¥
\
(
{
4
r
N“
{
«
4
(

SUNNY Wy AVNET
sist’

MARY ale

has a man’s handwriting,
has a face from an old foreign film,
has eyes of mother-of-pearl.

Mary Blue

all alone on the rainy road,

waiting for Walter Raleigh’s cloak to unfold,
hear how the wind loves the trees,

strand by strand,

her hair falling as leaves

She asks, “What building is that-
all pipes and grey matter?”
“T think it’s a church,” you say.
“Then help me inside,

for my feet have been tied together.’

Mary Blue
makes her own bed and she sleeps there-in.
She says, “I don’t conceive as other women;
I fear a foreign body inside
receiving my stimula;
taking a bath,
I can’t tell the hot from cold water.”

Mary Blue
keeps the key to her wedlock,

keeps her maiden name, folded inside
the crossed sleeves of her sweater.

Mary Blue

wakes you before morning, says,
_ “T want you to go now-
You’ve stained my sheets
with the shame of your seed-
There is work to be done
and work to undo...”
So she sews up a robe of mary-blue.

Sandra Lockwood

)
=

FROM Be CAVES
of yovths

The cave dwellers know the time of the day
by the the colour of the air they breathe...
They eat it like meat...in the morning

it is raw and still beating...in the
afternoon it naps like a pale daydream
learning the horizon...it has been dirtied
and sucked clean...in the evening it moves
outside itself and is neither concerned nor
frightened of being eaten

alive anymore because half of it already
got up and left in the smoke...

The day is long and lean, always.
It has a big heart, always.

It goes everywhere at once, always.
Always, it is inside out.

(from where I’m lurking)

It matters deeply to you guys

that the big mouth is the

dark room, the warm womb

(the overstuffed armchair)

Then birds fly out of the mouth.
Then a forest fire starts in the room.

Madonna Hamel .

Planet of the Arts Vol. 5.no. 1 Fall 1989

Tht Conventional Path

Mixing papers. I’m afraid to go down that path we once
walked. Without any care. debutante for an hour. I, a sort of
pawn. To be seen but not heard. Hey over there! Seems like
a very short time though decades have passed. I feel the
warm blood pulsating through your veins but that’s just a
very vivid memory. Someone called you by-your first name.
So unfamiliar. But. No wait. Go. Sentences become shorter
and shorter. It is always hard to forget the flowers given or
received. It’s the thought that the photograph is different.
But even photographs turn yellow and fade away.

Jerry Stochansky

Checkered —dxcHarcel

Three words all it would have taken,
Yet there I slumped upon the sill .
Weakly trying to feel forsaken
Knowing the fault lay with me still.

When the clouds wring out their dark frown,
When the flagrant sun turns a prude,

When the sole tanner trying to brown

On the empty beaches is Saint Jude;

Then the moon unveils it’s pale voice,
Then the rains drown out the moon’s sound.
Under chainmail curtains of noise
Alchemic leaves burmish the ground.

In the dark, carphoring dankness

As the beaded thermostat fell

I smelt the poltergeist’s rankness,
From outside, heard the banshee’s yell

Hammers chiseled away the roof.
Chalky plaster mingled with the leak.
Suddenly the clouds seemed aloof,
Obtrusive turned the poltergeist’s reek.

The craters crawled along the face
Of the moon in an acrid grin,
Bubbling rubble floored the place,
Then something knocked to be let in.

Against my will my legs were seized,

Drug me to the door, senses skewed.

The doorknob lunged, the world had sneezed;
There, in a towel, stood Saint Jude.

“Use your phone ?” he sniffed, “It’s local.
“Need a cab to get to Heaven.”
Contradictions were scarce made vocal
Than Jude’s cab flashed via levin.

“Need a lift ?” The hack inquired.
Yes

Gabriel logged two fares laxly

That moment then, my house expired.
I watched it melt beneath the taxi.

Alan Hindle

DANNY bly AUNEAZIDD

Mary Blue
has a man's handwriting,

has a face from an old foreign film,
has eyes of mother-of-pearl

Mary Blue
all alone on the rainy road,

waiting for Walter Raleigh’s cloak to unfold,
hear how the wind loves the tees,

strand by strand,

her hair falling as leaves

‘She asks, “What building is that-
all pipes and grey matter?”
“think it’s a church,” you say.
“Then help me inside,
for my feet have been tied together.”

Mary Blue
‘makes her own bed and she sleeps there-in.
She says, “I don’t conceive as other women;
I fear a foreign body inside
receiving my stimu
taking a bath,
can't tll the hot from cold water.”

Mary Blue
keeps the key to her wedlock,

keeps her maiden name, folded inside
the crossed sleeves of her sweater.

Mary Blue
‘wakes you before moming, says,
“I want you to go now-
You've stained my sheets
with the shame of your seed-
‘There is work to be done
and work to undo...”
So she sews up a robe of mary-blue.

Sandra Lockwood

)
i

1

y))

ROC de CAVES
of youths

The cave dwellers know the time of the day
by the the colour of the air they breathe...
They eat it like meat...in the morning

itis raw and still beating...in the
afternoon it naps like a pale daydream
learning the horizon...it has been dirtied
and sucked clean...in the evening it moves
outside itself and is neither concerned nor
frightened of being eaten

alive anymore because half of it already
got up and left in the smoke...

The day is long and lean, always.
Ithas a big heart, always.

It goes everywhere at once, always.
Always, it is inside out.

(from where I’m lurking)

Itmatters deeply to you guys

that the big mouth is the

dark room, the warm womb

(the overstuffed armchair)

‘Then birds fly out of the mouth.
Then a forest fire starts in the room,

Madonna Hamel .

Planet of the Arts Vol. 5.no. 1 Fall 1989

The Conventional Pat),

Mixing papers. I'm afraid to go down that path we once
‘walked. Without any care. debutante for an hour. I, a sort of
pawn, To be seen but not heard. Hey over there! Seems like
a very short time though decades have passed. I feel the
warm blood pulsating through your veins but that’s just a
very vivid memory. Someone called you by-your first name.
So unfamiliar. But, No wait. Go. Sentences become shorter
and shorter. It is always hard to forget the flowers given or
received. I's the thought thatthe photograph is different
Buteven photographs turn yellow and fade away.

Jerry Stochansky

ChecXered _)xcandel

‘Three words all it would have taken,
Yet there I slumped upon the sill
Weakly tying to feel forsaken
Knowing the fault lay with me stl.

When the clouds wring out their dark frown,
When the flagrant sun tums a prude,

‘When the sole tanner trying to brown

On the empty beaches is Saint Jude;

‘Then the moon unveils it’s pale voice,
‘Then the rains drown out the moon’s sound.
‘Under chainmail curtains of noise
Alchemic leaves bumish the ground.

In the dark, carphoring dankness
{As the beaded thermostat fell

smelt the poltergeist’s rankness,
From outside, heard the banshee’s yell

‘Hammers chiseled away the roof.
(Chalky plaster mingled withthe leak.
‘Suddenly the clouds seemed aloof,
Obtrusive turned the poltergeist’s reek.

‘The craters crawled along the face
(Of the moon in an acrid grin,
Bubbling rubble floored the place,
‘Then something knocked to be et in.

‘Against my will my legs were seized,
Drug me to the door, senses skewed.

‘The doorknob lunged, the world had sneezed;
‘There, in a towel, stood Saint Jude,

“Use your phone 2” he sniffed, “It’s local
“Need a cab to get to Heaven.”
Contradictions were scarce made vocal
‘Than Jude’s cab flashed via levi.

“Need a lift?” The hack inquired.
“Yes.

Gabriel logged two fares laxly

‘That moment then, my house expired.
I watched it melt beneath the taxi

‘Alan Hindle