Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 43
Table of


We read by the stars, we make love by the moon, we weep when the
sun comes upand when the sun goes down we break our promises and
make new ones, we count our blessings and fill our socks with coins and
folding money, we turn the sheets down and we dream of summer 
fields and children we will make together, many children, thoughtless 
children and brave, our own children careless as the world is careless 
and brave and carefree, and everything is okay across nations and 
fields, and the cities are not dying, neither does the rust belt rust, 
and on the open plains endless waves of children are returning, children 
who will fulfil their promises and become stronger than us, men and 
women who will honor the gods and respect each other, who will 
commend and sacrifice and make children of their own and start again

Even as this blood of mine sheds, even as this voice of mine rises like 
coal dust rising, falls like snow in the mountains, settles like fossils in 
the deep, even as my heart waits like this soil of an hour or an eternity 
waits, or standing at the furnace with the men who sweat and strain 
and stoke the flames, i sweat and strain also, mechanically, humanly, I 
shed and fall, I am a civilization crumbling, I am a new world rising,
there is no choice in the matter

In this cup of wine, sweet pleasures and forgetfulness; in this foundry
of iron, ghetto rust

In this neon light the light of an oil lamp, my grandmother at a cottage
window, folding blankets and sewing, my grandmother a thread unto
herself, skein of generations, a patchwork of endurance against pain, a
woman whose life might have been extinguished childless but for some
unusual thing which occurred a generation ago and an ocean away

A woman of luck a woman of hope and stubbornness, strong of hip and 
endless carriage, impossibly strong, who might have danced in palaces 
but she was of the peasant kind, a woman who lives on in your quick 
eye and the quicker steps of our own children as they walk out with us 
through snowy fields and out along the open shoreline, who walk as i 
walk, with my collar up, who walk as you walk, with your arms swinging 
freely, and the waves leap like waves, and fall

Emenescu's waves

And i do not taste in their rising the ocean's brine, neither the bite of 
wind nor the fermentation of grain, but sunlight on perpetual fields, 
courtship and death and labor, dawn to dusk, the dappled heads of 
mice in hay, the eminence of wheat piled high under the tousled sun, 
baskets of apples and leather straps, horse flesh 

And the singular smell of my own children, scalp and hair and dander of 
my sons and daughters, hair upon hair upon hair, a grain which is the 
future and meets our own dying grain, that carries us forward like a 
cartwheel fresh from the blacksmith's forge, this death and this 
transfiguration, there is no death at all, all is well, all is well, take my 

  George Wallace __

We take our rest in cool of shade we make mute gesture to heart and 
circumstance we measure each branch rammed with hard fruit and 
beat the fruit out of the tree and let the light shine through, yes we pick 
and we pray, easy enough to make our pay, we make the necessary 
adjustments we feed the flock and the flock feeds us, providers all, 
provided for, we are servants, to art to family to children to lord and 
master whose face we have never seen except in the blinding rays of 
sun, whose voice we have never heard, only the bees buzzing in heat of 
day and hush this is a secret but ownership is thievery, sanctioned by 
time and government

What we are is what we own and what owns u, and we are owned by 
sunlight only, we serve at the pleasure of the land, not men or gods, we 
are sweet as a kiss, tender as hands finding their way and we take our 
rest among trunks and tufts of tall grass, in shadow of leaf and branch, 
and so what -- is it so wrong to be simple! in shadow in sun hands break 
bread, open a big jug of wine, pass it around -- o secret heart which has 
made us free, in the sweat and labor of summer light, a moment an 
eternity in the olive grove, we do not ask much, the selfish and damned 
and the selfless too, men equal to the moment, women equal to the 
men and to each other, for their own sakes

To live well is treason, to love well is rebellion, art has its own reasons 
and so do we

  George Wallace__

One of several small children is hidden among deck chairs, his eyes 
reflect the sea, more coral than green, and the sea is irked, the black 
sea is glaring, and he is irked, this small boy, as the adults pass, as the 
adults take their long rolling strides and greet the dawn, as they greet 
each other, predictably in the weak predictable light, and his mother is 
one of them, and the black sea does its business without reflection, like 
a nation in the grip of war, like a large city releasing dark birds back into 
the sky, the black sea, which is eternal, and this passage which is meant 
to be an enlarged form of their world, something eternal and much 
larger than what happens back home, in their lives, in their successes 
and disappointments, in their dreams and desires

And dawn wraps itself up and spits itself out on the deck of the ship, in 
itself redundant and eternal and small, like a champagne cork on a 
rolling deck, and dawn breaks and breaks -- many people are breaking 
just now in this world, which is at war with itself -- and she is one of 
them, the mother of one of several small children hidden among the 
deck chairs, she is breaking, and what can adults say that will allow 
them to escape or to hide? something in this atmosphere escapes the 
adults, only children can feel it, a grievance in the salt and mist, a revolt 
in the horizon, a truth, a truth, only children can feel it, and anyhow the 
mother of the boy is distracted, she was pretty in vienna where the 
light was artificial and gay, she bends her neck to greet the gaze of the 
men who pass her 

But it is not the same, she turns to the man with whom she is walking 
and says something private and hideous and true, and his eyes sparkle 
and he looks away, and his eyes are clear as the rays of the rising sun
  George Wallace __

It's all the same in the shadow of dreamtown there is no reason to rush 
daylight has made its play the game was on but now it's not the
hipsters are done clipping the wings of syntax they have drifted out of 
the room thank god it's our turn we are the long haired aliens from the 
recent past we have always been here with our soft accents and we do 
not care we do not make waves this is the third way the silent path 
inside our heads a muted trumpet sings miles davis does the hand jive 
in the blue afternoon a couple of south american overcoats slip past I 
follow them in the mirror behind the bar which is teeming with gold 
dust and old ghosts -- the past lives everywhere in the fixtures in the 
walls in the shadow of dreamtown the past slips through the cracks 
outside a taxicab slows down, down to a halt a man gets out he is tan 
as a deer 

What I like about this place you like about this place which is why we 
like each other the smoke the beer cheap shots of brown whiskey 
people who have no names so what neon light sails across the tabletop 
like migrating birds this place is quiet as heaven on a sunday afternoon 
everybody's gone to the hamptons I guess a woman at the bar is 
peeling lemons over by the juke box a man is trying to explain some 
complicated matter to some other man what's the use the bartender 
shrugs his shoulders he has incurious eyes his skin is smooth as 
eggplant he is polishing glasses he is not an unobservant man he is 
scrupulous though he's seen it all and keeps his trap shut the ticktock 
continues irregardless irregardless -- yes we have seen it all lost in the 
afterglow we disturb nothing it's all the same this is the shadow of 

A day a month a life slips by � a fly lands on the table, let it

  George Wallace__