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Poetry - Selections from The White Crow v4, i4 - Osric Publishing (More poetry from Anne Webster, David P Offutt, Charlene Mary-Cath Smith, Richard Dinges, and Jack Shadoian in the print version of The White Crow, available for $2.00 ppd from Osric Publishing.) Gossip You sit on your porch like a spider waiting for a feed, and what your fat eye sees is far from what it will be when it meets with your digestion. Mercy on the poor, unassuming fly, the common dowdy, or the one with wings of filigree, for nothing at all could fill you or satisfy your perfect and all-consuming need. In the end will you eat your- self I wonder, when all the world’s imperfections have been spit about in the fine lines of your lacy rage, or will some larger beast behold your ferocious beauty and suck you, finally, dry? - Mary Rudbeck Stanko Lament I perch on this twig, and I watch the wind blow. I see that it sorts out the sky from the snow. When the wind takes my hopes and my worries away, it will hear all my quarrels, leave me nothing to say. Feed your dogs cardboard! Feed nails to the geese! I have filed for a patent. I can sell you a piece. I have broken unicycles. I have fleas that live in doubt. It would eradicate my thumb print, if I turned inside out. I have hypodermic haystacks. I have high-tension wires. I’m the sparrow in charge of the mock-ups for the Fire. I’ve been wading through the hen house, swimming in the cow shed too. And I dialed this number in the hope of reaching you. - Stepan Chapman Winter Light The well is not lined with brick not even, cemented the way Poe designed the death of a rich and powerful fool, jocular homing to the cask, soured wine John Lennon comes back on the news every december as though he weren’t dead. In november they keep re-killing JFK The well is not lined with brick making descent clean and direct like a falling star. Its earth walls protrude stones, bent back roots that found the emptiness lacking. At the bottom the water is silent when overhead a full moon invades the dark tunnel, soft as love. - Nancy McGovern Cross Hatching We stood for more than twenty minutes in front of one painting while you were explaining cross-hatching. and I looked back and forth from the colorful Avery seascape to you, and I imagined you naked, and running along the pink sands, from the striped cabana to the yellow sea, naked in the MOMA on a cold November day when Avery has me believing in the seashore and you have me believing in what goes on under the paint, just beneath the surface. - Louis McKee A Trucker's Wife her voice grinds - a diesel truck missing gears low rumbles, rust worn brakes half a life counting smoke stacks along the highway doctors say cancer docks a big-rig in her throat and still she feeds her tank with carbons, poisons shunning remedial placards sometimes, there is no sound at all wind pushing the pipes, stalled her lips move like the birth of a whisper but a screaming engine wails behind the hood she backs into danger without regard, accepts a few backfires smoke swirling into clouds above her head too late to change direction - in for the long haul - Elizabeth Fuller Last updated 09.24.2000 |