Issue 3 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

Fun: the fingers of a hand on the ground toy with dandelion
roots, soil with specks of shell—from the ocean,
former tenant of this land—soil with excrement of
worms, dust of crops, smell of artifacts. The eyes toy
with the wall which slowly caves, then the roof which
sinks, then the window which with a fine shattering
bursts and lies like a flock of sparrows on the ground.
Then the groaning of a timber toys with the ear, till
another joins in too painful disharmony; yet they do not
turn away, they flinch and watch, enchanted. The timbers
crack. Oh, the antique dealer!
It is all spectacle now—clouds of splinters, a twisting
gale of shingles, a suspicion of death within—the
clank just once of pots and pans, the crunch of the stove
which should have protested more, the sighing of curtains
and sheets, the comical slide of pictures down the
wall, into the rising lap of the house . . . Oh, the antique
dealer! The spitting of tiles and splints of wood
from the floor.
How exciting it is to watch a house in the country
come down. We were too damn poor. We quarreled. We
had blood between us which connected us as though
with tiny sharp wires; we could not pull but we would
feel a tug; our chests rose as we breathed at different
rates; when someone laughed it would resonate, or it
would not. But we could all watch. And then Tasha
stood with Mick on her hip; and Christina scratched the
itch from her ankle of a blade of grass sawing at it; and
Raymond hesitated before saying something; and the
rest also breathed. A frog, a frog was in their midst, but
they let him stay, and he spoke; and the house came
down with the frog speaking, and the other frogs joining
in at the edges or within the wood; and the stars
were cold as ice, and there was no fire; and they were
mostly without speech.
But Tasha said, turning, and turned so they would
hear her, "Ah, it has died!"
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RICHARD JONES
Writing Poetry On Black Paper
You get up, try the phone,
but the wires have been cut.
Suddenly there is a pounding
on the door. You imagine
women in torn gowns. It is
Paganini. He smashes
your ex-girlfriend's violin,
waves his white scarf,
and dashes into the woods.
You walk outside,
sit on the stoop.
All night
the stars drop
like white coins
into the black cup of the meadow.
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