| January 2008 |
POEMS
Poems by Rhode Island's Jéanpaul Ferro
Scituate, Rhode Island
It’s funny: I’ve found myself since you’ve gone.
What no doctor or pill could order me to do;
acoustic version that’s better than the real song.
I don’t have to live through hell anymore—
that is already every day.
I remember us outside your house in the rain up in Scituate,
sitting on the stone wall along the old road—
a million explanations for war;
So we walked through the cemetery to figure it all out.
“I give up,” this one ghost said.
“Are you ready?” said another.
Being dead
Winter arrives, the birds all gone,
the skies stained in arctic blues,
we tire out easily through the hallucination,
our minds wet by the explosions,
we watch the thin rivers snake through the backyards
(looking for signs of life),
in dreams the bodies float like homemade boats
up to the frozen waterfall,
night unearths every mass grave—
the intrinsic momentum-phenomena of light,
we fall to our knees to petition God,
beg him like we beg him to be saved,
each dream lasts up past springtime,
beneath the DMZ, all the orbiting planets,
until a simpler life—the migrating birds,
smoke rustling about our chimney tops.
A thousand miles
We kneel down together by the lake,
both of us glistening and suntanned,
our white tan lines tattooing our bodies,
light through which I will come to her,
stretch myself across the map of the world,
again and again until it is over,
her body on top of mine,
two fish jumping out of water,
shimmering like two stars on the waves,
sun shining, hot on your face, bloodshot,
arms reaching upward, dark where she shaved,
eyelids heavy, ten thousand feelings (without words),
high like you’re on crack cocaine,
looking up there is only blue sky, some clouds,
the sounds of the war not far off,
both of us coming, her first, and then me,
all these words in our heads, and then nothing,
and then words that we only say to ourselves—
the black of night, the yellow blanket beside us.
The apparition
I see you along the side
of Betty Pond Road.
The hail rains down
like bouncing white planets,
In rhythms like Djembe drums
against the roof of the car,
I look at you as though
we’ve both been led out of a dream,
You are a ferocious white color,
your long blond hair soaking wet,
I can see the lines of your body
clear through your sheer chemise,
I stop the car
and frantically run over to you,
You look at me startled
like death touched by sunlight,
Wreaths and bouquets
in the blueness of your eyes,
The hail quickly turns to rain
and the sky brightens,
I hear the runoff flow through
the woods amid the oak trees—
The voice of creation running over the rocks
and ground down to the pond,
You suddenly go down on your knees
like a controlled demolition,
And you look at me and you say:
“But I’m dead! I’m dead!”
Thirty-three in Manhattan
You come to me in my bed at 3 a.m.
We utter no words, not even hello as
you kiss up and down my body.
I can sense you—
clean and ravenous and suntan dark.
You turn me over,
tie my hands with your Russian scarf,
you run your breasts over my beleaguered body,
push your breasts down between my legs,
move them over my arching back.
I feel the warmth of your mouth on me,
your tongue transcending all limits.
You drink me in as you lead me through
the blue/green stasis.
When I awake in the morning you
have already left.
There’s a note on the dresser;
Thanks for last night!
My clothes are already laid out for me.
We don’t see each other for another
three months.
Poems by Rhode Island's Jéanpaul Ferro
Scituate, Rhode Island
It’s funny: I’ve found myself since you’ve gone.
What no doctor or pill could order me to do;
acoustic version that’s better than the real song.
I don’t have to live through hell anymore—
that is already every day.
I remember us outside your house in the rain up in Scituate,
sitting on the stone wall along the old road—
a million explanations for war;
So we walked through the cemetery to figure it all out.
“I give up,” this one ghost said.
“Are you ready?” said another.
Being dead
Winter arrives, the birds all gone,
the skies stained in arctic blues,
we tire out easily through the hallucination,
our minds wet by the explosions,
we watch the thin rivers snake through the backyards
(looking for signs of life),
in dreams the bodies float like homemade boats
up to the frozen waterfall,
night unearths every mass grave—
the intrinsic momentum-phenomena of light,
we fall to our knees to petition God,
beg him like we beg him to be saved,
each dream lasts up past springtime,
beneath the DMZ, all the orbiting planets,
until a simpler life—the migrating birds,
smoke rustling about our chimney tops.
A thousand miles
We kneel down together by the lake,
both of us glistening and suntanned,
our white tan lines tattooing our bodies,
light through which I will come to her,
stretch myself across the map of the world,
again and again until it is over,
her body on top of mine,
two fish jumping out of water,
shimmering like two stars on the waves,
sun shining, hot on your face, bloodshot,
arms reaching upward, dark where she shaved,
eyelids heavy, ten thousand feelings (without words),
high like you’re on crack cocaine,
looking up there is only blue sky, some clouds,
the sounds of the war not far off,
both of us coming, her first, and then me,
all these words in our heads, and then nothing,
and then words that we only say to ourselves—
the black of night, the yellow blanket beside us.
The apparition
I see you along the side
of Betty Pond Road.
The hail rains down
like bouncing white planets,
In rhythms like Djembe drums
against the roof of the car,
I look at you as though
we’ve both been led out of a dream,
You are a ferocious white color,
your long blond hair soaking wet,
I can see the lines of your body
clear through your sheer chemise,
I stop the car
and frantically run over to you,
You look at me startled
like death touched by sunlight,
Wreaths and bouquets
in the blueness of your eyes,
The hail quickly turns to rain
and the sky brightens,
I hear the runoff flow through
the woods amid the oak trees—
The voice of creation running over the rocks
and ground down to the pond,
You suddenly go down on your knees
like a controlled demolition,
And you look at me and you say:
“But I’m dead! I’m dead!”
Thirty-three in Manhattan
You come to me in my bed at 3 a.m.
We utter no words, not even hello as
you kiss up and down my body.
I can sense you—
clean and ravenous and suntan dark.
You turn me over,
tie my hands with your Russian scarf,
you run your breasts over my beleaguered body,
push your breasts down between my legs,
move them over my arching back.
I feel the warmth of your mouth on me,
your tongue transcending all limits.
You drink me in as you lead me through
the blue/green stasis.
When I awake in the morning you
have already left.
There’s a note on the dresser;
Thanks for last night!
My clothes are already laid out for me.
We don’t see each other for another
three months.
All work copyright
the owner. No
reproduction
without consent.
the owner. No
reproduction
without consent.
I’ll be your slave
When you’re weak I’ll be the weaker,
Plough through your fields all night long,
Your merchantable and movable "property,"
b3 to your a3,
Worth my weight in tobacco and gold,
The glutinous dish along the Bight of Biafra,
Body over body in the sweathouse,
Sharing recipes and herbs,
So brand me with your number on my cheek,
Take me through the reeds and the legends,
Tell me when to dip, when to swallow,
Don’t let no whipper oblige me to part from you,
I am no Ashanti; I will be your Senegambian,
Let the complex blending of our experience begin,
Until ultimately we are lovers,
And I will be enormously profitable for you.
Island songs
Warm winds
and early morning blue sky,
the sheer joy of Bob Marley
playing on the radio inside,
crème de la crème,
because we hear the voices of children playing,
I look at your beautiful face,
all tan from the sun,
I feel 2 ½ years of music
inside my body,
you move closer, our hands touch,
your lips touch my lips,
we hear Zimbabwe
coming on the radio now,
you push back from me and say:
“Let’s go back inside and pretend
that it’s another day.”
Dear neighbor
Outside, you could see flashlights
through all the shattered windows
of the house,
The roof had blown off, and they had
to shut all the main gas lines down,
There was nothing left inside, only
our neighbor’s lifeless dead bodies,
pictures shattered in frames, a million
years in pictures, phones that were busy
(off the hook),
A policeman came over to me and asked:
“Do you know the woman lying there
in the white stockings?”
“No,” I lied, “I do not.”
More poetry in this issue:
The Birth of Soil
Caribe Casanova
Crickets & Machetes
For Sale
I'll Miss You Strawberry Sun
Back to main page
When you’re weak I’ll be the weaker,
Plough through your fields all night long,
Your merchantable and movable "property,"
b3 to your a3,
Worth my weight in tobacco and gold,
The glutinous dish along the Bight of Biafra,
Body over body in the sweathouse,
Sharing recipes and herbs,
So brand me with your number on my cheek,
Take me through the reeds and the legends,
Tell me when to dip, when to swallow,
Don’t let no whipper oblige me to part from you,
I am no Ashanti; I will be your Senegambian,
Let the complex blending of our experience begin,
Until ultimately we are lovers,
And I will be enormously profitable for you.
Island songs
Warm winds
and early morning blue sky,
the sheer joy of Bob Marley
playing on the radio inside,
crème de la crème,
because we hear the voices of children playing,
I look at your beautiful face,
all tan from the sun,
I feel 2 ½ years of music
inside my body,
you move closer, our hands touch,
your lips touch my lips,
we hear Zimbabwe
coming on the radio now,
you push back from me and say:
“Let’s go back inside and pretend
that it’s another day.”
Dear neighbor
Outside, you could see flashlights
through all the shattered windows
of the house,
The roof had blown off, and they had
to shut all the main gas lines down,
There was nothing left inside, only
our neighbor’s lifeless dead bodies,
pictures shattered in frames, a million
years in pictures, phones that were busy
(off the hook),
A policeman came over to me and asked:
“Do you know the woman lying there
in the white stockings?”
“No,” I lied, “I do not.”
More poetry in this issue:
The Birth of Soil
Caribe Casanova
Crickets & Machetes
For Sale
I'll Miss You Strawberry Sun
Back to main page
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our ultimate goal of paying all the artists
who contribute to the magazine, as well
as to improve the website and build the
infrastructure necessary to further unite
art and activism in the Calgary
community. If you like the magazine
and the values it stands for, please feel
welcome to contribute.
Equally important is to get the word out.
Advertising is expensive, and the best
advertising is by word of mouth. If you
like the magazine, or any content in
particular, please take a few moments
to share the link with your friends.
Feel free to join our Mailing list or our
Facebook group.