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 on the rocks And a She had a And an or two And I was happy as can be with the and the blend and strain on my and we didn't give a fuck for any 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.