~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Desire Street November, 1995 cyberspace chapbook of The New Orleans Poetry Forum established 1971 Yusef Komunyakaa Commemorative Isssue 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 1995, The New Orleans Poety Forum (12 poems for November, 1995) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Contents Poems by Yusef Komunyakaa from the NOPF archive and other sources at Xavier University Library: Antebellum Silhouette The Brain's Ultimatum to the Heart Ia Drang Valley: A Dream Returns Netherworlds Nude Study Bar Beach The Cool Third Week Garbo, as you desire me It comes down to this Monstrous October 6th Wednesday Nights -------------------------------------------- Nude Study by Yusef Komunyakaa Someone lightly brushed the penis alive. Belief is almost flesh. Wings beat, dust trying to breathe, as if the figure might rise from the oils & flee the dead artist's studio. For years this piece of work was there like a golden struggle shadowing Thomas McKeller, a black elevator operator at the Boston Copely Plaza Hotel, a friend of John Singer Sargent hidden among sketches & drawings, a model for Apollo & bas-relief of Arion. So much taken for granted & denied, only grace & mutability can complete this face belonging to Greek bodies castrated with a veil of dust. -------------------------------------------- The Brain's Ultimatum to the Heart by Yusef Komunyakaa Stars tied to breath When days are strung together, don't have to be there the hourglass fills when you look with worm's dirt. No more than drops What do you take of blood on ginkgo the brain for? I know leaves & inconsequential how hard you work eggs & frog spittle in that dark place, but clinging to damp grass. I can't be tied down Sure, I've seen doubts to shadows of men clustered like peacock in trenches you won't eyes flash green fire. forget. You look at So what? a mulberry leaf like a silkworm does, with all your insides, but please don't ask me to be responsible. -------------------------------------------- Netherworlds by Yusef Komunyakaa The day hurts. Each leaf scribbles crimsoned ocher across the lousy silence. Chocolate cherries wrapped in silver foil make my fillings ache. I am pulled down to the bed. Pages flip. Late October, 1989. Yes, I think I know this house where an off-duty cop says, "You must be Robert Lowell". That's in another city, & please don't ask why I'm here standing before this bronze heft as the 54th marches past mansions & clubs with drawn window shades. A hundred threadbare boots climb the sandy hills of Fort Wagner, their gold cross on a star still up there. Maybe a few minutes of the evening news, & then a light dinner downstairs. Something hot & spicy. What's this? A black man did what, shot a pregnant woman? The whole day hurts. A skeleton key shines like gunmetal at the bottom of the Charles River. I count roses on the wall-paper till night turns into snapdragons around a casket. I bet this is how Lowell felt next to that crook Lepke. I'm afraid to go out into those Boston streets: so many netherworlds drift through each other, dividing like cells. The cops blackjack the whole night till it confesses. Stars on the ground finger the woman's jewelry & the gun in a paperbag. The evidence pulls me back into myself. In Durbarton I'm in another county of Christmas snow, across from the old farmhouse. The two faces holding the picture in focus, who knew your mother & father when they were alive, can you hurt them with love? I hear you say, "He's only a friend." I stand beneath petals falling from the wallpaper. We have our arms around each other, gazing over a wrought-iron fence at Lowell's grave. A grackle& red bird flit among icy sumac branches, shaking berries till they're like silent bullet holes in the white, funereal air, & I wonder if his ghost is angry about our bodies aflame under the trees. ____________________________________________ Ia Drang Valley: A Dream Returns by Yusef Komunyakaa To sleep here, I play dead. My mind takes me over the Pacific to my best friend's wife nude on a bed. September blue fills the room. I lean over & kiss her. Sometimes the spleen decides for the brain, what it takes to get me through another night. The picture dissolves into gray & I fight in my sleep, cursing the jump cut that pulls me back to the men in a white tunic, where I'm shoved against the wall with the rest of the mute hostages. The church spire hides under dusk in the background, & my outflung arms shadow the corpse in the dirt. I close my eyes but Goya's Third of May holds steady, growing sharper. Now, I stand before the bright rifles, nailed to this moment. -------------------------------------------- Wednesday Nights by Athena O. Kildegaard Around the curve of Fontainebleau to Broad I arrive in January dark to see lights in the sun room someone already in a wicker chair copies of her poem balanced on her knees. Three of us step from our cars onto the pavement, the curbs swinging against grass lit by streetlights. No moon yet. We come with words typed and copied, words falling around us into the shadows, words clinging to the seams of our clothes like dust. The words shake out as we walk, shake out and mingle, press up against one another until whole lines and stanzas form in what must be a hymn of exultation and discovery. ------------------------------------------- The Cool Third Week by Andrea Saunders Gereighty Trees sway in the force of sullen rain Bonnabel, Brockenbraugh, the square block turns Again: It holds ten trees. In each yard the dry fruit different In shape, size and texture. In a hard drizzle, the fattest nuts drop From the giant pecan in my father's yard. He is dead: stopped, who taught me The difference: ripe, hollow or Rotten to the core. His fence, in a sheen of red and white reflected sun Outlives him. The grilling rain lays down again A patina on the hulls in disarray. I nudge the days closer to mid-month, wait once more. White maggots, narrow as needles, suck the nuts. Squirrels on the take toss kernels to earth. "The ones you pick in September will be small," Hooded tight in husk; rotted with the wormy Musk of birth. Hold on: Stay your hand. "Prepare for October, the cool third week." October, the month of ripe pecans. I am in collusion with your whims. I stalk trees, await the third week Of your span to harvest seeds Of one person The man who gave me life. Here, near the remnants of his life I search out the swollen, black-striated nuts Dad gave instructions Clear as October rain: Patience. By month's end, they'll fall again. --------------------------------------------- Garbo, 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. -------------------------------------------- Antebellum Silhouettes by Yusef Komunyakaa ...and that this penalty of death was dealt them by their own husband or father or brother as the case might be. --LILLIAN SMITH, Killers of the Dream The war's over. Daddy's dead beneath a hero's white oak, & I'm left with this gimpy leg, a Yankee's bullet in a bone finer than Grecian porcelain. The cotton flowers are gone. Voices stolen from the air, days left like mud eels after the river's receded gone up north & down to the devil. Carpetbaggers everywhere, talking out of both sides of their mouths & putting puppet niggers in high places. Dixie's in the canebrake like a corn-shuck doll. Mother's dressed up in lace & taffeta, sitting upstairs, playing solitaire. The silos are empty, & the edge of the field bound with come-along vines & kudzu. Is it any wonder I drink morning, noon, & night? Yes, now this damn burden passed down from father to son, in the blood's first howl from cave to Stonehenge, this scalawag's oath & naked privilege. Can I do it? Daddy would have if he'd seen only half of what I've witnessed. He would've killed them both by now. If Sister is so smart, doesn't she know Big Carl is Daddy's bastard son? What am I saying? The house niggers laugh behind their hands. When I first came back I held my sister in my arms, but couldn't stop trembling. She wasn't a little girl anymore. Everything here was sad except her. The fields languished between yellow & brown. The corn mash better than ever; its old bite just as deep. Someone was there like a ghost from the battlefields she was in the room peering at me. Nude beneath lamp-lit cloth. Did she think I was drunk? I saw her ease down the stairs & out the side door. Big Carl's shadow was tall as the oak they stood beneath; his arms around her waist & her moving against him as if to climb a hill or swim upstream. They won't be laughing behind their hands when a horse bucks & her right foot tangles in the runaway's stirrup when she trips on the top step & falls to the bottom with a broken neck, & me there rocking her back & forth in my drunken arms. -------------------------------------------- October 6th by Kerry Poree for Mrs. Williams H.S. Elementary My son came from school with (in his left foot) a will-less tapping, so we slid our hands to feel the close grain finish on a new wall. We looked under secrets, under emblems, under inky cap mushrooms for something creeping, some small creature to call an itty-bitty something. We found a two winged leaf-miner, who began immediately lawyering for a weasel word why he should not be captured and poem-ed. We went fishing for Hemispheres, Aspirations, and Asparagus (So what? They sound like fish names) We sat like seers. We talked about the feeling of having only a lanyard for webbing on a high structure, but not about days I don't secure it, or the capacity to feel. We sat like seers. Smiled with dimples, (Though mine were faked with magnolia leaves) he liked the effort, and that our hands are alike. Then that will-less tapping. I told him, "It's Mrs. Williams, ya know? She had the same effect on your sister. "Betcha she's a jazz singer after school. Betcha she can speak cat and sing scat words too. Betcha that's not just a tapping, but a timing that you'll always have in your corner. A concertized pencil in your pocket. A slightly raspy whisper counting (one, two, three) A calf muscle that pulses standing ...standing ...standing A muffled ...unmuffled ...muffled trumpet" Here ...hook us another worm, and tell her I said "Happy Birthday Mrs. Williams, Happy!" -------------------------------------------- Monstrous by kevin R. johnson Your eyes smell perfumed sheets, a bed shedding its skin suppose... no. I am intoxicated. Though the soft fuzz on your legs whispers "touch me": a gang of angels hoot & howl in irony; your mind is delicious. Having seen things come together in reverse, I know the possibilities of falling gravity is the least of my concerns. Terrible, this ache. Would you kiss it? When I say things, I hope you taste apples: good & sweet, red, with soft white meat inside that barely protects the center Compared to come here, saying good night is easy monstrous, a knife cutting warm butter -------------------------------------------- It comes down to this by Christine Trimbo Ice slides down my throat, a lit cigarette, small torch in the fading light, smoke curls around the mirror, wisps around a neck. I have parcelled my heart and sent it in envelopes across this country, to Oregon, California, the North. My words real as bullets. But I do no damage, the dissection uncovers nothing. What I am left with is a cocktail, the lowlit room; I think you can't begin until you rip the phone from the wall and hold your head in your hands. Love your pain like a daughter. Sit with her. Remain tender, curse slowly those who make you feel... -------------------------------------------- BAR BEACH by Barbara Lamont (for Isak Dinesen) "I had a farm in Africa", she wrote the cadence quiet, erotic. Now I wonder what if Isak Dinesen had lived not in coffee rich hills with dusty red clay and small brown schoolgirls all clad in navy blue? But today. how would she set it down, here on Bar Beach, watching these treacherous tides where the continent curves? Gaily colored vendors stroll the sand hawking green machete-split coconuts, ivory bangles, slaves in chains, and fresh pineapple slices on a spit. I had a German lover who could not swim the strong current tugging at his ankles he would stumble at my feet with a cup of gin Whisper of exotic pleasures which turned my head away from the line of small girls in ankle chains who could be bought for one hundred US dollars; carved ivory for two. This month of African sundays, I find him hard to understand my German rusty, his wit too subtle, insight keen. I think rather this comes from eighteen gin tonics (no ice blocks) of an afternoon. A pampered straw shelter on the hot sand the taste of desire ripe in the lazy Sunday afternoon heat I long for words which taste of snow on Kilimanjaro languid lions licking paws after lunch, wild boars circling baby elephants and a thousand gazelles across the Serengeti. Instead, this blinding beach in Africa with over-white sand and navy blue sea where the continent hooks and turns south to meet the fat orange African sun, its passions like the lushness of blueberries smothered with sugar and sour cream devoured under a duvet fresh with down. On the distant sand, a white pony gallops past bright striped banners. Bar Beach, a living marketplace, where magenta rubbings live side by side with alligator bags and beige water colors passing for oils. This languid sense of fear and discovery on Bar Beach (last Sunday our neighbors' gardeners stoned a thief to death) where rip tides tear at what used to be and was..... In accented tones half Munchener, half Tanqueray he whispers "du, Liebchen...." Barbara Lamont Lagos, Nigeria September 1995 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE POETS OF DESIRE STREET Yusef Komunyakaa, a native of Bogalusa, Louisiana, won the 1994 Pulitzer Prize for his book, Neon Vernacular. He currently lives in Australia. Andrea Saunders Gereighty owns and manages New Orleans Field Services Associates, a public opinion polls business and iscurrently 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 writes about the physiology of nothingness. 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. Previously he was a social planner. Kerry Poree is an electrician from New Orleans. 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. 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 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ COPYRIGHT NOTICE Desire Street, November, 1995, Copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum. 12 poems for November, 1995. Message format: 16 messages for November, 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. FIN *********************************************** FIN