 | Hudson Valley Living |
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|  | Poetry Edited by Phillip Levine You can submit up to three poems to Chronogram at a time. Send to "Poetica, c/o Luminary Publishing, 314 Wall St., Kingston, NY 12401" or email to poetry@chronogram.com. Sadly, I, we, lost a friend, poet, and friend of poetry when Saul Bennett passed away this past month. He will be missed. —Phillip The Great Escape of '88 My Ford was cooked and I was lost. I pulled into the town of just swell. The ravine of blue hair-conditioned track homes sucked what little smoke was left in my lungs. A swarm of spider-veined Reaganites walked the root- cracked sidewalks. I was surrounded; and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. I tempered my haste and weaseled my way under the hood without alarming the natives. Popped my Pabst and manned my block; I whispered in her ear, I'll get you through this, baby. I focused through the glare of tea jugs and sun-spotted legs in polyester socks. I'll be damned if that fucking poodle wasn't as smug as its leash holding grin; but who was I to judge. The miles of coiled green hose on saturated lawns twisted my gut something fierce. The sound of pimpled larvae tugging at the teats of Stepfords caused a painful twitch in my cock. I polished my baby just right and dropped the hood; pounded the gas and left grease in my wake. The zombies in my rearview were frozen in defeat; I beat them perfect and victory was mine. - Alveraz Ricardez........... Litter I sometimes envy the evidence of languid hours: a congregation of acrid filters commiserating beneath a bench; the front stoop caped in feathers of newspaper; shards of green longnecks freckling the cement. Until I had sluiced bluesmoke to mine coal stripes in my pink lungs, or smashed bottles, pissed incontinent, between cars and curbs, I interpreted litter with thick-lipped innocence. Now I smile while walking by, same mouth, just stained. - Blythe Boyer........... untitled you will not like this poem it does not describe antediluvian wastes makes scarce use of polysyllabic wordplay will neither challenge nor commend the reader's literacy you will not like this poem it does not compare the poet to dylan thomas or anaïs nin— humbly accedes to conventions of grammar and spelling— avoids the fumbling contrivances of grade ten english compositions you will not like this poem this verse is forced to rhyme and does not even try to flourish syncopated time not that the poet has failed to notice the wretched calm that precedes torrent and flood how these words have filtered down from greater minds or that rhyme and meter are terribly unfashionable nor has the poet failed to notice that poetry can reek of commodity— writing is an act of desperation and compliance— and these lines, too, are a product of manufacture - Franklin Demuth........... Night Thoughts Moon shines down in white spread beams on closed-up flower. Youths speak words with loud, gash tones into thin air. Chopsticks click in dim lit room for waiter's meal. Wolf-dog howls at flat, white disk 'til early dawn. - Michelle J. Lee........... Man I know a Man He has Straw Growing in His Heart Someday I would like to walk Though His Heart And crush the Straw - Ingeborg........... In From the Rain The mist draws down. This house, the only house. Tunneled to our window, the smell of earth. - Chris Sumberg........... Worn Altoids Tin It was when sunlight streamed in through the bus window, and the boy stuck a round mint in his mouth, the type we used to hold contests with in elementary school. How we held as many of those diabolical mints as was humanly possible, watched tears glide across faces. Then we'd try to kiss some boy, naturally. It was the heat of this boy's mouth, light feel of saliva that must have melted the edges till it wasn't round anymore. It was a glacier, a two day old snowman, the child-crafted igloo when Spring's first warmth hits the air. The sun, the click of the tin, a puff of white dust that turned silver in the heat. - Rachel Najdzin........... Poet Seeking Residence Smoking or non, quiet, poet seeking residence, two cats, lover friendly, wide grounds to walk upon, gardens, water, swimming, all very preferable - Christopher Porpora........... Taking Notes at the Hospital Because of the morphine I must write down everything. Otherwise I might forget the last dose or the name of my nurse or who I should yell at or praise or how my wallet got so empty when I watched it. - Michael Morris........... Portrait of a Room Now, when the human life in this room Is ebbing, The attitudes of the objects Have become apparent. The rocking chair Stretches forth its armrests, Ready to embrace, To lull with the stories Of a long lifetime. The mirror turns a blind eye To all that is happening here, Gazing intently Into its own distant dreams. The hospital bed knows That it is seen as ugly, Unwanted in every room that it enters. Yet it goes about its work Reliably and with care, Keeping the patient As comfortable as it is able, Trying to make its large presence Somehow less obtrusive. The edge of the crystal vase Glitters hard in the corner. Being confined to a sickroom, The dusty monotony Of these pathetic fake flowers— This is not what it's made for! The curtains hold back the darkness, Soften the midday light. Catching the slightest motion Of the air, they stir like wings, Like the white sails of a ship, Sensing the wind, the space Of a great invisible world. - Yana Kane........... October Here we go again, full of it. Full of life, and so much more. With leaves to sweep under Something or other, I dunno which. - Walter Mcnealy-Masca........... Cold Trail I took a train once from Antwerp to Brussels, sailing dusk from Brooklyn when the Atlantic freighters still lay down the Heights, rolling there overnight with mosquitoes from southern Ohio, pausing on the moon in West Virginia, at Grafton then its twin speck Keyser before first light short of Baltimore. Those still on they offed at Jersey City, the B & O left no Manhattan tracks. They crossed us on a fossil Hudson ferry roped at Liberty Street, nodded us on a freshly watered salmon motor coach to the end against Grand Central. A war before I routinely was brought by rail to the tropics of Rockaway Beach—and those peeling old Crayola burnt sienna Els in summer turning over Queensboro Bridge gave you to see the receding sounds of the slivery city from tiny open-air verandas crammed with standees on the Roosevelt Avenue tenement trail to the new planet World's Fair. So high up there in space Father never let go my hand. - Saul Bennett, 1936-2006
Saul Bennett published two books, New Fields and Other Stones: On a Child's Death (Archer) and Harpo Marx at Prayer (Archer), and was working on a third, "Sea Dust," at the time of his death. He also published a chapbook, Jesus Matinees and Other Poems (Pudding House). He was a beloved friend and supporter of the poetry community in Woodstock and the Hudson Valley.In November, Chronogram will publish its annual Literary Supplement. For that issue, we are seeking poetry along the theme of "Art & Artists" (about artists or artworks, or the process of painting, sculpting, etc.). E-mail your submissions to poetry@chronogram.com with the subject line: Literary Supplement Poetry Submission. |  | |