May 27-June 2, 2002: Christine L. Reed and Anupama Bhargava

week of May 27-June 2, 2002


Christine L Reed and Anupama Bhargava


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Christine L Reed
PoetReed@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Christine L Reed lives in Tranquility, NJ with her three children She is the editor of Maelstrom and enjoys reading the diverse voices of poets around the world Her work has most recently been seen in The Melic Review, The Journal of New Jersey Poets, Zuzu’s Petals Quarterly and others, and she was recently nominated for this year’s Pushcart Prize.

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Christine L Reed and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Room

The secret tomb,
my parent’s room, off limits,
no children allowed Just a
bed and some dressers,
a few bottles of nail polish,
clothes that smelled like Rive Gauche
The door was closed,
it was never spoken of Sometimes, I was allowed
to sit on their bed, hear my record
on their stereo in the cabinet I looked for the thing
that could be ruined by small hands,
the special something
not trusted to my eyes
There were no pictures,
just the big bed,
and we were not welcome to it
on midnight nightmare wake-ups After we were in our beds,
we were not allowed out,
and had to yell for water
or permission to potty
The blue walls, gray
in the dark, the day I peeked,
the sounds, drew me nearer
than my nerves would like Two rears bounced
from each other, bare,
like I never wanted to see again,
in raucous joy I tried
to burn the sight from my mind,
cursed my curiousity,
which surely killed something,
if not the cat
The secret was over, I welcomed
the evil from my nightmares to come,
to terrify me, I laughed at them
now, how their powers of fright
paled in the night.

Soaped

They lose their babies in piles and require
a fresh set of genitals each fortnight, lick
lined lips and suck
whipped cream from room-serviced strawberries
They rise from the dead, shake the dirt
from their toes, go to work whenever With more marriages than King Solomon
they rattle off teen pregnancy statistics,
preach the evils of drug use
while they drug a man
to make a child he doesn’t want
The children are born, some,
the ones who weren’t lost for plot,
they spring up from four to sixteen
in one day, old enough to kiss,
bare shoulders, be tied
to chairs with duct tape
In the afternoon we soap up
and masturbate
to this indulgent heat,
before the kids get home from school We learn love
can be said, more than it’s felt,
bodies are dispensible, tongues
are what get you where you want to go –
if you put them in the right place
and don’t get caught.

Cleaning Dad’s Place

My father let me clean his house
for thirty-five dollars a week, to help
a divorced mother make ends meet He
was neat and didn’t need a weekly
clean, was never there,
tended bar at the American Legion, made it
easier to access the daily
alcohol infusion I cleaned blood
and liver stains from his toilet,
washed the sheets, dusted his small
bible, crushed beer cans and tv dinner
boxes, fed my children mints
from a bowl near my wedding picture
Down in this basement apartment,
there were his books and porcelain
dogs everywhere, his mother,
his dad, golf clubs, all the things
that were him, but he was never with them Here was my dad, unclouded by Black
Velvet, here I came to know him, all
that was him, what he cared for I put away his glasses and saw
that he ate peanut butter sandwiches
while he was alone on afternoons,
wishing he was not alone, knowing
he must be.


Anupama Bhargava
u_r_a_dumbo@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Who am I? : A struggling poet I love to write In Past my writings were for me but present has forced me to tell others what do I feel.A conflict within my body a Microcosmic world and on a large scale a struggle with the world a macrocosmic picture I have been on the editorial board of the college for whole three years I have just finished my college My writings online have also attracted fair attention I have won a few competitions too and my writings have been published too

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Anupama Bhargava and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Does History Belong To Us?

Does history belong to us?
In the chambers of time,
Minutes turn to hour,
And the shadow fades,
As the boundless journey of
Captured moments,
Chased winds ,
Begin But lie in between them is the
Echoes of the simple years wracked by the violence of conflicts on land The man first created
Out of the great emptiness where the heat and the ice met
Out came Ymir Serpent the gaurd
Serpent the maligant devil Lay the world first between Tigris and Euphrates
Farming,
Fishing
Hunting the wild fowl of the river marshes
Will of the predator usurpting the barren innocense
The natural law Pictures like symbols scratched into clay- our first expression
Cuneiforms Even the hollow and dried mummified bodies relate their own tales
A splendid, substantial hieroglyph,
But my poem is not about the inhabition of the civilizations
Or how the mighty hands created the heaven above and hell beneath
And the “death’s kingdom” oscillating in between
It’s not about the temptous curves of the history which still succeds in fooling us
It is a presentation of human life
With the power that taught and inspired Moses and David
But alienated from the presence of the celestial patroness
It’s about man His war of reason and passion
His war with himself
His war with his identity
Which he alone must fight
Every moment of the day
Every day of his life
To the very failure of his existence from this earth A story of West meeting East
Which contains within itself
The presentation of a world in which ripe universal intuitions of empire turn persistently towards decay It tells how in timber did melt the fallen wide arch of the ranged empire
We feel in the infinity there is in man;even while we acquiesce in their defeat The moral begins with the story and leaves us in vaccum in the end
Because the moral does not come from blindness or error of judgement,
But from a deep seated defect of will in us all In a conflict between Power and Sexuality,
The ‘triple pillar’ of the world converted into a ‘strumpet’s fool’ The name denied to the ruinous passion
Sword and Armour,
Maradian’s toys The coal black sense invaded
Hankerchief
The witness to the acts of shame
The divine law transgressed -Reason or Passion(?)
The tragic law of modern man-his dilemna
Victimised not just by the society but even by his own self
Bellowing jealousy of a black ram and Whimpering innocense of the translucent covering
‘The motive-hunting of a motiveless maglinity’ Hands clasped to Belzebub
Enticed forward lust not for the “external trash” but of an aspiring mind
Wild escatises of untamed knowledge
The muse,
The Carthagivian
But quiet concious Prisioner of his own conceptions
Trapped in his own leagalism
He suggested Adam
Eden lost
He suggested Prometheus
Hawk’s food
They all were eternally doomed He who created wings waxed to his body
He who flew
He whose pride took him to the sun
The bond melted
He fell hard The offsprings of these greatest tragedies are
The Fathers of the tear soaked screams on the green ebbed brown dyed red barren land
A home for the masked and the wilderness
The Past Present –
The action field of wolf Fenrir advancing with wide open mouth,
His upper jaw against the sky,
His lower on the earth,
And his eyes and nostrils will blaze with fire,
But an hide out for the Circus Cats Result of the apcolyptic mingling
Result-the catastrophic roving of the colonizing spirits The geographical distance made history
The pschyic depths created anew
The invented and insisted inferiority Scattered bodies in the indigo land
The sun dyed turban trampled under spiked leather of brown skin
Tanned labelled Carib We couldn’t save
We lost what was ours
In a search for who we are
Man metamorphosed
Humanity transformed
Power politics
Bodies ravished
White masters traded for the black brown masters
Deepak rag and the fire spurting iron
The two realities Purusha (soul) and Prakriti(nature)
Karma the driving force
Lost in the white mist under white moon
BRAHMA -VISHNU-MAHESH The shaken faith of
The Neo colonial slaves!