SYMBIOTIC POETRY Lynx 16:2 June, 2001


TABLE OF CONTENTS XVI:2 June, 2001		LYNX A Journal for Linking Poets



	SYMBIOTIC POETRY: DU UT DES Debra W. Bender Marjorie Buettner TWO HEARTS Tom Clausen (N.Y.) Nancy Kline (PA.) WALTZING . . . Connie Donleycott Alice Frampton NEW STRAW Ferris Gilli Peggy Willis Lyles Juanito Escareal SHYLY LIKE YESTERDAY Cindy Guentherman David. L. Bachelor ON THE PATH Betty Kaplan Izak Bouwer HOME FROM Marlene Mountain Carlos Colón ALWAYS NEW David Rice Cherie Hunter Day A CHRISTMAS TREE SKIRT Alexis K. Rotella Carlos Colón A Symbiotic Connection Shiki Eiko Yachimoto Soapboxes d. Jericho Schmoeker Schmoeker Jericho d. LOST THOUGHTS OF WAR RETURN: A DIARY OF THE MIND Diarium 20: Tanka 146-159 1943-1945 Netherlands East Indies; The Philippines April, 1944-5 THE DEAR JOHN LETTERS by Sir Sidney and The Philosopher's Response Hugh Bygott THE SCREEN OF CARESS Jacques Verhoeven Silva Ley	DU UT DES (I give that you may give) Debra W. Bender Marjorie Buettner* on the way to our meeting an orchid tree had blossomed one bloom I've twined in my hair for you to undo floating above the pine trees a full flowered winter moon whispers its secrets to me so petal-restless no longer able to sleep I have risen before dawn to hear a wood dove's mourning alone...all alone and in the sleep of the night when the world seems motionless some distant longing follows dark waters flowing somewhere beyond the stillness you've wakened to find me gone traveling through this white mist as one in a dream steam from the frozen river rises to the winter sun will we ever meet again or was it a dream my wordless sighs fall muted in the folds of my pillow should I spill out the feathers they would tell your name the rustle of these silk sheets uncovered in the warm flight of our necessary love saying du ut des* when the time came for parting could I help that our thighs touched tangled where you first entered my ink-dark chamber come, unlatch the garden gate to follow me once again down dew-washed lavender paths never to turn back completed 2-19-01 TWO HEARTS Tom Clausen (N.Y.) Nancy Kline (PA.) snow squall - through the gusting honking of geese en route from church to car poinsettia freezes skating in line to "The Saints Come Marching In" good cheer all around homemade dandelion wine gift for Mother's Day spring brook indistinguishable voices upstream in a classmate's memory a hemlock seedling sacred rock with bamboo flute and dance she calls her power animal pitching coach at the mound then slowly back to the dugout on birch bark canoe before their final voyage they paint two hearts slippery when wet they hold hands on the bridge concert at school for the deaf no applause every one of his pencils without an eraser expunged by the August moon the lump in his throat empty orioles nest on the sidewalk on his wheel the potter shapes the clay who i am now sitting alone in the garden for each patient in the hospice one daffodil our cat soundly asleep beneath the feeder with little flourishes leaves falling as she walks down the road swimming in the castle moat trumpeter swans more spongy than she had hoped for the angel food cake marshland knee deep in mud the crowd in awe... backflips the full length of the field caught in a spider web an inchworm with my son... walking past the house where he was conceived to say her rosary she kneels at the virgin's shrine in the circle... he begins to feel something for her to the underground colony worker termites carry lethal bait moonlit tubes all feed into the lauchpad eerily quiet October camping trip the toothpaste forgotten sleeting... in their wash basin his shaving brush face to face his totem poles house of mirrors distorted reflections laughter the clouds move through stillness on the water ikebana one white iris... first robin sings spending the day listening to music WALTZING . . . Connie Donleycott Alice Frampton all wet two friends in a frog pond long distance more than a dollar conversations punctuated with laughs summer vacation: almost lost without my keys and grammar check face-to-face with our words she reads to me I put my glasses on to listen across the border duty free memories birthday presents off season at the mirror plucking hairs from my age August morning everything gray until my shadow meets me 60s music my free spirit revived high school English class brown eyes studying brown eyes first Earth Day tying green bands around our arms on a roll recycled toilet paper autumn sunrise fills the hillside with glistening webs early frost - white-tipped pine trees on the artist s canvas wood shed - last cord stacked intense heat - the fast-food wrapper black with crows beneath the moonlight we gather night crawlers caught by my hook an editor a small bird carefully captured in her camera's lens empty nest - supporting branches remain intertwined the broken string follows balloon skyward Remembrance Day - bursting with red the dying maple leaves forecasted chill we bundle up kindling delivering newspapers on a treeless street today s headlines catch the attention of the squatting pup sudden shower - smelling of hay we roll in the last bale descending from the loft clouds of dust swirling flakes settle on Christmas rooftops in the snow globe side-by-side on marketplace shelves goblins and santas all the stars on view tonight Halloween frozen twilight I stumble upon my icy reflection winter blast - leaning into the cold I grab a corsage of roses we celebrate our linked passage during the storm we teach our children how to waltz Start date: 8/02/2000 Finish date: 9/11/2000 NEW STRAW Ferris Gilli Peggy Willis Lyles Juanito Escareal shared garden neighbors fill a scarecrow with new straw fragrant clusters of bronze grapes from the balcony a freckled girl points at the moon before the boss arrives I sharpen every pencil kindling and long matches on the list the chess champ wears a plaid sweater sudden stops on the village road for shaggy highland sheep clank of a small bell inside the low croft fence an urgent message in the voice mail to rendezvous tasting of pickles our elevator kiss let down by the wallet photo of another woman exotic dancer takes off the curly wig by moonlight a shed's outline is soft with the first snow the baby's smile warms the freezing night a pop-up book open to W for wiggle worm my Sixties toaster back in style doo-wop music at the dance party pear blossoms songbirds break the silence around a poet's grave they comb the beach for little treasures to adorn a lacquered box iridescent beetle in the broken web high school quarterback seeing his sweetheart off to college that French guy's phone number tucked in her lecture notes sunbathers on the top deck of a bateau-mouche a believer's prayer mat placed in oasis shade on the gift-shop desk a gothic sign offers used crystal balls I slide the last coin into a gum machine with a texturing gun he sprays joint compound on the scarred wall through ancient pines a barren strip carved by loggers half moon above the paper mill the fumes protesters and supporters exchanging insults in the fog for the mayor's house a trick-or-treat policeman polishes his badge an aquarium koi snatches kibble bits widening ripples in the City Center's fountain where a pebble fell pollen dusts a knapsack left on the spiral stairs deepened by a cumulus cloud the magnolia's blush a space shuttle lifts off in bright wind SHYLY LIKE YESTERDAY David. L. Bachelor Cindy Guentherman shyly greet second wife last night dreamed of first time deepens grass's hue in soft glow of old ornaments and memories she opens crisp new boxes beneath the tree dying green mantis moves slower midday sunlight cold wind rustles dry leaves down the block a blur of red jacket and some child's laugh punctuates the grays of sky old man watching cold rain remembers his aching back the load of newspapers the smell of wet wool just like yesterday small yellow slickers and zippered boots march through incense to the altar ON THE PATH Betty Kaplan Izak Bouwer snowmelt - on path to the barn a lost mitten farm hand dawdles by the lilac hedge in high heels and black mesh stockings - she walks her block network of veins displayed on the damselfly's wings fireworks galore - but ah! a full moon the gypsy's crystal ball . . . my future unfolds a glint of quartz on the cliff - shadows below "meow" "meow" new kittens under the porch he lifts her across the threshold - the curve of her cheek chocolate soufflé rising in the oven island volcano - hot lava streams into the sea her treasure box - sand dollar and a star fish hunter's moon - the bum rattles a garbage can lid colored leaves cover the compost heap quiet voices - children by grave of pet canary incense and chants from the pagoda christmas tree lot - surrounded by scent of pine icicles ring the ski lodge roof the milliner weaves a wreath of blossoms for her bridal veil parting the curtains: spring morning date started: 26jan01 date completed: 05mar01 HOME FROM Marlene Mountain Carlos Colón home from the garden i've forgotten the garden haiku daylight old john deere coughs into life 3 hard drives 3 logic boards 3 memory chips 3 french hens guano-covered another fragment from a dead sea scroll still deep in jail dr kervorkian in bad health without a way to go stifling summer this cool bus with poems among the ads bell choir sharp flick of the student's wrist a second too late latest trick in the bag the ceo apologizes popping on the moonlit lake last bubbles of a whistleblower 'but i've always seemed to see the sad side of things'1 on the road again not taken blue eyes crying in the grain2 a cold front the loanshark's new used car business all those phone solicitors on the other side of the busy signal weaned from nature the red curtains closed butterfly ballot right vote for the wrong candidate ms chad for president pregnant at that third anniversary pawn shop owner tries on your wedding ring frozen ground fan mail from a male i don't know though still out of luck a missing green sock in plain sight ebay auction dryer-lint elvis third snow just enough to remind anyone i know that kigo me in that santa suit your wish whispered into my ear all day a shooter testifies on 'court tv' no voice in the house at her hip blue steel and a baby many of my troubles diminish in light of the world at large 'will the real millennium please stand up?'3* whether we date or not it might be improper to put it in words etiquette lesson pea balanced on a knife blade paralyzed by two 'corporapetions' she settles out of court built-in wheelchair kitten without a pelvis4* weatherwoman's long black hair does it match her wings?5* guess i'll go somewhere maybe the dentist thursday last one leaving california won't even have to turn off the lights did it rain on his parade the illegal sheriff in dc high noon the shadows retreating behind the horse trough on the horizon a figure unlikely to fade into the sunset notes: 1 willie nelson; 2 apologies to willie & robert frost; 3 bud collyer of 'to tell the truth'; 4 abc news 1/12/01; 5 sds-weatherwoman susan stern (1943-1976) August 19, 2000 - January 27, 2001* ALWAYS NEW David Rice Cherie Hunter Day high tide wind pushes the water further into the marsh that urge returns to inhale the whole world no longer adrift in amniotic fluid the fetus turns I feel his feet fluttering among the stars snorkeling the only sound my breath slow and steady as if I'm being breathed by a bigger lung these thoughts fly around the confines of my mind interior birds have such radiant plumage antennae of the world we use our six senses to explore unable to understand these ripe discoveries tabulations done much smaller than expected the human genome breathe through me again the beauty of this sapphire sea A CHRISTMAS TREE SKIRT Alexis K. Rotella Carlos Colón A Christmas tree skirt worn to the dance Mistletoe the distance between our lips A whiff from his thermos . . . jasmine tea High-rise rafter bread crumbs Count Dracula moves into the mansion next door Footprint blood drop footprint Hemophiliac AIDS baby the nurse's face drawn A rainbow bursts from the garden hose Golf course lake light spring rain dimples the moon The old astronaut sitting on a bench Butterfly ballot our next president still cocooned Shaped like a ferry boat Aunt Matlida Even my family no match for Ann Landers' His cigar in my beef stroganoff Rising from quicksand the hat the head of Indiana Jones Drag racing two cops One handcuff on Lucy the other on Ethel UFO ornament gone Each year fewer and fewer Christmas cards The house cat too has cabin fever Gone with the wind silk pajamas Empty Raisinet box shrill whistle Grapevine strangling the newly planted cypress Clouds gathered at the gossip fence Handing in my resignation while dressed in hot pink Pardons why not one for Sacco & Vanzetti? Baked Alaska our inauguration day dessert Beady eyed leader this year of the snake Snifter of brandy a calendar page curling in the fire She died on her way to buy tulips Friends in the newspaper two obits & one indictment Her lover puts her on "hold" Clutch of pennies for the movie matinee Dog asleep yet howling Giving up the radio for Lent two days early For my dying father lilies October 5, 2000 - March 2, 2001 A Symbiotic Connection Shiki Eiko Yachimoto homecoming- every way I turn mountains laugh through falling petals the last ALBATROSS conflicts and changes woven with the immutable the Danube flows a moon out of quality paper must be cold must be itching and longing to see people* purple color reaching black the depth of the grapes This verse is about Hekigotoh Kawahigashi, Shiki's young follower, in quarantine. Soapboxes d. Jericho Schmoeker Schmoeker Jericho david* Forsythia explodes outside my window spring refusing to whisper Grey nudging green into play the breath of God, laughing rediscovering apples cute girls with great biceps gathering stones moss-covered heart a song just beneath the skin fixed symphony of moon-colored whispers my wicked attempt to harvest her thighs wheat gnashed to meal, gladly her fingers caressing diabolical dreams grist mills of old flames cold water splashing turns the wheel pedaling too hard too fast i freeze gravity and grace knees heal; hearts too barefoot, this pebbled path of my heart a child caught in play love’s tender bruises warn, yet entice coffee beans ground to potent dust her hip against mine; a saccharine ache coffee the flavor of kindergarten crayon-scented innocence, just outside the lines drowning herself in ice cream soup stirring the tea to read the leaves wanting answers dandelion heads like miniature moons pick me and blow i disappear, seeding elsewhere scattered wasteland, a desert heart tulips give way to lizards, flitting a desert sun soaked to the bone marrow melting, blissfully windswept candles tallow drips its voiceless farewell lily white her throat against my wrist clover bursts methodically love gushing unexpectedly my belly against her back spring thaw sweetness of sheets sun-dried beneath her indulging a fondness for tomatoes ripe @ last to the mountain and back white lace and streaked windows the booming voice of God tracks of tears swiped clean wadded pockets stuffed with tissue cold hands in warm parkas forgotten 20’s crumpled, but welcome torch songs beneath mink fringe dances too cold for sequins glad christenings, sweet opiums wine-ripened passwords her speakeasy sighs fillings of gold hiding holes the ache of love’s decay pens gliding these gilded memoirs mariachi easters, fabrage’ eggs too precious to touch endele! endele! cute girls scout strong boys gentle moon, my breast in her hand pale hips wrists thighs shouldering life in cashmere bright lights, gingham roots erasing shame with lipstick dropping tired dreams like leaves ‘mongst prayer-saturated wood and stone kiss marks for a King dissembling these makeshift shrines Elvis lives, and so do I crayon renditions, a magnet menagerie what to hold up, versus what to hold bandits in bandaids, easy to spy misplaced kemo sabes, hopefully at standby waking in a field of white daisies tickle away the call for silver bullets on a spring breeze God nods a yes, no need for soapboxes 3/15 - 4/28 LOST THOUGHTS OF WAR RETURN: A DIARY OF THE MIND Diarium 20: Tanka 146-159 1943-1945 Netherlands East Indies; The Philippines April, 1944-5 THE DEAR JOHN LETTERS Sir Sidney Hugh Bygott After long separation from his wife during the war, the angry remark was often heard, "he got his Dear John Letter"-- the bland comment that the soldier's wife was divorcing him. During wartime, when couples are separated for long periods of time, the frequency of divorces naturally increases in contrast to couples living together. Our battalion existed for three years, thirty months of which we served in combat thousands of miles from home. As time went by, several men received their "Dear John," one resulting in suicide and others in depression. Since we served under extremely dangerous, and mentally debilitating, conditions the virulent reactions of friends of the rejected men was to be expected, since to say that they we were considerably unhappy was a vast underestimate of our feelings – how patient and accepting can men be who existed under such conditions for months or years? Intermingled with the everpresent danger, long months of boredom would drag on slowly, wretched day after day, reflecting the famous quotation: "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow Creeps in this petty pace from day to day...." But how many of us accepted that the same number of days also crept by slowly for the wives waiting patiently at home hoping to receive the long delayed letter, grimy with foxhole mud? And who amongst us considered the fears and crushing loneliness of the wife waiting, hoping there would not be a telegram reporting her husband's death? War has many unfortunate consequences, not the least of which is the loss of loved ones even when there was no death. Moreover, the fact that the men were also frequently unfaithful, was almost never considered. A typically unconsidered cause of the divorces, naturally, was our inability to communicate easily with our wives. Letters could take a month or more to reach home, depending on where we were (in combat or on a ship racing to another island). Perhaps if there were easy means of communication, the number of divorces might have diminished. Tanka 146 Bishop survived much, escaped without injury, but his luck ran out – for his dear John letter came and bullets ended his pain Tanka 147 we all despised her malevolent impatience ~ she should have waited to mail her disastrous news ~ we hoped his death caused her pain Tanka 148 should we blame those wives ~ what made them turn unfaithful was it mere weakness? but are we not also weak blame may not be the answer Bishop was a calmer soldier than most of us, perhaps because he was older (we considered those in their late twenties as old), and always had a serious, even sullen, expression. When we were loading an LST (Landing Ship Tank) for our trip to the Philippines, he almost ran with the crates he had hefted to his shoulders, and returned quickly for another load. This was most atypical, not only for a GI, but because we were in the tropics, where the temperature hovered around 100 degrees, and the humidity was always high. We were always drenched with sweat, and had to shoo off the sweat bees, which did not merely hover about - they landed on our skin to sip the sweat. When they didn't shoo off, they were killed, leaving a pasty residue on our skin. Bishop rushed past me on one of his trips from inside the LST to get another crate from the beach, and muttered some crack like, "why don't you move it?" Typically, a crack like that was a potential invitation to fight. But, I hadn't had one of those confrontations for a while, and Bishop was not a belligerent person, so I just smiled and said something like, "Hey Bishop, you bucking for T5?" This was the standard rebuff whenever any private appeared to be angling for a promotion. He ignored me and continued his hasty plodding to bring in more crates. I did wonder, however, why he blurted out that remark, and assumed that something was bugging him that day. But, I was to learn soon after, while we were waiting in Hollandia to re-embark on the cargo ship we ultimately took to get to the Phillippines, that he had blown his brains out with his M1 rifle. He had been alone in his tent, brooding, and just placed the muzzle in his mouth; employing some complex motor facility which we tried to understand, he squeezed off all eight rounds in his clip. Although he must have been dead after the first round penetrated his brain, the reflexive action probably continued twitching movements until all eight rounds were spent. The top of his tent was splattered with blood, bone and brain, and there were so many holes in it that it had to be replaced. One of the lieutenants (referred to as Lieutenant ob-STACK-al, because of his bumbling pronunciation of "obstacle" when we trained on obstacle courses), was assigned to determine the cause of death. It was quite obvious that Bishop had killed himself, but they were required to attempt to determine why. It seems that he had just received a "Dear John" letter from his wife which coldly informed him that she had run off with his younger brother, a civilian living at home. The anger we all felt was palpable. Healthy civilians were universally abhorred: why the hell were we fighting to survive under such danger while they stayed home making money and running around with available girls and soldiers' wives? We denounced her as a slut, and blamed her for his death. We also cursed her for not waiting until the war was over before telling him she had abandoned him. There was another consideration for ol' ob-STACK-al's inquiry — suicide would nullify the $10,000 insurance policy most of us had, naming our wives as beneficiaries. Most of us felt that denying her the insurance would be the proper solution, but the lieutenant ruled otherwise and recorded Bishop as a casualty of enemy action, so she received the insurance money. There were many subsequent angry discussions about how she spent the ill gotten insurance money. Tanka 149 soon other Dear Johns ~ Slattery also got his read it avidly crumpled, reread it often until his tears alarmed us Tanka 150 sobbed repeatedly ~ why dammit did she leave him she knew he loved her ~ we all tried consoling him beer, comradeship all night long Tanka 151 we all described her as just a goddam mean slut false and unfaithful ~ Bishop, we recalled to him also had a deadly wife Tanka 152 our thoughts then surfaced would he do what Bishop did? we checked his rifle – took away all shells from him and plied him with beer rations Tanka 153 the question arose maybe she was different - the war was over ~ and though he'd still grieve for her she did await the war's end Tanka 154 should we have judged her at six thousand miles distance? what about her fears ~ although he faced death daily she was alone for three years Tanka 155 is confronting death worse than years of solitude? sitting home alone can bring on grief and anguish could we feel their distress? Tanka 156 he will soon be home accompanied by his friends who all shared his grief ~ unhappy yet still alive she awaited the war's end It was months later, after we invaded the Philippines, that another man, Slattery, also received his Dear John; but that was just after we learned that the war had ended, and we were only months from returning home. His wife had divorced him sometime earlier, but wrote to say that she had waited until the danger to him was past before telling him. He had always been exceedingly proud of her appearance, and prominently displayed her picture at all times, bragging of her beauty, so we knew this loss would affect him. And it did. We observed him carefully, to avoid a repetition of the Bishop affair, and his close friends plied him with all the beer they could accrue, and convinced him that he would replace her with a more worthy girl when he returned home. Fortunately, the fellowship of buddies with whom he had spent three years in danger, and lubricated with a supply of beer pilfered from some storage depot, helped diminish his pain, and his spirits improved. We all remained especially friendly to him till we returned home, since who among us did not harbor unconscious fears that we might also be subjected to the same misfortune? Tanka 157 Tex got his today not Tex -- another Dear John? yeah, expected it ~ three years is a damn long time but could we call them all whores? Tanka 158 he had mentioned her letters of much loneliness - she went out with friends but he believed they were guys and prepared for his Dear John Tanka 159 much mail came today - the chaplain will be busy but can he help them? we sure don't need more Bishops and most suffered from their loss As thirty-six lonely months ground by with only brief (single-page V-Mail) letters as the only contact between married couples, the number of Dear Johns began to increase. When the war finally ended, more wives sent in the bad news that they had held back so long. We could usually discern which soldier had gotten his Dear John – although some would confide the news to their buddies, others buried it inside. There were those who would not publicly acknowledge the loss and went for counseling to the chaplain. Suicides, fortunately, were not common. And, how typical the double standard – in the jungles there was no possibility of men being unfaithful – there were no brothels. But, when we arrived in civilization, three years of unwillingly imposed faithfulness evaporated as prostitutes and young laundry virgins became available. As we were about to board the ship for home, I recall Joe Schweitzer privately asking me (he was aware of my medical knowledge) how he could be assured that he was not carrying a venereal disease home to his wife. Still, Joe was certain that his wife had been faithful. The Philosopher's Response Hugh Bygott A "Dear John Letter" is a breach of faith; a breaking of a loyalty. The Japanese serviceman had a deep loyalty to the Emperor. This loyalty would be placed higher than anything else. I cannot find any equivalent to "Dear John Letters" in Japanese culture. If they do exist perhaps they would have been disregarded. Here is the story of Lieutenant Yukio Seki who placed loyalty to the Emperor as the greatest act of faith. The father of the "Divine Wind" was Vice Admiral Takijiro Onishi, Commander of the First Air Fleet. He conceived the Sho Operation: Zero fighters carrying 250 kilogram bombs to crash into US carriers at Leyte Gulf. The pilots, mostly inexperienced young men, would wear the white scarf, the hachimaki, the sign of courage and pre-combative composure. The Executive Officer of the 201st Air Group, Commander Tamai addressed a group of young pilots as follows: "I have recommended you [looking at Lieutenant Seki] as a proper man to lead such a specialized attack..." "Seated at the table Lieutenant Seki leaned forward, supporting his head on his hands, elbows resting on the table, head inclined downward, and his eyes closed. This capable young officer had been married just before leaving the homeland. For several seconds he sat motionless, except for the tightening of his clenched fists. Raising his head, he smoothed back his hair and spoke in a quiet clear voice. `Please do appoint me to the post.' " [Quoted from: The Japanese Navy in World War II. Chapter 13 The Kamikaze Attack Corps. Rikihei Inoguchi and Tadashi Nakajima, p 424 ISBN 0-87021-316-4] Lieutenant Seki's widow in due course received her official letter. Perhaps she had a bitterness in her heart against this deliberate loss of life. We will never know. However, there seems no doubt that Admiral Onishi suffered remorse for his actions, as if he had committed a breach of fate. He would have thought of Lieutenant Seki's widow. Here is his suicide note. "To the souls of my late subordinates I express the greatest appreciation for their valiant deeds. In death I wish to apologize to the souls of those brave men and their families." [ibid page 439]. On the morning of August 16 1945 Admiral Onishi attempted harakiri in a particular, deliberate way. For 18 hours he suffered agony, refusing medical aid. It seems that he wished to expiate for what he had done, despite acting out of the highest loyalty. ****************** " `Sit with your mother, Setsuko dear, till you feel you've done all you can.... I've heard that they won't take bodies for immediate cremation, even at Kuboyama, unless you can provide the wood.' .... As she kept watch in the dim light of a flickering candle, her pent-up grief overflowed. `Mother! Mother!'. She clung to the cold stiff body, wailing and beating it with her fists. Her mother's death had come as the ultimate breach of faith. Her father and brother [a kamikaze pilot] would never return, but her mother who'd survived that massive air raid had seemed bound to share her fate until the very end. Though she gripped Mine's hand till her own was chilled to the bone, it would never regain its warmth." Shizuko Go- , Requiem: ISBN 0-7043-3961-7 [When the first Allied serviceman entered the air-raid shelter, he found two dead bodies. To the very end Setsuko believed, falsely, that her fate was destruction.] kata_uta In so many things 5 the human mind deceived; 7 so thus we are betrayed. 7 THE SCREEN OF CARESS Jacques Verhoeven Silva Ley Written in the Academy of Arts at St. Joost of Breda, Netherlands, a formal Seminary for priests, in Neo-Roman style. The exhibition was of projects by final candidates for art. Behind the screen of caress, or in front creeps all over sounds in the atrium fish-men hovering high figures in figures be put on the wrong leg geometry wiped out new styles surveyed though church-like windows a red-filled flowerbed as glued to the customs never seen long grass video's flash bodies a voice puts the corners off the walls immaculate paint opens the pores for empty listening a bridge, left by water unexpected finery filterprint of time struggle of commericals how real are we? fingers moving on the TV endless repeating hunger kitchen tools and dresser brushed out of a rut iron-heater on the hip dull knives cut the meat how far is paradise? sunflowers placed drapery of flags a princess in blue a transcendental view then the loss - the fury the clocks fall still coloured bric-a-brac dashed on the floors all to want and wish dissolved in a black square the hand that helps the head in a thousand ways brains take the sense bread and butter first the daydreamer flies explosions on canvas outside: decayed latex shapes tumbled over feelings of adoration under the Roman vaults an electronic signal people leave the showrooms with unsteady steps old oaks catch the wind railings roll to 2000 fragile balance everything unchained interview your soul fire relics near the pond eros of prayers



	Submission Procedures Who We Are Deadline for the next issue is: September 1, 2001	Poems Copyright © Designated Authors 2001. Page Copyright© Jane Reichhold 2001. Table of Contents I would like to know more about Renga.