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