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About The North Coast times-eagle. (Wheeler, Oregon) 1971-2007 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 1, 2002)
PAGE 10 THE BIRDS & COLUMBUS “The Journal shows that the birds of North America deserve the credit. -SAMUEL ELIOT MORRISON First far out from any shore he thought them land birds — the arctic tern, the reed-tail, the petrel residing in the long spaces of the sea — and believed he sailed between islands. Later, though he had determined a course due west he turned south to follow them the land birds, migrants in October, all crowding south, whole clouds of ducks and geese, thrushes, vireos, swallows, flashes of hummingbirds and golden plover; and nights, the bobolink. He had heard somewhere that birds are good to follow. And so he did, missing by this simple turn of the wheel the Gulf Stream relentlessly pushing northward to the reefs off Hatteras. But here, a crown of islands, a world for taking. JIMMY HATLO POETRY BRIEF GENTLE NEIGHBOR (AFTER THE RAPE) Have you moved? It is not possible to tell what lies behind your covered windows, some of you perhaps still there hidden behind the ragged blue shade I gave you, diffidently, to keep you safe from all the tiger eyes I feared would devour you, one way or another. The wreath you made is still in the window. Have you left it there, unable to touch its irony, the bitter hour you spent with the stranger, the wreath staring at you helpless that used to cheer you toward Christmas? Before you pounded on my door that morning quivering, barefoot, naked beneath your thin jacket, violated beyond recall, I had feared for you. Something about your eyes moved too fast, your shoulders carried too high as though shivering, some animal velvet about you always. You are gone with the memory of that stranger locked into your cells. Are your eyes moving faster, your shoulders tighter? Do you live now in others’ houses with others’ wreaths woven safe from the quick cold hands of thieves? -ELIZABETH HOBBS EVEN A WOLF NEEDS LOVE Bitch me out, don’t understand me, too many nights alone, make infatuation’s fired furnace howl behind a harried heart. I feel a wolfen-woman, trusting rarely very long in love Clear claws of truth tear through words and reveal bony lies Off came my shirt when love was life, it fit the laughing landscape. Now, sensuous sceneries breathe the wintry wind of change So I run before the corner closes and instinct's instant reason prove the brazen bitch you want to be. Love will free me from its fangs and lick my wounds with time, its tongue is long and wet and warm. Friend, it is a wolf-bitch. -RACHEL WYNN WHILE THEY WERE WARRING While they were warring a garden was being tended cupped hands, dirt sliding in between fingers in electric connection flesh to soil. While they were warring a household was running smoothly beds were made, dishes done in between minutes in electric connection heart to heart. -ANN STANFORD THE SOULS OF OLD MEN The souls of old men sit Within their old, corrupted bodies. How oppressed the poor things are And how they tire of the wretched life Which they drag on. How they tremble lest they lose it, And how they love it, The confused and contradictory souls Which sit — tragicomic — In their old and disappointed skins. -KONSTANTINOS LARDAS While they were warring spinning wheels were whirring mending brokens, embroidering hope in between breaths in electric connection flax to gold. While they were warring frightened eyes were flashing making stop signs, daring smiles in between boxes in electric connection hands to hold hands to hold. -THEDA SPRACKLIN A CONGRESS OF WE THE PEOPLE The people crowd in and snap at each other with alligator jaws hungry for space. The shorter ones rise on the tips of their toes hoping for a better look. The greedy bullish ones in front gather stones for throwing. The sea of faces claims originality and refutes that the repeated waves of similitude eyes and noses are merely recurring tides of the mass. They repeat the currents circulating among themselves — I think for myself— and look to each other for approval. Some march to the clinking of self-congratulatory medals. Others shuffle along to temporary lines drawn in the sand. The awards ceremony rewards one person among them with sacrifice. They did their part in getting one to do all the giving. Forming a more perfect union appears selfless. Whether this one stands apart from the crowd does not matter. This person may or may not matter. Who decides what matters in this world? The victim of sacrifice decides nothing as the stone-clutching front line readies itself. Death of this kind never finds itself ready when we forget what we love. -JOHN A. FIFE FOR ‘NON’ What makes the world go wrong? Go around? Love doesn’t! Not really. He’s a queer one — that one. He wears his knickers over his knackers and he natters on about nothing. He’s a strange one! I wouldn’t let him marry my daughter. Or son. Madness lurks in every mind, even Bishop Tutu’s. I wanta wear a tutu! Homicide hides in every heart, even John the Baptist’s. Off with his head! The world is a place of wish. Words mean little more than nothing less. The world washes away wisdom like a whale festering upon the beach. It’s as though the glimmerings of a star reached us too late. At last! We’re lost on Mars, and the bars are closed. Kiss me, mate! I had a date with destiny and missed the boat to Astoria. I am awash in a sea of farce and tragedy. Ahoy! My salmon brother. The waters of the mighty Columbia are putrid with chemicals and radiation from Hanford nuclear reservation. Save the baby lesbian sturgeon! She’ll change her sex when her time comes. The Queen could’ve been a king, Bob Dylan — except her cunt fell short of hip hop. Of hope. Dance with me, Henry! The world washes away wisdom. -WALT CURTIS W.C. NOTE: Portland poets Robin Rosemond and myself readsome poetry one Saturday night at the Voodoo Roomin Astoria. Retta Christie and the Cowboys were playing tunes. We were treated okay, and I loved talking with the young waiter with earrings down from Alaska, Sean. His nickname he said was Non', and he was a writer too. When you visit a strange place like Astoria of wom-down history, Finns and Wobblies and out of work men down on their luck — something breaks loose inside. And Uriah the fierce chef told me all sturgeon change their sex to female after a certain age So they have plenty of eggs to lay? I just turned 61. And that's where this poem came from. Every time I go to the Coast I go mad — or get drunk! The sound of the ocean roanng in my ears. Astoha is the oldest town in Oregon, and Oregon is at the end of the USA. Thank the Tao!
