PROfECtt MUSE・
Transcription
PROfECtt MUSE・
PROfECtt MUSE・ The Cento Welford, Theresa Malphrus Published by Red Hen press Welford, Theresa Malphrus. The Cento: A Collection of Cottage poems. Los Angeles: Red Hen press, 201L. Project MUSE. Web. 11 Jun. 2015. http:/lmuse.jhu.eclul. For additionalinforrnatiOn abOut this bOok http:〃 museihu edu/bOoks/9781597093293 Access provided by Yale UniversRy Library(29」 un 2015 17:00 GMT) PHILIP DACEY Potchwork Sonnet of Friends' Complimentory Closes Riches, povetty, solitude, friendship. Gold and potaroes. Visitations. Wings. Peace, power, love, May luck, cheers, and a safe trip. rhousand flowers bloom! All good things, Salubrious catastrophes. Clarity. a Luego, Zdravo, Sayonara. Shalom. Health, rage, and macadamia nuts. Let it be. Yours till Reaganomics works. Hurry home. Cherish folly, Seize thar carp. Unscrew the inscrutable. Hugs and slugs. Keep on. Adieu, Hoka hey. Tra la. Adios. Hidee ho, Mutter spiffy. Write. Tell me what you know. Salt in your blood and wine in your glass. Ciao. Take it easy bur take it. Bye for now. 4 LORNA BLAKE Duke Ellington once said, "The memory ofthings gone is important In a Sentimental Mood, Mood Indigo, to a jazz mtsici,aa." Jazz is the memory of things- Pediclo, Flauingo. Lotus Blossom, Solitude, things gone, The memory o[ rhe musician is imporranr; Prelude to o Kiss, Sophisticoted Lady, Satin Doll, thejazz musician I is gone and so many Cot It Bad q Tbqt Air't things are gone, Good, AII Too Soon, Jazz is important ro the memory ofthings gone, Moon Mist, Day Dredu, DrawingRoom Blues, What is gonei The music of things, the memories . . , Bhe Serge, Lover Mon, Caravan, Cbelsea Bridge, The memory ofthings gone is imporrant ro ajazz musician. Juup Jor Joy, Come Sunday, Toke tbe "A" Train. 47 AUDREY FRIEDMAN Cento (Mork DoIy, Aflontis) . , , and I can study all day in an element ofcolor composition in twenry aspects ofgray nocturne in black and gold a sea lavender shivers at the juncture of elements wide vocabulary ofornament a one vast conjugation ofthe verb to shine cinnabar and verdegris summert deep watered greens gleaming eggwhite watered paint pours it a human soul rhe painter's poured think abalone is rhe wildly rainbowed mirror ofa soapbubble sphere think sun on gasoline turbulent stasis on a blue background everyrhingt yellow and blue-coastal colors until they are refracted and reassembled melting in-what would you call this colori gorgeous disarray hung on rhe edges ofthe page like Chinese brushstrokes it seems a 6eld ofendlessjade the colors in old Woolworth's watercolor boxes 101 description is itselfa type oftravel chartreuse fixed and fired here in the col4 the world s glazes pigment on unmarbled paper frozen, galactic, held 104 KATE GREENSTREET eclipsed ordinary sunlight whar heat reveals crash-prone 6rst bite bright stuff to acquire the sun the crest the ridge a part oflife called disappointment look for the break it's enough glow brightly in a vacuum I think we have that, dont youi it's green and it's unpredicrable prominence to explore the sun jusr sit back it's working it's running aroused a demand raised fears rhis trace let's go 24 srop 113 BARBARA HANTMAN Gwendolyn Brooks: Medley of Wisdom The boiling ofan egg is heavy art. You come upon ir as an artist should, With rich-eyed passion, and with straining heart: Two who are Mostly Good, Remembering, wirh twinklings and twinges, Guards upon the heart to halt love That runs without crookedness. She was interested in a brooch and pink powder and a curl- Therefore she rerminated her mourning, Made for her mouth a sad sweet smile. Does he hunch up, as I do, Against the dark ofnightl Cutting across the hot grit ofthe day, Warning that we are each other's harvest, We are each other's magnitude and bond. They took my lovert tallness offto war, To court coquettish death, whose impudenr and strange Possessive arms and beauty (ofa sort) Live not for battlcs won, Live not for the-end-of-the.songLive in the along. Everybody here is in6rm. Oh, Mend me. Mend me. Lord. Look! I am beautiful, beautiful wirh My wing that is wounded: The sun slappers, The self-soilers, The harmony-hushers- What a pity what a pity. No love For one so loving. IfThou be more rhan hate or atmosphere splendorMortify our wolves! Step forrh in 124 INGRIDWENDT Porophrose in Time of Thow -A collage for Willian Stoford And what does the river say, agelessly pulsing along, awake to its own part offorever, to all mukiple ways ofbelonging, gathering traces ofridge top, wind litanies creasing the thin skins ofglaciers, those millions crow's feet trickling down and away, gathering sunlight, irs party the rain; gathering cerrainty: all is attached, in consrant revision. Tight frsts ofboulders unfolding. Like lines in the palm, like fortunes weathered away, converging at sea. And again in the air. What the river says, rhe birds repeat. Far from any human allegiance ro grudges and righreousness, their voices proclaim rhe stars. 228 of And the stars keep passing along what the mountains rumbler a center the soul can tecognize, As in a whirlwind. That one chosen place buried somewhere near the What the river lift ofan eyebrow, near faith. says, calls us to attention, to carrying on. Someday, maybe, our stumbling echoes holding one shifring line rrue. 229