Issue 3 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

More documents

Recommendations

Info

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!" 52 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. 53
JANE MILLER The Heart Climbs Devilishly Back into the Body; or, Field of Red Thistles Noon, noon, noon, the muted creek, the mare locked in the barn. Winter to break, about to break, about to mother-me-down. I dream of her in a clear, plastic suit cracked down the back and tearing, which I have to stop. Finding myself sobbing periodically, mother of hard vinyl like a telephone with her flesh exposed keeps asking in the high voice of the mortally wronged, what does anyone know about poetry, or care? Who looks through Baudelaire's windows, who sees him undressing there? In time we discover the hard blue sky is hard. And the summer figs, the cherished tan of last season? now only blare at me, and the leaves by the road-side pith and collect. I trembled when I heard their words and the empty minds of the poor scavenged trees. Moon moon moon in them, owl, hawk, owl. All saying now Halloween, now, blaspheme of roses, cancelled weddings, interior monologues. Inside the barn the whiskers on the horse gather frost. And the steam knocks, and the wicks sputter. Magnificent sunset, mother going down. Inside the house her heart climbs back into her body, bloodying the back steps. The action begins again, the failing light, the underside of the moon imagining me here. Dusk pulls a mauve tarp across a field of red thistles, and catches. 54 MARK O'DONNELL The Diner An Oriental man is sitting alone in a restaurant, sadly eating apple pie and coffee. Clearly, he only knows how to order "apple pie and coffee". It is the only phrase he knows. What if some understanding waitress with nails as red as roses brought him veal cutlest when he ordered "apple pie and coffee"? He would be grateful, and return every day, as she brought him omelettes, salads, steaming newborn roasts— all from orders for "apple pie and coffee". They would smile at each other, since they could not converse. She would give him credit for what he was willing to mean. They would go dancing and ask the band to play "Apple Pie and Coffee". There is no such song. The parade of days would pass. All seas would retreat. They would marry and have rosered Oriental children. When evening came, the children would play on the darkling lawn, shouting "Apple pie and coffee". The stars would divulge themselves above the trees. Life would be worthwhile. 55
Page 1 and 2: ROBERT TAYLOR, JR. Union Street Sta
Page 3 and 4: espect for those who supervise him
Page 5 and 6: In bed, on the verge of sleep, she
Page 7 and 8: They sit together in the turret, on
Page 9 and 10: RICHARD SPEAKES Scrimshaw The man t
Page 11 and 12: ELAINE FORD Whin I met Ivor in a pu
Page 13 and 14: I'd only spoken it once. "Moira, an
Page 15 and 16: etween the gravestones and the pape
Page 17 and 18: in the street." "How do you know it
Page 19 and 20: CLEOPATRA MATHIS Journey in the Sno
Page 21 and 22: STEPHANIE STRICKLAND RICHARD HENSLE
Page 23: cloth from a New York mill, the col
Page 27 and 28: URSULE MOLINARO The Chemistry of Mi
Page 29 and 30: now. Any day now, perhaps. Perhaps
Page 31 and 32: silhouette on the historical balcon
Page 33 and 34: Where she had perhaps planted the t
Page 35 and 36: JAMES BRASFIELD The Stringer Called
Page 37 and 38: C: You have translated Whitman into
Page 39 and 40: also describe my high school years
Page 41 and 42: sequence and sequence. Not in the b

Issue 3 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?