Subj:	December 1995
Date:	95-12-03 16:35:19 EST
From:	desire.street@sstar.com
Reply-to:	desire@sstar.com
To:	culicchia@aol.com


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                            Desire Street
                           December, 1995 


                       cyberspace chapbook of 

                     The New Orleans Poetry Forum 
                           established 1971 

                     Desire, Cemeteries, Elysium 


      Listserv:      DESIRE-Request@Sstar.Com 

         Email:    Robert Menuet, Publisher
                   robmenuet@aol.com

          Mail:    Andrea S. Gereighty, President 
                   New Orleans Poetry Forum 
                   257 Bonnabel Blvd. 
                   Metairie, La 70005 

          Programmer:   Kevin R. Johnson

          Copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poety Forum 
                   (12 poems for December, 1995) 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   CONTENTS:

}Twelve Poems	
   
   Bogue Chitto River 
   Good Friday Blues
   Her Full of Misery
   Jim Martin
   Made to Scale
   One Crow, Sorrow, Two Crows, Joy
   Petit Mal Incantations
   Shall I say that I have come to tell you all?
   Smell
   Thanksgiving
   Toledano Street Near the Projects
   Two-dollar restroom

}The Poets

}About the New Orleans Poetry Forum

}Copyright Notice

_________________________________________________________


  TWELVE POEMS




	Bogue Chitto River

	by Cedelas Hall

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,



Near Moak's bridge
there was a still, deep spot
in the river, a summer gathering place
for the residents of Bogue Chitto 
and beyond.

We spent hot summer days
dipped in the cool waters
and dappled shadows of the bridge.
Daddies taught the young 'uns
to swim their first 
awkward, splashing strokes.

Mamas reclined in the shallows
watching fat, naked babies.
They yelled mother mantras 
at raucous boys.
"Get down from there; 
you'll break your neck."
"Don't go back in the water so soon.
You'll get a cramp and drown."

Tires of cars thumped wooden music
on the planks of the bridge.
Dust sifted through the cracks,
filmed the surface of the water.

I float face up, 
sunlight filtered through trees,
lazy strobe above my closed eyes,
squeals of laughter muffled
by silty water in my ears,
gentle current urges my viscous body
past the bridge,
past Antioch Baptist Church 
where I arose from a watery grave
in the name of the Father,
the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

I pass black and white Holsteins
drinking at the water's edge,
red clay banks climbing
to riverside homes with rope swings,
tiny rivulets dripping down 
miniature hills of moss
in water sculpted mud embankments.

My body liquifies, 
becomes one with the river, 
merges with the Pearl,
flows into the Gulf of Mexico.






	Good Friday Blues 
 
	by Stan Bemis 
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
 
 
God 
    (as we all know) 
         is a Man 
He stands erect 
against the urinal 
and pisses like a Regular 
                       Fellow 
He's white, Middle class & Protestant 
He goes out w/ 
   the spook 
& spends His weekly check 
    After working six days 
    He rests on 
                  the seventh. 
The Mother of His now dead son 
tries to catch Him 
before He 
     goes 
out the door 
He beats her 
(or, so I've been told) 
                         annually 
                       in the Spring 
He's bottled up 
     w/ grief 
     over the pain 
      of the sustained mutual loss 
       of 
               the Son 
who got killed 
            due to some agitation 
                        against 
                        one injustice or another 
& when the anniversary pops up 
               The Father 
                 just goes wild 
Like most men 
He can't express his emotions 
             very well 
              He leaves most of that to 
              Mary 
She does enough for both of them 
(so he'd like to think & 
     put it out 
      of his mind) 
        "I got the whole damn world to 
attend to" He says & leaves her 
                                holding the bag 
                                He's into management
God's a powerful man & 
at one time 
         could do most anything 
His powerlessness to save His boy 
has left him feeling fairly impotent 
         there just wasn't anything 
         he could do about it 
          He had had other things to do 
Now, He weeps like David 
            over Absolem 
& says he wished 
       he'd died in his son's stead 
He doesnt attend church 
        since the incident 
     although, previously, 
           He'd been the pious sort 
He & spook now go over to the Bethlehem Inn 
& rack up a few 
      in a lonely solitude.





Her Full of Misery 

by Athena O. Kildegaard 
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
 
 
Her hands 
fall in great 
lumps of sound 
 
and her ears 
close  
against themselves. 
 
Sing me out 
of this loneliness, 
sing me. 
 
She makes herself 
small and walks 
into the day. 
 
Squirrels chide. 
From her eyes 
sparks of trial. 
 
No traffic stops 
lights stay red 
she turns back, 
 
her great hands 
rising into the air 
of their own accord. 





Jim Martin

by Cedelas Hall
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,


He was "Paw-paw"
and I was "Tooch" 
in those walking summers
spent on the red roads 
of Lincoln County.
He used a cane
because old men
are supposed to walk 
with canes.
I'd shuffle down the middle 
of the road,
hot feet scattering 
cool gravel
piled up by cars.
He was a healer
and they came
from all over 
the county
to have warts removed,
and babies 
cured of thrush.
And he was a mystery,
a lover of people,
a teller of stories,
with a history 
that whispered of 
Whitfield and shock therapy.

But that was before
they paved the road
between the stores 
where he fought out
his politics
every election year.

Before I put on shoes
and became thirteen.

Before his daughters
moved him out 
for his own good.

Before "taking it easy"
broke him
the way
a lifetime of walking seasons
never could.




	MADE TO SCALE
 
    from "The Great Lionel Train Robbery" 
 
	by Mary Riley 
 ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

 
How seldom we get to climb towards what we really long for, 
Those days of goofy ambition over mountains made exactly to scale, 
But some days it happens, my longings fit me, are my bought 
And paid for possessions and I am doing my own, no one else's 
Small exacting thing, and oh so rightly. 
 
On those days I think of you my son and your cousin-friend, Rahim, 
Hooking train and track together over an always expanding 
Landscape, a strong-friends-for-life thing between you 
Even starting way back then, 
Finally you had saved up enough to buy, not steal this time, 
Thinking toughly, "Hell just too motherfuckin dangerous!" 
So you zipped your parkas to go upstreet 
To buy the roundhouse, then you did just that 
That turnaround we must get to in our teens to inch our 
Maddeningly small gleanings into place, 
Then you stood up, loins aching and left this place you made behind, 
Two tall, gangly looking youth, parting right on schedule. 




 

	One Crow, Sorrow, Two Crows, Joy
 
	by Bonnie Crumly-Fastring 
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 
 
O.K. Gretel-- 
this is my question, 
after you shoved her into the oven 
 
and slammed the door shut, 
the heat rising up to consume 
the screams, moving from quieter 
 
to quiet, did you become part 
of the dark smoke pouring  
out of the chimney, 
 
later finding joy 
because you knew you could kill, 
your eyes like two black crows? 
 
Or did you lose, forever, 
your nerve, a lump 
of black cindered stone 
 
like one black crow 
walking the edge of a shadow 
between the woods and the open field 
 
forever balancing in your mind, 
a nine-year-old girl 
on the wooden two-by-four fence, 
 
carefully learning not to fall 
to the right or to the left. 
Tell me, Gretel 
 
what happened after the oven? 





	Petite Mort Incantations
 
	by Andrea S. Gereighty 
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 

I was in my 45th year 
quarante-cinq, the wild card five 
aces wild, wild-assed when we met. 
A hot, tall, Mississippi man country 
Skinny-boned, big-muscled, big- 
shouldered daddy worked with weights 
avoided ex-wife of 16 to hear him tell it 
had incest with her step-daddy the whole while 
Mr. Muscles and she were wed. 
 
Whose baby was the boy, anyway? 
He looks like me the Ms. man mused. 
Old Mississippi spoke the worst grammar 
In that soft, slightly nasal southern twang 
Yet brought roses every week--two dozen 
So many roses, every color I swore that 
he fucked the florist/he said no and 
we rocked the waterbed 6-8 times every weekend 
Fri. pm to Sun. noon, about 39 hours 
that's at least once every 6 hrs. 
And damn--did it 3 hrs. each time. 
 
Too sore for any more we slept, read poetry 
watched videos, tv movies, I wrote 
We ate out, marched in the Krewe de Vieux 
danced at the Mardi Gras ball/head-banger 
stuff I'd never get into but with him 
and the Mystic Krewe of Nutria band 
Stoned on homegrown/Tess's Northshore sativa 
We could dance for hours/it was like foreplay 
It was foreplay. 
 
I knew what I wanted/just what I had to cure the blues 
this trash-hauling sanitation engineer from a 
Ms. trailer community. 
My screams startled the dogs, set them to humpin' each other 
seagulls screamed/I outdid them and lights went on 
At camps 1000 yards away 
We did not care, WE couldn't say whose lights 
But we continued to burn till dawn 
Then followed the La. grey herons 
in Little Woods out to the island 
Nothin' really, but a spit of uncovered lake bottom 
at low-tide we played in the sand that sparkled more 
after each hit of acid sparked those many-faceted prisms 
in our minds/we were diggin/with kiddie shovels and 
buckets/rerouted the path the Pontchartrain took in one afternoon. 
 
Camp Gris-Gris is like that. 
In the evening, seagulls flew a feeding frenzy 
a hot, pink afterglow sucked at the horizon. 
This place history of abuse/suicide/murder/mystery 
violence we pacify with sighs, kisses 
I still hear wails in the water 
Voices under the windows at night the mirrors 
break. We continue our exorcism.






	SHALL I SAY THAT I HAVE COME TO TELL YOU ALL?

	by Robert Menuet
		email: robmenuet@aol.com
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,


	They made Him a supper; and Martha served: but 
	Lazarus was one of them that sat at table with Him.
		    	--John 12:2


	Martha, I do not want this company. Our sister prayed that he 
heal me, but he did not come. In darkness I dreamt four days of the 
fathers of Israel. They'd  gathered me up to the bosom of Abraham; there 
I was in comfort. I have no appetite for this food, and the sunlight of 
Bethany hurts my eyes.  Once I loved it here.

	Joshua, you told them roll the stone away, and bid me come.  
Something began to stink.  Without willing I walked out in graveclothes, 
my face bound about with a napkin. I can not eat this spring lamb;  
I think of rot, and Mary weeping. Who is the guest of honor at this 
supper?  The Son of  man has been glorified by these events.

	Please pour the wine, Martha. I cannot live with this knowledge. 
They will not hear me, they starve me with ears of stone. Already the 
priests talk of putting me to death again.  I cannot drink from this 
chalice. I have no heart for table talk. I regret  your supper disgusts
me.  So do you, my sister, and all mankind.

	Joshua, what am I, now that you have called me back?  How will men 
remember me?  What of my works and days, my poems? I look down at my 
napkin.  You want me to be grateful, but it's You that are the 
resurrection and the life.





	Smell
 
	by Athena O. Kildegaard 
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 
 
She sits, naked from the bath, 
her soles resting drily 
against one another, knees 
flopped out, her smooth buttocks 
curved away from the floor, 
and one finger pressing her clit. 
Her eyes avoid me, her mother. 
She pretends to be alone. 
 
And is. Then she sniffs 
her finger, a deep 
taking in of that earth 
between her legs, 
the smell she knows is her, 
but that seems like something 
passed down, like pants worn 
smooth by many washes, 
still too big, but ample. 



 

	Thanksgiving
 
	by Bonnie Crumly-Fastring 
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 
 
Guilt is the lady in the 
yellow flowered hat 
waiting outside the iron gates 
of the French Quarter apartment. 
 
Silently she holds out her hand 
for my penance, singing a few words 
of some old hymn. Her voice scrapes 
like a streetcar changing directions. 
 
Drunk, she follows me 
down the neutral ground* 
of Esplanade. We are looking 
for my car. "Any good mother," 
she whispers, "gets home before her son." 
 
She slips her arm around my shoulders, 
kisses me softly on my cheek. 
"And your cat is out of food," 
she screams, winking at me gaily. 
 
 
* colloquial term for median in New Orleans 





	Toledano Street Near the Projects
 
	by Andrea S. Gereighty 
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 
 
He leaped forward in the darkness 
A well-shaped abstraction defining
Itself 
Outlined in dusk his 
Jacket seemed like the setting sun. 
 
He pounded the Gospels like a rug 
He could beat free of dust 
And throw to the floor, one rug 
For each living room in America 
Salvation, as easy as that. 
 
Hours later I passed Toledano again 
He was still there, preaching 
Atop a wrecked Chevy 
As though the dust were mud 
And he'd grown roots 
Fertilized by patience and sole- 
less shoes right through the 
coupe's hardtop. 
 
Up close 
His face was like a city pawnbroker 
Lending hope.





	Two-dollar restroom 
 
	by Christine Trimbo 
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 
 
We can't move fast  
   enough through the blur 
        of crowd along St. Charles Avenue, this 
             drunk is good, whirling me fast-action movie 
               through waving arms, bleary eyes, brass noise, 
           corn dog beer yells, up and through 
        ladders, down the side street, 
   St. Mary has emptied itself. 
 
He is standing outside smoking rings, 
watching the beads on the ground, 
the drizzle melting their crayon colors 
into the cobblestones, we get a deal 
    three pees for two bucks, 
    because "we are so cute," 
he winks like a neon beer sign. 
 
He lives in an appliance museum. 
refrigerators,  clothes washers, a rocking 
chair stacked on two T.V.s. 
It seems he fixes things for a 
living he says, it does get 
lonely, it is hard to meet 
people, he has lived here 
two years, he is making 
chicken, red beans and rice 
he has one beer, he can get more, 
we can stay, here is his number, you can 
buy a drier for cheap, what's your number? 
You can stay. You can party. 
 
But we are done. "You can come 
   back. Anytime you want." As we 
      leave,  the sky throws 
           the rain down. 
                "Happy Mardi Gras" he cries 
                       but we are gone. 




________________________________________________________


  THE POETS


     Stan Bemis, originally from California, is an artist & writer.
He is a frequent visitor to the Maple Leaf Bar's Sunday poetry
readings. He is currently working on a book of religious poetry
atempting to, in the words of the theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
"speak of God in a secular fashion."  He has been a member of the
New Orleans Poetry Forum for some years. 

 
     Bonnie Fastring is a poet and teacher from New Orleans. 

  
     Andrea S. Gereighty owns and manages New Orleans Field
Services Associates, a public opinion polls business and is
currently the president of the New Orleans Poetry Forum. Her poetry
has appeared in many journals, as well as in her book, ILLUSIONS
AND OTHER REALITIES. 
 
 
     Cedelas Hall has returned to poetry writing after a 20 year hiatus.  
Her works range in subject matter from nostalgia to sex.


     Athena O. Kildegaard is a freelancer writer and mother and
makes time between for writing poetry.


     Robert Menuet is a psychotherapist, marital therapist, and
clinical supervisor.  He is a bicyclist and former social planner. 


     Mary Riley is a semi-retired 30-plus-years social worker/child
care worker finally taking the time to write full time. Her current
project in addition to her poetry is a non-fiction book "A Year in
New Orleans" dealing with the paradoxes--the delights--the deaths
she has met in her five years there. 
 
 
     Christine Trimbo lives in a house that once neighbored Degas'
house. She has two bicycles but no cats. 



_________________________________________________________


  ABOUT THE NEW ORLEANS POETRY FORUM

The New Orleans Poetry Forum, a non-profit organization, was founded 
in 1971 to provide a structure for organized readings and workshops.  
Poets meet weekly in a pleasant atmosphere to critique works presented 
for the purpose of improving the writing skills of the presenters.  
From its inception, the Forum has sponsored public readings, guest 
teaching in local schools, and poetry workshops in prisons. For many 
years the Forum sponsored the publication of the New Laurel Review, 
underwritten by foundation and government grants.  The New Orleans 
Poetry Forum receives and administers grant funds for its activities 
and the activities of individual poets.

Meetings are open to the public, and guest presenters are welcome.  
The meetings generally average ten to 15 participants, with a core 
of regulars.  A format is followed which assures support  for what is 
good in each poem, as well as suggestions for improvement.  In many 
cases it is possible to trace a poet's developing skill from works 
presented over time.  The group is varied in age ranges, ethnic and 
cultural backgrounds, and styles of writing and experience levels of 
participants.  This diversity provides a continuing liveliness  and energy 
in each workshop session.  Many current and past participants are 
published poets and experienced readers at universities and coffeehouses 
worldwide.  One member, Yusef Komunyakaa, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize 
for Poetry for 1994.  Members have won other distinguished prizes and 
have taken advanced degrees in creative writing at local and national 
universities.

Beginning in 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum will publish a monthly 
electronic magazine, Desire Street, for distribution on the Internet 
and computer bulletin boards.  It is believed that Desire Street will 
be the first e-zine published by an established group of poets.  Our 
cyberspace chapbook will contain poems that have been presented at the 
weekly workshop meetings, and submitted by members for publication. 
Publication will be in both message and file formats in various 
locations in cyberspace.

Workshops are held every Wednesday from 8:00 PM until 10:30 at the 
Broadmoor Branch of the New Orleans Public Library,  4300 South Broad, 
at Napoleon.  Annual dues of $10.00 include admission to Forum events 
and a one-year subscription to the Forum newsletter, Lend Us An Ear. 
To present, contact us for details and bring 15 copies of your poem 
to the workshop.

The mailing address is as follows:  

Andrea S. Gereighty,  President
New Orleans Poetry Forum
257 Bonnabel Boulevard
Metairie, Louisiana 70005

Email:  Robert Menuet
        robmenuet@aol.com


_________________________________________________________


  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

Desire Street,  December, 1995, copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum.
12 poems for December, 1995.  Message format:  16 messages for December, 1995.  
Various file formats.  

Desire Street is a monthly electronic publication of the New Orleans 
Poetry Forum. All poems published have been presented at weekly meetings 
of the New Orleans Poetry Forum by members of the Forum.  

The New Orleans Poetry Forum encourages widespread electronic 
reproduction and distribution of its monthly magazine without cost, 
subject to the few limitations described below.  A request is made 
to electronic publishers and bulletin board system operators that 
they notify us by email when the publication is converted to 
executable, text, or compressed file formats, or otherwise stored 
for retrieval and download.  This is not a requirement for publication, 
but we would like to know who is reading us and where we are being 
distributed. Email:  robmenuet@aol.com (Robert Menuet). We also publish 
this magazine in various file formats and in several locations in 
cyberspace.

Copyright of individual poems is owned by the writer of each poem.  
In addition, the monthly edition of  Desire Street is copyright by 
the New Orleans Poetry Forum.  Individual copyright owners and the 
New Orleans Poetry Forum hereby permit the reproduction of this 
publication subject to the following limitations:

The entire monthly edition, consisting of the number of poems and/or
messages stated above  for the current month, also shown above, may be 
reproduced electronically in either message or file format  for 
distribution by computer bulletin boards, file transfer protocol, 
other methods of file transfer, and in public conferences and 
newsgroups. The entire monthly edition may be converted to executable, 
text,  or compressed file formats, and from one file format to another,
for the purpose of distribution.  Reproduction of this publication must 
be whole and intact, including this notice, the masthead, table of 
contents, and other parts as originally published.   Portions (i.e., 
individual poems) of this edition may not be excerpted and reproduced 
except for the  personal use of an individual.

Individual poems may be reproduced electronically only by express 
paper-written permission of the author(s). To obtain express permission, 
contact the publisher for details.  Neither Desire Street nor the 
individual poems may be reproduced on CD-ROM without the express 
permission of The New Orleans Poetry Forum and the individual copyright 
owners. Email robmenuet@aol.com (Robert Menuet) for details.

Hardcopy printouts are permitted for the personal use of a single 
individual.   Distribution of hardcopy printouts will be permitted 
for educational purposes only, by express permission of the publisher; 
such distribution must be of the entire contents of the edition 
in question of Desire Street.  This publication may not be sold in 
either hardcopy or electronic forms without the express paper-written 
permission of  the copyright owners.

end.


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Subj:	Ygdrasil
Date:	95-12-03 14:18:32 EST
From:	Robmenuet
To:	Culicchia

I don't remember the answer to your question.
I never look at Ygdrasil.  Good production values, but our poems are better.

Here's the Ygdrasil Web site:

http://www.rdrop.com/~igal/ygdrasil

robert