January 30-February 5, 2006: Leonore Wilson and Jonathan Hayes

week of January 30-February 5, 2006



Leonore Wilson and Jonathan Hayes


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Leonore Wilson
Poet707@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Leonore Wilson lives and writes in Napa, California Her poetry has been featured in such mags as Quarterly West, Third Coast, Yellow Sik, Rattle, Poets On, Madison Review, California Quarterly.

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Leonore Wilson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Poet who hanged himself among doves
Unhappiness moved into my narrow house when he left
The clock stopped, once telling the time
it had drowned
Sudden discomfort of familiar things
No god led me out, no desert exodus
Unhappiness dogging my steps,
biting through my bunches of notes
No necklaces of words , no rings of syllables

Infinity’s long drawers opened
I look at his graying photograph,
he’s alone in the room, scarcely discernable
He’s not smiling, perceiving separation
Darkness has dust like a woman A dormant woman shaking things, and tying slow curtains
I remember his young hysteria, his manic laughter
he was soaked like a goldfish in water
The man who hugged me in his arms
had the fire of steel, the downpour of iron
And I was half-naked Echo dancing on the beach in summer splendor
finding moon hills in his eyes
Now I am the gate-keeper weeping A heap of metal half-seen
He dressed the sky in watered silk
washed its backgrounds with the painter’s sure skill,
beaded it with mother-of-pearl
He was Beauty rebuking arrows Arrows inside, outside

till he was drunk with thirst and shame
Desire in him like a flame leaping higher than hares

Speak to me with the nightingale’s voice
inside my wind-pressed walls
You who had thought you were born
in the blue throat of Egypt
You who were drifting into old age
I want to be the lily again on your lifted tongue,
your light’s shadow
He fell for sadists with sweet smiles
Asses who could eat him alive Then he bled like a bride
He was astonished at being a man
loving men
A man alone
compiling a Domesday Book,

depending on men
Despite everything,

I say, unhappiness moved in when he left
No, his finger wags in my heart:
you’re asleep on your feet:

my friend,
unhappiness was already there.


Jonathan Hayes
jsh619@earthlink.net

Bio (auto)

Jonathan Hayes lives in Northern California Currently his poetry is being translated into French Recently his digital photo / poems were shown in the Ut Pictura Poesis show in The Art Gallery at San Francisco State University.

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Jonathan Hayes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

An Ugly Chap

in an interview
w/ barbara walters

he said it was
the image he killed

a record cover
a sellout living on the upper west side

yoko’s eyes seared
into the NYPD patrol car at the monster

an ultimate installation of art
handcuffed to the institution


Aqua Dance

At the bottom of the bowl,

the toilet paper moves
like a jellyfish.