October 22-28, 2001: Michael Burch and Don Campbell

Bio (auto)

Michael R Burch is the poetry editor of The HyperTexts and is a moderator on Rigorous Analysis, one of the top interactive poetry forums on the Internet He was nominated for the 1999 Pushcart Prize by The Aurorean, and his work has appeared in over 60 publications, including Poetry Magazine, ByLine, Unlikely Stories, Light Quarterly, Black Bear Review, The Lyric, Poet Lore, Lonzie’s Fried Chicken, Icon, Writer’s Digest, Writer’s Journal and Writer’s Gazette.

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

Squall There, in that sunny arbor, in the aureate light filtering through the waxy leaves of a stunted banana tree, I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath, the clattery implosions and copper-bright bursts of the bottoms of pots and pans I saw your swollen goddess’s belly wobble and heave in pregnant indignation, turned tail, and ran. Knitting I am besieged with kindnesses; sometimes I laugh, delighted for a moment, then resume the more seemly occupation of my craft I do not taste the candies; the perfume of roses is uplifted in a draft that vanishes into the ceiling’s fans that spin like old propellers till the room is full of ghosts and bits of yarn; the task is not to knit, but not to end too soon. Privilege This poem is dedicated to Harvey Stanbrough, who was nominated for the 1999 Pulitzer Prize and has written passionately and eloquently about the horror and absurdity of war in “Lessons for a Barren Population “ No, I will never know what you saw or what you felt, thrust into the maw of Eternity, watching the mortars nightly greedily making their rounds, hearing the soft damp hiss of men’s souls like helium escaping their collapsing torn bodies, or lying alone, feeling the great roar of your own heart But I know: there is a bitter knowledge of death I have not achieved, and in thankful ignorance, and especially for my son and for all who benefit so easily at so unthinkable a price, I thank you. Flight 93 I held the switch in rigid fingers, asked why did if feel so cold, so purposeless, inordinate in weight, beyond my grasp? Vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms as, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch to OFF I heard the klaxon’s shrill alarms like vulture’s shriekings Earthward, in a stall we floated earthward wings outstretched, aghast like Icarus as through the void we fell till nothing was so beautiful, so blue, so vivid as that moment And I held an image of your face, and dreamed I flew into your arms The earth rushed up I knew such comfort, in that moment, loving you. Veiled She has belief without understanding and in her crutchwork shack she is much like us tamping the bread into edible forms, regarding her children at play with something akin to relief ignoring the towers ablaze in the distance because they are not revelations but things of glass, easily shattered and if you were to ask her, she might say: sometimes God visits his wrath upon an impious nation for its leaders’ sins, and we might agree: seeing her mutilations.

Don Campbell
sensitive@earthlink.net

Bio (auto)

Don “Kingfisher” Campbell submits to you his favorite self-composed poems featuring titles that start with the letters “E” and “F ”  Fast and easy But life is not usually like that, of course Don’s been working for 17 years teaching poetry in schools Yes, and that same guy called “Kingfisher” has been hosting poetry readings for a mere five years Why, a scant two years ago, Campbell won a Poetry In The Windows award If this keeps up

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

Edgar Winter Again This time unlike when I was a teenager I have a real good time naked on the bed downing Pina Colada while “We All Had A Real Good Time” comes out of the portable my wife’s fingers drum on my ass El Nino As a bald baby I was moved near a reservoir to a tract house with a garage door branded Z Z My Grecian Formula haired father turned on the TV and the Trix rabbit jumped onto a box on our formica dining table I admired Dad’s mahogany console stereo oozing music for modern lovers Tijuana Brass Whipped Cream And Other Delights a vinyl sheriff’s star stuck on the front door pane Shouted re-elect Peter Pitchess as my auburn-coiffed mom opened her favorite tome Jane Dixon’s astrology pulled from the woodgrain- laminated-particleboard bookcase I grew in evolving Polaroid pictures smiling beside a “tree” assembled for Christmas Hugging my Strange Change plastic creature maker never thinking for a moment I’d turn into a poet Entering the John Muir Wilderness Oh, see the sun reflect on that lake Looks like the front of the Coors beer can Yeah, and how the snow nestles the rocks on the side of that mountain Just like a Yes album cover Hey, a strip of toilet paper trailing out of that log I found a broken coffee cup! Then, seeing the sun disappear behind the jagged horizon, the Angelenos stop in their Reeboks, look up at the ascending trail, and wheeze, “We better turn back “ Five Hours Kyla and I are together almost everyday after school We’re always hungry to bike to Ralphs for a kid’s meal She can only eat half a sandwich so I get the other with her unwanted Apple sometimes raisins she even shares cookies while doing homework We finish straddle our bikes again back home Why? We want to see The Simpsons episodes and whatever’s inbetween It’s our ritual waiting for Mami (mi amor) to make high heel steps Key in the door swing and then “Mami!”