through the house, disowned by father
I rose to call your name in the dark
knapsack empty as it had always been, Moon-mind running like water
was believed no devil could approach Sramana Gautama;
the Buddah's body being never found after liberation, I followed that
I rose to call your name in the dark
Earth will soon burn itself out as Earth once did when it knew itself to be darkness.
Anonymous Poem left at The North Water Street Gallery after the reading on August 27, 2004.
Poet of the Month for June, 2004 is jexo nor
Leave your Head on the Table
knife is before you
of the Month for April, 2004 is
Poet of the Month for March, 2004 is Cheryl Townsend.
He was a
Poet of the Month for February, 2004 is Jayce Renner.
Tea Cart Junk Drawer
In my parents¹ house there was a large piece of furniture we called the tea cart. To my knowledge, tea was never served on it. Basically, the tea cart was a large wooden box on casters. It had two doors on the front. Inside were kept the stacks and stacks of mail-order catalogs my mother is famous for receiving and three or four years worth of telephone books.
Above the doors, as wide as the tea cart itself was a large drawer. This was known as the junk drawer, and I believe every house I¹ve been in has some version of it. The junk drawer contained many strata of miscellaneous items. If you needed something like a paperclip, a pencil, or tape, the first place you would look would be the tea cart junk drawer, though you might have to dig around a little.
The first stratum of junk drawer items usually consisted of pieces of paper that may or may not become important someday. Dynamic and ever-changing, this included last year¹s report card or a note about your dentist appointment in several months.
Beneath this layer was the chunky object stratum. Here were mostly office supplies that were too dense to float on the surface of the junk. Sticky tape, bottles of glue, and almost-completely-used-up ball point pens were thrown in the tea cart junk drawer, got shuffled around, and wound up below the papers along with rubber banded decks of cards.
Underneath the chunky object stratum was the lonely class of items that seemed useful at one time, but now were simply not taken out too often. Guitar picks that belonged to the brother who moved out several years ago, pieces of jewelry that became unfashionable, and cookie cutters that were too small to be practical for cookies but were nice for a fourth grade craft project all resided here - also, bookmarks with inspirational messages.
And below all this was the foundation of the tea cart junk drawer. If you raked your fingertips firmly against the strata of junk you could unearth rubber bands set in spilled glue that shone against the black velvet lining, not to mention oddly shaped novelty paperclips.
Yes, by the time I moved out, this largish drawer held twenty years worth of objects that somehow managed to survive and avoid the gaping maw of the plastic trash can.
Now that I¹ve grown up, I have unintentionally created a budding junk drawer of my own. It is in the kitchen, in the microwave cart upon which sits the portable dishwasher. This piece of furniture is amazingly similar to the tea cart of my childhood. It has two wooden doors, a large central space, casters, and a wide drawer. And like the tea-less tea cart, the microwave cart has also been co-opted from its nominal use.
There is too much similarity in this furniture selection to be explained by mere coincidence. My id longed to have the junk drawer of my early years. I subconsciously selected a cart with just the right characteristics. Then, without my knowing it, I put all these miscellaneous items in a drawer that would have housed something more kitchen oriented in someone else¹s home. At first, it just had small garden implements and worn out panty hose for staking tomato plants. Soon I added various types of adhesive tape: Scotch, duct, and masking. Then came the excess nuts, bolts, nails, and plastic doohickeys from assembly-required furniture kits. Some empty film canisters and partially worn out batteries found their home. Then I started to think about the oddity of all that stuff together.
Poet of the Month for January, 2004 is Edwin Gould. Edwin is a university professor of chemistry at KSU and a monthly reader of his poems at the Brady open readings, for years, and now at the North Water Street Gallery in Kent. A great favorite of audiences, Edwin prefaces his readings with this smiling question, "May I begin with a love poem?" Yes, nods around the room . And beautiful love poems they are, musical, muted, the bow drawn with a light touch across the strings of the poem's body. Edwin is also a poet of wit, of the humorous anecdote, a grin maker in his childhood memories of foibles, follies and instruction.
First Day of Classes
a year has passed
could not then foretell
the first day of the coming Spring
that I would be hurt deeply
you been only half as facile with numbers
the yearís interaction between us
I have wished away our contest of wills?