translated to ASCII on October 10, 1996 -- %%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% dedicated to the art of the written word volume 2, number 1 January 1996 ================================ POETRY INK 2.01 / ISSN 1091-0999 ================================ POETRY INK volume 2, number 1 Issue 8 (January 1996) "Dedicated To The Art Of The Written Word" >From The Editor's Desktop... ---------------------------- First and foremost, thank you to everyone who pointed out the infamous Table of Contents error. It seems that last issue's (Issue 7) Table of Contents had a slight error--most of the listings were off the mark by about two pages. This is due to a mistake we made early on in generating the TOC, and we never went back and corrected it. Well, suffice to say I think we caught it this time and it will not happen again. Let's all just give WordPerfect 3.1's TOC macro a big Bronx Cheer. At least now I have a thorough understanding of how it works and where I went wrong. So here we are with Volume 2, Issue 1 -- the January 1996 issue of POETRY INK . As promised, we have introduced the new Belles Lettres section, a place where we answer reader snail mail and eMail, and hopefully any other questions regarding writing in general and poetry in specific that we can answer. Unfortunately, the introduction of our first regularly featured column on writing and literary happenings on and off the Internet doesn't appear in this issue. The person who had suggested the idea didn't want to do the footwork (you know who you are, Bob), and frankly, my plate has been a little full the past few months. So, I guess you could say the position is still open. This is an idea I like but do not have the time nor full- blown Internet access to pursue to its fullest extent. Interested parties should contact me at one of the ususal address. We announce our POETRY INK Writing Contest #2 later in this issue. The winners of the POETRY INK Writing Contest #1: An Exercise In Writing have been selected and will be announced in the February 1996 issue. They will be receiving their prizes toward the end of January or beginning of February, so all of you who submitted an entry, watch your mailbox! Also, beginning with the Issue 9 (February 1996, the next issue), we will be switching our publishing dates. Due to time contraints and outside obligations, POETRY INK will become a bi-monthy publication, appearing every other month. After the February issue, POETRY INK won't produce another issue until April 1996, and then agian in June and so forth, for a total of seven issues in 1996. Hopefully, this will not mean a drop in submissions or readership, as plans call for including more authors and works in the new bi-monthly issues. However, we will still keep on top of submission responses, so please keep this in mind. February might bring another change as well. As many of you may know, Apple Computer, Inc. is shuttering its eWorld(tm) on-line service and evolving it into an Internet Web-based service. What does this mean for POETRY INK ? Well, we will probably be changing eMail addresses sometime in the near future, which could mean we will be jumping to America On-Line(tm). Or we could be going with a local dial-up Internet provider. Until Apple announces its plans for current eWorld(tm) denziens, we are in the dark. However, we will entertain any offers from sponsors willing to pay all our on-line fees or provide us free Internet access for the cost of a local call. So keep your fingers crossed and look for an announcement in February. Until next issue, may the Muse be kind! Matthew W. Schmeer, editor POETRY INK ------------ **Editor** Matthew W. Schmeer **e-mail** **snail mail** Matthew W. Schmeer POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS 6711-A Mitchell Avenue St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 U.S.A. Official OneNetBBS Network distribution by Ben Judson Official America On-Line(tm) distribution by Dick Steinbach Official WWW Web Page maintained by Wayne Brissette Official Logo and Icons designed by Geoffrey Hamilton POETRY INK is a regular, erratically published E-zine (electronic magazine). Anyone interested in submitting poetry, short fiction, or essays should see the last few pages of this document for submission instructions. If writing via snail mail, please include a #10-sized self-addressed stamped envelope so that we may respond to you. Donations of food, money, software, and hardware are gracefully accepted. Legal Stuff ----------- POETRY INK is copyrighted 1996 by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS, a wholly owned subsidiary of the imagination of Matthew W. Schmeer. POETRY INK can be freely distributed, provided it is not modified in any way, shape, or form. Specifically: * All commercial on-line services, such as eWorld(tm), America On-Line(tm), and CompuServe(tm), and local BBSs may distribute POETRY INK at no charge. * All non-profit user groups may distribute POETRY INK at no charge. * All CD-ROM shareware collections and CD-ROM magazines may not include POETRY INK without prior written consent. * All redistribution companies such as Educorp may not distribute POETRY INK without express written consent. POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS retains one-time rights and the right to reprint this issue, either printed or electronic. All other rights to works appearing in POETRY INK written by authors other than Matthew W. Schmeer revert to said authors upon publication. POETRY INK is produced on an Apple Macintosh(tm) Color Classic(tm) running System Software 7.1. POETRY INK is initially uploaded to eWorld(tm), with further Internet distribution by our readers. We use Global Village Teleport Gold(tm) II Fax/Modems. POETRY INK is produced using MicroFrontier's ColorIt!(tm) 2.3.4, Novell Corp.'s WordPerfect(tm) 3.1, and Michel & Francois Touchot's eDOC 1.1.1. We encourage others to support these fine hardware manufacturers and software programmers. Belles Lettres -------------- This is a new section where we publish eMail we receive from our readers. Got a question or comment yabout writing, reading, or POETRY INK? Then send it in! We will attempt to answer any questions sent in and also provide a place for our readers to voice their opinion. So onto the letters! > I would like to know if there are any submission guidelines or size > requirements for the BackPage section of POETRY INK . I have a > couple of images ready to roll that I think (hope) you'll like. Geoffrey Hamilton Yep, there are a few submission and size guidelines for submitting work for the BackPage. First, no images over 150k--anything larger will start to make POETRY INK bloat way too much. Also, no images made with "millions of colors;" so keep them in the "thousands of colors" range. Finally, no GIFs or JPEGs. Submit artwork as PICT or EPS file formats. And please, no nudie pictures. The 'net has enough of those as it is. > Could you take me off your mailing list? I can't always afford the > downloading time for it, though I do enjoy POETRY INK when I can! I'll just grab it from ZiffNet from now on. Alice Risemberg No problem, Alice. Consider yourself removed from the list. Which brings up an interesting point: if you would like to have POETRY INK delivered to your eMailbox upon release, just send an eMail to us at our eMail address asking to be put on the list. However, be sure that your on-line provider can receive Internet file attachments before you send a subscription request. Currently, America On-Line(tm) and eWorld(tm) both have this capability, as do most dial-up Internet providers. But it pays to find out for sure! > Thank you for the latest issue of POETRY INK . I was very pleased to > be included in Issue Six . Your 'zine is one of the cleanest (from a > design standpoint) and best around. Amy DeGeus Thanks for the compliment, Amy! I strive to give POETRY INK a consistent look without all the bells and whistles of the whole "multi-media" concept. True, I could go overboard and design POETRY INK in DOCMaker with hotlinks all over the place and QuickTime(tm) movies and stereo sound, but all that would do is detract from the authors' work. I want POETRY INK to not only look good on the screen, but also on the printed page as well. I want you, the reader, to be able to print this out and take it away and read it at your own leisure. We can only spend so much time staring at the computer screen before our eyes go nuts. While I have had offers to "spice up" POETRY INK , I think I like the design at it stands. What do you think? Got any ideas for things you like or things you'd like to see changed? Let us know! We'll see what happens. > Congratulations on Issue 7 ; it looks and feels great! And thanks > again for publishing Waiting ; I already have two eMails about it. A > fan club! John L. Arnold Congratulations on your fan club! That's one of the reasons we publish our contributors' eMail address. If we encourage each other, we start to grow as writers. Criticism, too, is good for the soul, so don't hesitate to eMail comments and criticism to work you think shows talent, promise, or both. As readers and writers, we have a responsibilty to nuture the "spark of genius" that flows everytime someone puts pen to paper. Encourage the Muse and Spill the Ink! State Of Our Web... ------------------- **Poetry Ink...Now On the World Wide Web!** Wayne Brissette, a technical writer for Apple Computer, has linked POETRY INK to his Web site on one of Apple's servers in Austin, Texas, USA*. Wayne generously donates his time and resources to provide POETRY INK a home on the Web. To reach the POETRY INK Web site, point your WWW Browser to this URL: The Web site contains links to download POETRY INK's back issues in both the original Macintosh eDOC format and Adobe Acrobat(tm) PDF format (for those of you on DOS, Windows, and Unix systems). Check out the site and let us know what you think! Spill The Ink! *Views and information stated in POETRY INK and on its Internet Web Page may not necessarily represent the views or products of Apple Computer, Inc. The Free Stuff Count... ----------------------- **We Want Free Stuff!** Okay, we admit it. We are making a desperate plea for free things from you, our readers, who receive each issue absolutely free, no strings attached (feel guilty yet?). But lest you think less of us, here's the Free Stuff Catch: We want Free Stuff we can either use to produce POETRY INK, review for future issues, or award as prizes in our writing contests! Here's a few examples of free things we have received from various on-line folks. Most of these items will be used as contest prizes: * A United Parcel Services acryilic notepad holder (with notepad) * An Extra-Large T-Shirt from MacMillian Digital Publishing * A CD Sampler from the Windham Hill Record Label * Sandalwood-scented bath oil from the Bayou Blending Company * A 1-800-CALL-ATT mousepad * A Schwan Stabilo Conference Marker 141 * 3-pair package of men's Hanes(r) brand socks *A mousepad from J.C. Penney These are just a few of the interesting things we have received. We are always looking for things to review--such as books, magazines, and CDs--that have a literary bent. Or you can send us things we can use to produce POETRY INK, such as new or used hard drives, keyboards, Mac CPUs, and so forth that are in good working condition. While we regret that your contribution is not tax deductible, we won't tell the IRS if you don't. So send us some free stuff and we'll let you know what happens from there! Featured Writer --------------- John Freemyer 2 poems, 1 short fiction piece _Followed The Cat_ I have followed the cat into the bedroom and shredded a seersucker jacket I have followed the cat and sniffed emotions in the air I have followed the cat into fire and onto the window sill I have followed the cat onto an Interstate and dashed between speeding wheels I have learned the breathing of the cat and learned to switch off the flux of time and learned why, to the cat, sleep is a form of travel I have followed the cat up the steps of thunderbolts and worn the cat's wardrobe and swallowed warm mouse and sparrow I have feared water and bathed with tongue I have caressed myself with furniture and caroused with yarn balls I have followed the cat and entered the hole and come out on the other side 3000 miles away from here and 5000 years away from now where and when the sun was younger, when and where it pricked the eye like thorn I have followed the cat into the seven shimmering places and lived to tell of it I have been where cats go when they leave and do not return and seen what they see but you must not ask and I must not tell you any more _Prayer_ I watched Sarah drill a small hole into the top of her head through the skull careful not to harm gray tissue so God could speak more clearly to her. And apparently it worked OK. God told Sarah to stop hurting herself. Pain, God said, isn't prayer. I watched Sarah rub her feet on the carpet to make sparks fly from her fingertips. She electrocuted a fly in midair. Amazing. But God told her power isn't prayer either. I watched her for years and overheard her prayers to God and later I spread her ashes on the ground for God and returned to God Sarah's gravity. But death was also not prayer. And so it's difficult if not impossible now to know just what the hell prayer is though I know exactly what it isn't. No. This isn't it either. It must be something else. _Not Just Halloween_ Even before I saw Kurt, I was viscerally aware of silkiness and transformation. I knocked on the bathroom door. He sang, "Come in, Daddy." And I hesitantly stepped into the bathroom. Kurt had become a dazzling lady. His hair swirled up in a loose knot atop his head. He wore elaborate makeup. In high heels and a long tan dress, I tell you, the boy had become his mom's twin. He purred. "Call me Anita." Kurt performed a smooth pirouette to show me everything he had done to himself. His nose wrinkled prettily. Then he clasped his hands behind his head, cocked his hip to one side, and winked suggestively. "You look so grown up," I said, slipping my arm around his waist. "You look like a very attractive woman." He didn't say anything. He held his pose and scrutinized his reflection in the mirror. Finally he said, "Happy Halloween." The cops called two days later. "Your daughter Anita was brought in for curfew violation. She's obviously under age. She had no identification." The officer suspected he was a runaway. "Please pick her up before noon." In the parents' reception room, I sat down in a vinyl overstuffed chair and waited. Ten minutes later the door opened. Kurt scuffed into the room unaccompanied. He looked older, a little scornful and resigned. He still wore his long dress and heels, but his hair hung limply down his back now. His nail polish had chipped or been chewed off. No smile. He gripped a small brown paper bag in one hand and an identification badge in the other. He moved his hand away quickly when I reached for it. "It was stupid," he said. "A stupid mistake. I'm sorry, Daddy." "What happened?" I asked, standing up. "Why are you here?" "They think I'm a runaway. And there's something about curfew violation, too." He fetched a tube of lipstick from the bag, twisted the color out, and overstated his lips with it. Then he dropped the tube back into the bag and removed a cigarette. I'd never seen Kurt smoke before, but this Anita woman he had become was puffing like an old pro. "I'm pregnant," he said slowly, as if testing the words. "Pregnant? Are you crazy? You can't be pregnant! You're a--" He kicked my knees with a swift thrust. I fell on him, pulling him off the chair and onto the floor. He tore my face with his fingernails, ripped my eyes. He kicked and pushed me away. And I began sobbing and tried to pull him close, tried to kiss him, hug him. But he went on kicking my legs and crotch, scratching my face and eyes. I begged him to stop. The door slammed open against a folding chair. Someone pulled Kurt off me. He spat at me as they dragged him out the door. Kurt wrote me once from Las Vegas. He told me he was living with his baby son in a hotel off the main strip, waiting for his boyfriend, Donny, to get out of jail. Enclosed with the letter was a photo of Kurt wearing a tight black dress, standing in front of a casino. He held someone's tiny baby in his arms. He and the baby were having a tough time, he wrote. What the hell could I do? I sent her a hundred dollars. John Freemyer lives and writes in Los Angeles, California with his wife and their two daughters. A frequent contributor to POETRY INK, John says about his writings which appear here: I am attempting to write something about my story and poems, but I'm not sure I have the academic and literary background necessary to carry it off. Maybe there's nothing more difficult than writing about writing. I try not to think about it very much. Stories and poems either happen or don't. _Not Just Halloween_ simply began as an attempt to write a standard mystery potboiler short story about a widower who exploits his twelve year old daughter, Nikki, by involving her in a drug smuggling plan. I conceived it as a story for a pulp magazine, something like "Alfred Hitchcock". In the original story, the father convinces Nikki to dress up as an adult woman and hide narcotics in an otherwise empty bra. The story moves along clumsily, with Nikki and her adult boyfriend double-crossing her dad on a drug deal and being arrested while trying to sell the drugs in Las Vegas. As the histrionics unfolded, I injected often pretentious social commentary about drugs, child abuse, and teen pregnancy, and was unhappy with the results. The story ended with a photograph of Nikki and her baby and a handwritten letter in which Nikki pleads for money to hold her over until her boyfriend is released from jail. The story was garbage. In an attempt to salvage it, I used my word processor's "Find & Replace" function to change Nikki's gender. After a few surgical mouse clicks, 'shes' became 'hes' and Nikki became Kurt. With the daughter now transformed into a son in a dress, the story began to come alive. In the version seen here, I dropped the drug smuggling story line (and a few thousand words) and revised it into a short action sketch of a father's and son's disturbing, loving, misunderstanding, dependent, and violent relationship-a relationship not unlike mine with my father. Only the story details differ. The emotions are the same. It might be more difficult to talk about poems. They don't begin with potboiler story lines. _Followed The Cat_ was written because I have often wondered where Harry, our family cat, goes when he paws open the pet door and steps outside. He sometimes disappears for several days. The kids are certain he'll never return and neighborhood searches are fruitless. Then I figured it out in my usual judicious, rational fashion; Harry's pet door doesn't merely open up onto the outside world. It is also a door through which he can pass through time. When we can't find Harry, it's just as likely that he's visiting ancient Egypt as dashing across the Interstate. _Prayer_ is about my ongoing struggle with atheism. Have you ever had the feeling that even your most heartfelt prayers don't go anywhere? It's almost as if they aren't strong enough to be heard. And what about hearing a response from God? Am I the only person alive who is unreceptive enough to hear God's response, if any? I have never felt that my prayers were heard or that I have heard an answer. Prayers are incapable of passing through my skull. They begin and end with me. Therefore when I read about a cult in Britain in which members drill holes in their craniums for reasons both ritualistic and divinely communicative, I knew had to write about it. The poem's character, Sarah, is a composite of the several now deceased God seekers I have known, especially the ones who believed drugs to be The Way. I know it isn't the way, but I don't know what or where the way is. I'm still following the cat, I guess... Ainsley Moffitt --------------- 2 poems _Eye brows_ I know she'll be home soon and I haven't done a thing and she'll scold me when I should be gone where do I go on to with you and she'll raise them in my general direction and she'll say with them all the things she doesn't think I already know too late to go and just like all the ones she tries to impress she stares at me in awe of the things she sees of me but I know you know and I know you see and you think they're so beautiful and sometimes I agress and I miss you when you're there because I feel and I see under them they are above me and you have two and so do I one of many things we have in common it's somewhere to start from if we were a year behind and this gets stranger every time and we drive and drive and sit and laugh and cry not knowing they say everything for us speak every word we think they don't know to pretend to be unassuming is so easy for you and me we get along with alomst everything you are a little better sorry to get off the subject but I suppose you expect me to say I love you and they will and I wish I could call myself something else like artist singer songwriter lover poet or somebody else beside you I cannot destroy you I showed you too many things that they should have never seen underneath me between me they raised in alarm just like all the others and I thought yours were different hidden not pretty but strange _Love Poem_ your child it moves inside me as if it means to twist the body not knowing night from day or day from a dream your love it walks through me through the endless heart mazes as if trying to shatter the walls which have no entrance or escape your words they run into me as if they were something lost in despair and unrest with no hope of escaping the trees your mouth it beckons me like wind blowing in rooms wanting for a window and having no stale air to clear your thoughts they hang onto me as if fearfull of fathoms and in dangling trembles wait for an unreachable grasp your memory it looks down on me like circles of dark caves that travel about the earth and end in their beginnings Collin L. Turner 2 poems _Ka_ The two letters stand relief, bold, bright orange-red on the nonstaining white fridge in a pocket of order among the multi-colored, preschool chaos of scattered ABC's and 123's. Ka? Says my inner voice. The one that's been helping me find my Self all weekend, all month--always. It's a question encompassing answers without a rosetta stone. We will continue to decipher this mysterious word. Ka! Cries the crow as it flies in ways we could never drive. We can only comprehend its path by looking at roadmaps. Why can't we do that? Simply go from point A to point B. Mais non! We must create roads that writhe and twist through a contoured landscape that we can never conquer, never control. Ka... Whispers a priest as he seals the tomb with an adder's skull. His king, god-man (now on a journey among gods), lies with his suffocating concubines and slaves. His entrails, in three jars beside the care-wrapped body of his cat. They wait in darkness, aboard his boat that had once sailed the Nile, but now rows upon the Styx. 3000 years to full circle. What will there be to tell when it returns? Ka. My page tells me after it's been stained. It will be my word now, given to me by a two year-old who was playing on the fridge. Simple. Accidental. Profound. To be two; to be crow; to be King. To be whole. _In a Quick Minute_ He walks into the room and the one who cowers looks up to see the gun metal glint, leaving marks in watering eyes. he sees the long dark tunnel and the light at the end is a flash. Jeremy Lowry ------------ 2 poems _Anti-Semitism, 1992_ Across miles and years, poland, my love, across generations I am transifixed by your passion. By your four million Jews, poland, my love, and their shoes of your spit and their eyes of madness. By your suffering, poland, my love, and the angry grey snow of your four million jewish ghosts. With your mothers and fathers, poland, my love, with your priests and nuns and children, your four million jews went up the chimneys. Through your crucifixion, poland, my love, germany is redeemed, but poland, my love, who will redeem you? _The Nor' Easter_ Little Africa Beach, Long Island, 1994 The wind, which howls through lonely twisted trees in a darkening December island of desperate suburbs and lighthouses and god forsaken ships forever more at dock. The wind, which pounds against the windows of arrogant beach houses with a fury that cannot be denied by plexi-glass or erosion lawns or all the other conspiracies of man. The wind, which screams with fury at the dunes, who ripple and shudder in terror, cringing so slowly that in one man's life only a single grain of sand will roll down and leave the shifting beach for the solid land. The wind, which whistles in the ears of lonely teenage boys wanting to get far away from the steamy jungle of shopping malls and big haired, big bellied women, who beckon with movie star lips, painted on a featureless face and whispers, "stay." The wind, which tosses the centuries old schooner abandoned and guided only by the long dead hand of the captain, the only sailor not lured into the sea by the salty tears of the mermaids. The wind, which drives the young gull down towards the foam capped waves beneath which a paradise of starfish and silence and schools of fish uncaring of the tempest above. The wind, which surrounds me, slapping my face and burning my eyes and caressing my outstretched hand and violently seizing my broken spirit, filling against my will the holes in my shattered heart. The wind, which drives the waves with awesome ferocity against the shore on which a single bouquet of flowers sit, waiting to be consumed by the ravenous ocean, left by a tired old gentleman, who as a boy became a man with a pernicious old whore, The sea. John L. Arnold -------------- 2 poems _A Woman Of A Certain Age_ Is it in the lines? The little ones around the eyes. Little creases in the skin, that you can tell a woman, of a certain age. Starts out baby smooth, then time and trouble add lines, one for each time the heart is broken, one for each lover lost, one for each child born, one for each illusion shattered. One for each hundred tears shed, one for every bitter disappointment. Is it in the lines? Can you see that the woman is, of a certain age? One line for each betrayal, one for each hundred promises, broken. One for talent and potential, ignored. Lines for each thousand dishes washed, for every hundred diapers cleaned. A line for each dream that lies mortally wounded on the sharp point of reality. And for love, a lot of deep lines for love. New love found, old love lost. Child love, Mother love, the white hot heat of physical love, child love again. Mature love, comfortable and easy love. The old roller coaster, up,then down. Worry, fear, joy, hope, dreams, ambition, contrition and frustration, a lot of lines for frustration. In the middle of life,the lines begin to merge and blend, a look in the mirror confirms, a touch of grey. More lines on the face of a Woman of a certain age. The face has become the story line in that comedy-tragedy called life. The lines begin to converge and gain form, and finally the story is completely told, on the beautiful face of a Woman, A Woman of a certain age. _Grief_ Someone you love is dead. Suddenly it hits you, like a rabbit punch. Can't breathe, can not think. Helpless. At first you do not believe it, then you know it to be true. The pain starts. Memories flood the brain, cannot sleep or eat. Hurt, O God it hurts! Tears, can not stop. Pick up a fork and try to eat, You cry. Reach out to open car door, You cry. You fight to regain control, you lose. Now the funeral is over, You share the pain. Then it lets up a little, You try to get a grip, almost get it. Then it comes again, and you fall back into despair. Try to speak, but can not. Reason tries to return, but fails. You try to get up, get to your knees before it hits again. You feel as if you are drowning, in a river of memories. Disorentied, dizzy, lost. Then it lets up again for a while. You try to regroup, sanity seems to return. Then you see a picture or hear a name, It comes again. When you think you can not cry any more, tears come in a flood. The pain lets up a little, for a little longer this time. Then the next wave hits and it's just as bad as the first time. As time goes on, the intensity lets up, a little. The time between the waves, is a bit longer. The tears still come but not so often now. And you think maybe time does heal. Time goes by and you think its over, wrong. It comes again. Not as bad, but bad enough. Grief takes a long, long time. Maybe it never ends. Call For Entries #2...Another Contest! -------------------------------------- **Announcing POETRY INK Writing Contest #2** **Contest #2: Formulaic Expression** Most of us are familiar with so-called "poetic forms;" whether we love them or hate them depends on our exposure to them. Sonnets, of course, have been shoved down our throats ever since we were introduced to Shakespeare. But other forms, like the ballade, the villanelle, the sestina and the troilet were just as popular during The Bard's day as they are today. As writers, it is important for us to remember that while free verse is the modern standard, we need to have a fundamental knowledge of poetry's history. So here's the deal for the second POETRY INK Writing Contest. **The Pitch** Write a formulaic poem on the subject of streetlights. That's right. Streetlights, those things that hang over streets and light the way at night. It can be a sonnet, a troilet, a sestina, whatever--just not free verse. **The Hint** If you are looking for a good reference to the different poetic forms, I recommend "Rhyme's Reason: A Guide To English Verse" by John Hollander (New Haven, MA, U.S.A.,Yale University Press: 1981). It cover price is roughly $8.00, and it will serve you well. Mine is tattered and torn! **The Deadline** The deadline for entries is April 15, 1996. All entries must be postmarked by this date to be considered eligible for consideration. Entries cannot be returned. We will report late entries to the IRS. **Where to Send Your Entry** Poems maybe sent by SNAIL MAIL to the following address: Matthew W. Schmeer POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS ATTN: Contest #2 6711-A Mitchell Avenue St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 Or by eMail to If submitting by eMail, please title the subject line "YOUR NAME Contest 2" (no quotes), where "YOUR NAME" is your actual name and not your eMail address. It should look like this: JOHN Q. PUBLIC Contest 2 **The Prize (This Is What You Really Wanted To Know, Right?)** Prestige and the knowledge that you were the best. No, really, the people who submit the top three entries will get some really cool free stuff. Plus, they'll each receive a certificate proclaiming their greatness (suitable for framing) so that they can impress their friends and family. Not only that, but the top three (3) poems will be published in the May 1996 issue. So what are you waiting for? Get those entries in! Mail yours today! Don't delay! Limited time offer! Jeanne Gil ---------- 1 poem _Miles_ Though distance is great, with just a word you touch me, reaching out from your world, entering mine. Enveloping me with your thoughts, dreams, desires, The musings of your soul. I feel this connection. drifting across space, no reason, no explaination except that it simply exists. Reality. Perception. catch-all terms for what we believe to be real. What is real? The craving of my mind mimics that of my heart. Wanting you with me, knowing the impossibility. Yet I dream on. Rob Johnston ------------ 2 poems _Fred_ Stepping into oncoming traffic the black man with a gray beard and soiled overcoat. His muddy brownish- tan and scruffy tatters flapping like the extra skin on his pallid face. He glares his angry furrowed brow at passing comatose drivers, who dare to use his well-trodden walkway. This street is mine (he yelled) as i barreled past his overflowing shopping cart. _Neighbors_ Her face, purple and blue. Battered by some little man...some enormous, grotesque, little man--dripping Budweiser... paraphernalia. Bludgeoned, puffy eyelids, red and black, leaking emptiness and shame. Her head, angled forward, covering her burden with sticky, chaffed hair. Her breath, shallow and weightless... the husband-boyfriend- tormentor...hollow victor of a soiled vaudeville act, cradles her tiny frame, swearing his sorrow... his anguish, his pain. Never again, baby...never again. Marianne Zopp ------------- 1 poem _The Voice Within_ They say that they know you, but can't feel your pain. While the weight of the world is on your shoulders, they're too busy running from the rain. And your only escape is soaring on a dragon's wings, or swimming with dolphins in an indigo sea. Sanity is found in a world where your soul has no fear. A world where dark images and torn hearts never shed tears. Your path has been chosen, but not by your choice. And they laugh above you because you feel so small. To them, you are just a tool to strengthen their fall. Remember, the reality of it lays in your lap, It's people like you and me, give life to people like that. Matthew W. Schmeer ------------------ 2 poems _Silent Prayer_ my wife tells me she might be pregnant. i do not know if i should be shocked or elated; i fear a look of cautious optimism has crossed my face. i remember the miscarriage six months before and i do not know if i could handle it if it happened again. i am suddenly filled with anger at those who do not conceive the struggle, with their delusions that a life is not worth the selfishness of a woman. i do not know what to say, and my mouth is dry and tastes of aluminum. i do not know what to say when she says she might be having a baby--but wait, it is only day twenty-five and she might start bleeding and then the whole conversation would be moot. i do not know what to say. i want to revel in my happiness with the knowledge that i will be a father...but i do not know what to say. i see the look on her face and she asks me to pray for her and for the possibility there is life within her womb. i, who never put faith in prayer, do not know what to say. my wife tells me she might be pregnant and i do not know what to say. my wife, whom i love more than life itself does not know i do not know what to say when i tell her i will pray and i will put my faith in the hands of a god i am just beginning to get to know. _Srebrenica_ "Society is above all the idea it forms of itself." --Emile Durkheim the there in over there is the bodies of men and young boys like cordwood piled four feet high, neatly stacked head to toe to head to toe with their shriveled genitalia pressed into each others' chest. the dead have no modesty, and there are not enough graves in the hills outside of Sarajevo to cover their nakedness. the emptiness of eyes draws the circle complete. there are no trees in Gorazda; the hallow ghosts of buildings crumble from shelling and six-year-old girls scream blood from the dictated stabs between their legs. bayonnet babies litter the countryside; Omarska Dauchau Sanski Most Auschwitz Stupni Do are not fifty-year memories drawn with fresh faces. even Hemingway fought the facists while Chamberlin brokered lies. the martyrdom of East Mostar is not the crucifixtion of a Palestinian Jew; the crescent of the middle descends not into the shroud of mountains, and army engineers cannot build a bridge to span indifference. About The Contributors... ------------------------- John Freemyer is this issue's Featured Writer. Go read that section to learn more about him. Ainsley Moffitt lives in Wrightwood, California. He is a student at a local community college, while attending his last year in high school at the same time. He will be transferring to San Fransisco State University in the fall, where he plans to study Journalism and other creative arts. His hobbies are playing acoustic guitar, reading and rereading Raymond Carver novels, acting, singing, and writing. He also writes for three local 'zines, and his school newspaper. Collin L. Turner has been a curious stranger to poetry. His poems began unexpectedly and have carried him along with them ever since. He has published occasionally and will continue to do so as long as editors are willing to humor him. Currently he is working on several "projects" and acting as Editor-in-chief of Weber State University's Literary Journal "Metaphor". His hobbies and pastimes include not being "politically correct," in-line skating, writing and getting an education through any means necessary. He lives in Ogden, Utah. Jeremy Lowry hails from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He wrote both of the poems which appear in this issue of POETRY INK while traveling through Europe and the United States in 1992-1994. Jeremy reports that his degree is in International Affairs (focus on Russian & Eastern European Politics), which he claims he will almost certainly never use. His poem _Deep Blue Future_ appeared in POETRY INK Issue 7. John L. Arnold curently resides in San Francisco, California and works as a tour guide for the Great Pacific Tour Co. His prose piece _Waiting_ appeared in POETRY INK Issue 7. John says that all positive re-enforcement needed and welcomed. Jeanne Gil lives outside of Trenton, New Jersey. She works with special needs children as an Occupational Therapist in the public schools. Her work as previously appeared in POETRY INKIssue 6 and Issue 7. Rob Johnston hails from Houston, Texas. When not writing, Rob does graduate research for NASA and tries to finsh his doctoral degree. He also tries to stay awake. His poem _Fast Food_ appeared in last month's issue of POETRY INK. Marianne Zopp calls Shrewsbury, Pennsylvania home. While most of her poetry has been kept private until recently, she says her inspiration comes from personal experiences, and that poetry is like a written canvas for her soul. Her other interests focus on fine art, art history and graphic art. Currently, she is employed with Chesapeake Advertising in Baltimore, Maryland. This is her first appearance in print as a contributor. Matthew W. Schmeer is the editor of POETRY INK, which means he scrambles around like crazy three days prior to POETRY INK's self-imposed release dates to make sure everything is hunky-dory and ready to hit the 'net. His other interests include sleep, annoying his cat (Calvin), and searching for free things from large corporations to give away as prizes in POETRY INK's contests. His wife thinks he should have married his Macintosh. Submission Guidelines --------------------- Revised as of 10/25/95 (You may want to print this for future reference.) * Failure to follow these guidelines will mean automatic rejection of your submission! Please read the following very carefully! * By submitting works for consideration, you agree that if accepted for publication, you grant POETRY INK, the electronic magazine produced by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and Matthew W. Schmeer the right to publish your work. This right includes initial publication and any subsequent re-release of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work appeared, either in the electronic or the printed medium. All other rights to your work are released to you upon publication. 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