July 2-8, 2001: Angélique Jamail and Christine Lennon

Bio (auto)

Angélique Jamail earned her degree in English-Creative Writing from The University of Houston She lives and writes poetry and fiction in Houston most of the time Her first book of poems, Gypsies, came out in late 1998, and she expects to complete her second book, Barefoot on Marble, this summer She counts librettos and textbooks among her minor publications Her poems have been featured in various anthologies and journals One of her favorite things is to tell stories through poetry, and much of her fiction lives in the realm of magical realism

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Angélique Jamail and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Floodtide (or, Telling the Truth to Make Headway) There was a cape (cold and wet and worn) that he said had belonged to his four-times-great-uncle, a pirate-ship captain – which would I suppose have made that uncle a pirate and my friend a pirate four-times-removed – I should have known that before: when my friend put on that cape, I saw an ostrich-plume grow out of his hat, and the end of his belt (which hung down at his waist) became a sword My friend had been wearing the cape outside in the rain I was cold, and so I curled up in it so my fins could stretch out, unfurl, as I day-dreamed of home, my home just off the cape My friend had never seen me in my home He knew me only as I am when I walk; he had never seen me swim, never seen me glide through the tide undulating like the mathematical waves he understands, following the currents I understand But I couldn’t help my homesickness when I saw him, wet, walk back inside the beach-house, out of the rain thundering out in the cape which is my real home, under the shelter of the cape which was his four-times-great-uncle’s He slid the fabric (heavy and salt-air water dripping steadily onto the sea-shell marble floor) off his shoulders, and the plume and the sword evaporated He smiled I tiptoed to the cape and wrapped it around my body, my long skirt spreading as the water sewed my legs together and stretched the fins back out I smiled He looked at me, his eyes surprised, his mouth gaping like a trapped fish But I was glad he knew, now, and that my awkward secret was unfolded I don’t think he’ll keep me, now, trapped inside this house, although he did it unwittingly before (He’d called it “our” beach-house, and I’d always smiled and watched the waves behind my eyelids, trying not to feel the ring he’d given me and wishing I’d told him before where my home really was, and hadn’t said just “the cape “) He still calls me “Love,” although his eyes don’t quite believe and his hands are afraid to touch what he thinks I have become In fact, I have always been this and only pretended otherwise, so I suppose my change has been into the truth; wrapped in the truth-cape, now I swim in the cape He will not swim with me, but he waits on the beach each night, holding the cape to hold me in when I, wet and cold and still strange to him, emerge from the cold water, my legs splitting from the dark green into pale flesh, discarded scales dripping into the brine And I smile to see his wonder at my transformation, his color rising like the tide into his cheeks, but he walks back in with me, to our beach-house This progress is a floodtide. Moving to Green Rain Island, Your Home We’ve been sitting on the bed in the place where it rains every afternoon as a part of the natural order of things The afternoons become evenings quickly here under the rainy sky I recall an afternoon when a green tint to the sky made me want to crawl into bed and wait for the dark, wet evening to clean the greenness away with rain The sky-light washed all of our things in a pale green bath, and a part of me wished we could make a departure from this place, jump into the wet sky, leaving all our things in the house, piled on our bed in case rains swallowed the land I cocooned in a blanket, watching anxiously for the rain to wash the green daylight out of the evening air, but the green tint slid even onto the darkness, partially dripped in sheets by the rain, partially a reflection on the sky of the wet trees The window by the bed shook with the wind, and little things started to scare me I packed a few things into a satchel in case we left for the evening to sleep in your old bed at your parents’ house (They were supposed to have a party that night, but I thought the overfull sky would trap their guests in their houses in the rain ) Now, wrapped in the blanket, we watch the rain dripping in rivers on the window You reassure me that our things will be safe in this house, under this sky, under our bed, and that we will stay home all evening I’m not wild about the weather here, but I guess it’s part and parcel of being with you, together in this bed, in this house, under this rainy sky, on an island where people leave their things under their beds and the evening is part of the afternoon. The Weirdness of Waters Your ocean here is warm and green I’m trying to get used to it, but I still miss my cold, gray sea Such warm waters I’ve never been in, such strange creatures have I met Your ocean here is warm and green Some say,  “All marine is marine,” and that I should be well any wet, but I still miss my cold, gray sea My chill churning sea washed me clean, but these warm waters just make me wet Your ocean here is warm and green Finally now do you swim with me, and so moving here is a choice-not-regret, but I still miss my cold, gray sea I want to wring a life out of this marine, but it may take many tides to get used to it Your ocean here is warm and green, and I still miss my cold, gray sea.

Christine Lennon
ThisPoetGirl@aol.com

Bio (auto)

The poet presently resides in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia She is also the editor of “The Eclipse” (http://theeclips.net), Verse Libre Quarterly (http://thispoetgirl.com/VerseLibre/) and Erosha (http://artisanstudio.org/erosha) She is a web designer and freelance artist/writer, and active in the Confederate Air Force Previously, she has also been a magician’s assistant, an “extra” in a few movies, a computer operator, a licensed artist in New Orleans’ French Quarter, a soldier in this girl’s U S Army, a baker, and a student of all things interesting She is also a Master Poet in Ardeon’s Poets Guild Some of her publications include Kota Press, The 2River View, Friction Magazine, Niederngasse, Free Zone Quarterly, Countless Horizons, The Critical Poet, Kookamonga Square, and New World Poetry, Clean Sheets, and Beauty for Ashes Her personal poetry sites are Allegory (http://thispoetgirl.com/allegory/) and Pieces of Me (http://thispoetgirl.com)

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Christine Lennon and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Spending I spent all my what ifs and hope thats too quickly- they burned a hole in my pocket just like the five dollar bill my grandfather always tucked in my eight year old hand as he said good bye at the end of an all day visit promises made to little girls with big blue eyes in fairy tales and print ads resemble multi colored facades filled with dime store candy- “spend here” your five dollars your dreams and when that rainy day pulls in and settles over you with a flat gray sky you’ll notice just how much rain drops on window panes remind you of tears- Winter Breath I was smoking a cigarette when I read her words- one stood out cancer those six letters held my gaze- seconds or minutes passed me as I drew the poison deep inside, let it escape again on a ragged breath that feigned a cold winter morning I used to watch the same smokey exhale pass my mother’s lips and on my way to the bus stop, early beneath a flat slate sky, I’d breath in and out- the air so cold the inside of my nose felt like rubber I watched that plume of winter breath escape my mouth and imagined that it was instead cigarette smoke that was long before a word like cancer meant anything Lift Lift is such a brief word- fails to capture what freedom carries wings of aluminum or cloth over wood how nothing anchors or binds me- and I am lift I am content even while the fine hairs on my arms stand stiff as the engine’s growl sends unseen fingers over my skin- Upon My Demise scatter my ashes he said along Skyline Drive where mountains meet evening sky in dusky purple dotted with fireflies and then think of me when Apollo drags his chariot bright orange burning trail beyond the horizon leaving ink-black night in his wake Ties That Bind This ghastly umbilical cord binding my limbs; immobilizing me; oily black against my chafed flesh belongs in empty bottles with discount labels cheap vodka infusions that sharpen words like folded steel samurai swords imposing sentences (the death of 1000 cuts) without possibility of parole steel, cut me loose from this montage of memory; stains on my psyche that glow blue (like the sign that blinks above the package goods store) and grant me the gift of forgetting Baritaria Burning For weeks on end,  the air stunk of smoldering swamp and the sky glowed at dusk and dawn above Baritaria Bayou surreal twilight tacky neon by some unknown renegade artist whose flame- licked brush did not disguise the stench that clung to my clothes; my hair; my walls; my curtains I still smell it when I wear my favorite flannel and I remember the naked trees silhouetted against that neon sky