---
~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~ 28

Welcome to WORM 28. We hope you enjoy this juicy selection of poems.

All poets appearing in ~ (the poetry) Worm ~ have granted a limited copyright waiver for electronic replication [only] of the relevant collection as a whole [only]. If you like this Worm, please forward it, intact, to others. Many thanks to all who have contributed to WORM 28 .

Worm will continue to be archived at http://www.villarana.freeserve.co.uk
Many of the poets appearing in ~ (the poetry) Worm ~ feature on The Works email forum. The Works provides peer group review of work-in-progress, plus links, news and general discussion on all things poetic. The Works is not a talking shop. It is serious, international, and is free. You can join in.

Just send a blank email to: THE-WORKS-subscribe-request@jiscmail.ac.uk

Don't forget that submissions are welcomed for WORM 29 and all future issues, Send up to 3 poems, free verse or formal, to Margaret Griffiths at grasshopper@wordbug.freeserve.co.uk .Please address any queries about WORM 28 to the same address.

All the poems I receive are forwarded (without authors' names) to my co-editors for each issue, and the selection is made on our combined scores.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               Señor Mendoza and the Poetry of the Mountains

               Señor Mendoza took the poetry
               out of the mountains: he rung

               its neck like a chicken. A word
              from Señor Whitman, a roué

               who's a male nurse. The touch
               of Oscar's hand, a hand lithe

               as an Easter lily, a perfumed
               purple glove. The world awaits

               their golden words, the coins
               of salvation cool to the tongue.

© Christopher T. George

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gravity

Begin by doubting everything.

Well, not exactly everything. Make an exception

for gravity. You’re standing on a rail of the Coronado Bridge,

balanced like one of those angels exiled to the head

of a pin – only unlike an angel you have no wings.

Tonight, your head is broken from the blunt-force trauma

of down-on luck or boomeranging karma.

You play a jilted lover, irrelevant father,

misunderstood son, telecommunications executive

with a federal subpoena in his pocket – whatever forecloses

the favorable outcomes of a life.

Yet you believe in gravity, sure as you believe

in birth, death, and the boundless power of disinformation.

One helium atom of doubt in the bait and tackle of gravity,

in its capacity to stuff you in the creel of oblivion,

and those steely waters could just as well be sky.

You’d climb down from the fence, open the glove

compartment of your car, pull out the Smith & Wesson.

But this is not about suicide, or any other sorry

antidote to life. No, this is a crude exegesis on all the junk

that pours in one ear, and would just as easily drain out

the other, were it not for the gray sponge in the middle.

You can pick it up and wring it like a washrag,

then afterwards, enjoy the subtle pleasures

of drooling on your socks. Better to squeeze gently

between the digits of your will, each drop

falling softly to the earth. Now that’s gravity.

© Fred Longworth

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sisyphus

(Inspired by Albert Camus' essay on the myth of Sisyphus.)

               Again he lifts the boulder. He's particular:
               eyes down, face tense, cheek tight against the stone,
               foot firmly wedged, arms straining, then a groan,
               and Sisyphus's route turns perpendicular.

               With measured step he heaves towards the pinnacle
               —last week he faltered, tripped and lost his stride,
               then stubbed his toe and managed to collide
               against his stone. Such blunders make him cynical.

               And then the top is reached. The view's spectacular.
               For just a moment life is not mundane,
               but then he sees his rock roll to the plain.
               "Damn gods!" he swears, in ancient Greek vernacular.

But what to think of during his descent
—that, and that alone, is his torment.

© Geertjan Wielenga

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               Janus

             I see my rival in bitter disguises.
               He lingers like the taste of broken glass
               on a lifeless morning after.

               He is reflected in cold hostile stares
               on grisly subways and the shining grey
               of coffee cups on empty stalls.

               I stand unprepared.
             He grins from every crevice.

               And I know this of rivals and of death,
               they are intransigent as old love
               and survive a brief forever.

               As blank as air, cold as my desperation,
               colourless as evil, he is untouchable,
               unknown, a familiar stranger.

              He waits in the splinters of electric night,
              at yawning doors. I watch him in slithering
              crowds, in a diaspora of eyes.

               He knows my secrets.
               He does not mean well.

© John Thomson

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               Nude Descending a Staircase - Marcel Duchamp
               (for Mike Alexander)

               The obvious question no one ever asks
               is why descend a staircase in the nude?
               Giorgione's Sleeping Venus calmly basks
               within a green Arcadian dream imbued
               with golden light; while Sandro's Aphrodite
               drifts shore-wards in a coy pubescent pose.
               A classicist myself, I shun the sprightly
               preferring nudes depicted in repose;
               although an antelope in flight looks sleek,
               not so the human. In truth, athletic
               heroes 'a la Greque' who proudly streak
               towards the winning post, seem unaesthetic -
               We note their slight anatomical failure:
               God-like physique but boyish genitalia.

© Alan Wickes

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               Reading From The PDR (Oxycontin)

               Of all the places I've never been
               Nepal seems the most familiar.

               Trees are held up by the wind,
               branches strung together
               by the beat of seagulls wings

               Side effects include loss of appetite,
               sweating and nausea; ice chips make
               cotton mouth more bearable.

               The bark tends to get worse upriver,
               exposed roots easy to cut open,
               veins splinter when bleeding;

               Skin becomes cold and clammy,
               breathing diminishes, heart rate slows
               and drowsiness progresses to a stupor.

               a barge floats downstream,
               leaves blow across a narrow bridge,
               the wind stops and an oak tumbles.

© Alex Stolis

(Reading From The PDR (Oxycontin) : Editor's Choice of M.A.Griffiths,' A subtle poetic collage - the detached medical sections contrasted with the almost oriental descriptions of the natural world - which conveys an almost hallucinogenic state of mind. A mysterious and haunting poem'.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                Vaporetto No. 12

               Burano is a grumble away,
               nested between owling trees
               and patchwork blocks of houses.

               The smoked drone of rotors
               bicycle-kicks from the last stop,
               then wind swoops down for a taste
               of skin, even precarious toupees.

               Elbows rest on the deck rail
               with suicidal trust as humpback wake
               froths calm blue with blowhole-white.

               The scent of old women ghosts
               this island passage, needling lace
               for the pleasure of tourists
               like black widows cobwebbing seduction.

© Arlene Ang

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               All Because of Tahoe

               You drag your San Francisco dialect
               all the way to Sierra; wear Unkh on beaded leather,
               blouse open to the third button.

               Under the spruce on soft needles,
               beside the blue, cold cauldron, I unleash breasts
               held captive by the fourth and fifth.

               I see your navel
               and beyond
               as huggers slip down hip,
               calf and ankle;

               at last sight, silver cheeks slip

               into the moonlit surface, fading bubbles
               burst as you surge headfirst into warm
               misty night.

               I wrestle with my belt.
               You rise from the shell,
               arms outstretched for a bumbling fool.

© Jim Corner

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               The 4:16 from Swindon

               She must have reached out
               hesitant
               to feel the air
               blind in the darkness
               hearing the approaching train,
               the 4:16 from Swindon.
               She would have used her arms
               to steady herself
               waiting
               until she saw the headlamp
               illuminate
               the station yard below.

               The 4:16 from Swindon
               stops short
               of the London Yard,
               short
               of Ealing Station,
               and sits quietly,
               as do we in our coach seats;
               bundled ready against the cold
               warm breaths steamy
               we wait.
               The occasional quiet murmur breaks the silence—
               no one seems curious.

               After ten or fifteen minutes,
               an announcement:
               some trouble
               with one of the coaches.
               We continue
               to sit.
               I look out the window
               blind in the darkness
              a moat between us
              and the windowlit houses.

             A conductor appears
               making his way down the coach
               stopping
               every few feet.
               As he draws near,
               we hear him explain
               rapidly:
               a fatality

a jumper someone says

               and we are waiting
               for the signalman
               to give the all-clear
               and not to worry—
               the train is undamaged—
               not to worry…
               the train
               is
               un-
               damaged
               and then he is gone.

               The next day I will look in the paper
               and find no information
               no buried paragraph
               no line
               no mention
               nothing
               not even:
               she died . . .

she lived . . .

did she ever
live?

© Margo Roby

( The 4:16 from Swindon : Editor's Choice of Sally Evans,' Here is a poem I will remember .Some of us may have been on a train in these circumstances (I have),

but those who haven't are simply and plainly introduced to the situation, in quiet but effective language. This poem already has a quality of observation - passiveness emphasised by the passengers sitting quietly in their seats - before the drama that unfolds,and is accepted with humanity. Somebody bothered to look in the newspaper.' )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Day In The Modern Life

Woke up, got out of bed, etc.

               The clock told me the time,
               being right, of course.
               I don't have to wind it up or anything.
               It's a modern clock.

               Got down to the car,
               which started, of course.
               Nowadays they always do, with
               five syncromesh gears and even
               uphill in second you can still hear the radio.
               It's a modern car.

               Drove out to Sandvika,
               as uneventfully as you might expect.
               On the wide roads or the side
               roads that are all smooth now.

They're modern roads.

               Ten years ago there was a town hall and library
               in Sandvika, now the shopping mall is
               over, above and around it
               with five floors of car park,
               straddling the river.
               It breathes in consumers

               for the oxygen of their money.
               It’s a modern shopping centre.

               There are no points to be made
               or lives to be changed here.
               Nobody speaks
               or goes into a dream.
               This is a modern poem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Playing Marbles for Keeps

My marble has become my crystal ball

with which I prophesy the kiss of death.

My glass menagerie, my all in all;

the bride of seven hundred sons of Seth.

A talisman suspended from a pouch

drawn tight around a trouser loop, twice laced.

A testament to triumph, drupe of vouch,

a testicle of silica, a chaste

detachable inchoate cobalt sting.

A little lump inside a leather purse

to open like an eyelid, pluck and fling;

blessed its promise, damnable its curse.

I aim and I become the one-eyed cat,

the Jeremiah and Jehosephat.

© Les Wolf

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                    Turdus Merula

               Four and twenty blackbirds baked in summer drone -
               it's a pie!
               Four and twenty blackbirds baked out of the pit
               breathing traces of the mist.
               The ring ouzel echoes the flitterchack;
               St. Kevin stretches his songs recalling fledgling dreams.
               Someone once upon the saint's hand laid its eggs
               and twenty blackbirds baked in men's minds.
               The warmth of the ouzel cock is the black of my dream:
               in the garden eastward of the ring ouzel cock
               the ground holds roots of the herb, Belladonna,
               where among brown leaves, the blackbird rustles for insects.
               I see his crocus-coloured beak flashing through the fog;
               blackbird sings before he smiles,
               his mate cries before Candlemas.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Coma

               That vigil, with its fog and fear,
               like a November garden; watching beauty
               pulled from it's root, one bright petal at a time—
               your eyes went first;

---                ------------- ---- I might have been a clock, a pear,
                                      a pause between harmonies.

               The leaves lose moisture, curl in
               on themselves like paper to a flame,
ns
               ----------------------so blue against your white,
-------------------               ---my fingers followed them
-------------------               ---from wrist to neck,
-------------------               -- a twisted rope, strangling your

               heart's- ease and daffodils
               hold the weight of ends at their tips,
               too heavy for one season. They acquiese,

                                 stems are legs kneeling--
-----               -------------and we prayaround your bed,
-----               -------------holding you up by our hopes

               like a backward sacrifice;

               let her live! We'll go to church, be good and holy,
               shout out your blessedfucking name!

               But like flowers in autumn,-------------------

                            -   you die, piece by piece,
               -------------- --curling up into yourself,

-------------- - readying for another season

and we are left to turn the earth.

( The Coma : Editor's Choice of Charles Cornner,' Equal parts exuberance and control of both memory and emotion, this poem finds, in its innate form, the joy and sorrow in the natural rise and decay of the life cycle, without resorting to tired cliche or eager mawkishness.' )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~