Desire Street October, 1995 cyberspace chapbook of The New Orleans Poetry Forum established 1971 Desire, Cemeteries, Elysium Listserv: DESIRE-ST@Bourbon-St.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 Johnson The Beast by Rhonda Manolis Thundering Hooves... straining muscles hot flesh on flesh one with the beast slow, rhythmic nature dance fence in sight t e n s i o n b u i l d i n g take flight...flying...soaring landing...dust flying. Thundering Hooves... Alone on a Life Ring by Craig A. Fisher Adrift. The world is a shrinking island of light on the aftermidnight sea. Quiet. Only sounds, whitecaps lapping, and diesels, dwindling. Dark. The world is larger than the moon, still. I don't see it often enough. Deep. Deeper than the world is distant. She might not find me tonight. Flatland Funeral by Andrea Saunders Gereighty Eight of us, one pallbearer for each sister's family at the burial of Grandma Grace. She and seven sisters raised in the depression; in this dustbowl place Gran outlived Three husbands to bring up the children. These men returned to dust, left her embrace, I recall, As I ease the clutch on my Renault first car behind the hearse. Wish I had a beer to quench the thirst of a long drive Past the smell of money, to Balco, whose plots sectioned off for coffins are the only break in the monotony of treeless Kansas. I imagine the dead like opal miners in Australia; at Coober Pedy people live underground in mud it is surely that hot in Liberal. The cortege twists like the great Gobushau snake. I see it behind me, as I take a right turn one mile down on the bushless plain. Thoughts of Grandma mothering young brothers: though just a girl her mom gave up that work was laid to resT. Uncle Dennis interrupts my reverie shifts his weight in the car seat. When Grace goes in the ground Notice the inscription on her mom and dad's plot: These people generous with pain; I see why mother begged for my presence, and not in vain to share the lineage of guilt and bones. Hope Cousin Jim has some weed I sure could use a smoke. We move again like the sloth found nowhere on this prairie As a dusky sun stretches like The wagon train that brought Gran here. This land, bad from the Mormon point of view; no Indians complained. Across this flat arid desert I turn left for shade At the one conspicuous tree. St. Charles Avenue at the I-10 Onramp New Orleans, Louisiana at night by Craig A Fisher Alone, between lanes on streetcar tracks, he looks to passersby for help. From behind a cardboard sign he looks homeless, stranded, scared to death. As I pass him by, in his eyes I see headlights, approaching; taillights, receding; and streetlights, still. Mom always says, beggars most times have more money than me. Looking through the rearview mirror, I reconsider, "Might he really need my help? I could drive around the block, maybe give him five." Woody would have spared a dime. And played a tune or two. November First by Kerry Poree The winter cabbage is still standing. The last dragonfly is motionless the wonderment of autumn is staggered by gloom, but no half cocked pox from all hallows eve can make it die. I have forgotten my discouragement watching my son run across the field. His stopping to turn and smile at me... Felix, feliciter by Robert Menuet Nearing you, Land, I push past Key Largo, caress Bermuda, call upon Kill Devil Hill, close by the Outer Banks. Land, in my wake Men defer elections; others before me have swept away rum, slaves, sugar. I hold little birds in the embrace of my eye, swirling, swirling waves, swells rip tides from St. Augustine to the Merrimack. I want to strike home at Cape Fear or Kitty Hawk or Chicoteague, for you, Land; to hurl their Monuments into the Potomac; to die, where? in you, Land. Lexington by Adam Josiah Poree age 7 I have wings I scare bad spirits away I am the living kind I have others like me too, That's why I am the true Stone Gargoyle. When you are awake I turn to stone. When you are asleep I turn to flesh. So whenever you are asleep I will fly to your window Like a cat I have a tail and ears, I am Lexington. Ha! ha! ha! The Smokehouse by Yusef Komunyakaa In the hickory scent Among slabs of pork Glistening with salt, I played Indian In a headress of redbird feathers & brass buttons Off my mother's winter coat. Smoke wove A thread of fire through meat, into December & January. The dead weight Of the place hung aroud me, Strung up with sweetgrass. The hog had been sectioned, A map scored into skin; Opened like love, From snout to tail, The goodness No longer true to each bone. I was a wizard In that hazy world, & knew I could cut Slivers of meat till my heart Grew more human & flawed. A LITTLE LESS by kevin R. johnson poor Sundae, sweet kitty ... cut by the edge of today my gut is open so pink, tender glass new from the oven the garbage truck noise swells, fades, passing by facial muscles gently twitch though barely weeping, I saw the over-worked trashmen release delicate sighs my response to necessity: smoke a cigarette it helps to think of chimes, a breeze, the cat napping on my lap is the proper response: to work, or speak with God about all my good intentions? I know why that mother took her dead baby on the plane you can't trust the angels Banking Potatoes by Yusef Komunyakaa Daddy would drop purple-veined vines Along rows of dark loam & I'd march behind him like a peg-legged soldier, Pushing down the stick With a V cut into its tip. Three weeks before the first frost I'd follow his horse-drawn plow That opened up the soil & left Sweet potatoes sticky with sap, Like flesh-colored stones along a riverbed Or diminished souls beside a mass grave. They lay all day under the sun's Invisible weight, & by twilight We'd bury them under pine needles & then shovel in two feet of dirt. Nighthawks scalloped the sweaty air, Their wings spread wide As plowshares. But soon the wind Knocked on doors & windows Like a frightened stranger, & by mid-winter we had tunneled Back into the tomb of straw, Unable to divide love from hunger. The Haunting by M. P. Sorrels She is no graceful ghost, Bloodlessly stumbling Into doorways, embracing them as she wanders Through cold rooms, seeking some demarcation To this, her grave, she is inconsolable. But she is lost within this morgue of memory And fear forbids her the sun. Flickering Gas lights cast no shapes upon her shadow. She cannot recall when she had substance. Nor does she remember being called "beloved" For Death has denied her flesh its senses. So, at the full moon, her mortal soul, Bewildered by this desolation, weeps. Time has no position within her prison. There are no clocks, only infinite repetitions. And the final penance for her past existence is Knowing she has no life beyond these walls. Victor, Idaho by Andrea Saunders Gereighty We slam through the curve of Highway 90 West so fast we surprise snow drifts stacked like sun-dried pillowcases sleeping in the sunshine. Beyond soft, soiled mountains we glimpse a town so desolate, The green '52 Chevy rusting in abandon looks new. Images of seats spring from patches of weeds where the movie house died and left its art deco marquee to rest in a semi-vacant lot. A grey mare, her blue eyes aged with the soot of patience has all she can do to steady both her colt and a shack, shingled in another century. She is musing, like the mountains. I imagine she blanks her mind from pain and lies to herself, waiting. She waits for those people who willed her the house who wiped their feet on the town who moved west. Maybe, Once by Athena O. Kildegaard I'm waiting for the cedar waxwings to come feed on these ripe loquats. I'm waiting for their chirrs and cheers to alarm me out of the silence piling up like laundry. Even if I were to whistle the silence would crowd. I have known these delicate birds since childhood, the red glint at wingtip and the way they come only at dusk, jesters to lift the spirits. Maybe, once, they were eaten, stuffed with berries and marjoram, or kept in cages by some withering dame, like me, to watch, knowing the beauty of their small bodies could lift any emotion from her breasts any other than this one I have--even before seeing them--of intense longing. The Good Friend by Bob Rainer Oh please, dear friends, Please do come visit me this summer Please stay a while And let us talk. You both are all I need; You, Gill with the golden hair and You, Evelyn with the ready laugh. You bring from England no love for your Queen -- You aren't offended when I call Elton the john "the Royal Prickless Wonder." Just laying in bed till noon and then having tea and biscuits at La Marquis is your penultimate rebellion against the sense of industry you abandoned when you first came to America and told me you would give me the night of my life if you could stay the night with me. It was a night of glory -- my night of glory -- even though two women got the best of one man, and I never complained. Please come and stay again, good friends. We deserve that much. And this time I promise not to fall in love with the Australian. Zen and the Art of Unloading the Life Insurance Money by Mary Riley I am giving away a lot of this money Paying for things that feel Like they should happen to this one or that one, Paying a friend's school loan so she can go on and finish, Buying a pair of airline tickets so my daughter and Her new man can come down to New Orleans to see me, Helping another friend with five children rent A bigger, safer house, helping to Finance this flying in daughter's next little leap back into her life, I am happily paying for These things which just feel like they ought to be allowed to be, Ought not to be out of reach of all but the rich or the lucky I am discovering with delight How to be the unlucky, lucky, these beneficiaries of brokeness, And am trying like crazy to help out such people, Who I now dance with, still trying a new step or two forward, And of course that tricky little one back, I am slowly getting smart enough to know that we Can't begin to earn our way, until we're poor again, and How when it comes to other people, and Loving them, we'll never be all that poor, or all that smart. Four Kinds of Soft by kevin R. johnson i) yo kissin' fills ma big belly I'm gettin' fat on ya honey yo gojis hips afrenzy baby, I can smell ya comin- like rain an yo talkin's apowaful red wine an I'm beggin jus a lil mo time an yo laughter's sweet n angel fine baby, I can smell ya comin- like rain ii) thunder & lightning- they are talking about revolution, again. count the rain centuries are falling bathed in waves/smashing/waves I touch you iii) mouth open lips to lips more than kissing less than surgery tongue: a hand, an eye: you swallow me iv) Last night: dreaming of s o f t n e s s a granite rock cracked open s p I l l I n g into today: a downpour of light filling the a i r very nicely with sunshine bright in the sweat on your back The Death of Old Cat by Mary Riley Old Cat wanted out, He decided these annoying cats and dogs He'd had to live among, so scrappily, Were after all just cats and dogs, He looked at them, As if to say at last, "So we've had a round or two, what harm in that.?" The past few days he'd given up Some stubborn Hold on something, not life, whose to say what? Certainly not the future, or the past, just I guess An air conditioned life with private nurse, He decided to give that all up to prowl, Around this cluttered houseful of art And creatures, this fumbling mistress, these dogs, These other cats, this plethora of smells, He sniffed Everything like a visiting professor, Watched us all chew our morning kibbled, Cat chow and grape nuts, With a newish, wide eyed look, And then he went outside For the first time in his life Right through the uncloseable Cat door, I thought of bringing him back, Did once, he left again, And of course I'd showed him the dish again, Offered him special treats, freshened the water. I found his body near the street. I was glad to see That he hadn't been run over. Simply died, In the way of those who've been Given a little opening in which to die. I buried him in the garbage, In the name he'd earned in his last days, Old Cat, scrawny, Pinched faced, but no longer frail, Belly up but still waving The cat nation's flag of tawny stripes, At the end of his stiff tale, Now permanently braced for come-what may. THE POETS OF DESIRE STREET Craig A Fisher was born in Prince George, British Columbia, Canada, currently resides in Slidell, Louisiana. He earns a living programming computers, NAVOCEANO, the U.S. Naval Oceanographic Office. 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. Kevin Johnson, Piscean, enjoys Tequila under the stars and writing about the physiology of nothingness. Athena O. Kildegaard is a freelancer writer and mother and makes time between for writing poetry. Yusef Komenyakaa, a native of Bogalusa, Louisiana, won the 1994 Pulizter for his book, Neon Vernacular. He teaches at University of Indiana Robert Menuet is a psychotherapist, marital therapist, and clinical supervisor. Previously he was a social planner. Rhonda Manolis, mother of Chris and Andy, loves horeseback riding, Tai Chi Chaun,bicycling, hiking, and fishing. She reads Jungian psychology, existential philosophy, and holistic medicine. Adam Josiah Poree is a Student. Kerry Poree is an electrician from New Orleans. Bob Rainer is an Alabama redneck who lives in Metairie, Louisiana. M.P. Sorrels lives in Slidell, where she works with the Live Poets Society. 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. In 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum began to publish 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, and submitted by members for publication. Publication will be in both message and file formats in various locations in cyberspace. To subscribe to Desire Street via Listserv, send an Email message to DESIRE-ST@BOURBON-ST.COM and put the word SUBSCRIBE in the topic field of the message. You will receive an automated confirmation of your enrollment. Subscription is free of charge. 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 Saunders Gereighty, President New Orleans Poetry Forum 257 Bonnabel Boulevard Metairie, Louisiana 70005 Email: Robert Menuet robmenuet@aol.com Desire Street, October, 1995 Electronic Magazine of the New Orleans Poetry Forum Listserv: DESIRE-ST@BOURBON-ST.COM put SUBSCRIBE in topic field COPYRIGHT NOTICE Desire Street, October, 1995, copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum. 17 poems for October, 1995. Message format: 21 messages for October, 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.