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dedicated to the art of the written word

volume 2, number 1
January 1996

================================
POETRY INK 2.01 / ISSN 1091-0999
================================

POETRY INK
volume 2, number 1
Issue 8 (January 1996)

"Dedicated To The Art Of The Written Word"

>From The Editor's Desktop...
----------------------------
First and foremost, thank you to everyone who pointed out the infamous
Table of Contents error. It seems that last issue's (Issue 7) Table
of Contents had a slight error--most of the listings were off the mark
by about two pages. This is due to a mistake we made early on in
generating the TOC, and we never went back and corrected it. Well,
suffice to say I think we caught it this time and it will not happen
again. Let's all just give WordPerfect 3.1's TOC macro a big Bronx
Cheer. At least now I have a thorough understanding of how it works
and where I went wrong.

So here we are with Volume 2, Issue 1 -- the January 1996 issue of
POETRY INK . As promised, we have introduced the new Belles Lettres
section, a place where we answer reader snail mail and eMail, and
hopefully any other questions regarding writing in general and poetry
in specific that we can answer. Unfortunately, the introduction of our
first regularly featured column on writing and literary happenings on
and off the Internet doesn't appear in this issue. The person who had
suggested the idea didn't want to do the footwork (you know who you
are, Bob), and frankly, my plate has been a little full the past few
months.

So, I guess you could say the position is still open. This is an idea
I like but do not have the time nor full- blown Internet access to
pursue to its fullest extent. Interested parties should contact me at
one of the ususal address.

We announce our POETRY INK Writing Contest #2 later in this issue. The
winners of the POETRY INK Writing Contest #1: An Exercise In Writing
have been selected and will be announced in the February 1996 issue.
They will be receiving their prizes toward the end of January or
beginning of February, so all of you who submitted an entry, watch
your mailbox!

Also, beginning with the Issue 9 (February 1996, the next issue), we
will be switching our publishing dates. Due to time contraints and
outside obligations, POETRY INK will become a bi-monthy publication,
appearing every other month. After the February issue, POETRY INK
won't produce another issue until April 1996, and then agian in June
and so forth, for a total of seven issues in 1996. Hopefully, this
will not mean a drop in submissions or readership, as plans call for
including more authors and works in the new bi-monthly issues.
However, we will still keep on top of submission responses, so please
keep this in mind.

February might bring another change as well. As many of you may know,
Apple Computer, Inc. is shuttering its eWorld(tm) on-line service and
evolving it into an Internet Web-based service. What does this mean
for POETRY INK ? Well, we will probably be changing eMail addresses
sometime in the near future, which could mean we will be jumping to
America On-Line(tm). Or we could be going with a local dial-up
Internet provider. Until Apple announces its plans for current
eWorld(tm) denziens, we are in the dark. However, we will entertain
any offers from sponsors willing to pay all our on-line fees or
provide us free Internet access for the cost of a local call. So keep
your fingers crossed and look for an announcement in February.

Until next issue, may the Muse be kind!

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 Logo and 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 1996 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 1.1.1. We
encourage others to support these fine hardware manufacturers and
software programmers.

Belles Lettres
--------------
This is a new section where we publish eMail we receive from our
readers. Got a question or comment yabout writing, reading, or POETRY
INK? Then send it in! We will attempt to answer any questions sent in
and also provide a place for our readers to voice their opinion. So
onto the letters!

> I would like to know if there are any submission guidelines or size
> requirements for the BackPage section of POETRY INK . I have a
> couple of images ready to roll that I think (hope) you'll like.
Geoffrey Hamilton
<[email protected]>

Yep, there are a few submission and size guidelines for submitting
work for the BackPage. First, no images over 150k--anything larger
will start to make POETRY INK bloat way too much. Also, no images made
with "millions of colors;" so keep them in the "thousands of colors"
range. Finally, no GIFs or JPEGs. Submit artwork as PICT or EPS file
formats. And please, no nudie pictures. The 'net has enough of those
as it is.

> Could you take me off your mailing list? I can't always afford the
> downloading time for it, though I do enjoy POETRY INK when I can!
I'll just grab it from ZiffNet from now on.
Alice Risemberg
<[email protected]>

No problem, Alice. Consider yourself removed from the list. Which
brings up an interesting point: if you would like to have POETRY INK
delivered to your eMailbox upon release, just send an eMail to us at
our eMail address asking to be put on the list. However, be sure that
your on-line provider can receive Internet file attachments before you
send a subscription request. Currently, America On-Line(tm) and
eWorld(tm) both have this capability, as do most dial-up Internet
providers. But it pays to find out for sure!

> Thank you for the latest issue of POETRY INK . I was very pleased to
> be included in Issue Six . Your 'zine is one of the cleanest (from a
> design standpoint) and best around.
Amy DeGeus
<[email protected]>

Thanks for the compliment, Amy! I strive to give POETRY INK a
consistent look without all the bells and whistles of the whole
"multi-media" concept. True, I could go overboard and design POETRY
INK in DOCMaker with hotlinks all over the place and QuickTime(tm)
movies and stereo sound, but all that would do is detract from the
authors' work. I want POETRY INK to not only look good on the screen,
but also on the printed page as well. I want you, the reader, to be
able to print this out and take it away and read it at your own
leisure. We can only spend so much time staring at the computer screen
before our eyes go nuts. While I have had offers to "spice up" POETRY
INK , I think I like the design at it stands. What do you think? Got
any ideas for things you like or things you'd like to see changed? Let
us know! We'll see what happens.

> Congratulations on Issue 7 ; it looks and feels great! And thanks
> again for publishing Waiting ; I already have two eMails about it. A
> fan club!
John L. Arnold
<[email protected]>

Congratulations on your fan club! That's one of the reasons we publish
our contributors' eMail address. If we encourage each other, we start
to grow as writers. Criticism, too, is good for the soul, so don't
hesitate to eMail comments and criticism to work you think shows
talent, promise, or both. As readers and writers, we have a
responsibilty to nuture the "spark of genius" that flows everytime
someone puts pen to paper. Encourage the Muse and Spill the Ink!

State Of Our Web...
-------------------
**Poetry Ink...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 generously donates his time and resources to provide POETRY INK
a home on the Web. To reach the POETRY INK Web site, point your WWW
Browser to this URL:

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

The Web site contains links to download POETRY INK's back issues in
both the original Macintosh eDOC format and Adobe Acrobat(tm) PDF
format (for those of you on DOS, Windows, and Unix systems). Check out
the site and let us know what you think! Spill The Ink!

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

The Free Stuff Count...
-----------------------
**We Want Free Stuff!**

Okay, we admit it. We are making a desperate plea for free things from
you, our readers, who receive 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, review
for future issues, or award as prizes in our writing contests!

Here's a few examples of free things we have received from various
on-line folks. Most of these items will be used as contest prizes:

* A United Parcel Services acryilic notepad holder (with notepad)

* An Extra-Large T-Shirt from MacMillian Digital Publishing

* A CD Sampler from the Windham Hill Record Label

* Sandalwood-scented bath oil from the Bayou Blending Company

* A 1-800-CALL-ATT mousepad

* A Schwan Stabilo Conference Marker 141

* 3-pair package of men's Hanes(r) brand socks

*A mousepad from J.C. Penney

These are just a few of the interesting things we have received. We
are always 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 or used 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 and we'll let you know
what happens from there!

Featured Writer
---------------
John Freemyer
<[email protected]>
2 poems, 1 short fiction piece

_Followed The Cat_

I have followed the cat into the bedroom
and shredded a seersucker jacket

I have followed the cat and
sniffed emotions in the air
I have followed the cat into fire
and onto the window sill

I have followed the cat onto an Interstate
and dashed between speeding wheels

I have learned the breathing of the cat
and learned to switch off the flux of time
and learned why, to the cat, sleep is a form of travel

I have followed the cat up the steps of thunderbolts
and worn the cat's wardrobe
and swallowed warm mouse and sparrow

I have feared water and bathed with tongue
I have caressed myself with furniture
and caroused with yarn balls

I have followed the cat and entered the hole
and come out on the other side
3000 miles away from here
and 5000 years away from now
where and when the sun was younger,
when and where it pricked the eye like thorn

I have followed the cat into the seven
shimmering places and lived to tell of it
I have been where cats go when they leave
and do not return
and seen what they see
but you must not ask
and I must not tell you
any more

_Prayer_

I watched Sarah drill a small hole
into the top of her head
through the skull
careful not to harm gray tissue
so God could speak more clearly to her.

And apparently it worked OK.

God told Sarah to stop hurting herself.

Pain, God said, isn't prayer.

I watched Sarah rub her feet on the carpet
to make sparks fly
from her fingertips.

She electrocuted a fly

in midair.
Amazing.

But
God told her
power isn't prayer
either.

I watched her for years
and overheard
her prayers to God and later I
spread her ashes on the ground for God
and returned to God
Sarah's gravity.

But death was also not prayer.

And so it's difficult
if not impossible now
to know just what the hell prayer is
though I know exactly what it isn't.

No.
This isn't it either.

It must be something else.

_Not Just Halloween_

Even before I saw Kurt, I was viscerally aware of silkiness and
transformation. I knocked on the bathroom door. He sang, "Come in,
Daddy." And I hesitantly stepped into the bathroom. Kurt had become a
dazzling lady. His hair swirled up in a loose knot atop his head. He
wore elaborate makeup. In high heels and a long tan dress, I tell you,
the boy had become his mom's twin. He purred. "Call me Anita." Kurt
performed a smooth pirouette to show me everything he had done to
himself. His nose wrinkled prettily. Then he clasped his hands behind
his head, cocked his hip to one side, and winked suggestively. "You
look so grown up," I said, slipping my arm around his waist. "You look
like a very attractive woman." He didn't say anything. He held his
pose and scrutinized his reflection in the mirror. Finally he said,
"Happy Halloween."

The cops called two days later. "Your daughter Anita was brought in
for curfew violation. She's obviously under age. She had no
identification." The officer suspected he was a runaway. "Please pick
her up before noon."

In the parents' reception room, I sat down in a vinyl overstuffed
chair and waited. Ten minutes later the door opened. Kurt scuffed into
the room unaccompanied. He looked older, a little scornful and
resigned. He still wore his long dress and heels, but his hair hung
limply down his back now. His nail polish had chipped or been chewed
off. No smile. He gripped a small brown paper bag in one hand and an
identification badge in the other. He moved his hand away quickly when
I reached for it. "It was stupid," he said. "A stupid mistake. I'm
sorry, Daddy." "What happened?" I asked, standing up. "Why are you
here?" "They think I'm a runaway. And there's something about curfew
violation, too." He fetched a tube of lipstick from the bag, twisted
the color out, and overstated his lips with it. Then he dropped the
tube back into the bag and removed a cigarette. I'd never seen Kurt
smoke before, but this Anita woman he had become was puffing like an
old pro. "I'm pregnant," he said slowly, as if testing the words.
"Pregnant? Are you crazy? You can't be pregnant! You're a--" He kicked
my knees with a swift thrust. I fell on him, pulling him off the chair
and onto the floor. He tore my face with his fingernails, ripped my
eyes. He kicked and pushed me away. And I began sobbing and tried to
pull him close, tried to kiss him, hug him. But he went on kicking my
legs and crotch, scratching my face and eyes. I begged him to stop.
The door slammed open against a folding chair. Someone pulled Kurt off
me. He spat at me as they dragged him out the door.

Kurt wrote me once from Las Vegas. He told me he was living with his
baby son in a hotel off the main strip, waiting for his boyfriend,
Donny, to get out of jail. Enclosed with the letter was a photo of
Kurt wearing a tight black dress, standing in front of a casino. He
held someone's tiny baby in his arms. He and the baby were having a
tough time, he wrote. What the hell could I do? I sent her a hundred
dollars.

John Freemyer lives and writes in Los Angeles, California with his
wife and their two daughters. A frequent contributor to POETRY INK,
John says about his writings which appear here:

I am attempting to write something about my story and poems, but I'm
not sure I have the academic and literary background necessary to
carry it off. Maybe there's nothing more difficult than writing about
writing. I try not to think about it very much. Stories and poems
either happen or don't.

_Not Just Halloween_ simply began as an attempt to write a standard
mystery potboiler short story about a widower who exploits his twelve
year old daughter, Nikki, by involving her in a drug smuggling plan. I
conceived it as a story for a pulp magazine, something like "Alfred
Hitchcock".

In the original story, the father convinces Nikki to dress up as an
adult woman and hide narcotics in an otherwise empty bra. The story
moves along clumsily, with Nikki and her adult boyfriend
double-crossing her dad on a drug deal and being arrested while trying
to sell the drugs in Las Vegas. As the histrionics unfolded, I
injected often pretentious social commentary about drugs, child abuse,
and teen pregnancy, and was unhappy with the results. The story ended
with a photograph of Nikki and her baby and a handwritten letter in
which Nikki pleads for money to hold her over until her boyfriend is
released from jail.

The story was garbage. In an attempt to salvage it, I used my word
processor's "Find & Replace" function to change Nikki's gender. After
a few surgical mouse clicks, 'shes' became 'hes' and Nikki became
Kurt. With the daughter now transformed into a son in a dress, the
story began to come alive. In the version seen here, I dropped the
drug smuggling story line (and a few thousand words) and revised it
into a short action sketch of a father's and son's disturbing, loving,
misunderstanding, dependent, and violent relationship-a relationship
not unlike mine with my father. Only the story details differ. The
emotions are the same.

It might be more difficult to talk about poems. They don't begin with
potboiler story lines.

_Followed The Cat_ was written because I have often wondered where
Harry, our family cat, goes when he paws open the pet door and steps
outside. He sometimes disappears for several days. The kids are
certain he'll never return and neighborhood searches are fruitless.
Then I figured it out in my usual judicious, rational fashion; Harry's
pet door doesn't merely open up onto the outside world. It is also a
door through which he can pass through time. When we can't find Harry,
it's just as likely that he's visiting ancient Egypt as dashing across
the Interstate.

_Prayer_ is about my ongoing struggle with atheism.

Have you ever had the feeling that even your most heartfelt prayers
don't go anywhere? It's almost as if they aren't strong enough to be
heard. And what about hearing a response from God? Am I the only
person alive who is unreceptive enough to hear God's response, if any?
I have never felt that my prayers were heard or that I have heard an
answer. Prayers are incapable of passing through my skull. They begin
and end with me. Therefore when I read about a cult in Britain in
which members drill holes in their craniums for reasons both
ritualistic and divinely communicative, I knew had to write about it.

The poem's character, Sarah, is a composite of the several now
deceased God seekers I have known, especially the ones who believed
drugs to be The Way. I know it isn't the way, but I don't know what or
where the way is. I'm still following the cat, I guess...

Ainsley Moffitt
---------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Eye brows_

I know she'll be home soon
and I haven't done a thing
and she'll scold me
when I should be gone
where do I go on to
with you

and she'll raise them
in my general direction
and she'll say with them
all the things she doesn't think I already know
too late to go

and just like all the ones she tries to impress
she stares at me
in awe
of the things she sees
of me

but I know you know
and I know you see
and you think they're so beautiful
and sometimes I agress
and I miss you when you're there
because I feel
and I see
under them
they are above me

and you have two and so do I
one of many
things we have in common
it's somewhere to start from
if we were a year behind
and this gets stranger every time

and we drive and drive
and sit and laugh and cry
not knowing they say everything
for us
speak every word
we think they don't know
to pretend to be unassuming
is so easy
for you and me
we get along with alomst everything

you are a little better
sorry to get off the subject
but I suppose you expect me to say
I love you
and they will

and I wish I could call myself something else
like artist
singer
songwriter
lover
poet
or somebody else
beside you

I cannot destroy you
I showed you too many things
that they should have never seen
underneath me
between me
they raised in alarm
just like all the others
and I thought yours were different
hidden
not pretty
but strange

_Love Poem_

your child
it moves inside me
as if it means to twist the body
not knowing night from day
or day from a dream

your love
it walks through me
through the endless heart mazes
as if trying to shatter the walls
which have no entrance or escape

your words
they run into me
as if they were something lost
in despair and unrest
with no hope of escaping the trees

your mouth
it beckons me
like wind blowing in rooms
wanting for a window
and having no stale air to clear

your thoughts
they hang onto me
as if fearfull of fathoms
and in dangling trembles wait
for an unreachable grasp

your memory
it looks down on me
like circles of dark caves
that travel about the earth
and end in their beginnings

Collin L. Turner
<Le [email protected]>
2 poems

_Ka_

The two letters stand relief,
bold, bright orange-red on
the nonstaining white fridge
in a pocket of order among
the multi-colored, preschool
chaos of scattered ABC's
and 123's.

Ka?
Says my inner voice.
The one that's been helping
me find my Self all weekend,
all month--always.
It's a question encompassing
answers without a rosetta stone.
We will continue to decipher
this mysterious word.

Ka!
Cries the crow as it flies
in ways we could never drive.
We can only comprehend its
path by looking at roadmaps.
Why can't we do that? Simply
go from point A to point B.
Mais non! We must create
roads that writhe and twist
through a contoured landscape
that we can never conquer,
never control.

Ka...
Whispers a priest as he
seals the tomb with an adder's
skull. His king, god-man (now
on a journey among gods), lies
with his suffocating concubines
and slaves. His entrails, in three
jars beside the care-wrapped body
of his cat. They wait in
darkness, aboard his boat that
had once sailed the Nile, but
now rows upon the Styx.
3000 years to full circle.
What will there be to tell
when it returns?

Ka.
My page tells me after it's
been stained. It will be
my word now, given to me
by a two year-old who was
playing on the fridge. Simple.
Accidental. Profound. To be
two; to be crow; to be King.
To be whole.

_In a Quick Minute_

He walks into the room
and the one who cowers looks up
to see the gun metal glint,
leaving marks in watering eyes.
he sees the long dark tunnel
and the light at the end
is a flash.

Jeremy Lowry
------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Anti-Semitism, 1992_

Across miles and years,
poland, my love,
across generations
I am transifixed by your passion.

By your four million Jews,
poland, my love,
and their shoes of your spit
and their eyes of madness.

By your suffering,
poland, my love,
and the angry grey snow
of your four million jewish ghosts.

With your mothers and fathers,
poland, my love,
with your priests and nuns and children,
your four million jews went up the chimneys.

Through your crucifixion,
poland, my love,
germany is redeemed, but
poland, my love,

who will redeem you?

_The Nor' Easter_
Little Africa Beach, Long Island, 1994

The wind,
which howls through lonely twisted trees in a darkening
December island of desperate suburbs and lighthouses and god
forsaken ships forever more at dock.

The wind,
which pounds against the windows of arrogant beach houses with a
fury that cannot be denied by plexi-glass or erosion lawns or all
the
other conspiracies of man.

The wind,
which screams with fury at the dunes, who ripple and shudder in
terror, cringing so slowly that in one man's life only a single
grain
of sand will roll down and leave the shifting beach for the solid
land.

The wind,
which whistles in the ears of lonely teenage boys wanting to get far
away from the steamy jungle of shopping malls and big haired, big
bellied women, who beckon with movie star lips, painted on a
featureless face and whispers, "stay."

The wind,
which tosses the centuries old schooner abandoned and guided only
by the long dead hand of the captain, the only sailor not lured into
the sea by the salty tears of the mermaids.

The wind,
which drives the young gull down towards the foam capped waves
beneath which a paradise of starfish and silence and schools of fish
uncaring of the tempest above.

The wind,
which surrounds me, slapping my face and burning my eyes and
caressing my outstretched hand and violently seizing my broken
spirit, filling against my will the holes in my shattered heart.

The wind,
which drives the waves with awesome ferocity against the shore on
which a single bouquet of flowers sit, waiting to be consumed by the
ravenous ocean, left by a tired old gentleman, who as a boy became
a man with a pernicious old whore,

The sea.

John L. Arnold
--------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_A Woman Of A Certain Age_

Is it in the lines? The little ones around the eyes.
Little creases in the skin, that you can tell a woman,
of a certain age.
Starts out baby smooth, then time and trouble add
lines, one for each time the heart is broken,
one for each lover lost, one for each child born, one for
each illusion shattered.
One for each hundred tears shed, one for every
bitter disappointment.
Is it in the lines? Can you see that the woman is,
of a certain age?
One line for each betrayal, one for each hundred promises,
broken. One for talent and potential,
ignored.
Lines for each thousand dishes washed,
for every hundred diapers cleaned.
A line for each dream that lies mortally
wounded on the sharp point of reality.

And for love, a lot of deep lines for love.
New love found, old love lost. Child love, Mother love,
the white hot heat of physical love, child love again.
Mature love, comfortable and easy love.
The old roller coaster, up,then down.
Worry, fear, joy, hope, dreams, ambition,
contrition and frustration, a lot of lines for frustration.
In the middle of life,the lines begin to
merge and blend, a look
in the mirror confirms, a touch of grey.
More lines on the face of a Woman of a certain age.
The face has become the story line in that comedy-tragedy
called life.

The lines begin to converge and gain form,
and finally the story is completely told,
on the beautiful face of a Woman,
A Woman of a certain age.

_Grief_

Someone you love
is dead.
Suddenly it hits you,
like a rabbit punch.
Can't breathe, can not think.
Helpless.
At first you do not believe it,
then you know it to be true.
The pain starts.
Memories flood the brain,
cannot sleep or eat.
Hurt, O God it hurts!
Tears, can not stop.
Pick up a fork and try to eat,
You cry.
Reach out to open car door,
You cry.
You fight to regain control,
you lose.

Now the funeral is over,
You share the pain.
Then it lets up a little,
You try to get a grip, almost get it.
Then it comes again, and you fall
back into despair.
Try to speak, but can not.
Reason tries to return,
but fails.
You try to get up,
get to your knees before it hits again.
You feel as if you are drowning,
in a river of memories.
Disorentied, dizzy,
lost.

Then it lets up again for a while.
You try to regroup, sanity seems to return.
Then you see a picture or hear a name,
It comes again.
When you think you can not cry any more,
tears come in a flood.
The pain lets up a little,
for a little longer this time.
Then the next wave hits and
it's just as bad as the first time.
As time goes on, the intensity lets up,
a little.

The time between the waves,
is a bit longer.
The tears still come but not so often now.
And you think maybe time does heal.
Time goes by and you think its over,
wrong. It comes again.
Not as bad, but bad enough.
Grief takes a long, long time.
Maybe it never ends.

Call For Entries #2...Another Contest!
--------------------------------------

**Announcing POETRY INK Writing Contest #2**

**Contest #2: Formulaic Expression**
Most of us are familiar with so-called "poetic forms;" whether we love
them or hate them depends on our exposure to them. Sonnets, of course,
have been shoved down our throats ever since we were introduced to
Shakespeare. But other forms, like the ballade, the villanelle, the
sestina and the troilet were just as popular during The Bard's day as
they are today. As writers, it is important for us to remember that
while free verse is the modern standard, we need to have a fundamental
knowledge of poetry's history. So here's the deal for the second
POETRY INK Writing Contest.

**The Pitch**
Write a formulaic poem on the subject of streetlights. That's right.
Streetlights, those things that hang over streets and light the way at
night. It can be a sonnet, a troilet, a sestina, whatever--just not
free verse.

**The Hint**
If you are looking for a good reference to the different poetic forms,
I recommend "Rhyme's Reason: A Guide To English Verse" by John
Hollander (New Haven, MA, U.S.A.,Yale University Press: 1981). It
cover price is roughly $8.00, and it will serve you well. Mine is
tattered and torn!

**The Deadline**
The deadline for entries is April 15, 1996. All entries must be
postmarked by this date to be considered eligible for consideration.
Entries cannot be returned. We will report late entries to the IRS.

**Where to Send Your Entry**
Poems maybe sent by SNAIL MAIL to the following address:

Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
ATTN: Contest #2
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647

Or by eMail to <[email protected]>

If submitting by eMail, please title the subject line "YOUR NAME
Contest 2" (no quotes), where "YOUR NAME" is your actual name and not
your eMail address. It should look like this:

JOHN Q. PUBLIC Contest 2

**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 entries will get some really cool free
stuff. 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 three (3) poems will be
published in the May 1996 issue.

So what are you waiting for? Get those entries in! Mail yours today!
Don't delay! Limited time offer!

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

_Miles_

Though distance is great,
with just a word
you touch me,
reaching out from your world,
entering mine.
Enveloping me with your
thoughts, dreams, desires,
The musings of your soul.

I feel this connection.
drifting across space,
no reason, no explaination
except that it simply exists.

Reality.
Perception.
catch-all terms for what we believe
to be real.
What is real?

The craving of my mind mimics
that of my heart.
Wanting you with me,
knowing the impossibility.
Yet I dream on.

Rob Johnston
------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Fred_

Stepping
into oncoming traffic
the black man with a
gray beard and soiled
overcoat.
His muddy brownish-
tan and scruffy tatters
flapping like the extra
skin
on his pallid face. He
glares his angry furrowed
brow at passing comatose
drivers,
who dare to use
his well-trodden
walkway. This
street
is mine (he yelled)
as i barreled past his
overflowing shopping
cart.

_Neighbors_

Her face, purple and
blue. Battered by
some little man...some
enormous, grotesque,
little man--dripping
Budweiser...
paraphernalia.

Bludgeoned, puffy
eyelids, red and black,
leaking emptiness and
shame. Her head,
angled forward, covering her
burden with sticky,
chaffed hair. Her breath,
shallow and weightless...
the husband-boyfriend-
tormentor...hollow victor
of a soiled vaudeville
act, cradles her tiny
frame, swearing his sorrow...
his anguish, his pain.
Never again,
baby...never again.

Marianne Zopp
-------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_The Voice Within_

They say that they know you, but can't feel your pain.
While the weight of the world is on your shoulders,
they're too busy running from the rain.

And your only escape is soaring on a dragon's wings,
or swimming with dolphins in an indigo sea.
Sanity is found in a world where your soul has no fear.
A world where dark images and torn hearts never shed tears.

Your path has been chosen, but not by your choice.
And they laugh above you because you feel so small.
To them, you are just a tool to strengthen their fall.

Remember, the reality of it lays in your lap,
It's people like you and me, give life to people like that.

Matthew W. Schmeer
------------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Silent Prayer_

my wife tells me she might be pregnant.
i do not know if i should be shocked or elated;
i fear a look of cautious optimism has
crossed my face.
i remember the miscarriage six months before
and i do not know if i could handle it
if it happened again.
i am suddenly filled with anger at
those who do not conceive the struggle,
with their delusions
that a life is not worth
the selfishness of a woman.
i do not know what to say,
and my mouth is dry and tastes
of aluminum.

i do not know what to say
when she says she might be
having a baby--but wait,
it is only day twenty-five and
she might start bleeding
and then the whole conversation
would be moot.

i do not know what to say.
i want to revel in my happiness
with the knowledge that i
will be a father...but i do
not know what to say.

i see the look on her face
and she asks me to pray
for her and for the possibility
there is life within her womb.

i, who never put faith in prayer,
do not know what to say.

my wife
tells me
she might be
pregnant
and i
do not know
what to say.

my wife,
whom i love more than life itself
does not know i do not know
what to say
when i tell her i will pray
and i will put my faith
in the hands of a god
i am just beginning
to get to know.

_Srebrenica_

"Society is above all the idea it forms of itself."
--Emile Durkheim

the there in over there is
the bodies of men and young boys
like cordwood piled four feet high,
neatly stacked head to toe to head to toe
with their shriveled genitalia pressed
into each others' chest.
the dead have no modesty,
and there are not enough graves
in the hills outside of Sarajevo to
cover their nakedness.
the emptiness of eyes draws the circle complete.

there are no trees in Gorazda;
the hallow ghosts of buildings
crumble from shelling and
six-year-old girls
scream blood
from the dictated stabs
between their legs.

bayonnet babies litter the countryside;
Omarska
Dauchau
Sanski Most
Auschwitz
Stupni Do
are not fifty-year memories
drawn with fresh faces.

even Hemingway fought the facists
while Chamberlin brokered lies.
the martyrdom of East Mostar
is not the crucifixtion of a Palestinian Jew;
the crescent of the middle descends not
into the shroud of mountains,
and army engineers cannot build a bridge
to span indifference.

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

Ainsley Moffitt lives in Wrightwood, California. He is a student at a
local community college, while attending his last year in high school
at the same time. He will be transferring to San Fransisco State
University in the fall, where he plans to study Journalism and other
creative arts. His hobbies are playing acoustic guitar, reading and
rereading Raymond Carver novels, acting, singing, and writing. He also
writes for three local 'zines, and his school newspaper.

Collin L. Turner has been a curious stranger to poetry. His poems
began unexpectedly and have carried him along with them ever since. He
has published occasionally and will continue to do so as long as
editors are willing to humor him. Currently he is working on several
"projects" and acting as Editor-in-chief of Weber State University's
Literary Journal "Metaphor". His hobbies and pastimes include not
being "politically correct," in-line skating, writing and getting an
education through any means necessary. He lives in Ogden, Utah.

Jeremy Lowry hails from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He wrote both of the
poems which appear in this issue of POETRY INK while traveling through
Europe and the United States in 1992-1994. Jeremy reports that his
degree is in International Affairs (focus on Russian & Eastern
European Politics), which he claims he will almost certainly never
use. His poem _Deep Blue Future_ appeared in POETRY INK Issue 7.

John L. Arnold curently resides in San Francisco, California and works
as a tour guide for the Great Pacific Tour Co. His prose piece
_Waiting_ appeared in POETRY INK Issue 7. John says that all positive
re-enforcement needed and welcomed.

Jeanne Gil lives outside of Trenton, New Jersey. She works with
special needs children as an Occupational Therapist in the public
schools. Her work as previously appeared in POETRY INKIssue 6 and
Issue 7.

Rob Johnston hails from Houston, Texas. When not writing, Rob does
graduate research for NASA and tries to finsh his doctoral degree. He
also tries to stay awake. His poem _Fast Food_ appeared in last
month's issue of POETRY INK.

Marianne Zopp calls Shrewsbury, Pennsylvania home. While most of her
poetry has been kept private until recently, she says her inspiration
comes from personal experiences, and that poetry is like a written
canvas for her soul. Her other interests focus on fine art, art
history and graphic art. Currently, she is employed with Chesapeake
Advertising in Baltimore, Maryland. This is her first appearance in
print as a contributor.

Matthew W. Schmeer is the editor of POETRY INK, which means he
scrambles around like crazy three days prior to POETRY INK's
self-imposed release dates to make sure everything is hunky-dory and
ready to hit the 'net. His other interests include sleep, annoying his
cat (Calvin), and searching for free things from large corporations to
give away as prizes in POETRY INK's contests. His wife thinks he
should have married his Macintosh.

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...
-------------

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