. Call it a sequence of events you and I Would not live again but for love. 26 Memory Fran Farrell Kraft I often say If he hadnt died, Ida killed him. But maybe its less simple than that. For ages I wore his shirts to bed. In many ways he defined my adult self. As his acolyte, I gained confidence in my abilities while accepting that I was nothing without him. When asked how I felt, I had no idea; the concept of grief was a mystery to me. Over time I did bond with his children. 27 Twenty-five years later, his kids and theirs joined me at the far-away lake where his ashes reside. His shirts are long gone. 28