~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Desire Street March, 1996 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 1996, The New Orleans Poety Forum (10 poems for March, 1996) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Contents: Variations on a Haiku By Basho The Courthouse in Gretna Great Grandma Kocejve Untitled Movement Familiar Streets Seascape More Shades It Was You Twin Sky Studios I Wear White to Your Funeral -------------------------------------------- Variations on a Haiku by Basho by Athena O. Kildegaard 1. after Robert Frost Something there is that loves a frog that wants to jump with it into the green water of the dark pond. 2. after Lewis Carroll Twas brillig and a beamish frog jumped in the tulgey pond O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! 3. after T.S. Eliot Here is no rock but only water No rock and one frog jumping Jumping Shantih Shantih Shantih 4. after Allen Ginsberg I saw the best frog among the whole universe of speckled, torpid, cold-water frogs leap incautious as stoned bums on the tracks of the El into the one pond, the universal sprawling incantation of unholy murk. 5. after e.e. cummings Frog (old pond stil green) jumps (plash) 6. after William Blake The age of the pond is the permanence of God the leap of the frog is the joy of God the sound of the water is the echo of God 7. after my 2-year-old Mama! Frog jump in pond-- Splash! 8. after my Uncle Jack This old pond here where the frogs jump it's always noisy 9. after William Carlos Williams Not the idea but the frog jumping into the greeny pond. -------------------------------------------- The Courthouse in Gretna by Barbara Lamont They brought them in shackled one onto another in grimy crewcuts, dirty jerseys dark, shiny pressed skin only twelve and thirteen without lawyers or any other tools. They sat them down arms rising over their heads like a ballet in chorus they adjusted their chain onto their laps. Possession with intent stolen property cocaine, LSD and crack said the judge five years hard labor sign here. He stalked in alone tall, blonde, unmatched linen jacket, followed by two high priced Counselors wearing matching headbands and black wool suits. Put him First on the docket fine seventy-five hundred six hundred a month no driving for 90 days don't forget the volunteer Velocity clinic. Yes your honor he waives a jury trial sentence three years probation and calls Mom in Peoria, gasping big breaths of sunshine and freedom. -------------------------------------------- Great Grandma Kocejve by Ray MacNiece Great Grandma seamstress, pianist, went mad. At night the unlocked double-doors float open and she glides down the sanitarium hallways hands held before her, all fingers rippling like water poured into a porcelain basin. Her backless white gown flutters glowing as her footfalls descend fragile arpeggios of a nocturne played on a glass harpsichord. She's been told repeatedly to keep her hands busy -- she rubs fingertips pinpricked by years of stitching, cooling their crookedness on the bones of keys stroked like holy relics. The notes pattern silence into a golden cage from which she flies every morning, f-tha, f-tha, splayed against the dirty windowpanes where orderlies find her, the sun pouring through rusty bars, her hands still sending this music. -------------------------------------------- Untitled Movement by kevin R. johnson To be with you (in the shadow of a hidden abacus) is a business of kissing in silence with a mouth full of words (the tongue is a langauge) of untangling clothes from memories of sheets, (eyes the imperfect mirrors) of ages spent sculpting flesh into memory (infinite curves, the hips, the back) of faded fingerprints on photographs stealing more of our meat every time, but we will never look (less to forget) just slip in more under clear plastic & call it even (all for love) -------------------------------------------- Familiar Streets by Joshua Corey Oak, I swear to God. I lived on Oak Street. Maple, Maple too, and Willow and Pine. On the new Oak Street there are just saplings In the sidewalk, stripped bare and scarred By the lash of autumn, a cold wind from Canada. (Toronto Street. There is no Toronto Street. No New York Avenue. No Rue de la San Francisco.) Do you Remember the old Oak? Is the veil made Of penetrable stuff? Then: Halloween. Stunned by Daylight Savings, the little kids Straggled from house to house dressed like zombies In the near black of six o' clock. No ghosts At that hour, but later, while the zombies slept, The moon rose and shone on the grid of hills And gravel valleys--rusting jungle gyms, Swing sets groaning in the wind, and dust devils Skittering across the schoolyard (dust: any Old matter: barn, dried blood, a spray of stones.) The dead leaves were crusted with silver, like Tissues discarded by angels, and the Dead grass ran yellow in the wind like a fire. From my window I saw, and imagined you Alive and lost, walking barefoot into November, blue nightgown flapping around Your ankles, having gained a witch's hour In the change of time to walk and brood In the old neighborhood where you became A mother. You walked backwards, cramming me Back into an egg--strode through your marriage, Stepped over your old job with the government, Past your Brooklyn childhood--all the way back To the resettlement camp in the Berlin Suburbs--to the day your father, twenty-six, Hustled home to the tiny flat with a Carton of cigarettes under his arm From the football game and exclaimed, "Tomorrow We are leaving for America!" in Perfect Yiddish. In the subsequent rack Of joy, you crept unnoticed to the yard Below, where the German autumn was in Full swing and the other children were shouting "America! America!" America Is the boulevard intersecting streets Named after General Eisenhower And President Roosevelt, shooting straight As an arrow towards the Aleksanderplatz. You don't know America. You don't know Your Brooklyn stepmother, your abortion, your Summer of love, or me. You are a child In a white dress turning slowly on your heel Like the ghost of a planet revolving Into cosmic dust. You run upstairs past your Parents, making love, to the flat of Frau Herschel--she lost six children and would welcome A seventh, you're certain. You knock on the door And wait, a bullet of hope in your heart. Please, you pray, take me in. Take me away. Take me home. But home is the cratered Esplanade in Budapest. Home is the European streets of Brooklyn. Home is The Lincoln Tunnel and the road to Plainfield. Home is an endless stretch of grass and oaks And snow falling softly in the high fields Of New Jersey. But when the door opens, Finally, you forget all of this. You see Only dark eyes. Can l stay with you? Yes. It's November, and it's cold. Stay. Please, stay. -------------------------------------------- Seascape by Cedelas Hall With the strength of the moon pulling tides to the seashore, I long to pull you to me, let you wash over me, warm, foamy, salty seawater. But I lack the strength of the moon. Your love is not free flowing like the tide. More like the sand... stiff, slow moving withholding gritty comfort. -------------------------------------------- More Shades by Robert Menuet Shrove Tuesday Subjects raise up greedy cries for plastic girl and boyment; a rain will come. Lent It's purple shrouds again, and clappers; He'll ransom captive Israel. Ash Wednesday Mumbling priest smudges wrinkled faces wearing the weight of palm cinders. Palm Sunday Last year's fronds lie still in cars, brown, forgotten like the One they honored. -------------------------------------------- It Was You by Patrice Elizabeth Natteel murdered February, 1996 age 16 Perhaps if we weren't far apart I could follow desire that burns in my heart I meant to say, "I love you," But said "Good-bye." I hung up; You couldn't hear me cry. I wanted to tell you What you meant to me Instead I let love die and friendship be. I tried to convince myself It was best, But my love, Just wouldn't rest. I wish I were here to see you once more, To tell you it was you that I adored. -------------------------------------------- Twin Sky Studios by Duane K. Williams The soft color of butter melts onto canvas. Some days I squeeze out the orange of citrus sadness. My wrinkled tubes give birth to worms of color. The slime of pasty paint makes the sky through my eyes more tangible; a cotton candy grasp into the stickiness of clouds. Finger painting the facade of this silver city, my tin hands are callous and mechanical. Underneath my fingernails the compact grittiness feels suffocating. Makes me want to clean myself of this town. Sweat sells; I'm the working inertia of a speeding rock. Sometimes I try to talk it out of shattering the targeted mirror. I wish there was a less damaging way to break through. The animated shadow's grey glide becomes still..... her silhouette a fixed pattern on the beige wall. My auburn-haired lover showers in the morning light of the naked studio window. As she peers down over the forty-eighth story view, the tips of her peach nipples press against the frigid glass. C H I L L S, like telephone lines of a current in motion running throughout her electrical emotions are calling, waking every nerve sleeping in the textured curves of her supple city. "What do you see?" I say, "I see rooftops and smoke pipes, a messy maze of fast forward ant-like lights," she rhythmically replies. Her baby lotioned body embracing me is a blanket of silent warmth. White feelings dive into pinkish hues when a heated breath mixes and mingles with lipstick rouge, when milky skin of her cheeks blush from caressing her into a smiling mood. In these moments I forget the cold, steel jaws of the city below us. Unfinished paintings wait around the spacious studio. The pregnant tubes of varied color birth are scattered among gallons of paint cans dripping prismed rays; from the brown tones of my skin, to the sun reflecting brightness of chrome. The morning movement of coughing cars breaks the purity of our healthy silence like the scuttle-butting of rainbow brushes muddle-puddling the clearness of turpentine. -------------------------------------------- I wear white to your funeral by Christine Trimbo I wear white to your funeral something satin like the cream lining your coffin lying smooth and cold against your starched arms. I waltz through black dress women, a dancing debutante whose coming-out-party came and went. The white-collared priest whirls me past a row of three somber women, legs crossed tight, a neat line of mourning chorus dancers. They have earned the right to wear black. Their cries rise above the drone of whimpers resurrecting the ghost of your living limbs. I luminate the pale light of an arctic sun casting a shadow, cooling your body, a shade to stain your blanched face soot. I wear my white alone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE POETS OF DESIRE STREET Joshua Corey Cedelas Hall is from Brookhaven, Mississippi. Her chapbook Before They Paved the Road recounts her experiences in that state. A writer/actress, she appeared as "M'Lynn" in "Steel Magnolias" at LePetit Theatre du Vieux Carre. Kevin Johnson, Piscean, enjoys Tequila under the stars and writes about the physiology of nothingness. Barbara Lamont writes about fear. 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 former social planner. Ray McNiece Patrice Elizabeth Natteel was a student. Christine Trimbo lives in a house that once neighbored Degas' house. She has two bicycles but no cats. Duane K. Williams is a 21 year old artist from New Orleans. Besides creating colorful images on canvas, he enjoys caressing kitty-cats and beating on drums; he is most inspired when soaked in a musical sanctuary of candle-lit ambience. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 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. 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 background, 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 has published 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, All poems presented at Forum meetings may be published in their original form unless permisssion is specifically withheld by the poet. Revisions are accepted until the publication deadline of Desire Street. Publication is 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. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ COPYRIGHT NOTICE Desire Street, March,1996 Copyright 1996, The New Orleans Poetry Forum. 10 poems for March, 1996. Message format: 14 messages for March, 1996. 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