Julie
12-14-2000, 02:42 PM
1. "Last Rites" by Karen Corcoran Dabkowski from Wild Poetry
Judge: Truly terrifying, real-life lyrical macabre, gets inside the skin of Ted Bundy on his last night. Raises the hairs on the back of your neck.
2. "Duck Duck Goose" by Julie Carter from Gandy Creek
Judge: Beautifully crafted tale of barnyard slaughter, angular in its slant rhymes.
3. "To a Worried Friend" by S. Brogan form Café Utne
Judge: Exquisitely minimal, piercing in its emotional depth, reminiscent of old Chinese masters.
HM.
"Night Moves" by Sharron Belson from Rabbit Hole
"The Old Witch" by Rose Wilcox from MindFire
"Bongo, He Risen" by Joseph Carcel from BlueLine
"Sound and Meaning" by Dave Benson from Writer's Block
"William and Catherine" by Brain Long from AAP
*
1. "Last Rites" by Karen Corcoran Dabkowski from Wild Poetry
Bundy paced his cell,
his heart kept constant
conversation.
The vigil keepers curbside
begged Jehovah and the state
to spare his life for even monsters
can be saved -- (Jehovah crowed).
He stopped to look just barely
at the stars that would be gone,
but the world he knew was made
of doe-like eyes and dark brown hair.
In worlds he'd known he'd hunted
long and heavy chestnut hair.
On nights like this, on nights
just calm and close enough like this.
The virgins he had slain
had lain in pools of hair congealing;
even now his groin would speak
but not repent.
A chair, a cot, a spare commode --
a clock. The clock was all.
Echoes of the blood beat in the clock
upon the stand. His hand was dry.
His brain was full.
Horrible, the scenes he saw
that clawed their way to heaven
but in thinking this, he caught
his own obscenity of smile.
The curbside lambs sang hymns,
entrusting God to watch their daughters.
while parents of the slaughtered
shone like righteous seraphim.
At dawn, the warden came --
a priest in tow.
Bundy wept his coldest tears,
then wondered, if in heaven
there be maidens
there be maidens
lovely maidens
with long hair.
2. "Duck Duck Goose" by Julie Carter from Gandy Creek
Gene speaks of geese, of ducks, with quick sign fists
and I must beg him slow his silent speech
to match my rusty intellect. He flips
his left hand at his waist, a hinged hand beak
made of his right, his fingers wild and mute
in words like moth-heads beating on hot bulbs.
I cannot understand. A door leads out
to backyard pastures where the golden bulk
of corn that made ducks squabble lies in lines
uneaten, framed by feathers. All Gene's birds
lie, too, like shredded pillows on the lawn
in crimson cases, laundry left undone.
3. "To a Worried Friend" by S. Brogan from Café Utne
You say I am no longer myself.
Who have I become?
I stumble on fallen leaves.
My soul follows yellow
into autumn.
Who is still here
watching this quiet river?
HM
"Night Moves" by Sharron Belson from Rabbit Hole
So serious
you are
during the day
a giraffe
an archangel of the brooding
hands and the thoughtful glance
But let the moon
appear. Let the lamps dim one
by one
And you are transformed
into the long
eager legs
The deep probing kiss
the childlike
thrill
As though it were our first
time under
this quilt.
*
"The Old Witch" by Rose Wilcox from MindFire
I.
old witch cackles, like most old witches
she is happy the day is warm
she is sitting on the lawn chair in my side patio
sippin on a cuppa
humans, sez she, are a mythical beast
they say the pentagram is their symbol
they move through the four directions
masters of time, sez she
they stride through the worlds
as if it were their nature
they ride the tides of time
as if they were dragons
and rise from the ashes
like a phoenix
may I have some more coffee?
I rise from my chair
like a phoenix
blue heron
is in me
still
II.
the old witch has rose lotion
she is rubbing it on her hands and limbs
she has roses on her nightgown
she says roses are the lotus of the west
humans, sez she, are the five corners
everywhere you look are the four directions
if you cast them, you think you cast the circle
but they are the watchtowers
without the spirit they are square
you are the secret, you are the mystery
but you line your days with dreariness
and you stifle your soul with trifles
you are the circle, you are the dance
you spiral through the air like a wisp of smoke
you swirl through the earth like a beautiful stream
you dance on the waves like a plume, like a sprite
you cast through the fire like the gleam in a mirror
you are the mystery, you are the dance
within you is the curse
within you is the blessing
humans, sez she, are the dragons of time
could you get me a glass of water?
I rise from my seat
like a blessing
III.
everyday I rise like a human
I water my plants
I feed my pets
I put gas in the truck
the old witch rides with me to work
I don't know what it is she has to do
there is a fountain in the square
there are humans everywhere
sometimes their feelings are like magick
I can draw them into figures
pentagrams
power
under the hood
IV.
I work a working, the work works me
I am working a working on loving
I am working a working on art
I am working a working on money
I am working a working on time
I am moving through the dimensions
I am moving towards something I do not understand
I am moving towards the secret
I am moving towards the secret
I am moving towards the secret
I am moving towards myself
V.
The old witch takes my snake out of her habitat
The snake, sez she, is a mythical beast
It represents transformation
It lives with you, eats, and shits
and sheds its skin
Destiny, my snake, twirls around her arms and neck
I tell you now, sez she, feed this snake well
Fini
She disappears. No puff of smoke.
I am holding my snake, contented.
*
"Bongo, He Risen" by Joseph Carcel from BlueLine
Bongo, he shed
he skin
liken fish
today become pure
like x-ray. Remember
he say he would! Oh
he be risen.
Oh! he be on high.
Soon many martyr now arise,
been flailed to dead
from rat-tail wip
in the longgone.
I count them fast
on my many four finger
muching time
ago. Remember?
Someshout joy, pop
liken soap bubble
beneath the green moss.
jus' a clothing
Bongo say green
emerald of the far sea.
Peter and Paul!
And be Luther
damnin' good works
done slow and weeping
payforgrace.
See Him Now! Dare one
be say fraud,
waxeater, shoutout
fershit
fish not shed skin, no!
He shout it out smug.
he raise tight fist
clench he a red tide
arise in he face.
I fell called,
a calling to comfort him
with blows
for just that is
what miracle
becoming, happen, is.
But Bongo say NO
loudlike
and we both
nethersayer too
watch he shedded skincoat,
up so high
looken small as
wingtissue rising he
rise up a blue wind
until be speckandgone
*
"Sound and Meaning" by Dave Benson from Writer's Block
The mythos of how the rain
and I don't know- there's just
the car and the mirror's black
thread, or maybe I stay home
and think. It falls,
falls like fingers tracing their own
momentum, with suddenness-
runs its random down windowglass,
down the path of least naming-
Where is the body in relation
to this?
Now every gesture is louder,
past all hearing, past even the chaos
of rhythm, sitcom shout-
a falling, a darkening,
a slammed door of laughter
mute as grace, silent as cat-
paced deep-pile carpet-
and somehow, amidst all this
subversion,
all I can hear
is the kicked stitch of space
that is your heart.
*
"Blake had told her that he would
never leave her, and indeed she
saw him continually when 'he used
to come and sit with her for two
or three hours every day...' "
--The Blake Records, concerning
Catherine Blake's quality of life
after her husband's death.
"William and Catherine (October, 1831)" by Brian Long from AAP
Will you dream with me again, William?
Yes, Catherine.
I will.
About the Fall? And Dusk?
Yes: late Autumn and evening
and the light failing.
Tell me then, of the dark.
It rises and it scatters
among vines and brambles.
It pools in the low places,
it is still and deepening.
Tell me of the wind.
It is a prophet,
and it trails long robes
of cloud about the chimneys,
it betrays the coming rains
with kisses in our palms.
Where are we this time? At the cottage?
Yes. At the yardgate,
and your hem is tangled
in the spades. Our shadows
drape the hedgerows, they reach
to the walls, they-
What do you see?
Angels behind the windows, I-
-Yes! There!-
The curtains billow, fold
into wings, there are arcs
of light about their shoulders!
They press fingers to their mouths.
They...
Why are you quiet?
William, are we inside now?
Yes, in the dim. And the rushlight
whispers, and the storm has begun
a psalm to the thatch.
Are you reading to me?
Yes, a poem by the candle.
Because I cannot.
Because the words are winter orchards
to you, because they are barren and black
about the boughs. And the page is meadow,
it is whited with new snow, and my voice
thaws blossom from the sleep of the boles.
They are falling about the tassels
of your shawl. You are radiant
among them. You are petal,
and where you touch the limbs,
prisms shimmer against the dark.
I spend the evening speaking worlds
to you. You quilt them into throws
to gather at my feet.
And what after?
Sleep.
And what of you?
I wander. I prepare
a kettle and a fire.
For morning?
Yes, for when you wake and the sky
is bluing to the sea, and the day
is warming and sparrowsung.
I will be waiting then, past the garden
gate; you must walk to me softly,
your steps will chime bells kept secret
in the stones. I will know by your music
that you near me.
Are these dreams we visit much like Heaven, William?
Oh yes, Catherine.
Hurry. Close your eyes.
Judge: Truly terrifying, real-life lyrical macabre, gets inside the skin of Ted Bundy on his last night. Raises the hairs on the back of your neck.
2. "Duck Duck Goose" by Julie Carter from Gandy Creek
Judge: Beautifully crafted tale of barnyard slaughter, angular in its slant rhymes.
3. "To a Worried Friend" by S. Brogan form Café Utne
Judge: Exquisitely minimal, piercing in its emotional depth, reminiscent of old Chinese masters.
HM.
"Night Moves" by Sharron Belson from Rabbit Hole
"The Old Witch" by Rose Wilcox from MindFire
"Bongo, He Risen" by Joseph Carcel from BlueLine
"Sound and Meaning" by Dave Benson from Writer's Block
"William and Catherine" by Brain Long from AAP
*
1. "Last Rites" by Karen Corcoran Dabkowski from Wild Poetry
Bundy paced his cell,
his heart kept constant
conversation.
The vigil keepers curbside
begged Jehovah and the state
to spare his life for even monsters
can be saved -- (Jehovah crowed).
He stopped to look just barely
at the stars that would be gone,
but the world he knew was made
of doe-like eyes and dark brown hair.
In worlds he'd known he'd hunted
long and heavy chestnut hair.
On nights like this, on nights
just calm and close enough like this.
The virgins he had slain
had lain in pools of hair congealing;
even now his groin would speak
but not repent.
A chair, a cot, a spare commode --
a clock. The clock was all.
Echoes of the blood beat in the clock
upon the stand. His hand was dry.
His brain was full.
Horrible, the scenes he saw
that clawed their way to heaven
but in thinking this, he caught
his own obscenity of smile.
The curbside lambs sang hymns,
entrusting God to watch their daughters.
while parents of the slaughtered
shone like righteous seraphim.
At dawn, the warden came --
a priest in tow.
Bundy wept his coldest tears,
then wondered, if in heaven
there be maidens
there be maidens
lovely maidens
with long hair.
2. "Duck Duck Goose" by Julie Carter from Gandy Creek
Gene speaks of geese, of ducks, with quick sign fists
and I must beg him slow his silent speech
to match my rusty intellect. He flips
his left hand at his waist, a hinged hand beak
made of his right, his fingers wild and mute
in words like moth-heads beating on hot bulbs.
I cannot understand. A door leads out
to backyard pastures where the golden bulk
of corn that made ducks squabble lies in lines
uneaten, framed by feathers. All Gene's birds
lie, too, like shredded pillows on the lawn
in crimson cases, laundry left undone.
3. "To a Worried Friend" by S. Brogan from Café Utne
You say I am no longer myself.
Who have I become?
I stumble on fallen leaves.
My soul follows yellow
into autumn.
Who is still here
watching this quiet river?
HM
"Night Moves" by Sharron Belson from Rabbit Hole
So serious
you are
during the day
a giraffe
an archangel of the brooding
hands and the thoughtful glance
But let the moon
appear. Let the lamps dim one
by one
And you are transformed
into the long
eager legs
The deep probing kiss
the childlike
thrill
As though it were our first
time under
this quilt.
*
"The Old Witch" by Rose Wilcox from MindFire
I.
old witch cackles, like most old witches
she is happy the day is warm
she is sitting on the lawn chair in my side patio
sippin on a cuppa
humans, sez she, are a mythical beast
they say the pentagram is their symbol
they move through the four directions
masters of time, sez she
they stride through the worlds
as if it were their nature
they ride the tides of time
as if they were dragons
and rise from the ashes
like a phoenix
may I have some more coffee?
I rise from my chair
like a phoenix
blue heron
is in me
still
II.
the old witch has rose lotion
she is rubbing it on her hands and limbs
she has roses on her nightgown
she says roses are the lotus of the west
humans, sez she, are the five corners
everywhere you look are the four directions
if you cast them, you think you cast the circle
but they are the watchtowers
without the spirit they are square
you are the secret, you are the mystery
but you line your days with dreariness
and you stifle your soul with trifles
you are the circle, you are the dance
you spiral through the air like a wisp of smoke
you swirl through the earth like a beautiful stream
you dance on the waves like a plume, like a sprite
you cast through the fire like the gleam in a mirror
you are the mystery, you are the dance
within you is the curse
within you is the blessing
humans, sez she, are the dragons of time
could you get me a glass of water?
I rise from my seat
like a blessing
III.
everyday I rise like a human
I water my plants
I feed my pets
I put gas in the truck
the old witch rides with me to work
I don't know what it is she has to do
there is a fountain in the square
there are humans everywhere
sometimes their feelings are like magick
I can draw them into figures
pentagrams
power
under the hood
IV.
I work a working, the work works me
I am working a working on loving
I am working a working on art
I am working a working on money
I am working a working on time
I am moving through the dimensions
I am moving towards something I do not understand
I am moving towards the secret
I am moving towards the secret
I am moving towards the secret
I am moving towards myself
V.
The old witch takes my snake out of her habitat
The snake, sez she, is a mythical beast
It represents transformation
It lives with you, eats, and shits
and sheds its skin
Destiny, my snake, twirls around her arms and neck
I tell you now, sez she, feed this snake well
Fini
She disappears. No puff of smoke.
I am holding my snake, contented.
*
"Bongo, He Risen" by Joseph Carcel from BlueLine
Bongo, he shed
he skin
liken fish
today become pure
like x-ray. Remember
he say he would! Oh
he be risen.
Oh! he be on high.
Soon many martyr now arise,
been flailed to dead
from rat-tail wip
in the longgone.
I count them fast
on my many four finger
muching time
ago. Remember?
Someshout joy, pop
liken soap bubble
beneath the green moss.
jus' a clothing
Bongo say green
emerald of the far sea.
Peter and Paul!
And be Luther
damnin' good works
done slow and weeping
payforgrace.
See Him Now! Dare one
be say fraud,
waxeater, shoutout
fershit
fish not shed skin, no!
He shout it out smug.
he raise tight fist
clench he a red tide
arise in he face.
I fell called,
a calling to comfort him
with blows
for just that is
what miracle
becoming, happen, is.
But Bongo say NO
loudlike
and we both
nethersayer too
watch he shedded skincoat,
up so high
looken small as
wingtissue rising he
rise up a blue wind
until be speckandgone
*
"Sound and Meaning" by Dave Benson from Writer's Block
The mythos of how the rain
and I don't know- there's just
the car and the mirror's black
thread, or maybe I stay home
and think. It falls,
falls like fingers tracing their own
momentum, with suddenness-
runs its random down windowglass,
down the path of least naming-
Where is the body in relation
to this?
Now every gesture is louder,
past all hearing, past even the chaos
of rhythm, sitcom shout-
a falling, a darkening,
a slammed door of laughter
mute as grace, silent as cat-
paced deep-pile carpet-
and somehow, amidst all this
subversion,
all I can hear
is the kicked stitch of space
that is your heart.
*
"Blake had told her that he would
never leave her, and indeed she
saw him continually when 'he used
to come and sit with her for two
or three hours every day...' "
--The Blake Records, concerning
Catherine Blake's quality of life
after her husband's death.
"William and Catherine (October, 1831)" by Brian Long from AAP
Will you dream with me again, William?
Yes, Catherine.
I will.
About the Fall? And Dusk?
Yes: late Autumn and evening
and the light failing.
Tell me then, of the dark.
It rises and it scatters
among vines and brambles.
It pools in the low places,
it is still and deepening.
Tell me of the wind.
It is a prophet,
and it trails long robes
of cloud about the chimneys,
it betrays the coming rains
with kisses in our palms.
Where are we this time? At the cottage?
Yes. At the yardgate,
and your hem is tangled
in the spades. Our shadows
drape the hedgerows, they reach
to the walls, they-
What do you see?
Angels behind the windows, I-
-Yes! There!-
The curtains billow, fold
into wings, there are arcs
of light about their shoulders!
They press fingers to their mouths.
They...
Why are you quiet?
William, are we inside now?
Yes, in the dim. And the rushlight
whispers, and the storm has begun
a psalm to the thatch.
Are you reading to me?
Yes, a poem by the candle.
Because I cannot.
Because the words are winter orchards
to you, because they are barren and black
about the boughs. And the page is meadow,
it is whited with new snow, and my voice
thaws blossom from the sleep of the boles.
They are falling about the tassels
of your shawl. You are radiant
among them. You are petal,
and where you touch the limbs,
prisms shimmer against the dark.
I spend the evening speaking worlds
to you. You quilt them into throws
to gather at my feet.
And what after?
Sleep.
And what of you?
I wander. I prepare
a kettle and a fire.
For morning?
Yes, for when you wake and the sky
is bluing to the sea, and the day
is warming and sparrowsung.
I will be waiting then, past the garden
gate; you must walk to me softly,
your steps will chime bells kept secret
in the stones. I will know by your music
that you near me.
Are these dreams we visit much like Heaven, William?
Oh yes, Catherine.
Hurry. Close your eyes.