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dedicated to the art of the written word
POETRY INK
Poems by Matthew W. Schmeer
vol. 1, issue 1
June 1995
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POETRY INK 1.01 / ISSN 1091-0999
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POETRY INK
volume 1, issue 1
June 1995
Please Read Before Continuing
-----------------------------
You will need the fonts Courier, Helvetica, Palantino, & Times
installed in your system in order to view this document correctly.
Legal Stuff
-----------
POETRY INK is copyrighted 1995 by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS, a wholly
owned subsidiary of the imagination of Matthew W. Schmeer. POETRY =
INK
can be freely distributed, provided it is not modified in any way,
shape, or form. Specifically:
* All commerical on-line services, such as eWorld, America On-Line,
and CompuServ, and local BBSs may distribute POETRY INK at no =
charge.
* All non-profit user groups may distribute POETRY INK at no charge.
* All CD-ROM shareware collections and CD-ROM magazines may not
include POETRY INK without my prior consent.
* All redistribution companies such as Educorp may not distribute
POETRY INK without my express written consent.
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS retains one-time rights and the right to
reprint this issue, either printed or electronic. All other rights =
to
works appearing in POETRY INK written by authors other than Matthew =
W.
Schmeer revert to said authors upon publication.
All work herein is presented for the expressed purpose of
entertainment and enlightenment only. Reproduction of any part of =
this
work other than for personal use constitutes violation of the
International Copyright Law and is subject to prosecution. The
opinions herein are entirely that of Matthew W. Schmeer. Any
similarities to persons living or dead presented herein are entirely
coincidental. Names have been changed to protect the innocent. You
have the right to remain silent. You want to go where everybody =
knows
your name. This is a test. This is only a test.
The What, The Why & The Who
---------------------------
POETRY INK is a short collection of poetry written by me, Matthew W.
Schmeer. Many people (especially my wife) have asked why I decided =
to
put my work in an electronic form other than the traditional media =
of
paper and ink and I guess I owe them an explanation. I believe the
electronic media will eventually replace the more traditional forms =
of
written communication. With the popularization of the Internet
spreading like wildfire, the millions of users tapping into the
world-wide communication database provide artists and writers like
myself a ready-and-waiting audience hungering for entertainment,
knowledge, and a feeling of focused human interest. When this is =
tied
to the fact that the monetary cost of electronic publishing is only
production time and connection charges, it is amazing that big name
publishing houses are not pushing their books and authors out into
cyberspace. Of course, the reason for this is simple: they can't =
make
a profit if anybody can freely download Stephen King's or Jackie
Collins's latest work and just give copies to whoever wants one. So =
we
are left with works in the public domain whose copyright has =
expired,
such as many of those put out by the fine folks involved with =
Project
Gutenberg.
But what about the rest of us? Many of us would like to see our name
in print and feel that rush when we realize someone other than
ourselves will actually read our work. But when the "Literary =
Littles"
are shuttering their doors and closing down, when even the big
publishing houses like Alfred A. Knopf are dropping well-known poets
from their ranks, when poetry magazines are backlogged for months,
where should we turn? Well, the answer is clear. Cyberspace. Perhaps
we won't reap any monetary rewards (but then, who's in this for the
money anyway?), but the satisfaction of seeing our work in print is =
a
payoff in itself.
So that is why I decided to start this thing. After getting =
rejection
letter after rejection letter, I decided that if I couldn't get
published somewhere else, I'd just have to do it myself.
The Plea
--------
I hope to turn POETRY INK into a regular, erratically published
E-zine. However, the only poems I currently have are my own. If =
anyone
is interested in submitting poetry, short fiction, or essays, please
see the end of this document for submission instructions.
I can be reached for comment, requests, criticism, death threats, =
etc.
at either of these two addresses:
e-mail: <
[email protected]>
snail mail:
Matthew W. Schmeer
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 U.S.A.
If writting via snail mail, please include a #10-sized =
self-addressed
stamped envelope so that I may respond to you. Donations are
gracefully accepted, but if you insist on paying for POETRY INK,
please contribute any money you might think of sending me to your
local Catholic Charities instead.
Also, if you live in a foreign country, please send me either a
postcard of your hometown (preferred) or e-mail telling me where you
live, how you received your copy of POETRY INK, and what you think =
of
this E-zine.
Thanks,
Matthew W. Schmeer
<
[email protected]>
Dedication
----------
Dedicated To Karen, My Loving Wife, Without Whom Life Would Be No =
Fun.
Coltrane Lives
--------------
Coltrane lives
in a smoke filled room
behind floodlights on a
stage surrounded by faces;
lives in the beat of
the snare and the
pounding of hammers
on piano wire;
lives in the wondering lines
of the double bass
thumping out the lead
rhythm of life;
lives in the backrooms
and pool halls and
in the room of every
kid dying to be
the next bird or mingus
or davis or monk;
lives in the static bursts
between tweeter and woofer,
between vinyl grooves
laid deep in black;
lives down inside
where the heart pounds
fast at the opening notes
not read or played
but felt from somewhere
in the low guttural swoonings
of the brassy sax prowling
the air of the clubs.
***This work was originally published in Steps Astray, the 10th =
issue
of the University of Missouri-St. Louis student LitMag. Work on this
electronic publication was in progress when the acceptance of this
work by Steps Astray was announced. Due to the fact that the author
retained all rights to this piece, we deem it fit to appear here.
Besides, the editor wrote it.
Dirt
-----
when her eyes set my fires
i want to eat all
poetry ever written about
lovers and night and stars;
i want
to bleed through the gutters
and sink deep into loam,
feel dampness enclose me
and earthworms squirm
across my brow while
the mole makes his subtle inquireries.
i want to feel the pulse of the snake
as she burrows deep underground,
taste the brown of the leaves and
hear mushrooms bloom.
i want to encompass all that is dead or
dying, feel the rotting of wood beneath
my fingers and the scurry of millipedes
across my cheek.
Holy holy
---------
When your white roses wilt
In their Christmas vase
Press them between
Your fingers and inhale
The fragrance of death,
Crumble the petals for potpourri
And grind the stems for spice.
Take the paintings of crucifixions
And hide them in the closet
Near mothballed coats, vacation
Scrapbooks and single mittens.
Find the bottles of holy water,
Drink the essence of god
In great thickened gulps while
You pray for the word
Made flesh made whole to consume you.
Do not try to explain the advent
Of your faith or piety,
But bend slowly to the altar
And ask forgiveness at confessions
For sins not committed, and for penance
Move slowly in the dark
Toward your lover's blue-licked flame.
Layover
-------
The planes swarm to the nest
Of black asphalt and twinkling jewels
On a starless January night.
I wait near Concourse A,
Watching for your 727
To find its way
Home to me from
The desert sun and hot breezes,
The cacti and jackrabbits
Of southern Arizona.
I smoke a cigarette and stare
Across runways at the screaming
Neon sign proclaiming
McDonnell-Douglass,
Watch as baggage carts shuffle
Luggage to places I have never been.
I exhale and become part
Of the plastic chair.
Looking at your week-old
Postcard, with its
Hastily written single line,
I realize nothing
Was as I believed.
I wonder how you changed,
Having bathed naked
In the painted desert
Under a new moon.
You undoubtedly will walk off the plane
Tan and smiling, your hair neatly
Folded beneath a Panama hat.
I will embrace you and kiss you
And notice the far-off look in
Your eyes as your crate of
Oranges is claimed by the Grinning Skycap.
I know that it will not be the same,
And every movement of my body
In bed will remind you of
The firm sweaty sides of
Chestnut horses between your legs.
And you will yearn to ride
The stallioned bay tugging the reins
When we make love
And there will be no way
To convince you
These midwestern blues
Do not belong
In the desert sands.
November
--------
i have counted them again=AD
one two three the cracking of grain
is the fire of love like samson and
delilah lying beneath the pillars
of saltrock and limestone and i
have counted them again.
let the leaves fall where they may,
their crackled skin and empty veins
are gnarled hands of the ageless
dead reaching far above the soil.
i turn to dust when i count them again
like the ticking of a clock near noon
one two three.
one two three the razor skips
across my wrist in the echo of
the metronome and the turning of the screw
like hot buttered popcorn i have
counted them again
one two three easy as can be
traces of blood and tears tear down
like falling rain.
i think of november and the coming of pain
one two three on one hand
like dropping flies in grease and flame.
rural scene #32
---------------
_April, 1953_
A thunder-like dreaming
Races across the midwestern skies
Above our rainbeaten barn.
Everything we have wondered
About the weather
Pales when lightning floods
Our fields and cattle
Graze for cover.
Staring from cloud-soaked eyes,
I turn and watch the wheat
Bend with the wind,
Waving off-rhythm
Helloes or farewells.
My wife squeezes my hand
Before running to gather
The barnyard kittens, her patchwork
Dress whipping about her
Thinly muscled legs while kittens
Scurry to her arms.
My son appears, his
Face running with rain
And binoculars in his fist.
He points to the horizon
And the cloudy winds billowing
Upwards and beyond.
Twister, he says.
I nod and shuffle
The cows to barn
And chickens to coop
Before heading down
To the apple-stocked cellar
Lit by one bare bulb.
My wife smiles with her
Arms full of cat and
My son shuts the door,
The binoculars still slung
Around his neck.
We sit
And wait.
We have been through this ritual
Before, years ago and months
Since barely past, waiting
For the swirling dervish
To cross the county line.
We were lucky we only lost
A few cattle in the first tornado,
And we mourned the loss
Of our dog in the last.
Old Jeremiah probably never knew
What hit him, but I imagine
He ended up on another farm
In another state and still rounds
In the herd at night
For another man happy to have another hand.
My son never mentioned the hurt,
But my wife knew, and the cats were
Her way of redemption. I never
Liked cats -- until Tom mounted Myra
And she sprouted kittens and I went
Overboard, playing with the little balls of fur
In my evening free time after
Milking the cows or mending a fence.
So now we sit among
Last autumns' crop of apples
And beets and potatoes and such
Bottled and pickled or bare on the shelf,
Listening to the whistling trees
And shaking shutters while
Our four kittens and momma cat
Wrestle with yarn at our feet.
The slicing rain echoes against
The siding, and the cellar door
Quakes with the booming of God.
I hold my wife's hand, waiting,
Just waiting,
For the winds of spring to break.
***This work was recently accepted for publication in An Archer's
Dream, the 11th issue of the University of Missouri-St. Louis =
student
LitMag. Work on this electronic publication was completed and ready
for release when the acceptance of this work by An Archer's Dream =
was
announced. Due to the fact that the author retained all rights to =
this
piece, we deem it fit to appear here. Besides, the editor wrote it. =
Submission Guidelines
---------------------
Guidelines for submitting work to be published in POETRY INK
* Failure to follow these guidelines will mean automatic rejection of
your submission! Please read the following very carefully!
* Submissions should be written in the English language. We regret
that we are unable to publish work in foreign languages, but we =
cannot
spend time flipping through foreign language dictionaries trying to
check grammar, spelling, and meaning. Lord knows we have trouble
enough with our native tongue. So unless you can provide an English
translation to a work in a foreign langauge, forget about it.
* No previously published work may be submitted. Simultaneous
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Therefore, due to the massive amount of submissions, we cannot
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Please return this form as soon as possible. You may include this =
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All submissions, inquiries, and comments should be directed to:
e-mail: <
[email protected]>
snail mail:
Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 USA
Authorization Form
------------------
Authorization Form For Publication In POETRY INK:
AUTHORIZATION APPROVAL & RELEASE
Hereafter, the terms "work" and "piece" refer to any poem, short
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If
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POETRY INK Prodcutions
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St. Louis, Mo 63139-3647 USA
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