LYNX XXV:2, June, 2010 Solo works


Table of Contents XXV:2 June, 2010		LYNX A Journal for Linking Poets



		GHAZALS CUPID'S ARROWS ARE COFFIN NAILS Don Ammons Cupid's arrows are coffin nails Fixing in place a corpse, coffin nails Hammered into a casket lid closed over What was once a self, but is now a nail Secured possession of another This obscene burial of a nail Pinioned coffin is disguised As cherub cuteness, each driven nail Passed off as a playful arrow. Flee lovers! Cupid's arrows are coffin nails! QASIDA #7 David Jalajel the long years of your refined disaffection disintegrate – now your vagrancy shacks up with solid realizations: that the sky in the lake is above your moonlit head & your boat’s been impounded in a bout of liquidations that your karma’s bad enough to befossil all your hopes but far less than a dent in quantum time-space relations that your ambitions as impromptu mystic are buried in prepaid grave plots with headstone-free demarcations that the endless cycle of life is a treadmill gathering dust in the gym after the spa’s renovations QASIDA #8 David Jalajel their network of blather bends space so much it lulls you into exalting their eloquence & poise you had asked them no questions on the project back then – you were too busy arranging your wines in an ice bath & so now, where no honest day’s work’s ever done you barrel down the main highway, compounding cheap joys & each time, they project you a wide web of certainties while they randomly prune your portfolios in half you park off in your sportscars, dashboards agleam, & tune in your radios to street fights & white noise & after all your boundless projections have faded the show ends with the shriek of their devilish laugh QASIDA #10 David Jalajel you keep public hearings distant from your eyes so you can devour the sea salt & sip savoury teas with resolve like yours, estrangement is easy as shunning blonde dresses & fervent guarantees the crabgrass shows lushness like broken vows by exposing the upshot of its clumping leaves so who are you pitching for now, for that crowd whose aloofness repels you like old greek deities the seeds waft right off, fuzzy & cloying the ground, so you won’t fear petitions blowing in with the breeze QASIDA #11 David Jalajel the fragrant, narrow dawn grinds down to its essence, forgotten languages thrust between us an empty page where love songs wilt while still fresh in our hearts – dying early, they should be sweet in what they assuage: high & swift deprecation – this is not joy’s confusion but logic shouting frenzied from its dry & barren cage the loss of an hour means a lot to a gorgon’s beauty – it’s a bad hair day in athens where nothing seems to age but our tuneless monologues, tongues detached from speech refusing to admit we’re bewildered by our sobriety, our rage HAIBUN THE NORTH SEA (off Klitmøller) Don Ammons The North Sea, striking the Danish west coast as crashing, spinning surf, is always icy; even at high noon on a hot, July day.Only once, his first time, has this Florida-grown expatriate, after a beach run, plunged unready into this salty, icy brine. He still shivers at the memory. Now he is wading out slowly, pausing, splashing water up on his chest, shoulders, then lunging forward; a few short swimming lengths, one or two porpoise-like dives, but not in long before regaining the strand where he sits on an old SUNSHINE STATE beach towel warming, watching, listening. . . following the slap of surf the swish of ebb beach gravel tumbling LOCKED IN Gerard John Conforti There is no where to go except to roam the long hallways and the bedrooms and the dining room. Inmates have their own illness and are innocent enough. They have been victimized by others and the outside world. Some have no place to go and are locked in for months at a time. By the window, there is no view of the outside world because there are locked screens with small holes in them. nowhere to go a patient begins to scream In the dining room, the inmates sit and eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. During the day the inmates go to therapy groups. After groups, the inmates roam the hallways again with their own lost world around them. Some will recover; but some won’t. she sits quietly still without moving Medication is given out to the inmates once, twice or three times a day. Some become stiff and walk with their arms straight down. Others are delusional so they find it difficult to see reality. This is where the medication plays a role in their recovery. As each day goes by, some of the inmates start to become well and are able to see things clearer. Others are discharged to go home to their parents or residence. families stay for an hour then must leave Now and then a patient loses control and is given an injection of medicine to calm him or her. Suicidal inmates are watched in their room by a trained tech. Sometimes the inmates take walks outside if the weather is nice. Some try to run away but are brought back later by the police. as night descends someone talks in his sleep If an inmate commits a crime, they are put in jail where they don’t get the proper help they may need and their psychosis gets worse. Only one percent of inmates in psych wards commit crimes. In fact most of them are innocent, but must suffer the illness they have. a woman alone weeping because of a lost love The psych ward and jail are the loneliest places to be. The inmates in jail who are psychotic become worse over time. Jail is no place for someone with emotional problems. Most of them are on suicide watch and suffer for a crime from lack of taking medications, or not taking medication at all. fights break out there is a loud disturbance When an inmate is discharged they sometimes must attend a resident facility for a few years for their crime. This is a lesser suffering, but there is not much freedom in the beginning. over and over again inmates return to the psych wards There has to be a change in the way the system works. There are many forms of illness such as drug abuse or alcohol abuse. Both of them don’t help with an emotional illness. There must be something better than this. late at nigh two shots are fired The only way that I can see to help the system be better is by giving the inmates love, care, compassion, and kindness. This is the only way things are going to change in the future, if not now. an inmate walks the streets alone depressed MIRAMICHI, NEW BRUNSWICK Ruth Holzer Route 8: two lanes through the forests. Loaded logging trucks thunder by in both directions. Yellow signs every few kilometers warn of moose, but no actual moose cross the road. Hours later, Miramichi appears, spread out along its wide river. At the junction, a water tower with a giant shamrock. from nowhere to nowhere – a narrow way DIE GALOSCHEN DES GLÜCKS Ruth Franke in der Nacht haben sie Flügel meine Gedanken tragen mich fort federleicht Ich kenne ihn schon, diesen Tunnel. Was wird er mir diesmal zeigen? In der Dunkelheit öffnet sich eine Tür. Im hellen Sonnenlicht liegt auf einer Hochebene ein malerisches Dorf. Hohe Berge im Hintergrund, zum Meer hin Felsen, steil abfallend. Santana, die Touristen-Attraktion der Insel, jetzt menschenleer. Der Blick fällt auf eine Reihe schmucker Katen mit Strohdächern bis zur Erde hinab - Weihnachtssterne - stickende Frauen in alter Tracht In der Mitte des Dorfes ein modernes Rathaus, der große Platz umgeben von Strelizien-Rabatten und Orangenbäumen. Da sitzen wir auf einer steinernen Bank, Lunchpakete auf den Knien. Es ist der 25. Dezember. Auch auf Madeira läuten die Kirchenglocken, die Familien kommen zusammen und feiern das Fest. Der Busverkehr ruht – ein idealer Tag, so hatte der Mann vorgeschlagen, um die Fahrt in den Norden zu wagen. Auf schmalen Straßen durchs Gebirge, entlang der Felsenküste. Auf unseren Wanderungen haben wir die Weihnachtsvorbereitungen miterlebt. Frauen wuschen die Wäsche in den Levadas, den Bewässerungskanälen, die Häuser wurden geputzt, Schweine geschlachtet, Honigkuchen gebacken. Überall, auch im Hotel, liebevoll gestaltete und dekorierte Krippen-Landschaften mit vielen ländlichen Figuren, Tieren und Früchten. alte Bergkirche das Jesuskind in Spitze gewickelt Es ist warm in der Mittagssonne. Wir wollen gerade aufbrechen, da dröhnt vom Rathaus Lautsprechermusik. Weihnachtslieder. „Leise rieselt der Schnee …“ Morgennebel die Galoschen des Glücks verschwunden Die Galoschen des Glücks, Titel eines Andersen-Märchens, versetzen ihren Träger unmittelbar an den Ort seiner Wünsche. THE GALOSHES OF FORTUNE* Ruth Franke translated by Celia Brown in the night there are wings on my thoughts they carry me away light as a feather I know this tunnel well. What will it show me this time? In the darkness a door opens. Bright sunlight reveals a picturesque village on a plateau against a backdrop of high mountains. Towards the sea steep cliffs. Santana, the tourist attraction of the island, looks deserted. A row of charming little cottages comes into view: thatched roofs reaching right down to the ground – Christmas stars embroidered by women in folk costumes At the center of the village a modern town hall in a large square with borders of crane flowers and orange trees. There we sit on a stone bench, lunch packets on our knees. It is 25. December. Here on Madeira the church bells are also ringing, families gather and celebrate Christmas Day together. No bus service – an ideal time, the man had suggested, to try the trip to the North. On narrow lanes across a mountainous region, along the rocky coastline. On our walks we have witnessed the preparations for the Christmas season. Women washing laundry in the Levadas - the irrigations canals – cleaning their houses, pigs being slaughtered, honey cakes baked. Everywhere , even in our hotel, crib scenes arranged and decorated with loving care including many country characters, farm animals and fruit. an old hill church the Infant Jesus swaddled in lace It is warm in the midday sun. We are just getting ready to leave when music blares from the loudspeakers at the town hall. Christmas Carols: “Walking in a Winter Wonderland ...” morning mist the Galoshes of Fortune have vanished ”The Galoshes of Fortune”: title of an Andersen fairy tale; their wearers can wish themselves to be anywhere in the world. DIVIDED* Patricia Prime forgive my ignorant offering – flowers bought blindly in the foyer, wrapped in green cellophane He has his place in the Rose Garden overlooking Tauranga Harbour. (His ashes sprinkled surreptitiously beneath a Peace rose on a starlit summer evening.) His wife has a spot in the country churchyard on a knoll overlooking the town where they both grew up – a grave of her own. They did not wake up from death, didn’t rave at the stars, or at their names carved on plaques. They would never surrender like that; both strong people, with minds of their own, who had long gone their separate ways. They made their own game of life, roaming from one town to another with different partners, following the sun from dawn till dusk, and all over again. They made sure the fun was going on, far more fun than if they laid next to each other and argued for ever: who had the more soggy soil, whose tree gave the better shade. red butterfly the clouds run from you over the horizon, how the sun swallows its failing strength Haiga by Martina Heinisch SWEET SORROW Patricia Prime Enter the iron gates, and the cemetery unfolds before you, uphill to a stand of pines and downhill to a stream. The main drive leads straight to the chapel, an old garden and a memorial commemorating the soldiers who died in World War II. It’s a serene, leafy place. A young woman holds the hand of her partner. They are here to find the grave of her father who died when she was ten. She hasn’t been back since the day of the funeral. They meet a pair of amiable gravediggers who point them towards the Cemeteries Office where a map is produced and they are directed to a path near the chapel. A flock of black crows flies out of the trees as they approach a shady corner of the cemetery. There in front of them, not far off the path is the grave they seek. The granite headstone bears his name in full – she never knew his middle name – with the dates 1939-1980. Below the name and dates is a poem written by her mother, the words incised in five lines: its all silence moon drifting closer a lovely wind fragrant with blossom rocks you to gentle sleep Small, spiky succulents grow in the pebble bed of the grave itself. There is a small vase at its foot, which stands empty. She wishes she had brought flowers. SEQUENCES PAINTER OF SMALL OBJECTS Ed Baranosky the painter creaks the old door ajar in the early dim light the skeleton key casting a long shadow inside antique clocks chime simultaneously out of phase outside thick glass panes thunder gathers the sunrise here time flows to an ancient metronome miniature symphonies painted by an unseen hand in a forgotten empire time and again the desert reclaimed the paws of the Sphinx leaving only sand lo paint the wind the Dresden Doll turns slowly on the clock-work porcelain music-box unconcerned with the firestorm threatening chaos KATE MOSS Christopher Barnes A sunbath air-kiss in St Tropez that conspicuous cherry mini dress glares on a marina's coffee bar, not quite a glossy supplement. The moving van presented itself. In a fool's paradise they'd cull your furs. The pout of... is crack-toothed, an expressionless fixed stare in a ciggy smog focus pulled into a Nikon Coolpix S6. LANGUAGE, I/ANGUISH Chen-ou Liu slanting sunrays drift through the window and settle again on the worn cover of my Chinese-English dictionary tunneling through my mind I dig up English words by lamplight – Chinese coolie laboring in a foreign mine while writing poems I hear two voices arguing in their turn: Conceive in English Bu! Fan Yi Respect English is whispered into my left ear Make it new into my right – the page remains blank A PORTRAIT OF THE POET AS A MIDDLE-AGED MAN Chen-ou Liu I am forty. . .something in the attic waiting alone four years gone by and yet no chapbooks my life. . .a void no great book bears my name I hit my head with books by other poets hit hard by The Complete Poems of Chen-ou Liu I wake to rain chattering in the room SNOW ON THE MOUNTAINTOP Ruth Holzer snow on the mountaintop fall colors below – we promised to go there together sometime for the New Year we decorate the gate with pine boughs – our thoughts surrounded by their gentle swaying couples therapy – I'd always wind up worried about our future then you'd suggest grabbing a hippoburger no red lantern for your return tonight – the bug light on the porch guides your steps to me your shock of silvery hair brushing my cheek in the dark again golden FLOODING TITANIC* Garry Eaton dam progress water reaches the steps of the high school explaining to Dad as we haul him away the new grave site a submerged stop sign beside the paved road we launch the boat old fairgrounds flood water tops the grandstand translucent depths barbed wire trails away in the water weed scuba bubbles down main street it's a ghost town fish and game trucks release a few rainbows winter pasture upper valley falls fingers of green slime crawl up a concrete spillway at sunset the darkness of water filling my valley a board room wall underwater photos of Titanic's wreckage field A fictitious town, sacrificed to a hydro project OUT OF FOCUS* C.W. Hawes we pass our days strangers to the love we knew still I call you friend but all the while nights grow cold and even friendship passes pink and white petals cover the ground as the snow in late November carried away on the wind those lazy dreams born in spring a cup of hot tea a legal pad before me pencil in motion doodling designs on paper the computer isn’t workirking we ask the time but does it really matter what time it is staring at the moving hands all the time dinner grows cold Gilead’s sweet balm lost in the minutiae of the dos and don’ts with her hair she perfumed feet disciples didn’t wash you and your Coke can like the clouds in the blue sky inseparable the telephone the waiting the promised call which wasn’t made Haiga by Ramona Linke STEEP IN THE AMBIENCE Elizabeth Howard out of the cold I step into the tearoom welcome a porcelain cup jasmine and chrysanthemum steep in the ambience morning sun highlights the red barn its snowy roof my icy bones melting at the crocus window farmers’ market soon my bags are laden lettuce, tomatoes, corn, green beans, and blueberries sweetened with dew while I was sleeping autumn brushed the hickory trees – even the forest floor a golden glow HAIKU SEQUENCES Alegria Imperial 1. on the wall moonlight washes into a bank –my mementoes by the shore – footmarks receding let go of shadows seagulls a triplet on the harbor – loneliness pigeons whoosh up spray the sky – mud-soaked feet stone on my step but a sparrow – broken heart ILUKO TANKA English translations by the author Alegria Imperial 1. ayuyang-limdo diay aripit ballasiw ditoy a sumken sinit a nalidliduan nagtinnag nga anem-em a haunt for sadness the dried creek at the crossroad here they recur those untended flushes turned chronic fevers 2. maruros manen rinemmengmo a rosas ipinas mo man dagiti tidda ti biag baet dagiti birri petals in shreds those bouquet of roses – patch if you please these remnants of life between fissures EIN FREMDES LAND *for Georg Trakl* Chen-ou Liu wolf moon standing high in the sky I hear it howl in my blood... eyes upon the dripping head hit by a train of thoughts lost a stranger among white ruins of words one deep gaze into the blue of night spurs me at war against flesh I am he who is apart NIGHTHAWK'S SLEEP Francis Masat a star appears one nighthawk calls another beach highway starlight on the curve of a thigh lights dim stars brighten over the drive-in the tang of salt on her cheek, her neck, her . . . starry night back porch – counting stars we fall asleep THE GREAT FART P. RAJA The resting tusker As if tickled by a thought Rose to its feet. A hillock appeared Within a twinkling of an eye. Its pendulum turned tail Swept clean the vacuum For a free-flow of air Trying to find an outlet. The tusker for a while Gave a constipated look Shrank its mammoth tummy. The mahout howled With both his arms raised: “Oh! The great fart on its way.” The watching children in the zoo Winked at each other, Giggled, took to their heels, Their imagination running riot. At last, the tusker broke wind… The watching kids howled from a safe distance: “Oh, What a shame on the tusker! It was only a husky whisper.” 4 A.M. Brendan Slater 4 am her red eyes sparkle i pluck from my thigh the hair of a cat i take a sip of bitter coffee she remembers how it used to be before computers and rolls a dusty cigarette i cover up the crescent moon with the clouds and then . . . the cat's soft purr the wind at the window SEVEN STONE BUDDHAS For John Martone Karma Tenzing Wangchuk first crocus – the stone buddha's gentle smile pull weeds by the stone buddha do no harm rake leaves around the stone buddha don't think about transience a snowflake melts on the stone buddha's nose . . . there you go again tough stone buddha love star- light glitter of quartz in the stone buddha's face all this stone buddha dreaming Haiga by Francis Masat HUBBLE PHOTOS Richard Tice grandmother's quilts the subject of the Hubble Telescope space rosaries in an eternally black winter stirring the chocolate and cream swirls of that galaxy the void still in colors added to the universe ENDE GUT ALLES GUT A Renga of Farewell richard witherspoon smoke & mist & cloud maple leaf, ginkgo fallen sans teeth sans eyes sans . . . this autumn morning a cricket crawls yr coffin rasping its goodbye scarecrow: pumpkin field my jar broken when dead, too wind, late autumn moon mist-shrouded waning horns bracketing nothingness going home today felt at heart's bottom wind-in-dry-leaves desolate massaged by the blind sharing the same air heart in a thousand pieces burning heap of leaves concern over things in the way of converting body into smoke solitary goose flying so high in the sky gone, the soul in flight closing this autumn old yet fashionable suit well-worn pajama no more snores ever autumn, but almost winter stop pretending dead snow in the evening winter pansy some here, there last day of autumn II. no, not quite yet dark still some tea left in the pot ember under ash pillows oppress bone unanswered telephone calls the way of all flesh beginning, the end being part of all being end, the beginning effort-objective- perception-intent-result- focus-discernment escaping the wheel not meeting in the next life hill-darkening dusk a corpse in my bones (wind nipping w/exposed teeth) dying to get out awake yet dreaming when dead, too, a stone marker dreaming yet awake in passing over meeting you like the Tang poem in the next village head, the north, body lying its right side, facing the west – now, return aged already so like my dying: leave-taking yr friends, relatives here & then not here – writing from far, far away she sends her last hug III. spring-like winter day the old photograph can't lie what a beauty, you! a cold penetrates sitting how long the bed's edge? an orchid at night much ‘body-water’ this early winter twilight ‘heart-blood’ not enough death, crawling slowly half-moon intoxicated creeps into a bed lung & windpipe blocked traffic-light yet bad crash letting go yr hand a snowy branch, crows where-when-how-who-does/gets-what sun, the sky’s center burning incense – sleet flower offering, donation that chilly city frost snapping off twigs garden withered w/o you picking up pine cones the first heavy snow still askew its parking space the car you last drove escape from this life goes one way or the other wind flower :: snowflake . . . winter moon silence chants for the souls gone before incense spiraling IV. sparrows-to-free sale sunflowers out of season year-end marketing how long in the tooth before dogs, when there's food, pray? New Year's Eve party Indian summer last year: The Isle of the Blessed we were still alive SINGLE POEMS flash of lightning illuminates the pond the green toad bellows Rebecca S. around the river bends the late summer sun – napping in the grass Rebecca S. overgrown garden heady scents drift upward to her open window Rebecca S. mountain hot springs just a young couple wearing each other ayaz daryl nielsen short lengths of silence chain-saw Joanna M. Weston the old moon tangled in branches – grandmother's hand Joanna M. Weston half-moon the neighbour's light at two a.m. Joanna M. Weston winter driveway we're always saying goodbye Joanna M. Weston small waves licking sea weed beach picnic Joanna M. Weston humming fan eyelids droop with the sermon Joanna M. Weston blackberry pie from the freezer snow on the hills Joanna M. Weston Helle Winternacht von der Farbe seiner Augen von seinem Lachen hat die schöne Sidhe erzählt in meinem Traum Bright winter night about the colour of his eyes about his laughter has told the beautiful Sidhe in my dream Ramona Linke Der Schneewind hat seinen Namen gewispert des Nachts... Winterspatzen wissen davon sogar im Rosenstrauch The snow wind has whispered his name at night... and even in the rosebush winter sparrows know about it Ramona Linke strong gale an angel with the broken wing lies on the grave artur lewandowski
	GHAZALS CUPID'S ARROWS ARE COFFIN NAILS Don Ammons QASIDA #7 David Jalajel QASIDA #8 David Jalajel QASIDA #9 David Jalajel QASIDA #10 David Jalajel HAIBUN THE NORTH SEA Don Ammons LOCKED IN Gerard John Conforti MIRAMICHI, NEW BRUNSWICK Ruth Holzer THE GALOSHES OF FORTUNE* Ruth Franke translated by Celia Brown DIVIDED Patricia Prime Haiga by Martina Heinisch SWEET SORROW Patricia Prime SEQUENCES PAINTER OF SMALL OBJECTS Ed Baranosky KATE MOSS Christopher Barnes LANGUAGE, I/ANGUISH Chen-ou Liu A PORTRAIT OF THE POET AS A MIDDLE-AGED MAN Chen-ou Liu SNOW ON THE MOUNTAINTOP Ruth Holzer FLOODING TITANIC* Garry Eaton OUT OF FOCUS C.W. Hawes Haiga by Ramona Linke STEEP IN THE AMBIENCE Elizabeth Howard HAIKU SEQUENCES Alegria Imperial ILUKO TANKA English translations by the author Alegria Imperial EIN FREMDES LAND *for Georg Trakl* Chen-ou Liu NIGHTHAWK'S SLEEP Francis Masat THE GREAT FART P. RAJA 4 A.M. Brendan Slater SEVEN STONE BUDDHAS For John Martone Karma Tenzing Wangchuk Haiga by Francis Masat HUBBLE PHOTOS Richard Tice ENDE GUT ALLES GUT A Renga of Farewell richard witherspoon SINGLE POEMS Rebecca S. ayaz daryl nielsen Joanna M. Weston Ramona Linke artur lewandowski



	Back issues of Lynx: XV:2 June, 2000 XV:3 October, 2000 XVI:1 Feb. 2001 XVI:2 June, 2001 XVI:3 October, 2001 XVII:1 February, 2002 XVII:2 June, 2002 XVII:3 October, 2002 XVIII:1 February, 2003 XVIII:2 June, 2003 XVIII:3, October, 2003 XIX:1 February, 2004 XIX:2 June, 2004 XIX:3 October, 2004 XX:1,February, 2005 XX:2 June, 2005 XX:3 October, 2005 XXI:1February, 2006 XXI:2, June, 2006 XXI:3,October, 2006 XXII:1 January, 2007 XXII:2 June, 2007 XXII:3 October, 2007 XXIII:1February, 2008 XXIII:2 June, 2008 XXIII:3, October, 2008 XXIV:1, February, 2009 XXIV:2, June, 2009 XXIV:3, October, 2009 XXV:1 January, 2010 Submit your works to Lynx Who We Are	*Next Lynx* is scheduled for October, 2010.** Deadline for submission of work is September 1, 2010.