|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 3
___________________ _____________ ___________________
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Sweet?
Pouring the soft infusion
of Darjeeling leaves,
Mrs Manju Chatterjee
whispers to Sangita,
"It is the sugar in the tea,
that tiny spot of sugar:
it brings the flavour out."
"Delicious tea! My, Manju,
how clever you are to make
such tea.
I'll try myself at home, in Delhi:
when I'm alone at first,
and later
when friends visit."
"What a lovely sari, dear Sangita.
Kanchipuram? You must.
Your water, of course,
can never be the same.
No treated water
can compare
to pure Darjeeling Springs.
Sweet...?"
© Christina Fletcher
___________________ _____________ ___________________
The Marxist Tomato Grower
He sits
and waits
for his world to turn
red.
He knows it will
eventually -
but it's taking
a
hell
of
a
long
time.....
© Attila The Stockbroker
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Fireweed Protest
"Hey, Old Coyote, what's up with the blonde?"
"I'm bored with dark bristles."
"We're down with that."
"Want to join a band of mid-latitude cousins
for an afternoon aurora party?"
"Yeah!"
We scaled a hill of northern highlights
fired off the south side of the sun.
Yellow spread on evergreen,
orange splashed cranberry,
dogwood stretched with flame.
Fireweed exclaimed, "It's fake!"
while we, The Electrified Gas Band,
fluctuated with solar flares,
laughed in magnetic storms,
migrated to contemporary falls
with cheering summer fields.
We considered variables,
pondered values,
satisfied equations,
raked up colors,
jumped in and rolled 'round
till Frost tugged at our tints and tones.
"Hey, Old Coyote, what's up with Frost?"
"She's looking for a band of northern cousins
and a midnight aurora party."
"You down for that?"
"Yeah!"
© Calaya J. Williams
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Simon the Sneak
Simon's a dirty little lurker.
Downs my juniper juice
in a single gulp.
His tongue tickles
my rum-soaked peaches,
grilled to perfection,
the ones that go off
like small atomic bombs
inside your mouth.
Simon's a slippy, slimy ghoul,
plays tippy-toe-tango
beneath the table,
furry footsie with my bear.
Simon's a calculating cuss.
Wouldn't hurt a warthog - so he says.
Will show no hint of interest
in the bear
come the bleary morning.
I can't abide the evil little precious,
my fur is up on spikes.
His number's up, I know his score.
He can't resist a honey supper.
Here, have another small atomic bomb.
© Steve Anderson
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Properties
They are both eight
and revel in
the sheets of ice
they shiver from the water
with their bare red hands
and stack in precious piles
like chapel glass in wartime.
The other child is two or so,
attracted by the crack of ice,
the sloosh of feet in shallow water,
the bending, lifting, laughter.
From the pile she takes a piece
of ice-glass, gazes
at the diamonds it throws
and through it at the blue sky, wrinkled.
She lets it drop,
sees the bouncing fragments
cut the water, tease the sun.
The bigger ones look on,
frozen by the theft,
bereft, not knowing how to say
that ice was theirs,
is stolen.
© Rachel Wiggans
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear
Chimneys nap under sun-winks
Soils listen to hill shadows
Side mirrors state intimate matters, suggest
we notice our movements
have little to do with trucking
and much to do with memories
of passing this way on our way
to change our minds about distance
to rearrange our thoughts
Remember our movements
had little to do with trucking
and much to do with memories
of chimneys napping under sun-winks
of soils listening to hill shadows
of matters in mirrors
closer than they appear
© Calaya J. Williams
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Little girl
peers from the rickshaw,
returns my smile,
waves wildly.
When I blow her a kiss,
she lowers her gaze,
red in the face.
© Ashok Gupta
___________________ _____________ ___________________
A Reading
No, no, my dear, I do believe you --
every word you said: the softness
of my Venus Mount; the flexibility
of my thumbs. My headline
bending to a dangerous low,
my heartline, lifeline...
All true. Every part. You should not
doubt my sincerity.
Here, I thought, is a true palmist:
not one of those who try to make
a rupee here, a rupee there
and tease their customers
with promises of bright futures.
But my, it's hot in here.
Switch on the fan
and circulate the air.
That lizard too lies flat against the wall,
his legs and tail splayed out,
his head frozen, alert:
waiting for the moment to dart
and curl his afternoon visitor
in his tongue.
© Christina Fletcher
___________________ _____________ ___________________
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Compiling Editor: John Carley
Associate Editors: Steve Anderson, W. Maier
Editorial Support: Christina Fletcher
___________________ _____________ ___________________
We gratefully acknowledge the support of:
North West Arts Board & Mid Pennine Arts
Celebrating Year of the Artist
June 2000 ~ May 2001
___________________ _____________ ___________________
|
|