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dedicated to the art of the written word

volume 1, issue 6
November 1995

================================
POETRY INK 1.06 / ISSN 1091-0999
================================

POETRY INK
volume 1, issue 6
November 1995

"Dedicated To The Art Of The Written Word"

>From The Editor's Desktop...
----------------------------
Issue 6. Can you believe it? Quite frankly, I am surprised that I have
continued to publish POETRY INK for six whole issues. The only project
which I have ever launched that lasted longer than six months is my
marriage (apologies to my wife). I hope POETRY INK lasts at least half
as long as I envision it will.

I think one of the reasons POETRY INK has lasted as long as it has is
that there is a true demand for a high- quality literary magazine for
the on-line universe. POETRY INK is different from most on-line
electronic literary magazines in that it is designed to be read
off-line; rather than spend time (and money) reading page after
hot-linked page on the World Wide Web, POETRY INK offers readers the
opportunity to download the entire magazine and browse at their own
pace without worrying about on-line charges. While there are several
electronic magazines devoted to computing--such as "MacSense", "Low End
User", "DT&G", and "About This Particular Mac"--there are few e-zines
devoted soley to the art of the written word; other than POETRY INK ,
only "Kudzu" and "Planet Magazine" come to mind. In fact, I think POETRY
INK stands alone in offering a forum for both the expert and novice
writer. I also like to believe that this magzine enlightens as well as
entertains and informs.

A recent upstart in this whole electonic magazine affair is "About This
Particular Mac", or ATPM, an electronic magazine which blurs the line
between entertainment and information. Now, I know it seems strange to
promote another magazine--particularly one which may be construed as a
competitor--in the pages of POETRY INK. But promoting I am.

ATPM is a very highly polished and entertaining magazine which focuses
on the "cult of Macintosh" (my phrase, not ATPM's). Produced by Dan
Novo ([email protected]), ATPM began publishing about the same time as
POETRY INK, and they have already worked their way to an eighth
issue--and have even spun off one regularly appearing column into an
electronic newsletter called "AppleSauce".

ATPM can be found on eWorld(tm), America On-Line(tm), and
CompuServe(tm) in the usual places POETRY INK can be found. Check it
out! It is well worth the download time.

As far as this issue of POETRY INK is concerned, I think you will find
many good examples of the poetic act within these pages. Jay Marvin's
short fiction piece _Fidel's Secret Agent_ is a superb standout, and
of course we have the requiste Featured Writer's essay, this time by
one of Australia's favorite sons, Warrick Wynne.

If you like what we do with the Featured Writer section, you might be
interested in the book "PoetSpeak" (Collier, 1991). This excellent
tome contains many poems written by modern American poets--such as
W.D. Snodgrass, Robert Wallace, and Stanley Kunitz--accompanied by
comments and anecdotes explaining the poems' orgins. As a writer, I
think that seeing the inner workings of another writer's mind and how
a poem begins its geneis is a learning tool that can help me find my
own voice. This is why I began the Featured Writer section, and I hope
you take away some insight into your own writing process when you read
it.

Also, there is still time to get your contest entries in!

Matthew W. Schmeer, editor
<[email protected]>

POETRY INK
----------
**Editor**
Matthew W. Schmeer

**e-mail**
<[email protected]>

**snail mail**
Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 U.S.A.

Official OneNetBBS Network distribution by
Ben Judson <[email protected]>

Official America On-Line(tm) distribution by
Dick Steinbach <[email protected]>

Official WWW Web Page maintained by
Wayne Brissette <[email protected]>

Official Icons designed by
Geoffrey Hamilton <[email protected]>

POETRY INK is a regular, erratically published E-zine (electronic
magazine). Anyone interested in submitting poetry, short fiction, or
essays should see the last few pages of this document for submission
instructions. If writing via snail mail, please include a #10-sized
self-addressed stamped envelope so that we may respond to you.
Donations of food, money, software, and hardware are gracefully
accepted.

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 commercial on-line services, such as eWorld(tm), America
On-Line(tm), and CompuServe(tm), 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 prior written consent.

* All redistribution companies such as Educorp may not distribute
POETRY INK without 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.

POETRY INK is produced on an Apple Macintosh(tm) Color Classic(tm)
running System Software 7.1. POETRY INK is initially uploaded to
eWorld(tm), with further Internet distribution by our readers. We use
Global Village Teleport Gold(tm) II Fax/Modems. POETRY INK is produced
using MicroFrontier's ColorIt!(tm) 2.3.4, Novell Corp.'s
WordPerfect(tm) 3.1, and Michel & Francois Touchot's eDOC 1.1. We
encourage others to support these fine hardware manufacturers and
software programmers.

Announcement!!!!!!!
-------------------
**POETRY INK is now on the World Wide Web!**

Wayne Brissette, a technical writer for Apple Computer, has linked
POETRY INK to his Web site on one of Apple's servers in Austin, Texas,
USA*.

Wayne, who's poem _Uncertainties_ appeared in Issue 4 of POETRY INK,
has generously donated his time and resources to provide POETRY INK a
home on the Web. By the way, Wayne also maintains the official
"unofficial" Web site of the Central Hockey League (CHL). Go Iguanas!

Point your WWW Browser to this URL:

<http://atlantis.austin.apple.com/people.pages/wayneb/PoetryInk.html>

At the current time, the Web site only contains links to download
POETRY INK's back issues; future plans call for the possibility of
reading POETRY INK directly from your Web browser. Check out the site
and let us know what you think! Spill The Ink!

*Views and information stated in POETRY INK and on it's Internet Web
Page may not necessarily represent the views or products of Apple
Computer, Inc.

Free Stuff Wanted!
------------------
**We Want Free Stuff!**

Okay, we admit it. We are making a desperate plea for free things from
you, our readers, who recieve each issue absolutely free, no strings
attached (feel guilty yet?). But lest you think less of us, here's the
Free Stuff Catch:

We want Free Stuff we can either use to produce POETRY INK or review
for future issues!

What do we mean by use or review? Here's a few examples:

GOOD IDEA: A book you have written and/or published.

BAD IDEA: Free puppies.

GOOD IDEA: A new Power Mac 9500 with 2 gig hard drive and 6x CD-ROM
drive loaded to the hilt with RAM and VRAM, a new Apple Multiple Scan
21" monitor (with video card) and Apple Extended Keyboard II. (Hey
Michael Spindler--you need all the free publicity you can get...)

BAD IDEA: A copy of Microsoft Windows 95 on CD-ROM (we already have a
set of coasters).

GOOD IDEA: A complimentary copy of your band's CD.

BAD IDEA: A complimentary copy of Yoko Ono's Greatest Hits CD.

You get the picture. Basically, we are looking for things to
review--such as books, magazines, and CDs--that have a literary bent. Or
you can send us things we can use to produce POETRY INK, such as new
orused hard drives, keyboards, Mac CPUs, and so forth that are in good
working condition. While we regret that your contribution is not tax
deductible, we won't tell the IRS if you don't. So send us some free
stuff!

Featured Writer
---------------
Warrick Wynne
<[email protected]>
1 poem and an essay

_The Beach as Metaphor_

Nothing gets anywhere;
even this beach, of all places
least likely to show its age,
is draping itself with cracked weed
or fitfully uncovering broken stumps
of a pier that used to be, and isn't.

And just offshore, underwater,
there are bricks or rods,
and wood that has filled up
and sunk to the bottom
and become stone or something.
They are shapes grown strange and dark
through sunless winters;
the shore littered with coin-shaped
fragments of frosted glass
that were once bottles
you could see through.

Look closer,
the open mussel shells
are broken or buried
and their blue-black sheen
is dull and splintered
or filled with soil,
the dead skins of crabs
lie dry and brittle as peanut shells.

So this place is burying itself,
or unburying itself,
filling and unfilling
old hollows as the tides
rock back and forth
under the cold day moons,
and the blank sand
is wiped clean for a moment
and again and again
is clear shining satin
long after you've stopped looking.

Warrick Wynne teaches English and Literature about 50k south of
Melbourne, Australia. He has been widely published in Australian
magazines and journals and has been featured in several poetry awards.
His first book of poems, "Lost Things and Other Poems", was published
by Butterfly Books in 1992. A new book, "The Colour of Maps" is due
out through Five Islands Press later this year. For more of his poetry
check out Warrick's home page at <http://www.ausom.net.au/~wwynne>.

About _The Beach As Metaphor_, Warrick writes:

I began writing _The Beach as Metaphor_ after I'd finished writing a
series of poems about the shoreline and the lesser known world just
offshore. This poem was about the shoreline, too, but I wanted it to
be different from the others. Living on a peninsula, I tend to find
the coastline intruding on my writing often. The Mornington Peninsula,
where I live, tapers down to a narrow point at the end. Where I am,
it's about twelve miles wide; Western Port Bay on one side, Port
Phillip Bay on my side. You can't drive or ride far without eventually
reaching the sea.

What was different about the impulse for this poem began with the
desire to make the metaphor apparent and visible in the title. Of
course we're always writing in metaphors but I wanted to write a poem
that began with the metaphor as stated and apparent, obvious from the
very title, so the reader couldn't read it any other way. So this poem
wasn't going to try and pretend to be a neutral rendering of the beach
in words (as if any poem could be neutral anyway); this was going to
make its metaphoric movement obvious--sort of hit you over the head
with it!

I suppose the central idea is that things don't progress. I've always
been interested in history and how the past impinges on the present.
Australia has had so little European history that evidence of the
colonial past is somewhat rare and unusual. You don't dig up old coins
in your gardens, farmers don't turn over old statues with their
ploughs. When you dig in your garden, maybe you're the first person to
uncover that soil. That used to matter a lot to me; I was delighted
when the wind uncovered the remains of what looked like part of an old
pier at Bird Rock Beach near my house--the broken stumps at the
opening of the poem. That uncovered grey wood was hard physical
evidence of the past and our progress. It was something we'd built and
had fallen; our own authentic ruins. What I didn't notice for a long
time was the half-buried pile of mussel shells at the bottom of the
path where older inhabitants, the Australian Aborigines, had left
their mark much earlier. When I did see these things it lessened my
desire for ruins and also my respect for them somehow.

What I wanted to do in the poem was mix up some of these images of the
past with the debris of the present in a poem that devalued the belief
in history and progress. Everything seems to have fallen and
splintered and decayed; even that most timeless looking place, the
beach, says so. I wanted to show how objects lose their purpose and
become lost, how wood becomes solid and heavy and another substance,
how quickly that clear smooth glass we see through becomes frosty and
rough and altogether different. My children love collecting the green
and gold and silver glass pieces that are washed up, all smooth edged
and softened by the sea. I like the way the rough sheen disappears
when you dip them in the water and some of the beauty is restored in
their shining. I like the way they clink in your pocket when you walk.
It doesn't seem to take long for the beer bottles to become something
else, and strangely beautiful, too. So it's that kind of beachcombing
poem, a salvage job, picking up the litter and making something out of
it or testing some connections. That the glass looks like little coins
washed up made me think about the lack of real and solid artifacts we
have to go on.

Everything seems to have aged or faded or fallen I thought, but it's
not just that, so in the last two sections I wanted--though not in
these words and not in such a mechanistic way--to incorporate some
more of the natural processes to all these images of decay. Here, the
fact of the empty shells and the crabs, the fact of change and death,
is supposed to cast a slightly different light on what's been said so
far. Maybe the processes of building and decaying, of historical rises
and falls, are more natural processes than we might have first
thought. Maybe we shouldn't expect things to get somewhere.

Which may not be all that depressing. I wanted, at the end of the
poem, to emphasize the natural and the cyclical, the tides, the cold
moon, the waves themselves. That all this human stuff was part of all
that. I wanted to end with the image of something fresh, some new
potential in this constant rising and falling. So I used the image of
the fresh blank sand after the wave has washed over it, how it's like
a fresh sheet of paper ready to be impressed with an image or a word
or a life. And I finished, too, with the fact of the human looking at
this; that this is, after all, a viewpoint or a perspective and that
no interpretation or theory can alter those natural and inevitable
processes; that they go on with or without the human observer. I guess
in the end it's a beach in winter poem, the kind of thing that's more
apparent on a clear, cold afternoon with the white moon in the sky and
no one around. Meanwhile, the collected glass mounts up in rattling
little baskets. Maybe there's a poem in that some day, too.

Don M. Blews
------------
<[email protected]>
3 poems

_Visitor_

The sun's compassion, caressed by the winds,
sees one wave's fury dowsed by a new.
Sand hugs my toes over dune blazers;
morning glories anchored fast.
Coerced as a quest of the sandpiper,
I feel serene in nature's sauna.

The crabs behind me dance in chaos
as pines slash through fronds of palms.
In a world of waning He dared appear,
the one survivor of an indigenous kind.
A welcomed visit amongst the yucca,
His eminence displayed in silent repose.

A worthy assemblage of God's creation,
wrapped in fur gleaming of auburn.
Swift as a wind's gust in high,
He pranced along like a hurricane's eye.
Refusing to move I cry for air,
in fear of waking upon an illusion.

Gracing a stance merely three feet,
His stare mused, reflecting my thoughts.
Four eyes locked in ignorant wonder,
how short we come of knowing each other;
He as beast...I being man,
close in reach...so far in grace.

My heart pounding and glands active,
find His ears forward and nostrils flared.
Bolting about in flagtail motion,
His signal of white vanished from sight.
As grains of sand enshroud His tracks,
yesterday fades on the wake of today.

Focused on asphalt, now over His turf,
anger encroaches my unchanted heart.
With eyes of lament, I look to the dunes,
at high rises tall and condos bold.
Where comes our license, displacing a creature,
as covetous growth exploits His land?

_Beach Seduction_

Her waters heave, breaching his soul,
to bare him mortal...bound to meekness.
And so his ego, revealed as false,
came shrouded in sprays of salt.

Born were breakers from her troughs,
surging in crests, she read his thoughts.
She ripples a clue, submerged under swells,
enticing his life with remnants of past.

Slapping the shore, kissed by her waves,
surging mists swallow his gaze;
as churning foam seduces his heart,
a dream of mystique renders him hushed.

Lightning's display chills skies to gray
and thunder's echo threats his refuge.
In a frenzy to climax, the clouds touch the seas;
rain taps on her belly a sensual tease.

_A Coast Possessed_

Rock of mounds, folded and polished,
nature's sculpture of time and erosion
plunge cold into oceans clear
to flaunt its masses of might.
Rock, as giant petrified mushrooms
would cloak a forest floor,
lie unburied in tombs of aqua.

A glass-eyed Cyclops towers,
ruling the garden of stone,
to conquer a sunless veil.
The lighthouse sends its rays
to a horizon, far from its shackles,
where souls of the ocean swell
beneath void of the farthest heavens.

A wooden fossil cowers,
battered by seaweed of stone
as tide's relic to harsh reality.
An omen testing weather's wrath,
never again to relive its past...
bilges dry and cockpit tidy,
is hostage held by a coast possessed.

Shannon Bonton
--------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Timeless_

Timeless, that which is never ending.
Like love, infinitely beautiful.

Blessed by God's kind hand,
It is He, who has brought together
This woman and this man.

Joy and good times,
Will always be in your life.
As long as God and love,
Are your guiding lights.

Blessed is this love,
from Heaven up high.
May it soar for all eternity,
Like an eagle into the sky.

Richard Epstein
---------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_The Gentle Scansion_

Of all places for me to be, I am
driving into West Virginia. Suddenly
the smell of pickles is everywhere,
ignoring the rolled-up windows, pouring
through the twang of heartbreak and divorce
on the AM radio, which is all I have.

It's a paper plant, I think. Or chemicals,
maybe. They are about the same,
paper and ink or clot-dissolving solvents.
Somehow the pickle smell of West Virginia
opens the way, foretells the gentle scansion,
lyrics that tell, pastel, how much you wanted
to open that pale Magdalene's long legs.

_Using the Crawl to Stay Afloat_

In the first month of the third year
after the Great Gasp (well before
The Unhistorical Mistake)
came a Big Thaw in early spring.
The tulips floated downriver,
and what an odd dinner they made
for the channel cat. The neighbors'
house turned bottomside up. It balanced
on the sharp edge of its pitched roof.
I tried to ride my bike away,
but only got to Leonard's house
before a wave took me as well
and dropped me in his family room,
splashed through a glassless windowhole.
I can't remember what was on
TV. But they were watching. Mom
probably would have let me too,
but I swam home, thinking it best,
using the crawl.

Rebecca E. Hays
---------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_The Wall_

A calculating glance brushes softly;
the question,
ever male,
flashes momentary heat;
the flinch,
interest in a woman-set-aside suddenly squelched;
the cool glance richochetes to another woman, walking.

And the Wall falls again...

It stands between glowing heart and discerning mind,
impenetrable,
guarding her already aching soul from this one-more-agony.
Heavier than grief,
it crushes all emotion,
allowing only crystal logic--
necessary to calculate the depths of ignorance.
Innocence,
bought with that chill coin,
purchases gentle forgiveness...

And the Wall lifts again...

...while once more she hopes to see only fire in the next calculating
glance.

_Wheelchair View: Perspective in White_

A softness of snow,
falling slowly,
silently,
so very gently,
allows my mind to calm,
senses to blossom,
heart to flush with a quiet joy...

Watching this commonplace beauty,
serenity in motion,
purity of perfection,
the warming chill,
I glow within--
a sensual deluge,
exquisitly satisfying...

And wonder: Why?
Why do I see this as magnificent,
without equal,
even glorious,
when others shake,
grit their teeth,
become sullen at the sight?

Because--
I answer myself,
smiling gently,
softly,
sweetly,
serenely--
you don't have to shovel it.

Wm. Michael Owens
-----------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_The Bag Lady_

Hair gray and like straw beause of the years
Eyes tired because of so many tears
Line deep on her aged face
Walking aimlessly from place to place
Her hat perched on her head all askew
It probably cost plenty when it was new, found
Teeth brown and some missing because of lack of care
Keep an eye on every stranger you have to beware
Coats, shirts piled on to keep out the cold
Probably sleeping in a doorway this night I know
Somebody's Mother along time ago
A heart that's empty and feeling just pain
I can't care for no one there is no gain
Seasons change day by day
Don't ask me nothing, I have nothing to say
I keep my life here in this sack!
I wish I knew how to get back
Despair and lost
What is the cost
Don't bother me no more
I'm just looking for an empty door?

Marco Morales
-------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_The Betrayal_

I_. The Fall

Her soft hands and sweetness blinded my soul, how was I to know?
As I fell I touched the sun, and its burning, twisting flames
devoured my love in a ravenous rave of wrenching glow.

My mind burnt and buried, wriggling worms wreck body and being
Ripping skin, reducing organs to a rotting wound
while the cemetery's black earth, cold, cruel, cranks my lifeless limbs.

The stone-grey skin, pierced by skewing roots weaves into decay
to feed blind trees, deeply rooted into hellbound graveyards.
Flaming screams, churning my throat, burning coal through my innards,
push tears of fire through a tight grimace, sending my soul stray.

How can anything hurt so much? I crave physical pain
to liberate the mind from the broken pieces I am.
No freeing death nor comforting oblivion from pain's dart,
condemned to coexist with love, that hot claw clenching my heart.

II_. Undead

A thousand million worms feast in my intestines,
their acid vomit dissolving a shredded cry.
Love is the door to suffering; a deceiving reception
to the dark, murderous hell of separation.

Is the initial pleasure worth the torments of the soul?
An instant of sublime heightening, fond affection of someone dear
and a lifetime of dreaded sorrow and harsh, lone fear.
Undead by numbness to reality, abandoned to the unknown.

History repeats itself as young lovers burn up in flames
blinded by the folds of love which nurtures their feelings,
mocks affection and posesses the soul like a spider, weaving
the destruction of the poets, plotting, creeping.

III_. Solitude

And the worst torment--solitude. Loneliness, as extense
as the Pacific seas, where there is nothing but blue.
Alone, like the hangman's tree in the open field, rotten through
against the rage of the weather, unbeloved, misunderstood.

The solitude of the lone wolf, sick and old, left behind to die
is like the lonely grievance of a thousand men, quietly drinking,
anonymously hanging onto the bottle, absently singing
voicing the emptyness of their hearts in a howling cry.

IV_. Abandonment
Would death help me forget, then come sweet and swift,
lift me off this thoughtless world, and rock me to sleep.
I yearn for dreamless nights and absent days
to die at dawn and repose at night.

Let the blood come gushing out, my life slowly consuming away.
I want to smoke away, to disintegrate, and forget,
like a candle, suddenly blown away.

What else is left in this pompous heart? Great monuments to knowledge,
hidden treasures and mighty deeds.
What is the use, when there is no reason to live?
Without you. I merely exist.

Death would forgive me, the pain ease.
but I am unforgiven, unaccounted, undead. Cannot repose in peace.
Damned to lurk the surface of this earth tormented, mutilated, pierced,
eyes torn out of their housing when lovers kiss.

I still remember how it used to be...

V_. Regrets

HOWL! SCREAM! CRY OUT! Let me die, let me out!
Is it so much to ask? Will no one hear my shout?
I don't eat, I don't smile. Life is just a buffon's act. Watch me laugh!

Angela, Angela, Angela! 'Tis your name in fire branded on my heart.
For every letter, a thousand sufferings,
for every thought, a million tears of blood.

Angela...
That word capable of inflicting the most excruciating pain.
The word that brings lost memories, desperation and anguish
And yet, it was my choice to love you.
What a fool! Didn't I know the price to pay?

Did I not know this black day
would finally come, to take you away.
I only want to forget,
and dull the pain.

Jay Marvin
----------
<[email protected]>
short fiction

_Fidel's Secret Agent_

He calls you to the blackboard and you stand in front of the class.
The figures stare at you in white chalk, but you can't make anything
out of them; it's like your head is blank, dead, there's no here and
no tomorrow. God knows how long you're up there; the whole class
laughs; you sit down stunned, wounded. You'd like the whole fucking
class to die, and most of all you want your tormentor to die. You
escape the moment by thinking of ways to kill your math teacher.
You've read stories in the papers about service men in Nam fragging
their own commanding officers. You feel the grenade slip and slide in
your palm and you roll it under his desk and it goes off with a...

At home they sit at the dinner table. You pick at your food watching
them, your insides coiled like a snake. You watch him eat and drink
his water in huge gulps. He talks about the quality of the food. This
drives you crazy. This man is your father yet you have nothing in
common with him. You don't want to have anything in common with him.
You'd like to get out of your chair and push his god damn head into
his plate. Across from you sit his two girls from another marriage.
You look at them, you see them every day, but you don't really know
them. The family: all of you under one roof bumping into each other
living together fucked up as hell. It's like you're on some kind of
movie set and you wish you had a saw to cut a hole in which you could
climb out. You don't live life--you try to survive it. The phone rang
and he answered it. He's talking about you. The others at the table
are sitting still listening. You get it at school you get it at home.
Your mother gets up and fiddles in the kitchen. He continues to talk
on the phone you hear your name repeatedly. He hangs up and sits back
down at the table. Your math teacher doesn't want you in his class
anymore. He says you are flunking and that you won't do your work. The
others giggle. You ignore them knowing you'll get them later. Starting
tonight, he announces, you'll get no television, and you'll go to your
room until you start doing your work and your grades improve. This is
the deal he's worked out for you so you can stay in math class.

In your room you sit at your desk and turn on your short-wave radio
very low so the guards don't catch the prisoner with any special
privileges. The radio plays a station from a country called Cuba. You
hear about this man named Fidel and how he keeps telling the U.S.
imperialists to jam it. You like that. Maybe if Fidel was here he'd
tell your math teacher, your stepfather and the rest of the household
to jam it. You decide to listen every night. Now you're a communist,
and while others cheer for your country you'll cheer for Fidel's; and
when the Cuban people win in their battle with U.S. Imperialism, Fidel
will come liberate you. There will be trials and those who committed
unjust crimes against you will be tried in a revolutionary court of
law. It will be a people's tribunal and you'll be the judge and
prosecutor. You'll present evidence and take testimony, and in the end
they'll plead for forgiveness and mercy, and you'll ask who gave you
mercy when they were in control and held you prisoner and subjected
you to torments and abuse? There won't be jails big enough to hold
everyone you'll try and convict.

The radio glows hot with non-stop programming from the Caribbean. You
rub your eyes and make a pact with God and Fidel you'll be his secret
agent here in America; in the belly of the beast. You disconnect your
receiver, hide it under your bed, like in the movies, and turn off the
light. You get undressed in the dark a smile on your face. You're a
guerrilla fighter; a man with a purpose and tomorrow you'll start to
prepare yourself for the coming revolution in which all men will be
free from exploration! For the first time in your life you feel like
you'll survive.

Call For Entries...A Contest Has Begun!
---------------------------------------
Announcing the first (of what we hope to be many)

**POETRY INK Writing Contest!**

**Contest #1: An Exercise In Writing**
We all know that in order to write better, we need to practice. What
better way to practice than to do short writing exercises? Writing
exercises force us to write within a structured environment, but also
allow us to flex some creative muscle. One of the best writing
exercises is to open a dicttionary, choose a bunch of words at random,
and use them to write a poem. So here's the hook for the first POETRY
INK Writing Contest.

**The Pitch**
Write a short poem (10-40 lines) which contains the following twelve
words and phrases:

stapler bough postage stamp
calico mythology thesaurus
Oktoberfest obsidian Tao Te Ching
Hemingway pigskin secrets

These words may be pluralized. These words may be used as either nouns
or verbs, where permitted. You may enter as many times as you like,
but all twelve words must appear in each poem.

**The Deadline**
The deadline for entries is December 15, 1995. All entries must be
postmarked by this date to be considered eligible for consideration.
Entries cannot be returned.

**Where to Send Your Entry**
All poems must be sent by SNAIL MAIL to the following address:

Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
ATTN: Contest #1
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647

**The Prize (This Is What You Really Wanted To Know, Right?)**
Prestige and the knowledge that you were the best. No, really, the
people who submit the top three entires will get some realy cool free
stuff (oh surprise, surprise, surprise). Plus, they'll each receive a
certificate proclaiming their greatness (suitable for framing) so that
they can impress their friends and family. Not only that, but the top
11 poems will be published as a Special Edition to be included with
the January 1996 issue.

So what are you waiting for? Get those entries in! Mail yours today!

John Freemyer
-------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Immortality Blues_

My youngest daughter has the blues today.
This morning I found her crying
alone in the back yard
crosslegged on the wet lawn
wearing glamor Barbie clothes
and a south sea island funeral mask.

She told me she had climbed the big walnut tree
and eaten a nut
and the nut, she explained,
had planted an idea in her head.
She said
"When this tree dies, I die."

I said
"Have courage.
You're only seven years old."

She said
"It doesn't matter how old I am.
It's the tree I'm worried about."

Now she wants me to build a fence around the tree
so no one can hurt it.
She wants to make sure it doesn't get too much sun
or too little water.
She wants the tree to live forever
so she can live forever.

I understand how she feels.
I feel the same about her.

Paul Semel
----------
[email protected]
2 poems

_Notes From Los Angeles_

I keep forgetting
I'm not in New Jersey
I wake up in the morning
expecting to see my bookcase
my tv
and my underwear drawer
and instead I see
a pile of books in the corner
my friend Mark's tv
and a large duffel bag
full of my underwear

I keep thinking
I can pick up the phone
and play pool with Rob and Steve
I keep expecting Jeff and his baby
to come over to watch
'The Simpsons'
but when I pick up the phone
I have to count ahead 3
to see if it's too late to call

some nights
when I really feel alone
I rack my brain
trying to think
who my friends are
the local ones I could call right then
and...

I keep forgetting
this isn't home

_Hide & Seek_

everyone wants to know
everyone needs to know
everyone has to know
who's calling Sarah
everyone wants to know
everyone needs to know
that's why Sarah gets mad when you ask
"may I ask who's calling?"

Sarah knows
we keep track of what she does
Sarah knows

we keep track of who she talks to
and Sarah knows
we keep detailed records
of every man, woman, and child
Sarah talks to
and these records are analyzed
duplicated
collated
translated
studied
transmitted
digitized
and made available on CD-ROM
for $39.95

Sarah doesn't want anyone knowing
who calls her
which is why she tells us who it was
when she gets off the phone

Rob Johnston
------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Oasis_

Little John's Icehouse,
framed by Texas highways and desert storms,
its garage-door walls unveil hidden
pool table promises.
Weather-worn stools teetering under
four-hundred pound tattooed men,
named Tiny or Slim...or Fred.
Parked inside and out,
rows of Harley Davidson,
shinning chrome and two-thousand
dollar paint jobs.
Cheap yellow-water...on tap, named
after cities where the water is poison.
Freebird
playing too loud, and too often.
Cowboy boots, and combat boots, and
black leather chaps...with fringe.
Wounded dart-boards, full of losing
bets. Tired women, wearing leather bras,
singing off-key trying to
seduce the local pushers. High school kids huddled
in beer soaked corners, laughing at the local
cops. The local cops eating mountains of grease, laughing
at the drunken high school kids.
Short, tight, blondes with too much sun and painted-on
jeans serving tequila by the quart.
This dull mirage, a bleary safe-house for
dust-weary travelers.
Free of Yankees, and Yuppies.
A Texas haven.
An Oasis.

Mike Randall
------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_what happened to andy?_

if you sat on your hands
watching what i see
day by day
you'll learn
that reality is a product
that you make not with fingers
but your eyes
you are a photographer
who makes life
and god and future and past
who captures it on film
who others will take
and frame,
hang high on a plastic wall,
and point at and laugh
Then you'll see the hands
so numb to your movie
and watch them
scrape your eyes
goodbye, goodbye rapture
you've fallen too.

Jeanne Gil
----------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_I Close My Eyes_

I close my eyes to dream,
not of you beside me,
Another, though sight unseen
I know,
Without a touch
I want.

A stirring in my groin,
the purest senses awaken,
heightened by the aroma
of my passion,
drifting to my nostrils,
its heat vaporized.

I continue to dream,
my body trembles, then screams
for the aching carress of your body,
over me, under me, within me;
for liquid fire pooling on the skin,
singed by your lips,
hot breath on my neck,
freeing me, engulfing me,
taking me prisoner.

My eyes open,
I turn to look at you.
Staring,
a flood of tears break free of the duct,
mourning a passion that will never be.

Nicolas Marc Billon
-------------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Blood of the Martyr_

I follow
The Crimson Path
As it slowly crawls forward,
Knowing its destination to be Truth.

I follow
The Crimson Path
Because I want to discover Truth,
Because Truth will
enlighten
me.

I follow
The Crimson Path
Because it is
The Blood of the Martyr.

I follow
The Crimson Path
blindly, filled with trust in
The Blood of the Martyr.

I follow
The Crimson Path
as it slowly mutates
from Pure red
to Corrupt ebon.

I follow
The (Crimson) Path
My faith shattered,
My legs weak.

I feel my body crumble
to the ground,
Limp and heavy.

I see my crimson blood,
flowing out of me,
Moving inexorably towards
The (Crimson) Path.

I feel my blood mix with
The Blood of the Martyr,
Slowly it mutates, helplessly,
from Pure red
to Corrupt ebon.

Richard Steinbach
-----------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_The Road_

You are on a road
But you can't get through
You are standing in front of an enormous gate
It is locked and chained and bolted and tied with ropes
And somehow you know you must get through
So you summon all your will and collect all your tools
Saws and knives and hammers and bolt cutters
And you work until you are exhausted
But you finally get through
And you are traveling down the road again
In a year you come to another gate
All locked and bolted and chained and tied
And you say to yourself, "I think I must get through"
So once again you summon your strength
And get your tools
And cut and saw and beat
And get through
And continue on
And in yet another year you come to yet another gate
Not quite as large as the last
But still locked and chained and bolted and tied
And you say to yourself, " I know I must get through"
And you get tools and saw and beat and cut
And get through
But this time, before continuing on, you look up
And see before you, leading off into the horizon
In clearly diminishing perspective
An ever narrowing road
Blocked by what seems to be and infinite number of gates
Diminishing in size
With fewer locks and chains and bolts and ropes
But always there, always locked, always blocking your path
And now you know that it is all right
Because you know you can get through
And delight in the joy of the road
And build the strength to suffer the pain of passage
And best of all
You now know you are not crazy
And it only took two years.

Amy DeGeus
----------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Zeros and Ones_

He says I am possessed
Of infinite fire--
Coiled copper wire--

One hideous expert is he
Of superfluous passion
Doled out in digital clock portions.
?How compliment is that?
From one so perfectly fragmented
Each emotion is a planned display.

A fine talent has he
For making me feel
Adored and forgotten
In the silent clicking
Of one digital moment.

_Gentry_

William Burroughs sits on a stoop
On Kenmore between Berwyn and Balmoral
Condo conversions beseige this shameful straggler
This decrepit old abscess of a building
William hunches on the stoop elbows on knees
A buddy beside him
Two wrinkled remnants
Taking in Indian summer
Watching leaves fall off trees
Such a complete life
These leaves know when to let go
They bud, flourish, blaze supernova--
Shrivel dry
And give themselves to the wind

What does William see, from there on his stoop
Old drug buddy beside him
When leaves drop
And flowers droop?
Spiders, tentacled monsters?
Brown crunchy newts?
What does that fried old hanging on mind see
When faced with something so complete?
William sits, his rackety bones crouched crunched on the steps
To a decrepit weeping abscess of a building

William is stoic
"The mind," he says, "must seize the trees be the trees sweep up the
sand so no one will sneeze. In the pot crumbled leaves tail of newt so
crunchy and dust of bricks Put That Brick BACK, Billy--" for Billy is
his buddy's name too--"back in the wall you must save this goddam
building for the Lincoln Park rats with sucking tentacle tails so they
can clean it up sweep us away put some tentacle tails in the brew and
you--"

He points arthritic finger at Winnetka emigrant walking past

"You--"

Billy his buddy cackles.
Pats his jacket, pulls forth a classic brew
Full of newts and tentacles too. Mad Dog 20/20.
"I have it. I drink to you."
He salutes Winnetka.

William points. "You, with your rehabs and street cleaning and Reeboks
and neighborhood watch--I dose for you."
Grabs Billy's bottle, tilts it high, swallows til mad bottle is dry.
"You--
Are welcome here."

About The Contributors...
-------------------------
Warrick Wynne is this issue's Featured Writer. Go read that section to
learn more about him.

Don M. Blews is a retired biologist living in Palm Beach Gardens,
Florida. His interests include ecology, conservation, reading,
writing, and enjoying his grandchildren. A type of muscular dystrophy
has recently left him homebound, and he now concentrates on new
challenges, especially his writing.

Shannon Bonton hails from Baton Rouge, Louisana. Her interests include
running, cooking, reading and writing short stories. This is her first
appearance in print.

Richard Epstein calls Denver, Colorado home. His poetry has appeared
in a wide assortment of literary journals both in the U.S.A. and in
Great Britian. He currently makes his living as a litigation
paralegal. A frequent contibutor to POETRY INK, Richard sadly reports
he did not win the Nobel Prize for Poetry, a honor that instead went
to Ireland's Seamus Heaney.

Rebecca E. Hays lives in Cascade, Maryland. Due to a severe physical
disability, she is virtually homebound and therefore spends much of
her time writing fiction and poetry. She welcomes comments and
criticism of her work. Her poem _Moonshadow_ appeared in POETRY INK
Issue 3.

Wm. Michael Owens lives in Balch Springs, Texas. His work has appeared
in numerous anthologies and collections of poetry, and won several
awards. His work has also appeared in several electronic magazines,
such as "Sunday Snippets" and "Original Creations". He has published
two books, "Living Stones" and "Looking Thru a Glass Darkly". He
currently works as a third party judiciary for GAB Insurance Company.

Marco Morales resides in Brisbane, Australia. Born in Spain, he moved
to Australia in 1990 to practice his skills as an architect. His
girlfriend broke up with him in 1995.

Jay Marvin is a twenty-two-year veteran of radio who lives in Chicago,
Illinois. His poems and short stories have been published in numerous
magazines and journals, including "Black Bear Review", "San Fernando
Poetry Journal", "Impetus", "ZuZu's Petals", and "Sulphur River
Literary Review". He has published one independent chapbook of poetry,
"Angel Wings", and two collaborative chapbooks, "Two Brothers Under
The Same Blood Soaked Cover" (with Bill Shields) and "Tasting What You
Touch" (with Paul Weinman). His collection of poems and prose poems is
titled "In Your Face: The Midnight Poems of Jay Marvin". Jay's radio
show airs nightly from WLS AM in Chicago.

John Freemyer works with developmentally disabled children and writes
what he calls "Computer Assisted Poetry" with homemade software of his
own design. John lives in Los Angeles with his wife of 23 years, Jane,
and their two daughters, Marie and Claire. This is his third
appearance in POETRY INK.

Paul Semel has had poems appear in "Planet Magazine", "Mysterious
Wysteria", "Drop Forge", "Coffeehouse", and "Nerve". He is currently
putting together the final edition of "Mixed Media", a journal of art
and literature. His day job has him editing music reviews for "huH",
and contributing to such magazines as "Wired", "Bikini", "Ray Gun",
and "Hot Wired".

Rob Johnston hails from Houston, Texas. When not writing, Rob does
graduate research for NASA and trying to finish his doctoral degree.
He has published about thirty academic and research articles and about
a dozen poems. Mostly he's just trying to stay awake.

Mike Randall is a high school senior living in Southington,
California. Although a proflic writer, he has published little.

Jeanne Gil lives outside of Trenton, New Jersey. She works with
special needs children as an Occupational Therapist in the public
schools. Although always interested in writing, this is her first
appearance in print.

Nicholas Marc Billion lives in Montreal, Canada. He is a creative arts
student at Dawson College, with hopes of pursuing a career in the film
industry. Nicholas enjoys reading, writing, movies, hockey, and
computer programming. His philosophy of life is summed up by D.H.
Lawrence: "The world allows no hermits." This is his first time in
print.

Richard Steinbach lives in Novato, California. A retired Navy pilot
and telephone company manager, his interests include photography,
gardening, and his grandchildren. Richard is POETRY INK's offical
America On-Line(tm) uploader, so eMail him and say thanks!

Amy DeGeus lives and works in Chicago, Illinois. She works for a local
Chicago service bureau, and in her spare times crafts jewelry from
glass fragments she finds washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan.
This is her first time in print.

Submission Guidelines
---------------------
Revised as of 10/25/95

(You may want to print this for future reference.)

* Failure to follow these guidelines will mean automatic rejection of
your submission! Please read the following very carefully!

* By submitting works for consideration, you agree that if accepted
for publication, you grant POETRY INK, the electronic magazine
produced by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and Matthew W. Schmeer the right to
publish your work. This right includes initial publication and any
subsequent re-release of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work
appeared, either in the electronic or the printed medium. All other
rights to your work are released to you upon publication. If we wish
to publish your work in a different issue of POETRY INK, we will
contact you for permission to do so and acknowledge your right of
refusal.

* By submitting works for consideration, you acknowledge that the
works you are submitting are your own original works and are products
of your own design. You further agree that we have the right to
request additional information from you regarding the source(s) of
your work and any related topic thereof. You agree that if your work
is found to be a derivative of copyrighted material by another author
or artist, you, and not POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and/or Matthew W.
Schmeer, will be liable for any physical or monetary damage assessed
under the jurisdiction of the courts of the United States of America
and the conventions of the International Copyright Law.

* By submitting works for consideration, you acknowledge that you are
not nor will ever be requesting monetary compensation for the right of
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS to publish your work. You therefore acknowledge
the only compensation due to you by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS is access
to a copy of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work appeared.
Acceptable access to POETRY INK is the posting of POETRY INK on
eWorld(tm), America On-Line(tm), the Internet at
sumex-aim.stanford.edu and mac.archive.umich.edu, and via eMail sent
directly to you, whichever we decide is fair and cost-effective.

* 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 language, forget about it.

* No previously published work may be submitted. Simultaneous
submissions are okay. In the case of simultaneous submissions, please
contact us if your work has been accepted by another publication so
that we may remove the work in question from consideration.

* All submissions must have your name, postal address, and eMail
address included on each individual work. You may submit work via U.S.
Mail or eMail. See below for addresses.

* No gratuitous obscenity or profanity, although erotic material is
okay. If you think it's too graphic, then it probably is and won't be
published in this forum.

* Please keep poems under 3 printed pages apiece (page size = 8" x 11"
page with 1" margins printed with Times 12-point plain font).

* Please limit short stories to under 5000 words.

* No more than 5 poems or 2 short stories submitted per person per
issue.

* Submissions should be submitted as plain ASCII eMail files or as
StuffIt compressed (.sit) attachments to files. Compressed files
should be in plain text format (the kind produced by SimpleText).
Regardless of submission format, please use the subject line "SUBMIT
POETRY INK: your name" where "your name" is your actual name and not
the name of your eMail account. For example, it should look like this:

SUBMIT POETRY INK: John Q. Public

* Manuscripts and submissions cannot be returned, nor can we offer any
constructive criticism unless we decide to publish the work and we
have serious reservations regarding content or structure. You will not
receive notification that your work was received; while we regret this
inconvenience, you must realize we have to support ourselves somehow.
Therefore, due to the amount of expected submissions, we cannot
acknowledge receipt of your work unless we decide to publish it.

* If your work is accepted for publication, you will be notified as
soon as possible by eMail. If you prefer to be notified by U.S. Mail,
please indicate on your submission this preference. Your eMail address
will be published when crediting your work. If you prefer us not do do
so, please indicate this on your submission.

* Subscribers to the PATCHWORK mailing list will be given special
consideration in the selection process. For information regarding
PATCHWORK, or to subscribe, send an eMail message to patchwork-
[email protected], with the subject "HELP" (no quotes). It is not
necessary to have any text in the body of the message.

All submissions, inquiries, and comments should be directed to:

eMail: <[email protected]>

snail mail:

Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 USA

POETRY INK...
-------------

...is now available on the World Wide Web! Point your browser to this
URL:

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