Excerpts from MÖBIUS, The Poetry Magazine


THE GREAT PARTY In last night’s dream I was five years old again And went to a friend’s sixth birthday party. At the end of musical chairs, a game We all already knew well how to win, The mother frowned and told the winning boy, “I’m so sorry,” Then kissed him on the forehead, shook her head, Kissed each of us in turn, as if we all Had boo-boos on our heads. “Perhaps next year,” She said, “You will do better.” We had our cookies and cake, Then yielded our presents, laughing through sugary grins. When next year came around—we were still five, As if a spell kept us from turning six— We won and failed, were kissed and crammed and gave Again. Well, after many years of this, We started growing wary of never growing up. This last time, though, last night, before the music stopped, I turned to my circling neighbor, had a new thought, and said, “No you sit down.” That little girl—to whom I gave the chair— Turned to me and looked awfully relieved Not to be the first to fail and lose. And that made me happy, and I told her so. About to sit, she turned to the next boy: “No you sit down.” “No you.” “No you.” And all of us At that great party would not sit until We hunted through the house for one more seat. There’d been plenty of chairs for everyone all along! And in a flash we turned into Adults. JAMES B. NICOLA New York Copyright (©) by James B. Nicola. All rights reserved.


RED, WHITE, AND BLUE Mother. Mother. All I see is red. Tell me truly, mother, am I dead? The war will be short. It may only last hours, They said. They will welcome you with flowers. Mother. Mother. I can’t move in this bed. Tell me, mother, are the roses red? Mother. Mother. All I see is white. Tell me, mother. Am I all right? The war will be short. It may only last hours, They said. They will welcome you with flowers. Mother. Mother. What’s that bright light? Tell me, mother, are the flowers white? Mother. Mother. I am feeling blue. Mother. Mother. I’ll always love you. The war will be short. It may only last hours, They said. They will welcome you with flowers. Mother. Mother. Where is my girl Sue? Tell me, mother, are the flowers blue? CARL HASPER New York Copyright (©) by Carl Hasper. All rights reserved.


THE ROOM In the darkness, the room speaks another language — without traces of words or thought. Silence listens, then tries to translate, although the activity is too esoteric to be understood. Imagination would have done it, but it fell asleep in the adjacent room. A child runs in and out of the rooms. She flicks the light switches on and off. Her laughter disturbs the peace. imagination wakes up and leaves the adjacent room. It follows the child in a made-up song. Silence returns to the darkness of the room, relieved that the song is fading downstairs. The room resumes its esoteric speech. Tranquility drops by. This time, the language is understood. PATRICIA CARRAGON New York Copyright (©) by Patricia Carragon. All rights reserved.


ASHES IN OUR MOUTHS Into war they go our star-spangled sons and daughters the babes of the mid 1980’s. Into the slaughter they seem to run until they feel the IEDs along the not-so-yellow-brick-road. And what will be the fruits of victory Ashes In Our Mouths? Do we always have to wear our faith with a loaded gun? Must we try to swallow the ashes of our dead like wafers stuck in our mouths doled out like salvation on Sunday mornings? TAMMY NUZZO-MORGAN New York Copyright (©) by Tammy Nuzzo-Morgan. All rights reserved.		MELANIE BY THE WILLOWS Lush banks caught the miles And plank-walls That supported her frail frame. Insects winged through cypress As she lay by the willow Calm as sassafras. Afternoons she swayed Through cornfields Stretching her arms heavenward. Or explored Tangled emerald woods Limping alone, Eating luscious strawberries, Stopping now and then To thump a tree trunk. Moonlit nights she Watched cypress shadows Minuet With pink-flowered walls While reflections Of her rustic day Replayed Lulling her to sleep. JUANITA TORRENCE-THOMPSON New York Copyright (©) by Juanita Torrence-Thompson. All rights reserved.


INSIDE OF SILENCE In the formal garden elegant women are taking tea in the snow. The sun shines. It is always late morning. There is no music, only the memory of music still fluid in the air. Here there is no evening. Flowers float in a golden dish. Vines and flowers spiral through latticework. Sun brightens delicate china and silver. Tea is always hot, the cups always full. Women speak of roses and silks and the mirrors where they are always young, oblivious to the falling snow. TOM McKEOWN Wisconsin Copyright (©) by Tom Mckeown. All rights reserved.


SAVED THE RIVER (Sea Chanty) The mighty Hudson / had become The mucky Hudson / full of scum Refuse from factories / on either side The living river / just up and died Instead of moaning / he sang a song Built a sloop / to sail along Invited folks / to clean the mess Funds and muscle / did the rest “Save the River” / is his song Voice of the people / can’t be wrong Every river / and every stream Clean environment / Pete Seeger’s dream “Save the planet!” / our banner unfurled Not just our challenge / belongs to the world Join in the struggle / for all it is worth All living things need / clean air, water, earth ED MILLER New York Copyright (©) by Ed Miller. All rights reserved.


“THE DEAD DO NOT PRAISE THEE” —Psalm of David As the tall, turbaned Black, incense man Passed the house I called after him And ran out to the street Where at once we smiled Seeing one another And without a word Like a sword that leaps From its lustrous sheath He was swinging his lamp With abundant grace To my head and to my heart and to my feet Self imparted we swayed Possessed by that one Only the living praise! SAMUEL MENASHE New York Copyright (©) by Samuel Menashe. All rights reserved.		THE CARNIVAL OF POETRY In the carnival of poetry cars full of poets change clothes with the clowns spill out from the tent parade down the midway as barkers dance with the bearded lady and the calliope plays the Carousel Waltz while Merry Go Rounds give free rides to kids who carry their poems as tickets. In the carnival of poetry bards read verse from the Ferris Wheel a different language from each gondola. In the carnival of poetry children play spinna winna emboss their verse on toonie coins shoot them high in the air watch them fall in a pile of tokens then trade up for larger prizes. In the carnival of poetry mirrors distort lies to truths blocked writers fall down in laughter and toddlers babble in iambs. In the carnival of poetry spinsters fish frogs from ponds kiss them and turn into princesses. In the carnival of poetry the clowns take over Town Square toss keys to the city from free balloon rides and declare locked doors illegal. In the carnival of poetry wedding proposals declaim in iambic pentameter and acceptances issue as sonnets. ROBERT FERRIER Oklahoma Copyright (©) by Robert Ferrier. All rights reserved.


THE POEM AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS At the top of the stairs I dreamed of arguing with a blank wall. My life had abandoned me in a no direction tunnel. The wall screamed like a mirror that poems were eating through its paint and it would hate poems forever. I stood shaking like a metaphor and began my descent dropping my journal breaking apart as it rolled down the stairs. The wall laughed and said, “Get a look at that, your autobiography is free-falling and turning to dust on the camera lens. Perhaps it’s time you ate some morning glories.” DUANE NIATUM Washington (State) Copyright (©) by Duane Niatum. All rights reserved.


RISING DAMP “A river can sometimes be diverted, but it is a very hard thing to lose it altogether.’ (J G Head: paper read to the Auctioneers’ Institute in 1907) At our feet they lie low, The little fervent underground Rivers of London Effra, Graveney, Falcon, Quaggy, Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet Whose names are disfigured, Frayed, effaced. These are the Magogs that chewed the clay To the basin that London nestles in. These are the currents that chiselled the city, That washed the clothes and turned the mills, Where children drank and salmon swam And wells were holy. They have gone under. Boxed, like the magician’s assistant. Buried alive in earth. Forgotten, like the dead. They return spectrally after heavy rain, Confounding suburban gardens. They infiltrate Chronic bronchitis statistics. A silken Slur haunts dwellings by shrouded Watercourses, and is taken For the footing of the dead. Being of our world, they will return (Westbourne, caged at Sloane Square, Will jack from his box), Will deluge cellars, detonate manholes, Plant effluent on our faces, Sink the city. Effra, Graveney, Falcon, Quaggy, Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet It is the other rivers that lie Lower, that touch us only in dreams That never surface. We feel their tug As the dowser’s rod bends to the source below Phlegethon, Acheron, Lethe, Styx. U.A. FANTHORPE England Copyright (©) by U.A. Fanthorpe. All rights reserved.


SUMMER HOUSE Once what a woman could carry was summer. Daughter in her mother’s skin would follow, dust silvering feet and legs follow to the high pasture. There is a rhythm. Returning always to see what has settled uneven doors a weathered towel straight out like a prayer flag shutter where swifts have nestled against boarded glass. There is a rhythm to empty rooms. White rooms boards sueded with salt emptied my mother, drove her to colors— apricots in a milkglass bowl, a glimpse of red in an open drawer, marigolds brown in soil brought all the way from Worcester. There is a rhythm to empty rooms white with salt, memories structured by the thin walls of dead trees. The lighthouse a flashlight where old tongue of wave on stone will reach higher. ANNE WHITE Massachusetts Copyright (©) by Anne White. All rights reserved.		THE GREAT BLACKOUT OF 2003 All across this mighty nation, Gripped with fear and consternation, Folks were wracked with dread & doubt, All because the lights went out. People shuddered in the dark — No traffic lights! No place to park! Chickens likely flew the coop; Diners couldn’t heat the soup. Theaters shut their gilded gates; Taxi drivers raised their rates. Elevators made no stops; Frantic people called the cops. Baseball games faced cancellation; Trains were stuck in every station. Politicians played their game, Finding someone else to blame. Perhaps a storm with hail and rain; Perhaps an agent of Hussein. Mirror, Mirror on the wall Place the blame upon us all. (written 8/16/03, morning after blackout) GEORGE DAWSON New York Copyright (©) by George Dawson. All rights reserved.


“WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME” Right back at him and whatever it was went right through him, body and soul. The feeling was a sensation of falling. With the falling the dull pain, as always, came back into his head and it was an effort just to breathe. Lonigan walked slowly, paused often, his father’s winter dress coat flapping around his legs, his fists pushed deep in its pockets. He felt like a ghost in a dream, as the snow swirled around him along the drifting streets, a shadow on the loose with no one to claim it. The days seemed a maze of make-believe since his discharge. The shadows of his past seemed dislocated from his present. The present seemed a shadow of whatever state-side was supposed to be. Shadows, snow swirls, ghosts of dreams… At the Celtic bar, Lonigan slipped in from the cold. It was still early in the day and the bar was all but empty— just a few other jobless Joes sipping pints in the semi-dark, everyone avoiding each other’s eyes. “Any luck, lad?” Tommy slid a pint in front of him as Lonigan sat at his corner stool. “Not this round, Thomas.” Lonigan pulled the rumpled job section from his suit coat’s inner pocket and laid it across the bar. “Then this round’s on me.” Tommy tapped the mug. Circles round no goes, words like losing lottery tickets, any AD a possible, every life negotiable… “I am a soldier of misfortune and” Lonigan scribbled on the margin of the newspaper, as he browsed through the help wanted listings. “I fought that holy war on the desert sand.” He sipped his pint and searched his fate. REX SEXTON Illinois Copyright (©) by Rex Sexton. All rights reserved.