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Drinker's Poetry
Tolstoy/Barnick / Slattery
by Rose Tolstoy
Emotions
glad, sad
emotions emotions
are in my soul, but
when I am sleeping
I don't have one
and I am happy when I am waking up.
__________________________________________________
By Jennifer J. Barnick
So, down timbers go without crashing traces
This sound—of it all—is nowhere between my ears.
The earth and rocks and tilting sky vibrated,
bounced, and puffed even, and thunked.
Creeks and soft, rolling rips that fell like wincing.
However, only memory of it all which silent was.
Standing, looking at the tiny piney tops.
Far spread thick clouds did not pass over them, but stayed.
The ax had a sticky sound while making contact.
Almost as though the sharp head did not want to return.
My eyes kept blinking; my shoulders kept rising.
All sticking like the ax—but more silent than the honest ax.
The first snap begins without obvious signs,
but the rest proceeds rightly as the tiny piny top grows large,
and moves into the big, thick, molded clouds,
then gently bounces gigantic, mourfully
on the ground.
Approaching and touching with a great deal of eyes
the tiny piney top is bigger than my widest trunk.
I saw my big head on the ground instantly
but my head grew smaller on the forest floor.
The tree's arms could have thrown a car.
I put my arms up against the tree's arms
and realized by the head nodding lumberjack
that 'twas the ax that closer resembled my limb.
"They're big when they fall," said the lumberjack.
"We're small when we fall," I returned sadly.
The lumberjack then fell to the ground like a tree,
laughed momentarily (though heartily), and began to bellow.
Baby, we're small when we're tall!
Honey, we're small when we're small!
Lovely, we're small when we're funny!
Sugar, we're small when we're grim!
Sweetness, we're small when we're nice!
Blossom, we're small when we're cruel!
Angel, we're small when we love!
Goddess, we're small when we hate!
'Cause you see little darling...we're small and that's all!
He then stood up,
espied another giant with his
outstretched ax and finished his performance
with a wink.
__________________________________________________
by Robert Slattery
The Horizon.
shimmering,
shimmering, shimmering
and beyond,
out of sight,
the factories ,
sitting idle-
quiet-
silent.
They came from beyond the
horizon, beyond the shimmering;
numberless men out of the
vast land. Brickmakers,
bricklayers, builders, laborers,
and factory men.
They created the factories
and filled them with lights,
sounds, and the residue of
a million toils.
Only the buildings remain-
forlorn-
empty-
desolate-
-- crumbling stacks
-- rotten beams
-- cracked foundations
Once busy rooms
-- long silent.
The men who toiled
-- long dead.
The families
-- long gone.
Only the buildings remain;
standing in testament to
an agotime of pride and
importance - but now idle.
And the everwind
pushes and flows
gently
gently
gently
through the empty rooms
out the broken windows
pushing and flowing
gently
gently
towards the shimmering horizon.
December-1997
Note:
The above poem was inspired by
(what I thought was) a rather vivid
image in the last paragraph
of Chapter 12 of Desolation
Angels by Jack Kerouac
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