Peter Desy, Jeremy Lespi, Susanna Lang, John Medeiros, Thomas D. Reynolds

Peter Desy, Jeremy Lespi, Susanna Lang, John Medeiros, Thomas D. Reynolds

Peter Desy is retired from the English Dept. of Ohio University. His poems are in or forthcoming from SHENANDOAH, GREEN MOUNTAINS REVIEW, POETRY INTERNATIONAL, VIRGINIA QUARTERLY REVIEW, CONNECTICUT REVIEW, THE BEST OF THE PROSE POEM: AN INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL, and a poetry collection, DRIVING FROM COLUMBUS.

A MARVELOUS ENTERPRISE

A materialist wanted to put his entire self under an electron microscope so he could
“encompass’ his being. He wanted to marvel at the dividing and blossoming of
his cells, observe his antibodies rush to the site of a wound; wanted to peer into the workings of his atoms, of his particles, of the skittering monads blinking in and out of existence.

However, the unacknowledged engine of his desire was to find his soul, whole and entire in every part of his body, beneath the veil of matter, on the very threshold of spirit, at the junction of essence and existence.

As he was wondering how to launch the marvelous enterprise, he felt a chilly wind
across his face, like a deft brush-stroke.

Jeremy Lespi graduated from the Center for Writers at the Univ. of Southern Mississippi in May of 2004. For the past year he has been teaching poetry writing and English/French poetry in Pontlevoy, France at a historic abbey. His poems have been published in Opium Magazine, Dicey Brown, Phantasmagoria, Product, Freshwater, and Into the Teeth of the Wind. His chapbook: The Last Day of Pompeii, published by Dicey Books.

NOEL THE LORD

Noel is despised. Others with recently combed hair refuse to step into the wine-puddle of his life. Noel does nothing to improve relations but sticks out his tongue, sanguine. This is how he discovers his disease. He tells no one and walks on air. He dreams of fingers like burning twigs. He thinks of Medea, who is in his arms. “I’ll drop you now. You’re twenty-three and tired.” He lets her go, which implies she should fall and die. Her last is a look of malevolent purity, as if her pupils had scorched themselves. In the south, Medea brushes her extensive hair in the window, amazed by the town’s solemnity. The hot rash of her beauty goes unnoticed.

A chair materializes at Noel’s final bedside, and Medea. Medea’s eyes turn from blue to green. “I’m going to brush your hair,” she says. “Stick out your tongue for me?” He replies, “I know this is a test. I will not be your invalid.” “Of course you want to fall apart…”

Medea lies on his bed, thinks, “How dare he talk like that. Yet, he had no choice. 10,000 children will be exposed. Plagues come and go. Patriarchs rise and fall. Love defeats us.” Lord Noel walks gingerly across the floor, as a bird would walk the length of a woman’s bare spine.

Susanna Lang has published original poems and essays,
and translations from the French, in such journals as Kalliope, Southern Poetry Review, World Literature Today, Chicago Review, New Directions, Green Mountains Review, Rhino and Baltimore Review. Book publications include translations of Words in Stone and The Origin of Language, both by Yves Bonnefoy. She won a 1999 Illinois Arts Council award for a poem published in The Spoon River Poetry Review. She lives with her husband and young son in Chicago, where she teaches at one of the Chicago Public Schools.

2679

We called it by its number. Not a name, or your
grandfather’s house. He grew miniature roses in the
back. Each morning I picked the rose that fit in the
buttonhole of his lapel. My grandmother had
snapdragons that I snapped, and more roses. In the
center of a pool, the stone figure of a squirrel. The
squirrels pillaged the birdfeeder, and my grandfather
aimed a rifle through the bathroom window. I sat at
the edge of the tub in the morning while my
grandmother took her bath, and then on her bed while
she chose a necklace, bracelet, earrings. All her
desks and dressers had secret drawers. I don’t
remember that my grandfather ever hit a squirrel. We
walked the dog when he came home from work, the petals
of his rose curled back and turning brown. The
children ran out of the houses and climbed on their
bikes, dogs at their heels, my grandfather’s pockets
filled with bones and hard candy.

John Medeiros poetry has appeared in Gents, Badboys and Barbarians, The Evergreen Chronicles, Chiron Review, and Wellspring. He was recently awarded the 2005 Blacklock Nature Sanctuary Fellowship for Emerging Artists. John is also completing a Master of Fine Arts degree in Writing from Hamline University in St. Paul, Minnesota.

EVENT

Perhaps after all is said and done it won’t happen like that at all, and
instead my body will be an ocean, and all my parts, including my liver, my
kidney and heart, will drown among the flotsam and jetsam. Perhaps on the
bus I take to work some warm dry morning I’ll start to leak from my pores.
Turn blue. And breathe three times before my descent. Who knows, perhaps
then I will taste bile and think it to be seaweed, and my intestines will
split and scatter the morsels of me on the ocean floor to be eaten by
whatever lurks there. Perhaps my hair will all fall out and I’ll roam the
world like a chemo patient, shriveled up enough to play the part while my
body, ocean still, emits its spume and waits for the next visitor.

Perhaps there will be no next visitor. Perhaps it won’t happen like that at
all, and instead entire gospel choirs will line my bedroom wall, and
servants will feed me only seedless grapes, since seeds are what caused
this in the first place. And perhaps my arms will reach wide enough to
embrace the choir in my room, wide enough to embrace entire solar systems.
Wide enough. Perhaps my legs will grow even longer, and my feet will turn
to stone and I will be firmly rooted like a crag somewhere between Portugal
and Scotland. Perhaps my hands will fall silent, as if wading through
water, or waiting to be read, and the half-moons in my fingernails will
instead disappear and not remind me of the time I have left.

Thomas D. Reynolds teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas, and has published poems in various print and online journals, including New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Flint Hills Review, Ariga, American Western Magazine, and Prairie Poetry.

PRAIRIE DOLL

Perhaps a late invitation left

little time to prepare,

a whisper through burnt grass,

"A party is to begin

five minutes from now

beside the well pump,"

and thus the conflicting evidence

of care and neglect.

An ill-fitting gingham dress,

bunched at the shoulders;

heavy wool socks, thick as boots,

over swollen ankles;

a lop-sided crotchet bonnet

and a spackling of rouge--

lost formalities recalled

from a store window back east.

Yet accessories can't mask

scars from this new life:

glazed eyes, one fixed

upon the ground, one at the sky;

singed hair from being held

too close to a hot stove;

a chipped face, tendered

by a nervous desparing hand.

No other guest arrives

to sample her poor table,

to nibble at crover sandwiches

or sip dirt-flavored tea.

Only a grasshopper appears,

the most uninvited sort,

clinging to a dried stem

monopolozing all conversation.

Her poor faithful Polly

leans against a stone pile,

holding her stick arms

stiffly from her corn cob body,

smiling her simple smile,

drawn with a charcoal piece,

trying to provide solace

despite her perpetual dullness.

In the distant flatness stands

the miniature house

constructed of a few bleached boards

and various blocks of sod

dug from hard-packed ground

with a bent fork or spoon.

In the single window

an old rag waves "hello."

From each side of the door,

two dried twigs soar from the dirt

to provide comfort, shade,

and a perch for migrating flies.

In the clipped still grass

waits a long box-like carriage

harnessed to a scrawny horse

awkwardly carved from soap.

Circling in the white sky,

a solitary velvet crow

traveling the long passage

to cornfields up north

detects a swatch of red gingham

and the scent of corn

and alights on the pump handle

starved for food and company.

Leering coarsely at poor Polly,

squalling his obscene demands,

he digs his claws at the metal

and pecks at a crawling bug.

Who would hear them out here,

alone on this desolate plain,

two specks in the grass,

even if they could scream?


				*Peter Desy, Jeremy Lespi, Susanna Lang, John Medeiros, Thomas D. Reynolds*



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		Peter Desy is retired from the English Dept. of Ohio University. His poems are in or forthcoming from SHENANDOAH, GREEN MOUNTAINS REVIEW, POETRY INTERNATIONAL, VIRGINIA QUARTERLY REVIEW, CONNECTICUT REVIEW, THE BEST OF THE PROSE POEM: AN INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL, and a poetry collection, DRIVING FROM COLUMBUS. A MARVELOUS ENTERPRISE A materialist wanted to put his entire self under an electron microscope so he could “encompass’ his being. He wanted to marvel at the dividing and blossoming of his cells, observe his antibodies rush to the site of a wound; wanted to peer into the workings of his atoms, of his particles, of the skittering monads blinking in and out of existence. However, the unacknowledged engine of his desire was to find his soul, whole and entire in every part of his body, beneath the veil of matter, on the very threshold of spirit, at the junction of essence and existence. As he was wondering how to launch the marvelous enterprise, he felt a chilly wind across his face, like a deft brush-stroke. Jeremy Lespi graduated from the Center for Writers at the Univ. of Southern Mississippi in May of 2004. For the past year he has been teaching poetry writing and English/French poetry in Pontlevoy, France at a historic abbey. His poems have been published in Opium Magazine, Dicey Brown, Phantasmagoria, Product, Freshwater, and Into the Teeth of the Wind. His chapbook: The Last Day of Pompeii, published by Dicey Books. NOEL THE LORD Noel is despised. Others with recently combed hair refuse to step into the wine-puddle of his life. Noel does nothing to improve relations but sticks out his tongue, sanguine. This is how he discovers his disease. He tells no one and walks on air. He dreams of fingers like burning twigs. He thinks of Medea, who is in his arms. “I’ll drop you now. You’re twenty-three and tired.” He lets her go, which implies she should fall and die. Her last is a look of malevolent purity, as if her pupils had scorched themselves. In the south, Medea brushes her extensive hair in the window, amazed by the town’s solemnity. The hot rash of her beauty goes unnoticed. A chair materializes at Noel’s final bedside, and Medea. Medea’s eyes turn from blue to green. “I’m going to brush your hair,” she says. “Stick out your tongue for me?” He replies, “I know this is a test. I will not be your invalid.” “Of course you want to fall apart…” Medea lies on his bed, thinks, “How dare he talk like that. Yet, he had no choice. 10,000 children will be exposed. Plagues come and go. Patriarchs rise and fall. Love defeats us.” Lord Noel walks gingerly across the floor, as a bird would walk the length of a woman’s bare spine. Susanna Lang has published original poems and essays, and translations from the French, in such journals as Kalliope, Southern Poetry Review, World Literature Today, Chicago Review, New Directions, Green Mountains Review, Rhino and Baltimore Review. Book publications include translations of Words in Stone and The Origin of Language, both by Yves Bonnefoy. She won a 1999 Illinois Arts Council award for a poem published in The Spoon River Poetry Review. She lives with her husband and young son in Chicago, where she teaches at one of the Chicago Public Schools. 2679 We called it by its number. Not a name, or your grandfather’s house. He grew miniature roses in the back. Each morning I picked the rose that fit in the buttonhole of his lapel. My grandmother had snapdragons that I snapped, and more roses. In the center of a pool, the stone figure of a squirrel. The squirrels pillaged the birdfeeder, and my grandfather aimed a rifle through the bathroom window. I sat at the edge of the tub in the morning while my grandmother took her bath, and then on her bed while she chose a necklace, bracelet, earrings. All her desks and dressers had secret drawers. I don’t remember that my grandfather ever hit a squirrel. We walked the dog when he came home from work, the petals of his rose curled back and turning brown. The children ran out of the houses and climbed on their bikes, dogs at their heels, my grandfather’s pockets filled with bones and hard candy. John Medeiros poetry has appeared in Gents, Badboys and Barbarians, The Evergreen Chronicles, Chiron Review, and Wellspring. He was recently awarded the 2005 Blacklock Nature Sanctuary Fellowship for Emerging Artists. John is also completing a Master of Fine Arts degree in Writing from Hamline University in St. Paul, Minnesota. EVENT Perhaps after all is said and done it won’t happen like that at all, and instead my body will be an ocean, and all my parts, including my liver, my kidney and heart, will drown among the flotsam and jetsam. Perhaps on the bus I take to work some warm dry morning I’ll start to leak from my pores. Turn blue. And breathe three times before my descent. Who knows, perhaps then I will taste bile and think it to be seaweed, and my intestines will split and scatter the morsels of me on the ocean floor to be eaten by whatever lurks there. Perhaps my hair will all fall out and I’ll roam the world like a chemo patient, shriveled up enough to play the part while my body, ocean still, emits its spume and waits for the next visitor. Perhaps there will be no next visitor. Perhaps it won’t happen like that at all, and instead entire gospel choirs will line my bedroom wall, and servants will feed me only seedless grapes, since seeds are what caused this in the first place. And perhaps my arms will reach wide enough to embrace the choir in my room, wide enough to embrace entire solar systems. Wide enough. Perhaps my legs will grow even longer, and my feet will turn to stone and I will be firmly rooted like a crag somewhere between Portugal and Scotland. Perhaps my hands will fall silent, as if wading through water, or waiting to be read, and the half-moons in my fingernails will instead disappear and not remind me of the time I have left. Thomas D. Reynolds teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas, and has published poems in various print and online journals, including New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Flint Hills Review, Ariga, American Western Magazine, and Prairie Poetry. PRAIRIE DOLL Perhaps a late invitation left little time to prepare, a whisper through burnt grass, "A party is to begin five minutes from now beside the well pump," and thus the conflicting evidence of care and neglect. An ill-fitting gingham dress, bunched at the shoulders; heavy wool socks, thick as boots, over swollen ankles; a lop-sided crotchet bonnet and a spackling of rouge-- lost formalities recalled from a store window back east. Yet accessories can't mask scars from this new life: glazed eyes, one fixed upon the ground, one at the sky; singed hair from being held too close to a hot stove; a chipped face, tendered by a nervous desparing hand. No other guest arrives to sample her poor table, to nibble at crover sandwiches or sip dirt-flavored tea. Only a grasshopper appears, the most uninvited sort, clinging to a dried stem monopolozing all conversation. Her poor faithful Polly leans against a stone pile, holding her stick arms stiffly from her corn cob body, smiling her simple smile, drawn with a charcoal piece, trying to provide solace despite her perpetual dullness. In the distant flatness stands the miniature house constructed of a few bleached boards and various blocks of sod dug from hard-packed ground with a bent fork or spoon. In the single window an old rag waves "hello." From each side of the door, two dried twigs soar from the dirt to provide comfort, shade, and a perch for migrating flies. In the clipped still grass waits a long box-like carriage harnessed to a scrawny horse awkwardly carved from soap. Circling in the white sky, a solitary velvet crow traveling the long passage to cornfields up north detects a swatch of red gingham and the scent of corn and alights on the pump handle starved for food and company. Leering coarsely at poor Polly, squalling his obscene demands, he digs his claws at the metal and pecks at a crawling bug. Who would hear them out here, alone on this desolate plain, two specks in the grass, even if they could scream?



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