* Characters MR. BERNARD SETTLE, owner of B&D Market MR. EUSTIS CHASTAIN, owner of Tidal Realty Co. MRS. CAROLINE BYERS MRS. GLORIANNA LIMEHOUSE NORMAN, aged 52, owner of a pick-up truck PAUL, a potter and a dog owner, balding with long hair MAD JOHN, a dog owner, in his thirties MRS. FAYE PETTY, librarian BEMISS,…
MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor for This Issue DeWitt Henry Managing Editor Joyce Peseroff CONTRIBUTORS J. Bernlef, one of Holland's most prolific writers, has had 50 books published since 1960, and besides novels, short stories and poems, writes music as well. His latest novel is Ijsbergen (Icebergs). T. Alan Broughton is a…
Don’t move I say to your body but it has no plans, not even your lips when I hope Are you all right? Day comes to attention as you sprawl on the landing making your private bargain with publicity and chance while I, no medic or nurse and ignorant of your name stroke your arm…
It’s visitor’s day At the end of the night As a mirror keeps hurrying Another wedding through the moon The survivors looking back with satin or top hats . . . Scraps of the calendar Fill the dull air The altar of the hospital Dim as lamps in wartime It’s December again The year gods…
Years ago, in a plane over California, I suddenly thought I understood Keats’ sonnet “When I have fears that I may cease to be . . .” I felt changed by the experience, both thrilled and calmed. At the time I worked as a “gofer” for a small film company. IBM was flying us around…
They appeared on the beach as I walked by, the bodies, sprawling on towels immodestly, impervious to stares by what integrity they owned which let them abandon their winter clothes. As they lay in the street, I watched them and followed a man’s search for his wife: a familiar shape and texture, perfume rising from…
The moon’s heavy With too many questions It hangs above us And does its business Though the light is in darkness You and I see it And look out Wanting to be shown more What’s inside what’s around the dream But the light is in darkness Often at Madagascar Could you trust The wicked music…
The derelict who lives on our street looks like Whitman as a young man; this summer he slept discreetly in a greasy bundle of rags by the alley trash cans. Now autumn’s here and at night he sprawls in the warm, sugary gust vented from the candy store. * * * I sat on the wharf’s…
There lay behind her clothes, in her spacious closet, a hidden sanctuary, a Chinese fortress. Emperors abdicated to paint moments: under willows a brief calm ensued at a ferry-landing; three travellers with a gray pony waited on an angle of land for the ferry, to the left, in hazy sunlight, and farther to the left,…
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