
		 Desire Street
		  August, 1995


	     cyberspace chapbook of 

	  The New Orleans Poetry Forum
      		established 1971

          Desire, Cemeteries, Elysium

 Listserv:  DESIRE-ST@Bourbon-St.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 Johnson

Copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum



Autumn Solstice, New Orleans, 1994

   by Mary Riley


I keep spotting in the last few weeks,
A pretty vine flower, it looks like a small cousin to a
Morning Glory, a weed twining everywhere, caught like me in
The dry oasis late summer can be here, when it feels hard
To laugh or cry, and yet glad shouts, salt tears
Are always just below the swampy, New Orleans soil now
Inside me, like this weed I've been seeing
In all the yards, twining around the gates, just waiting
Like I waited all this Summer to cast it's shy purple,
Blue and green eyes everywhere,
When the weather simmered down,
many people here are like this, springing on vines,
The first leaves of plants who dare to surface and bloom in the 
Midst of this ghetto street when autumn comes,
Not by the European calendar, but now
Pushing into darkening October,
it take such people an extra month to start school for
True, and some old men, a lifetime just to sit outside the houses
And tell, in fall's temperate tones all they never got near enough as
Black men, "Not even sniffin' distance to the Seamen's Union" to do.





Librarian Carpenters

   by Bob Rainer


                    T
                   he
                 Carpen
             ters came to my
            house this morning
          to fix an outside wall
        that was broke.  It let the
       Palmetto bugs fly in and when
    I cooked it let out the smoke.  The
  y woke me up with their saw and board.
 I thought it was bad when my woman snored
but, NOTHIN            ||        G  can ruin
a morning'             ||        s good rest
like those guy===================s who really
put my nerves          ||        to the test.
I think the n          ||         ext time my
house  springs         ||        a leak, inst
ead of hiring some carpenter to riot, I'll hi
re a librarian to fix the walls real quiet. N
o rude noise to disturb my slumber, just shhh
and please don't bang the lumber. They'll pil
e the boards in Dewey sequence,   and won't a
waken         us       folks      a-sleeping.



Damp Thoughts

   by Stan Bemis


The air is cold and
rivets of water cover 
the streets
making murky puddles
while all around me
gray permeates
the world

I recall walking with
my Mother
and the raint starting to fall
telling her the gods were
taking a leak
I was at that age
that boys - full of puppy dog
tails - go through and 
I liked to see her squirm.

Rain is good for the crops 
and the pet rocks

If boys are mode out of
puppy dog tails,
old men 
such as myself
are made of snails

In the rain
especially when
the mothers have died.



Death by Marriage

   by Cedelas Hall


Two of them lumped 
on opposite ends 
of the sofa,
soft, immoveable, 
impregnable twin towers,
faces forward, 
tiny scenes from sitcoms
reflected in their glasses.
Tears traced the curves
of her cheeks,
lines around her mouth.

"I'm exhausted," he said,
"Ready to go to bed?"
"Sure."

Two of them lumped 
on opposite sides 
of the bed,
soft, immoveable, 
impregnable, reclining twin towers.
He reached for her breast.
She feigned sleep.

This new coupling had panted, 
grabbed, grunted, danced,
rolled, screamed with delight.

Tonight he says:
"We should get married.
It would be so convenient."

Then:
"I'm exhausted.
Why don't we stay in...
watch a little T.V."

"I don't watch T.V."

"Sure you do.
Everyone does."

She thinks:
"Not this time."
She rises,
walks from this tomb
without explanation.



Double Vision IV

   by Bonnie Crumley-Fastring


                           Mother


                              I.

Wolf runs
between thick pollinated corn rows
watching three survivors on a four-wheeler.

The one in front, First Time Mother
postpartum depression
scaring the hell out of her,
the one in middle, Long Time Mother,
hanging on by fingertips, trapped
and trapping all around her,
the one in back, Part Time Mother,
red flames
raging from her eyes, rising
out of the ashes, words and wolves.



                             II.

"Do we have fire insurance?"
my mother asks, innocent question,
except for the why
she wanted to know.
"If I have to go to the 'home'
I'd just as soon burn
this house down than leave it,"
she went on, almost to herself,
and when she said it 
summer lightning flashed,
came blazing down my throat.
"Yes," flames breathed in me,
"Burn this sucker down."

I'd rather see it all end
in action,
scorching cauterization
red-hot transformation
coming out of my mother.
Smoke curls beckon in the air.
I'll leave you some matches,"
I whisper in her ear,
bumping the wheelchair gear.
"Let me show you
how to get out the door
by yourself."




An Exile's Thoughts

   by Nancy Cotton


              "From China to Peru,
               Each man rolls darkling to his fate."
					-Samuel Johnson



Oh, dawn,
I awake to remembered dreams
Of living in the mountains,
When darkest skies,
Sprinkled with stars
Were my mantle 
Against the nights

And of late afternoons
Spent in Lima,
While the maid answered the ringing telephone,
The filtered yellow light turned to gold
The room and the bed,
Where we sipped ginseng,
Mi China y yo.



A Fine White Powder

   by Andrea Saunders Gereighty


It's three am; as usual, I do not sleep
But count the number of times the train
Whistles like the wailing of that sax at
The Inauguration.
Sometimes I awaken at this hour
To the scream of the water softener
A machine that yells "quiet alarm"
Digital flashes of the computer
3 a.m., 3 a.m., reset, reset.

I exit by the storm door, surprised by rain
Having its way with gravity again falling in
hesitation, not to use its entire allotment
Before the light.
Red sky at night, sailor's delight
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.

But I know no one padlocked to the sea
With that invisible longing, only Jerry, in jail
One last deal to pay off the boat, one last kilo
of a fine white powder in exchange for imagined
Years of freedom in the islands.
He got instead the dull, grey clang of the pen
Not buoy bells that charter the sea.

These fat globules of rain feel sacred, like holy oils
I imagine they anoint my skin in benediction.
I want to pocket the familiar moonscape
But it has turned from me the face I knew.

                                            


The Incredible Journey

   by Mary Riley


In and out of the body
With the help of Nuclear Medicine,
It's one way to go on a paid vacation,
lying here prone
Beneath a down aimed gun
Amidst Nursely reassurances
Said in those dead, unstrung-to-heart
Voices technicians use answering 
The same old questions,
like, "How much radiation do I get?"
...Her voice trails off the in-house phone, searching
For the old answer, ..."Less than a 
Regular x-ray of the hips."
The incredible machine
Grinds back and forth above me
Already it knows more about 
My hips than I will ever
Know in this short life about anything;
I wait for results, sitting largely unseen
Just the latest volunteer 
For the Osteoporosis study,
But I wait among the doomed,
Who come here for real illness,
I read over their shoulders
Tips for taking a Positive stance
To a recent diagnosis.




The Incredible Journey

   by Mary Riley


In and out of the body
With the help of Nuclear Medicine,
It's one way to go on a paid vacation,
lying here prone
Beneath a down aimed gun
Amidst Nursely reassurances
Said in those dead, unstrung-to-heart
Voices technicians use answering 
The same old questions,
like, "How much radiation do I get?"
...Her voice trails off the in-house phone, searching
For the old answer, ..."Less than a 
Regular x-ray of the hips."
The incredible machine
Grinds back and forth above me
Already it knows more about 
My hips than I will ever
Know in this short life about anything;
I wait for results, sitting largely unseen
Just the latest volunteer 
For the Osteoporosis study,
But I wait among the doomed,
Who come here for real illness,
I read over their shoulders
Tips for taking a Positive stance
To a recent diagnosis.




Only Because of the Moon

   by Andrea Saunders Gereighty



Air
 frigid with bumps
              rocks the Boeing 737
Over Patagonian ice lakes, snow-hooded
         mountains
I think of what IT WOULD BE LIKE to die here
Remember Peggy's words, "Don't crash, mom,
in the Andes and have to eat your fellow passengers."

The woman beside me is pleasingly plump
but I'd go for the baby in Row 13A.

Cloud forests give the illusion they would
                  sustain me

Jagged peaks belie this notion.

Then there's the two of us.
You seem unavailable, like aqua lago
emotionally removed from me
by your luggage of lost loves.

I do not belong to your past.
I am fresh like snow on Andean peaks.
My love renews itself with each new flurry.
Melt yourself:  do not fear a meltdown.

Give me your lakes:  bathe me.
Do not play me for a fool
The way clouds do
Unsubstantial as this vapor
we fly through.

Endure:  like mountains, like volcanoes
Like molten fire, like the now full moon
Like me.
                                  



Poetry

   by Radomir Luza, Jr.


It makes my 
Soul drum
To the beat of the highway,
Robots with tears,
Take a vacation, but you can't get away with it, it's simple, 
               it's always inside you.
Grab a bag put it over your head, you cannot miss the sounds
               moving, rats under trees,
The words come out, you don't ever think they will, 
               but they do, soldiers in the dark,
The typewriter, a tomato can with grease, 
               doesn't help, but is at one with you, dying,
The fingers blur for they do not know what to do, 
               they turn the general to the specific,
The mind, an apple with no crust, wonder where it all comes from, 
               it wasn't made for this intensity,
Pass a statue, sit on a bench, touch the person in front of you, 
               you can't lose it, it's always with you.
Yes, buttresses on a couch, you must have the faith to say it, 
               to write it, to sing it
To somehow get it out, to look my mother in the mouth and tell her
your 
               life means 
               nothing, touch your father on the cheek 
               and tell him you would die for him,
Look, look around you, we all have gifts, we all can do it,
               envelopes under lamps, 
Japanese over Newspapers, you don't get it little one 
               because it doesn't come from you, it comes from 
               something truer, you are the instrument, 
               a mule with headlights.



Shades of New Orleans

   by Robert Menuet


Whited tombs cut
long, crisp shadows
from the orange light of winter dusk.

Carnations come to little cities,
no silence
on their streets this day.

Napoleon's steeple,
brick and mortar witch's hat,
pray for us.

Mumbling priest smudges 
wrinkled faces
soon wiped clean of palm cinders.

Last year's fronds lie still in cars, 
brown, 
forgotten like the One they honored.

Saturn Bar, two men pour out 
drops of beer,
watch the cockroach drink its fill.

Baroque brickwork, golden steeple,
freeway hides 
last chance mass for AA.



UN-Broken Contract

   by Stan Bemis


The nerves in our family
were like frayed wires,
my father hitting my mother,
the aching sound of
hand against flesh.
Both parents stuck
in an impossible impasse.
He wanted a mother, she
wanted an adult.
She wouldn't leave
because of a midwestern
background.
Her brother told me once
marriage was like
painting a house.
you sign the contract and
you stay with the job.
In such a situation
bromides replace intellect.
She told me
"You make your bed and
you lie in it."
When she said this,
I saw the pain flicker
(the stubborn will
used against itself).

It was alright
in a way if she
were willing to subject herself
but she had no right
to put innocent children
through such hell.



Why do you make me do this
to you?  my father whined,
putting the blame on her,
not himself
as if he were some kind
of puppet
Hands attached to wires.
Invisible to everybody,
not seen, only felt.
"It's difficult," she told me
years later over the phone,
"to have his hands
touch me in the dark
to caress
the same hands
that hit me.
My body doesn't know
how 
to respond."




THE POETS OF DESIRE STREET

     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. 


     Nancy Cotton is an immigration attorney.


     Bonnie Fastring is a poet and teacher from New Orleans. 


     Andrea Saunders 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. 


     Robert Menuet is a psychotherapist, marital therapist, and
clinical supervisor.  Previously he was a 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. 
 

     Bob Rainer is an Alabama redneck who lives in Metairie, Louisiana.




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.

In 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum began to publish a monthly 
electronic magazine, Desire Street, for distribution on the Internet 
and computer bulletin boards.  It is believed that Desire Street is
the first e-zine published by an established group of poets.  Our 
cyberspace chapbook contains 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.  To subscribe to Desire Street via Listserv, 
send an Email message to DESIRE-ST@BOURBON-ST.COM and put the word  
SUBSCRIBE in the topic field of the message.  You will receive an automated 
confirmation of your enrollment.  Subscription is free of charge.


   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 Saunders Gereighty,  President
New Orleans Poetry Forum
257 Bonnabel Boulevard
Metairie, Louisiana 70005

Email:  Robert Menuet
        robmenuet@aol.com 





COPYRIGHT NOTICE

 Desire Street,  August, 1995, copyright 1995, The New Orleans Poetry Forum.
14 poems for August, 1995.  Message format:  17 messages for August, 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.