December 16-29, 2002: Kenneth Ashworth and Anupama Bhargava

week of December 16-29, 2002

Kenneth Ashworth and Anupama Bhargava

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Kenneth Ashworth

Bio (auto)

Kenneth Ashworth lives in Charlotte, NC and is the father of six children The most he can hope for is that they are all his When not writing, he works in transportation management and falls asleep often at his desk Kenneth’s work has (or is scheduled) appeared In Melic Review, Adirondack Review, Stirring, Writer’s Hood, Poetry Repair Shop, can we have our ball back?, Gin Bender Poetry Review, Artemis Journal, Mi Po,  and various other venues He attributes whatever talent he has to poetry workshops such as Gazebo, QED, Roundtable and Writer’s Block.

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

Hermes Among The Mortals

I am still small enough to be amazed
that a circle the size of a thumb
pulls the whole ocean after it,

to marvel at how water collects
in divots of our yard after a hard rain,
reflects a hundred face moon
like Argos’ terrible eye
My brother and I are all-foured on the lawn
with our father’s green, right-angle flashlight
niggling earthworms from their burrows
into a coffee can to harvest as bait
He is five years older and I think he’s cool
because he can burp his name and say
“fuck you” in three other languages
I watch him gently work the worms
so as not to pull them in two They are a slick, inside-of-a-dog’s-ear color,
and he holds each one to the light,
scolds it just a little:

“Come on now You a fat bitch, arncha?
Stop wigglin around so much You know I gotcha,
you know!”

Psalms For The Drowned

Whenever someone came up missing
in our town, folks were quick
to blame the river
The men would load up whiskey
and grappling hooks into john boats,
drag that stretch from Looking Glass Creek
to the spillway where a man could roil
in there  a week and not be found
They’d probe the banks with bamboo Pops said catfish big as a boy
dug in under there and fed off
what the river did not swallow
Sometimes, they’d snag a body
and sometimes they’d say: “nothing
we can do now but wait for a flood “

When I was ten, the river took my mama Least that’s what Pops said anyway The truth doesn’t matter
All that summer, me and my brother
rode our bikes to the spot we imagined
she went under, tossed wildflowers in
and threw rocks as they floated away,
made jokes about fish food
Maybe this spring or the next
when the rains come and the water
slips its banks dark and beautiful
as child running barefoot through
fields of new corn, the river
will finally float her free.

The Barber

All day he stands in circles of hair fanning
from his feet like the corona of a faint sun,
talking back to the backs of heads
His customers will tell you he is a man
of impeccable personal coolness, who listens
as day traders discuss death by a thousand
paper cuts, taxi drivers lampoon their fares,
recalling snatches of thigh stolen in rearview
He nods and smiles: All are equal beneath
the old school blade of his folding razor,
with which he apprenticed lathered balloons
At night, he draws the blinds and sweeps
the clippings into a pile; they form a beautiful
woman, not like his scissor-tounged wife
She asks for something to eat,
and like he has done a thousand times
he breaks four eggs on the counter,
returning the empties to the carton,
makes an omelet with feta and spinach
She listens between bites again to the story
of the mudmen he made as a child; stick-figure arms,
two thumb-hole eyes, and never a mouth.

Anupama Bhargava

Bio (auto)

I am Anupama Bhargava From India
I am 21 and have been writing poetry seriously since last few months
I write conflict within my body and soul, a microcosmic world, and on a large scale a struggle with the world, A macrocosmic picture without any compromises!

My first book of poems, “The Revolutionaries and the other poems” is being published by Tyborne Hill Publication, California, USA

I have been “The Poet of the week” on Poetry Super Highway I am a proud semifinalist of the International Poetry competition by “” for my poem “Are we what we are” My Poem “Are we what we are” was also published in “Letters from the Soul” “Woman”, “Time”, and ” Welcome to the real world” have appeared in “Some Words” in September -October Issue and another of my creation has also appeared in it’s November-December issue My work will be appearing in “Apples & Oranges” My work has been published in the October and November editions of “Coffee Press Journal” and will be appearing in its December and January editions too  My work has also appeared in “Quills and Ink”  My work will be appearing in ” Porcupine ” , “Hood Poetry” , “ChickenBones: A Journal” , “Muse Apprentice Guild” , “The Writerís Room” , ” Poetic Hours” and “Sulekha” My poems “Confession” & “Cleaning my Closet” have been published in “Midnightedition” I have been on the editorial board of my college I also won “The best original poem” award in college

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.

Details of a Shoe of International Quality

Color : Brown

Lining : *Cow

Sole : Indian Leather

Price in $ : Almost free Itíll never open up a crack beneath your feet
Guarantee : Take the words of English Gentlemen They have ruled over Hindustan for over 250 years
*Cow is worshipped in India

On why people write poetry

When the soil you had twined your roots in, starts to become your grave, and

Life begins to dislocate itself in between battleships with the unusual rush inside the beating sinews, and the voices from under the ceiling, raising hell together inside your head,

And the only thing that is stagnant is the intersection of the worthless days during the back counting of the orphaned sixty seconds (in worry) every minute,

And you make up your words cut into spheres, pyramids, and squares, though imprinted on the style sheets, but only to make people understand your state of mind when half the night is over,

When guiltless nudity comes in your words-you write poetry!

The upcoming Indian Tradition

If I have black hair, brown skin, and speaks Hindi instead of utilizing the gathering of words stolen from other languages to re-educate myself into a useful citizen,

I’ll be the voice people wouldnít want to hear

Because I am be the voice they have now completely forgotten to use
But if I have bleached hair, chemically washed skin, and speaks fluent English and rehearse coquettishly my flawless breast, and taut tennis ass in the Latino way to the stout body that flaps around me to bind my past and his together, to last the present night

People’s dictionary, that has a lot of words, will enunciate me in the simplest term “Truly A Matter of Personal Persuasion ~ with both Indian character and Indian culture entwined earnestly together”,

In a foreign accent.

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