|
cybervoices
Victor
D. Infante, Stranded: Poet Mark Strand preaches political
indifference at UCI
Folsom @ 24th
| The Kyrielle, a French poetic form,
is often used in hymns. It carries a refrain in the
last line of each quatrain. Usually written in iambic
tetrameter — i.e, eight syllables to the line. The
word is from the Old French kiriele, which is a
derivative of the word for a type of Christian
liturgical prayer.
|
Kyrielle
|
| At first he plays among the dolls, |
| Dreams he is swept over the falls, |
| Wakes to hear the family roar, |
| Night strangers banging at the door.
|
| Shy smiling child, red baseball cap, |
| Hides his face in her lap. |
| Their raging shakes us to the core, |
| Night strangers banging at the door.
|
| Carefully he stands on his ground, |
| Listens to another sound, |
| Directs his ear to ignore, |
| Night strangers banging at the door.
|
| Now he stands to argue his fate, |
| Stunned by the color of their hate. |
| He wont hear his mother called whore, |
| Night strangers banging at the door.
|
| He had hoped my voice would comfort, |
| now hears only his crumbling hurt. |
| Stepped on saplings never soar: |
| Night strangers banging at the door.
|
| Hector Q. Mooney |
|
|
VOLUME 2, NUMBER 26
<> MONDAY, JULY 2, 2001
Ron Henggeler, Gnosis 2
amazing grace
|
Thinking the world should
entertain you leads to boredom and sloth. Thinking
you should entertain the world leads to bright
clothes, odd graffiti, and amazing grace in running
for the bus.
|
|
— Anon.
|
|
Sumer is icumen in: the birds are
chortling, the flowers sing, and in the Bay Area
thoughts turn to baseball and beaches.
|
|
Here, for your delectation, is a
collection of California words and images. If they
offer a subtle reminder of the creative energies we
are at risk of losing, then they serve a
serendipitous double purpose: for a more coherent
exploration of that danger, consult Rebecca Solnit’s
eloquent “Hollow City.”
|
|
Betsey Culp
|
Conservation
|
| Why does it always seem to seem |
| That comforts of a luscious
dream |
| Conflict with my reality |
| To make them a necessity? |
| Could not there be some new laws
made |
| To counteract this cruel
charade? |
| This blackout threat is not
pretend! |
| But where is, “Shower with a
friend” |
| Or, “Spare the heat and share
a bed?” |
| A thrifty bio-mass instead |
| of something non-renewable |
| Is helpful and quite do-able. |
| Just think of others one could
aid |
| When this small sacrifice is
made: |
| Rest’rants whose ice cream
turns to goo, |
| Rare fish congealing in our zoo, |
| And patients who for want of
heat, |
| could catch pneumonia from cold
feet. |
| I’ve just begun and those I’ve
missed |
| could make a never ending list. |
| Why we don’t really need more
laws. |
| This is such a compelling cause. |
| Big business wins, there’ll be
new poor. |
| The word must out, concise and
sure. |
| A civic duty, can’t you see? |
| Survival rests with you, and me. |
| When new poor come, how can we
feed’em? |
| WHERE are the POETS, now we need’em?
|
| Tim Nuveen |
|
|
From mind to hand
|
| Her letters are devoid of
decoration |
| She doesn’t use fancy note cards |
| Or stationery |
| But I love them |
| I always have, especially at Dad’s
for the summer |
| Waiting for the mail every evening |
| When I read her gifts |
| I picture her |
| At her big, oak desk |
| With upright posture |
| Pressing Bic pen to standard white
writing pad |
| Standard, basic, white, unlined |
| So sterile |
| Neat and functional and perfect in
its form |
| Yet there’s this quality to her
handwriting |
| Of something under the surface |
| I can’t explain |
| It’s flowery, wild, superfluous |
| Bursting with pleasure |
| It comes forth beneath the measured
weight of her pen |
| And the words, Mom! |
| “You carry within yourself the
seeds of greatness” |
| Like she’s living by passing
along what’s inside her mind, |
| Passing it to the reader |
| Instead of keeping it for herself |
| From mind to hand
|
| Molly Lori |
|
