Subj: December 1995 Date: 95-12-03 16:35:19 EST From: desire.street@sstar.com Reply-to: desire@sstar.com To: culicchia@aol.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Desire Street December, 1995 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 1995, The New Orleans Poety Forum (12 poems for December, 1995) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CONTENTS: }Twelve Poems Bogue Chitto River Good Friday Blues Her Full of Misery Jim Martin Made to Scale One Crow, Sorrow, Two Crows, Joy Petit Mal Incantations Shall I say that I have come to tell you all? Smell Thanksgiving Toledano Street Near the Projects Two-dollar restroom }The Poets }About the New Orleans Poetry Forum }Copyright Notice _________________________________________________________ TWELVE POEMS 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. Good Friday Blues by Stan Bemis ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, God (as we all know) is a Man He stands erect against the urinal and pisses like a Regular Fellow He's white, Middle class & Protestant He goes out w/ the spook & spends His weekly check After working six days He rests on the seventh. The Mother of His now dead son tries to catch Him before He goes out the door He beats her (or, so I've been told) annually in the Spring He's bottled up w/ grief over the pain of the sustained mutual loss of the Son who got killed due to some agitation against one injustice or another & when the anniversary pops up The Father just goes wild Like most men He can't express his emotions very well He leaves most of that to Mary She does enough for both of them (so he'd like to think & put it out of his mind) "I got the whole damn world to attend to" He says & leaves her holding the bag He's into management God's a powerful man & at one time could do most anything His powerlessness to save His boy has left him feeling fairly impotent there just wasn't anything he could do about it He had had other things to do Now, He weeps like David over Absolem & says he wished he'd died in his son's stead He doesnt attend church since the incident although, previously, He'd been the pious sort He & spook now go over to the Bethlehem Inn & rack up a few in a lonely solitude. Her Full of Misery by Athena O. Kildegaard ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, Her hands fall in great lumps of sound and her ears close against themselves. Sing me out of this loneliness, sing me. She makes herself small and walks into the day. Squirrels chide. From her eyes sparks of trial. No traffic stops lights stay red she turns back, her great hands rising into the air of their own accord. Jim Martin by Cedelas Hall ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, He was "Paw-paw" and I was "Tooch" in those walking summers spent on the red roads of Lincoln County. He used a cane because old men are supposed to walk with canes. I'd shuffle down the middle of the road, hot feet scattering cool gravel piled up by cars. He was a healer and they came from all over the county to have warts removed, and babies cured of thrush. And he was a mystery, a lover of people, a teller of stories, with a history that whispered of Whitfield and shock therapy. But that was before they paved the road between the stores where he fought out his politics every election year. Before I put on shoes and became thirteen. Before his daughters moved him out for his own good. Before "taking it easy" broke him the way a lifetime of walking seasons never could. MADE TO SCALE from "The Great Lionel Train Robbery" by Mary Riley ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, How seldom we get to climb towards what we really long for, Those days of goofy ambition over mountains made exactly to scale, But some days it happens, my longings fit me, are my bought And paid for possessions and I am doing my own, no one else's Small exacting thing, and oh so rightly. On those days I think of you my son and your cousin-friend, Rahim, Hooking train and track together over an always expanding Landscape, a strong-friends-for-life thing between you Even starting way back then, Finally you had saved up enough to buy, not steal this time, Thinking toughly, "Hell just too motherfuckin dangerous!" So you zipped your parkas to go upstreet To buy the roundhouse, then you did just that That turnaround we must get to in our teens to inch our Maddeningly small gleanings into place, Then you stood up, loins aching and left this place you made behind, Two tall, gangly looking youth, parting right on schedule. One Crow, Sorrow, Two Crows, Joy by Bonnie Crumly-Fastring ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, O.K. Gretel-- this is my question, after you shoved her into the oven and slammed the door shut, the heat rising up to consume the screams, moving from quieter to quiet, did you become part of the dark smoke pouring out of the chimney, later finding joy because you knew you could kill, your eyes like two black crows? Or did you lose, forever, your nerve, a lump of black cindered stone like one black crow walking the edge of a shadow between the woods and the open field forever balancing in your mind, a nine-year-old girl on the wooden two-by-four fence, carefully learning not to fall to the right or to the left. Tell me, Gretel what happened after the oven? Petite Mort Incantations by Andrea S. Gereighty ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, I was in my 45th year quarante-cinq, the wild card five aces wild, wild-assed when we met. A hot, tall, Mississippi man country Skinny-boned, big-muscled, big- shouldered daddy worked with weights avoided ex-wife of 16 to hear him tell it had incest with her step-daddy the whole while Mr. Muscles and she were wed. Whose baby was the boy, anyway? He looks like me the Ms. man mused. Old Mississippi spoke the worst grammar In that soft, slightly nasal southern twang Yet brought roses every week--two dozen So many roses, every color I swore that he fucked the florist/he said no and we rocked the waterbed 6-8 times every weekend Fri. pm to Sun. noon, about 39 hours that's at least once every 6 hrs. And damn--did it 3 hrs. each time. Too sore for any more we slept, read poetry watched videos, tv movies, I wrote We ate out, marched in the Krewe de Vieux danced at the Mardi Gras ball/head-banger stuff I'd never get into but with him and the Mystic Krewe of Nutria band Stoned on homegrown/Tess's Northshore sativa We could dance for hours/it was like foreplay It was foreplay. I knew what I wanted/just what I had to cure the blues this trash-hauling sanitation engineer from a Ms. trailer community. My screams startled the dogs, set them to humpin' each other seagulls screamed/I outdid them and lights went on At camps 1000 yards away We did not care, WE couldn't say whose lights But we continued to burn till dawn Then followed the La. grey herons in Little Woods out to the island Nothin' really, but a spit of uncovered lake bottom at low-tide we played in the sand that sparkled more after each hit of acid sparked those many-faceted prisms in our minds/we were diggin/with kiddie shovels and buckets/rerouted the path the Pontchartrain took in one afternoon. Camp Gris-Gris is like that. In the evening, seagulls flew a feeding frenzy a hot, pink afterglow sucked at the horizon. This place history of abuse/suicide/murder/mystery violence we pacify with sighs, kisses I still hear wails in the water Voices under the windows at night the mirrors break. We continue our exorcism. SHALL I SAY THAT I HAVE COME TO TELL YOU ALL? by Robert Menuet email: robmenuet@aol.com ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, They made Him a supper; and Martha served: but Lazarus was one of them that sat at table with Him. --John 12:2 Martha, I do not want this company. Our sister prayed that he heal me, but he did not come. In darkness I dreamt four days of the fathers of Israel. They'd gathered me up to the bosom of Abraham; there I was in comfort. I have no appetite for this food, and the sunlight of Bethany hurts my eyes. Once I loved it here. Joshua, you told them roll the stone away, and bid me come. Something began to stink. Without willing I walked out in graveclothes, my face bound about with a napkin. I can not eat this spring lamb; I think of rot, and Mary weeping. Who is the guest of honor at this supper? The Son of man has been glorified by these events. Please pour the wine, Martha. I cannot live with this knowledge. They will not hear me, they starve me with ears of stone. Already the priests talk of putting me to death again. I cannot drink from this chalice. I have no heart for table talk. I regret your supper disgusts me. So do you, my sister, and all mankind. Joshua, what am I, now that you have called me back? How will men remember me? What of my works and days, my poems? I look down at my napkin. You want me to be grateful, but it's You that are the resurrection and the life. Smell by Athena O. Kildegaard ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, She sits, naked from the bath, her soles resting drily against one another, knees flopped out, her smooth buttocks curved away from the floor, and one finger pressing her clit. Her eyes avoid me, her mother. She pretends to be alone. And is. Then she sniffs her finger, a deep taking in of that earth between her legs, the smell she knows is her, but that seems like something passed down, like pants worn smooth by many washes, still too big, but ample. Thanksgiving by Bonnie Crumly-Fastring ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, Guilt is the lady in the yellow flowered hat waiting outside the iron gates of the French Quarter apartment. Silently she holds out her hand for my penance, singing a few words of some old hymn. Her voice scrapes like a streetcar changing directions. Drunk, she follows me down the neutral ground* of Esplanade. We are looking for my car. "Any good mother," she whispers, "gets home before her son." She slips her arm around my shoulders, kisses me softly on my cheek. "And your cat is out of food," she screams, winking at me gaily. * colloquial term for median in New Orleans Toledano Street Near the Projects by Andrea S. Gereighty ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, He leaped forward in the darkness A well-shaped abstraction defining Itself Outlined in dusk his Jacket seemed like the setting sun. He pounded the Gospels like a rug He could beat free of dust And throw to the floor, one rug For each living room in America Salvation, as easy as that. Hours later I passed Toledano again He was still there, preaching Atop a wrecked Chevy As though the dust were mud And he'd grown roots Fertilized by patience and sole- less shoes right through the coupe's hardtop. Up close His face was like a city pawnbroker Lending hope. Two-dollar restroom by Christine Trimbo ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, We can't move fast enough through the blur of crowd along St. Charles Avenue, this drunk is good, whirling me fast-action movie through waving arms, bleary eyes, brass noise, corn dog beer yells, up and through ladders, down the side street, St. Mary has emptied itself. He is standing outside smoking rings, watching the beads on the ground, the drizzle melting their crayon colors into the cobblestones, we get a deal three pees for two bucks, because "we are so cute," he winks like a neon beer sign. He lives in an appliance museum. refrigerators, clothes washers, a rocking chair stacked on two T.V.s. It seems he fixes things for a living he says, it does get lonely, it is hard to meet people, he has lived here two years, he is making chicken, red beans and rice he has one beer, he can get more, we can stay, here is his number, you can buy a drier for cheap, what's your number? You can stay. You can party. But we are done. "You can come back. Anytime you want." As we leave, the sky throws the rain down. "Happy Mardi Gras" he cries but we are gone. ________________________________________________________ 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. 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. 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, December, 1995, copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum. 12 poems for December, 1995. Message format: 16 messages for December, 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. ----------------------- Headers -------------------------------- From desire.street@sstar.com Sun Dec 3 16:35:06 1995 Return-Path: desire.street@sstar.com Received: from sstar.com (ipad.sstar.com [204.27.72.2]) by emin05.mail.aol.com (8.6.12/8.6.12) with SMTP id QAA11506 for ; Sun, 3 Dec 1995 16:35:03 -0500 From: desire.street@sstar.com Received: by sstar.com id 0L7W800U Sun, 03 Dec 95 15:06:16 -0600 Message-ID: <9512031506.0L7W800@sstar.com> Organization: Southern Star BBS X-Mailer: TBBS/TIGER v1.0/PRIMP 1.56p Date: Sun, 03 Dec 95 15:06:16 -0600 Subject: December 1995 To: culicchia@aol.com Reply-To: desire@sstar.com Errors-To: desire.street@sstar.com Subj: Ygdrasil Date: 95-12-03 14:18:32 EST From: Robmenuet To: Culicchia I don't remember the answer to your question. I never look at Ygdrasil. Good production values, but our poems are better. Here's the Ygdrasil Web site: http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil robert