EDITOR y David Wagoner
EDITORIAL CONSULTANTS POETRY A ‘LNORTHWEST VOLUME NINE NUMBER THREE AUTUMN 1968
EUGENE RUGGLES FivePoems. JAMESM. KEEGAN Two Poems STUART SILVERIVIAN Two Poems HAROLD WITT ‘ Two Poems 10 WILL STUBBS ThreePoems 12 CHARLES BAXTER Two Poems 15 ‘ HELEN SORRELLS Moiave. 17 DANIEL LUSK Penny and Birds Candy 18 /\l.|iX‘ANDER KUO Drowningin Winter . 20
Ml(.'ll/\EL S. HARPER.
Three Poems . 22 I/\Ni'I IIAYMAN TheHogRemembers 25
.‘a|."w"l'l~IR,MADELINE DEFREES Two Poems. . . 26 [I )I IN M()()RI§ Squall 27
[I H IN (.|{|‘il(iI [TON 3-In-| HAI If ( lI/\'l'l''IIiLI) I nmmmucy Room. 29 IHM W’/\\'f\rI/\N lualm Monday1967:DrivingSouthwarcl 30 HAROLD BOND Two Poems 32 BARRY GOLDENSOHN A Womanand Silence . 34 HENRY CARLILE 35 Grcmdmother. ADRIANNE MARCUS Two Poems 37 HARLEY ELLIOTT MassProduction. 39 DONNA BROOK Two Poems 40 PETER WILD ThreePoems 42 RALPH ROBIN 44 ExcuIpotion STANLEY RADHUBER The RoadBock 45 ROBIN MORGAN 46 TheFather. PETER COOLEY 47 TheRooms. JOHNJUDSON 48 Morgan'sComes . STEVEN FOSTER Two Poems 49 JOAN LABOMBARD Ohio: 1925 5| ROBERT HERSHON Two Poems . . . 5') Changeof Address Notifyus promptlywhen you changeyour mailin;-,znlrhu . . Sendboth theold addressandthe new—andthe Z11’ ( ‘mlr nu-ml».. Allow us at least six weeksfor processing:tlw rlun,-. POETRY NORTHWEST AUTUMN 1968 I EugeneRuggles FivePoems VVALKING BENEATH THE GROUND Somethinghas died and I walk a nightso thick and heavyblack in it’s to walk beneaththe it ground. Stars stick throughoverhead like white root endsof weedand grass. The earth keepsmy eyesdry. Behind me the footprints havealreadyfilled with slidinggravel; like thesewords with silence. The woodsare closeahead and theyhave WhatI needto wear. Theygo on goodover the ground. I feel the branchesbend and nearby,hear a stream running slczulyas a vein of ore. \/Vnlkingbeneaththe groundI come :;l\'in[0 skin with the end and the beginning at ;>_r<-onflowingtogetherlike bone. I nuwv bytouchinga11dgo Ilunu;-_|uinto that sound.The air loosens xvlmv this l1:u' Huh! n\\*ni:;'1 3 Where nothingstaysbut the soul I kneel,and drink from rock. Beneaththe groundI start to see andtakethe reflectionthis rock givesback. 0 AFTER LOSING MY CHILDREN I BECOME A DECKHAND 0 Todaythe sun is lockedhard around this ship.The Pacific is poundedlevel with light. VVe move in the middle of a diamond. There is no wind at all. The words fall straightdownward. Once more on this sea I throw out the dice of my breath, while the bodyclingsto its foam. When they’vequitturningto be gatheredbyan emptycurrent, I win every wave in sight. MICHIGAN JULY BLIZZARD All daysun had been fallingthick, deepeningthe drifts of corn stalk and wheat, pressingthe Great Lakes apart. Cowsmovedslowly their tracks covered . bythe swirlingpasture, takingshelterbeneaththe trees that were cakedwith green. 4 |‘IIIII‘- The hugehorsesstood andwaited their beautiful skinstrembling, each one surviving his own blizzardof flies. And two boys layfor hours where shade hadshoveleda clearing. All daythe sky keptthrowingwoodon the sun. TI-IE SENSUALIST A journeyof touch with the luck of smell. And the map and the bed still unmade.Once I knew a city in the of tip any finger. A woman called me angel and I could danceon a nipple. For years I told time byher tongue. Her hand would come into mine safeas a cloud, and I sang what it was to be the sky. When blood beginsto stick in my skin like a leaf, I’ve beenshownwhere autumn is. If I can fall that far. A clean silence, the wind wipingmy mouth. H II M I H W I‘ 3:1‘ SELLING BLOOD For twentydollars a pint sheslipsthe tube in my vein. I turn in time to see the jar beingsplashedwith red, helpingto draw the bloodout, openingand closingmy hand it is a mouth breathing, askingmoney, money, money . . . the bloodrisingin its new skin. I closemy eyesandeat. I hold in my hand the cavities of a nation. JamesM. Keegcm Two Poems A GRAVESTONE CLOSE TO HOME Justas he usedto pursehis lips, then crook and nod his head when something hurt,my father died with perfect acquiescence.The rest of us came unprepared.The housebegan the formal closing—up;windows fell alongthe rooms; we in the fixed air, poisedlike the struck beast, brcatliedto the stroke of a hallwaydoor. WNH‘ lmck to truth sincethat November. Wilh :I smile rcmeinberthe little games wr play:-«Ilw.\‘i But sometimeswhen shehearsmy voice my mother hasto catch herself from panic,and once while shewas dozing her hand went out to where he sat, and turned to rock when she remembered; even I’ve come shoutingout of dreams, to find them true. All the strangers fillingthe room are terriblyfamiliar. 1‘: THE LIGHT KEEPER Somephraseof all I usedto sing, to feelthe morning,teemingwith the sea, buzz i across my brow, ‘l to walk the morningto the tower, to put it out 1 and hearmyselfdevouredbythe rocks, spatlike a wave, devoured—— some phrasestill hums in these last lightingsof the lamp. l’<-irliapsthe last inflectionsof the sun are trickingon the western rocks tonight. It is no matter. Tomorrow,should it speak, I will intone another dancealongthe glaze; .-+|mul u H u I n w I4 ::‘1' 7 l \ Stuart Silvermmz Two Poems THE ANTI—CHAUVINISTIN VERSE (A Replyto Simpson’s“American Poetry”) The onlypoem, the onlypoem I can see is a greatflare burningout the eyes, the indecentgesture of an honestmind. Down on all fours it goes worryingthe tablecloth,the legof your pants, hunchingits shouldersin a corner readyto spoilwhatevergetsin its way; assertingbeingwhere indifferencemakesthe laws. It coughson the road,sickof dirtygas, or leaksout throughtires rich with tread; it sits combingpaintedhair over the mantel waitingfor mom to see herselfflutteringin the fire; it standsin a field gross as the hay~yhumus that givesbackpressureto the askingfoot; it campson the ridgesof mountainsfacedwith granite, smashedinto rockyscars, holdingup rockyhands; it breathescloudsinto clusters beyondvision’sedges, making,out of the dust,new Worldsten millions years ago; it holdsto the wind,a kite fraughtwith immanence, the Hlxv. woodyas oaksandbeeches,its arms stretchingpaper to That’s the onlypoem I see. Ql It isn’t here or there;no one hashis name slappedin red painton the thing’sprow, or knows how to pushit off,knock the blocksdown 0 so it can slipinto the water andbe home. |'lIIl|'} 8 Onlywhen it’s done,and afloat, doesit seem a possiblething, thoughtalk aboutit, then,is alwaysstrained,a trifle theatrical, i1l—mannered,even when most reasonable,and most concerned. DREAMS We dreamtof them goingoff in what seemeddroves in their handslike balloons. Carryingour hopes big Their backswere straightand their arms all true As theymelted into a classicafternoon And we turned over and punchedat the pillow. We had visionsof them dugin on various fronts Beyondthe easy penetrationof Red Crossunits, Their facesseamedand their feet stuck aslant Acrossboxesof shellsand foodandstuff for the wounded And we sighedrememberingearlier,similar dreams. We had a glimpseof them in the eveningon bemusedscreens Which had fixed channelswhoseknobswhirled at a touch mt madenothingappear beyondefficientand stirring lV|:meuvers,and thesepouredout of that soupin a generalhush /\s we turned on our axis fightingthe mattress. \V(- hadtroubleat first adjustingour hopesto the arm on the.line ( /\Ilhougl1mostlythe bodyadjustsand a transfer of skill ‘I‘.:|u-.-:pl:l(‘.(‘.,so the memberremainingmanages,most of the time) '.nl Iwinggoodcitizens,even in dreams,keptstill, .\ml pnlh-.(Ithe pillowandsleptfar into the night. H H II I II \\' l‘ .“-'l' Hm-oldlVitt Two Poems READY FOR REMBRANDT Readyfor Rembrandt,througha chiaroscuro, ‘ havingparkedfar down the Indian summer day, we hike uphillbythe blue scoopof the bay—— cypress on seacliffs,a sweepinghigherView of ruddyBridgeandwhite sailson the blue. But at the top,stretchedfrom the colonnades, pastRodin’s Thinker andqueuedon into the street, a crowd of others hardlymoves in the heat, and still arrives,bycar and bike and bus to see the picturesof his loneliness, to pushandshovefor a glanceat his antiquegolds shimmeringbrightedgedfrom the dark of things and shadowedfacesof imaginings no one liked at the time,fat flesh in its folds in the rightlight,uncomfortablyclose. What are we doingthen,in line with the rest— we know all that and knew it from the first, the publiceye mistakingbestfor worst, and,until much later,blind to the best—— it isn’t worth our time to be so pressed for a déjavu of Rembrandt——sowe step backto the bayview,alongthe summer’sedge where on the frarnelessair the famousBridge ‘ from which so many leapto darker death swoops luminous arcs of afterimagered. 10 1'n|- I am _., 4.:—KF-SA .7 .M....., ».-—_..—_._.=;.g ._..». .. PROGRAMED This morningall thosecleverbrains are figuring how to getlessinto biggerpackages and more decorswirlingon surfaces——- beforeI ever openedit my eye was hookedon skirts so short that I couldlook the wholeway up. I hadn’t even filled my coffeecup androlled the paper out to readthe murders when I felt someone standingin my skin- a twin of hair and very blemishes notingthe brand he usedwhoseother foot my shoewas on. Correctlytouched,that person’spulsewould jump, he’d say his ah’sandno’s like anyone- if he gothit my headwould raise the bump andI am he statisticallyenough to let him pour his preferencein my cup, but he’s a bluff—— and never told what I was thinkingof- that gutless,yessingrobot,adman’sdupe lied to all the polls,and theywon’t know that I don’t fit the square hole theycompute, countingme as one who watchedthe program he swore I viewed. Huh I HWlm".'l' ll W/ill Stubbs ThreePoems THE WASP The swingin me gentles . bonethroughbone.Without touching leafshadowgoesthroughgrass shadow. JenandJonopen doorswhich aren’t there and fake now-father,here-mothertalk of blooddumbhurts and heals. Mylook won’t fit my skull. Mybrain is shadowin shadow, goingone way. A waspedgesthe housewood to gathera wall. I breathe no surface,no core. Onehandshadow playsthe dark light. Then Marycalls,“Look!” shooingthe kids in. Turningto a greenness in the livingroom window, I getofi the swing.“Kill it!” shesays. The can forms my handlike flyhover in a web. The swinggoes without me. I’m seen like my corpse,anotherdepthto miss. The porchturns one—sidedlike a burningsnapshot. “Be careful,”shesays.Without touching leaf shadowgoes throughgrass shadow. The first stepdropsme i down a robin peep.The wasprises, stills at no point,and opensme in ‘ a wordlessnear, near. “Wait ’til it stops,”shesays. Swingchainworks againstone quiet.It touchesits body with its shadow.I touchin with out. 12 I’ 0 Iv ‘I u S‘ The can hissesa secondsky. The wasp dragsand totters,crosses and snapslike a shoestring. I wonderthe bodiesin its body, perfectas the crackdownof a seed.A robin calls. “Thanks,”shesays. The kids snoot and 000. Shesquishesit in kleenex. The screendoorbang—bangs. Mypalmfeelsthe clenchedbeatin the can. I hangin the swing. “Know what?” says Jen.“What?” “The sun sometimesgetsso hot it could catchthe house.” Jonbeatsants with a spoon. The livingroom window is a wall. Our weddingclock,workingout one corner, runs backwardsin a mirror. TRACKS AND STREAMS When the children ask why you saythere’ssomethingI want to see as I leavethe car, cross the road,and come to no lost gate,no one way path onlythe in and out of rustingtracks betweentwo streams,no heaven but unspokenair. Here to and from goes wild, gear teeth in the weeds rootingthe sun in space.QueenAnne’slacebrowns beyondjunkangles.Drypetalslightenme, open my handsin the air Homer breathed. I lore driven lines wear out dark holes. l'l:Ll'o’scave fills plainas an ant hill. HnIt’I‘II Wl'1S’l‘ 13 And here I step less than table shadow, less than the sun in a bull’s eye, less than the star seams along lens cracks, less than a scrap of politician face on a pole, snapping Queen Anne’s lace into a bouquet. A brain from the first place, the stems point out the space in my pulse. The children jump and shout and clap. You smile to wild flowers. So the hub springs, so the plumb line spills. The car starts. Rust layer in rust layer all tracks lead to the heart streaming veins to a mouth with no ghost. Clouds mountain retina once as ripples. THE ANNIVERSARY After the turkey barked, The—Clock—Says cat mooed. The dial stopped at pig. I pulled the ring. The pig tweeted to the spinning finger. Again—-the horse said nothing on the string running in. Where ]ack—In—The—Box pressed dark in his music, the sky fumed black, feathered blue with no window, no door. The pear tree held on. Stripped Raggedy Ann—“I Love You” stitched in a heart——stared one way. ( A chair shadow in the doll’s house fell on a plastic crotch. __f ¢¢y.:/,,,:,, —,., ,., , ,__,7 ,,_,_,, , 4 __ From the doll’s emptyhands, the cap gun’srick—clacl C/JarlesBaxter Two Poems MRS. BARBER IS DEAD After a longillness,whoseevery variation was watched anxiouslyby her largenumber of friends,Mrs. Charles Barber expiredyesterday.. .. Born of affluence,of aristo- cratic tastes and tendencies,she was sociable...to those fortunate enoughto enjoythe pleasureof her acquaintance. She was the center of the social circle in which shemoved. —F1‘agmentof a newspaper obituary(1892) You were the center of your wedding’scircle. You said,“The smilax wreathedthe chandeliers and wound about the pyramid.” Thesewere remembered:the french provincialclock, an olive spoon, a plasterof the graces. Milwaukee sent ice cream. The giftswere set . on tablesthe servants would not touch. You steppedlightlyas a bride to strokethe coin silver in your name. Vour husbandwatchedyou as you walked. lilcvcn years your home becamea court, the air was Consciousof its pleasure.To guardyour own, you gave the slightestmotion of your wrist llmt lumueclthe undeserving.Each loyaltywas grave. Ymi did not becomethe future. HHl('l'llWl'1S’l‘ 15 Perhapsyou rehearsedyour death—scenefor closefriends, and at the skillful rattle waitedfor applause. And then encores: a tissuehand,pulledbystrings, reachesfor an atomizer,finds a vase instead. A paper—whitenarcissustremblesto the floor. The funeral was exclusive,and no one swayed. ' Your familyaskedfor elegancein the pastor'srobes, the processionslow,andall grandeur. You were your age’smannequin. Theyhurtled you to Godwithout a doubt. Servantspulledthe curtains in the mourners’rooms. Dust fell on the china set. Your ringwas touched. Rejectedfriends foundpassagethroughthe windows, nightanimalsran across your bedroomfloor. Your husbandthoughthe saw your featureseverywhere. THE COURT In white she (notquitebreaking with beauty)rises,her arms surroundingthe sphere, it glidesover the net. Gatheringeachnuance, he judgesher aim follows her motions, returningas she waits within light. l Shewatches his return fallingbehind the shimmeringlines swimmingthe length alongthe court’sboundary. 16 POETRY Sheresumes. Now shewill open her swing, the ball rises beyondthe net’sheight to the very edgeof his side, he 1 bends,strikingeach time harder,he breathes and water beginsto . run into his sight, the water is in her eyes,she moves backand forth and her handscontinue moving,moving in the air. Helen Sorrells MOJAVE Promiseme-—never the desert nor even the oasis (thatplungein green, that blessingof water, the palmshintingin the noons ((likeyour heart)) of thingsbetter than this). Promiseme, never the desert thoughit claimsyou, . seducesyou with the light,the lucid air, the stars like friends in the dark. Last night,fevered,I dreamedit again— the old nightmare,the old trap that will get me one day, the cruel reach of it hurlingsand NHRTIIWEST 17 on my eyelids,the dust saffron yellow like sickness,my dried bonesrattling in a kind of music for a kind of dance,the martyredshapes of the Joshuatrees jerkinglike cripples. I weptin your arms in the dream, not tears, onlyrackingshudders. ‘ A gilamonster playedat my feet. I cried in my cravingfor water—fall, light-fallthroughgreen, 1 green—fallthroughtunnels of trees, throughlush orchards,on meadows, on lawns rich with dew in the night’s secret growing,the prophecyof rain crows, and then the rain,rain comingquiet and slow from the hills, rain on the wind from a blowingsky or in squallsfrom a storm—greensea. Sandrodethe wind instead andscourgedmy skin and markedme for life and I woke,havingbitten blood from my lip. Daniel Lus/e PENNY CANDY AND BIRDS Hot sun andthunder, penny candy balloon—bigunder 1 the lilac bush; a thunderingtwelve- penny candybrown sack,like elves, flushingbirds. 18 POETRY __ 7 i flf/ ,,.,._—.__._.:.___,,__‘....,...N_... ,V_,___ AlexanderKuo DROWNING IN VVINTER While I’m on center ice,someone would walk alongthe edgeof winter,or, as in the traditions someone would skatemy way flailinghis arms andyellingat me to getoff the thin ice and stopdigging my way through. It happensthis way once every year. Don’t I know I coulddrown? Didn’t I see the sign? DANGER: THIN ICE. Perhapsthe old masters didn’t havethe hangof it after all,placing a hand-painted warningat the risk of their own safety.Somehow I’ve never had enoughsense to stayofi year after year, nor the knowledge to go through Z0 POETRY with it, retreatingeachyear to the shelter of my cabin,my handsviolent from the numb of rejection.Then I would sit waitingall year for the lake to freezeover again.I beginto do oddthings; wear wild paint,wait for someone to come along andshowme the way, or keepmy sanity byshaking my fingersloosein bed. But too soon the cold sets in againand I can’t putit ofi' any longer.I puton overcoats my fingersdumb from brokenyears of braillework and trudgeoff across the lake. Like last year I’m awed byhow deepthe ice suddenlyis even N()RTHWEST 21 . _ W‘ ._.__...._._,.__.._,-; , V ;__ ___._ ___ _,.. —;.=,_, ... __ N __ .. T. at the thinnest spotI’ve chosento start the digging. The ice chipsaway and someone is yelling at me, like last year. Perhaps ‘ in this silence,nothing breaks for better or worse; onlymy handsreachingdown immersedin the water two thousandyears below with no authorityto hold deadcenter. Michael S. Harper ThreePoems MOLASSES AND THE THREE WITCHES Insideout,the policeannounce there’s a riot~—onCBS— it’s a barnfire. Firemen and police ball—eyeinto the squares: This is the first barnfire in history. 22 POETRY Roll ’em: Ladysays she saw the first kegof molasses in a gunny sack on a hugeblack’sback; a black rose bush on his big—earedhelper; flour and grits in a peltas soft as snow— all gone up in the smoke of the last spiritual of Brers Bear, Rabbit,Fox—— the blacktrinity: I will not go Quiet1y—— I will not go Quietly— I will not go Quiet1y— PROPOSITION 15 ChristmasEve and no presents; the snow’sin the mountains; the fat saint hasn’t gotten his witless teamworkfrom ski trails and mushroomedmountaintops; the lake water is trulysky-blue—— Everybody’swaitingfor dark. The minstrels take the lawns to attract skyflies, comingat midnight,inflight, red-suitedsaint,with his whip and his sackfull of toys: it can’t be Halloween. Mybackyardis coveredwith snow; eightrabbits in reins settletheir cottontailfeet in the molassesearth NORTHWEST 23 and begintheir whimsicaldancing, a figure-eightcycle of rhythmand blues. I see rose—thornedtambourines: see that green honey—dewedfruit, see the white sheetsand pillowcases; see that grayhairedblack storyteller on the porchswing; even you are a believer. AFTERMATI-I Blacksall dead in the streets; the guerrillasrun white sympathizersin, out of the hills; the citystreets are brush fires of the last lovelybattle. There were thosewho did not believe,on both sides, in the furyof thoselast night’shuman fires; ready—madearmies hunt even the freeways. Now the flamessuck kerosenedhuman flesh as the hostagesloom, militarytwigs in this medicinalbarbecue: the country,finally,is white with snow. JaneHaymcm THE HAG REMEMBERS Mybestloves were children,caughtin flight, who shookandbeattheir hearts againstthe cage my arms madeas we kissed. Here on this couchwe lay, herecoupled,here suckedsweet of eachother, here hugged,till I had huggedthem dead. Oneof my loveshad eyesbigas frogs andthick frog’slips,goodto kiss. His white skin illumined the afternoon, his frog’seyes dim. The other child a garden. Thorns were his thumbs,roses bloomedin the palms, the dearbreast a bedof soft earth. He gravelycoveredme andgravelydied but sowedmy flesh first. Goodsdelightme now. Soupthat broodsin the kettle, mushroomsgrowingslylybackof the stairs, the clangingcups,the silentspoons warm my years. Yet—I loathe disorder andthis l 20 NothingI regret no kiss,no crime. I’d onlywish (it grows so still) sometimes,in the night, to hear them cry. NORTHWEST 25 SisterMadelineDeFrees Two Poems NOTES FROM THE TOP STORY The widow under my third floor goes for honeyand henna, ‘ coos nightandmorningto a petparrotwhose 4 languagelacesher name with innuendo. Intricate his ways of gildingthe Hilda. Survivor of a married son and one shadowyhusband,the parrotlinks her half—lifewith whatever comes later. Two flightsup, I sit knittingto rock- and—roll,my headswarmingwith deadbirds who won’t talk and wouldn’t be ableto name me. Eager,I taste a strangetongue,studyto listen in doubles,plume myselfon havingno parrotto call me Mama. That bird grudgesa stepon the stair,a voicein the hall. I hear him earlyand late beingtaught dependence.Therefore,my stepgetslighter, lighter,as I hurrypastthe widow’s cage, the love—seaton the landing,and climb when I’m tired,skipwhen I’m not, to my stop~ gap convent in a convertibleattic. psi THE REAL CANARY ISLANDS The bird conedto the end of that huge Christmaspinestares pastmy childhood like a moultingparrotthat will not talk I whetherto swear or begfor crackers. Unwillingto let go he nestlesinto a screen of electricneedlesgreenerthan mould or envy, to withhold any word I can tame or fondle. AlwaysI am afraid 26 POETRY that the bird will breakin an ornamental showertoo brightto pickup; or come alive in a volleyof dungburningme blind. So far away that I cannot see them unnamedbirds pushred skiffs into purplewaters andsail into sounds too deepto follow. Onlythe pairedflash Q low over wavinggrass in a goldwhirl of never was, tells me that the crow’s signal ‘ is not all,and the dumb parrotis a liar. JobnMoore SQUALL Part In the hazyshapeof my mind I feelthe glassfall. Mywindows Grow dim. When will the weatherbreak, The doorsin me slamto a new wind? Waitingis one thingandthenanother, The track time makesandunmakes. A song—sparrowcalls. The waves On my shorecome like old ocean Againstthe stones andsand. Gulls Paddlefar out like dirtyducks,loosegatherings Noseto the wind that hasn’tyetcome. But will come beforethis daydies. The leaveswill all turn wrong sideto And my brain will clatter like 45$ A brokenweathercockseeking Its own north,its own lost Bearings. NORTHWEST 27 IolmCreighton STOKING THE PANES He was licking“The Middles” when he wokein the ’jack’seye, saw the wick wink in the wax. Afraid he would chuck from smoking staleair,he swung from his sack ‘ into bootsand weatherjacket, I climbedthe rungs up the fo’c’s’le; shut the hatch. Glints in the barrel,stipples of fire pokera glasssky, broken,when his dipperbreaks the fineskin. He standsstoking the panes, clinking—drinkingback throughtheir rings,wherethe racket of swan mutes,when the flockssail up the beach. Miles ofi in the black cradles of spaceblinkingpastthe guy, he’ssailingfor soft obliques— the blur of a fleetwaking out, as the blipof its track peaksin the starrythicket— soundingperhapslike flak’s hail, out of reach. As he backsdownthe scuttle, “Bear jack”opens a bunk eye, winks,and forgets.So he tucks his facebythe cold straking, listeningto the floesnick like clear bells on a placid lake—andfar from the fo’c’s’1e, in the muck of a foxhole, strikes a match. 28 POETRY Hale Clmtfield EMERGENCY ROOM hospitalia:chromescencebeckoning:all that sanitary pseudo—si1ver’sso many foamingkidneybowls to slobberin. herethere are no twenty snowymountains.no eye moves herein this lackluster landscape. no crows. herethe eaglesare rubber eagles. hereblackbirdsare blackbirds, herebloodis a seriesof spotsfrom the doubledoorsto the emergencyeyetray. no flies. no smoking. I perceive,love,the reason theysendme away while they openyour clothesis to keepme from seeingwhat their lights andtheir peersandtheir thinkingswill do to thybody I perceive,love,theyfear lest I scream O N0 HO O N0 0 N o THOSEARENOTMY W1FE’sHANDFULS o no those are not her smoothnesses her little hairs zmd,love,lest all their instrumentalismsprove some credibleinfirmity to unfleshmy sightof you and thusundomy grin Igo I go to cloymy gaze on lobbychairs and hide my faceamid a crowd of glassed—incandybars. NURTI-IVVEST 29 Tom Wizymzm EASTER MONDAY 1967:DRIVING SOUTHWARD To DrrfohnDonne I too am hopefullyheading for the Cityof the Angels. The car drifts throughthe longmorning movingsteadilyacross what was once rockyplainor forest. The car stoppedwould show a hardness lies under this easymotion but in the cushionof speed,this —-——exceptfor the blinkingwhite lines— staysinconsequential.It hints, of course, the dangersanddeathsthat are real enough,as yours were, but so doesthe overturnedtruck near Ashland,the wreck with its flares and flashingred lightson BayBridge.Yet theselatter are clearedaway in that ceremony of police andtow—truck,while discomfortis bannedthrougha competentheater. Constantworries are remembered statisticsandsmashes,fuel, overheating,and distractions likethe crawlingant on my dash. To survive the lane—changingand detours seems to be a matter of steadyapplicationand luck. Over andover again I find myselfWorkingthe wheel through a hundred miles and minor problems: blown fuses (no wipers), rain, a fog. 4.m*»;—~w.« =£u¢.g_fi=.—...... _=1.______g______,?______.. .1 _ , ___ Harold Bond Two Poems DESMOND Youngbrothers,my two neighbors, all nightI heardyour voices boomout againstthe colddark, call againandonce again that queername I came to curse turningover in my sleep. Desmond.Your old bassethound. Sayhe’sgone pawingofi?with some slick suburbanbitch to weave the town wickedly, return homelate and red—eyed hungeringto befed: brothers, whythe alarm? Today you hawkedthe streets up and down. When you went, braveand ready, your act of postponementdone, the poundyieldedup his frame, fingeredbythe tread of tires. You brokeice in your backyard to bellyhim down under, your slapstick,lop—earedlover, at once the scourgeof postrnen andprey for every cat. Later we droveto woodedplaces. Rifles slungon your smallbacks, you scrambledover fences and left me huffingfor air. We lightedleavesandbramble to kindle the bloodturned cold on both edgesof the earth. l The daygone dark,the fire dead, I holleredout your two names onlyto hearyour buckshot boomingout shell after shell, brothersthe heightof hunters gone to retrieveyour own game, huntingout the wood’screatures. DANCING ON WATER Motherswho clutch the handsof your children, what fablecan I claim to assure you theseare not drunkensealegsI walk on? If thereis an unseen line I follow woozilydowna winter street,this is the onlyact of faith I know.You walk distancesaround me, winginglike hens protectivelyover your broods.I take theseintricatestepsonlyin the dance I do. I balk gravitybytiming the one disjointedkneethat will collapse predictablyas a jackknife.Something is specialin the way I walk,sealegs to be sure but drunkenonlyin what blue waters will not buoyme up. These rags of kneebonesfor my fable,can we not call it beautifulthat I move over suchfathornsin this my clumsyfashion? We will say I am dancingon water in my faith. Ladies,I must danceor drown. NORTHWEST 33 BarryGoldemolm A WOMAN AND SILENCE 3 1. The placethat shehasnever goneis wild. That much sheknows. Shefeelsits map careening in her hands,blown bya hiddenwind in wild touching,an anarchyof turn andplunge;tonguescaress the trees,bodies torn andopenin its dark. Then, when she sees his eyesengagewith hers among their friends or in a dim room alone her throat restrainsthe scream of its savage women. 2. Sheattemptsmaturity:to turn, with dignity,away from truth. A knife of mind reveals the smallbonesof her hand: not in death;alive with bloodand active nerves; whenuncovered,cold. A lost phrasereturns: “One shouldnever see one’sbones.” 3. andseeds Seedcataloguesarrive on time, for startingin the window. Guardsagainstthe winter sunlightandthe snow that make the house shadowlessanddizzying.Anchors in the window of season. to peer at. Remindersof time andthe movement 4. Everyfootfall shakesthe house. Cupboardsroar and shower stalls roar back. There is a time for stillness when every presenceseems a messenger: voices;insects the water pipesare , .;;.___g_n_#a_..__4_én4_..§,-A ,,_,,. . . revealgreatpurposes;the drapeof ferns, designsthat must be staredat, in great quiet.The ceilingcracks are going someplacewith significance. 5. Danceis strain. To move with the bonelessgrace of the stalk of grass that swaysagainstthe porch: to be purposelesslike that,the hangof its flower, to acceptthe movement of air, she must be deliberate.To equalit, shemust assert it. Sheknows a dancer’shand, to hang,fall,splaylike that, must be all control. 6. Shesees thosewomen among fat,raggedtrees. Their dancereleases.The linesher mind connects and handshold firm,her life unravels now. The man upstairsasleep intrudes on her,guardsagainsther passage. Old dog.Worn rug. Partner in the old dance whereeverybodymoves in time. Familiar stranger,like the flesh of her back. But to be boneless,sustained byrelease,a deathdance,heldin love, holding,handless. HenryCarlile GRANDMOTHER No one rememberedwhen she first discoveredGod. I-Ier conversionwas suddenas a slammeddoor. Outside,my grandfatherbeatthe doorjamb With his fist,but she,God-furious, W'ould not relent. HURTTIWEST .35 4.=.e..a_...;...\=r;_;1__... .—.¥... _. ,, ,r_. . ,,,, ,,-_.., While Grandmotherrockedin the cradleof belief Readingand praying,readingand praying, Copyingscriptureson tinyscrapsof paper Which peepedlike mice or children From every nook and cranny Of the old house: From cookiejarsand table drawers And kitchencupboards— Even from the Bible itself, Marsupialwith misconceptions, Threateningevery minute to explode, Until one dayher heart did, And we hunkeredin the shadow Of her death, A bad luck come-to-nothingfamily, ' ‘ ‘ Wrongsilncegenesis. T Adrianne Marcus Two Poems THREE MOVES TO WINTER The vineshavegathered A spilledgeographyof birds. Theycome to eat the grapes VVedid not pick.Perched Like leavesamong the twisted Vines are clusteringsof Sparrows, GratingJays.The remnant grapes Are food enoughfor all. Late afternoon,the vines are Stripped;the birds havevanished In the winter air. Everythingis Brittle,goinggrey: no looseintent Of green will hinder winter’s IInR’I‘I—IWEST :37 Coming.Across the sky,a crust Of clouds;Novemberstalks Our land. The snow fills up Nebraska,moves The Great Plains in a white Unbendingwall. Even here, The sun has lost its heat, And thoughit rises firmly In the sky,it folds against The trees,predictsthin shadows, A hungryflock of months. I\I ANIMAL BIPES IMPLUME Two legged,featherless,he dreams Of flight.The heavybonesrespond, Grow light,irrational. No longer balances Weighteddownbyday,he His head,moves into the night; Soaring,dipsand stretches With the dark, Feelingthe air stretch To meet his shape. The easy confidenceof flight Returns. The skybecomesa steady Motion;he glidesin circles,rises With necessitiesof air,wingscurved To instinct. He hoversmotionless Inside this shadow—se1f;the moon he is silver, Dipson his wings. . . now Dark,now brightagain,and surging, Takesthe air in one giganticswing, Onefinal swoop beforehe spirals Into morning:awakened,fixed, And incomplete. Isl HarleyElliott MASS PRODUCTION at night watchingmy fingernailsunder the flickeringbathroomlight I positreasons: cops don’t talk to me, lines couldbe drawn to show I lived a life unthreatened what about this breathingfear violencethen maybe a leftover newsreelof my soul clutteredwith dream eyes walkinginto a hard landscape andforcesthat can turn on you angular greyness of houses streets caughtin their own drama and concealment. it patternsitself in a careful arrangementof eyes the peoplepassby the snow falls whereI’m walking like a humanadvertisement goingsomewhere nervous in a snowstorm the sky producingwhat my desperationcallsfor. H(IR'I‘l[WEST 39 Donna Broo/'2 Two Poems WHEN AIR CONDITIONING FAILS US This psychiatristsweats “Like an honestman,”like A horsemust move. I glow Like Victorian spinsters With lilacs,damnation And daydreamsas he sticks To his black leather chair As I twist in my hell The doctor squirmingand Handsome.I am confused. It is very humid Closedin a room of dark Panelswith the bluefake Orientalthrow rugs And windows so modern don’t the , They open place Beingair conditioned. Somethingfails the body Forcingsalt andwater, But I am not crying! Rather,we are sweating Coolinginto an itch For breezesand icedtea For a repairman To do anythingbut talk. Let us loosenour clothes And lie under the trees, The methodnot being Meant for this discomfort. It has all broken down, 40 POETRY But it mightmean something. This man may be human. I may be human. I VVhoonce worshipedmachines, Who frozein my tracks,who Praisedmyselfdrymay be Liquid.It is time now For artificial means To leaveus. Look at us VVhoburn and swim in it. THE CANDIDATE’S SPEECH No more will the coloredscarves Turn into eggs. The doveshide behindelbows All top hats empty,with the Rabbitsbreedinglike Catholics, Mindingtheir own business. Sequindroppings Litter the stagewe are at. The women in smallcostumes Are on strike. Do we care for These magicians Who performto their mirrors? Saw me in half. I will go to Rotary Wearingthe capeandturban. Put the sabersinto me. I will pullpaper daisies From nowhere. Believe in me. lrl()ll'l‘lIWEST 41 Peter W/ild ThreePoems SAN XAVIER I feedthe mouthof the lion candles tarantulas net the walls, rise in the dome; the snow blowsin beneaththe door shescreams in the wood, frozenfeettwistedin the grain. . . a purplebreast pressesagainstthe window . . . I strike my foreheadto the stone laysweatycoins betweenhis plastertoes— he leersdown from the goldenthrone andas I leave, mouthfull of plastictoys babies’arms jeweledreceptacles, he spitsthem out ; theybite my flesh like spiders, like shatteredglass. . . ice gripsmy wrists I see his footprints across the winter sun. POETRY MAILMAN if the mailman would come back in his little red truck, up the hill tinkling like an ice-cream bell; rabbits andgrackles leapingbeforehim into the roadsidegrapes andsheaves. . . carryingin his crippledhands a bookcoveredwith walnuts andclusters of gold,hornsandgreen lizardsroaringthroughthe vines; it wouldsproutwings, his hat wouldflyOE, andhe standingastounded losinghis warts, wouldsoar throughthe fleshlessafternoon, anddropits purpleentrails on my head like a dove. r\I IDIOT’S SONG VVITI-I A BROKEN STICK I curse the stars andthesecold tortillas; here,take this money, I am generous . . . my car, my machine, what I am. . . like in the Navy. godsthat took my brother anddrovemy father mad; NORTHWEST 43 the fields andthe sweat . . . to getin and getout quick, knowingwhat devils lick the rotten flesh that falls from the Virgin’stoes. . . see this stick,the flesh of woman, with it I beatthe flowersfrom the deepestmidnightsky, and throughwith them the chewed spit petals out . . . yetfearedbyjudges, loved children; by I rapethe pines,known as a man’ among men. Ralp/.2Robin EXCULPATION The technicalvirtuoso, Instructedin publicity, Threw his cardto the secondbalcony Or sawedhis woman in half With the balancethat can weigha pencilscratch, The compressionmachine Capableof burstinga frame at a million pounds Or of not breakingan egg, The microscopethat can makevisible a virus- The simplestform of what we are— And man-madelightningnot lackingat extraordinaryvoltages. If the orchestramisjudgedthe entrails And the secondbalconymisreadthe cards, He was not to blame. I‘OlL"l‘IiV StanleyRadbuber THE ROAD BACK ‘‘ We drovealongthe stream Throughsnow, foundthe pass Impassable,cars caughtin a dream, Thosecrumbscast upon snow To feeda casualStarling, And turned our blind driving Backalongthe stream Blackbythen ruttingthe pure Fabric of mountainandsky. Couldwe havesaidwe were lost And tryinga lastshiveringmatch * To some gatheredtwigs Or peeringfor direction Overthe round,cloudyfaceof a compass, We mighthavehad a storyto tell When we were eldersdockedin chairs Beforefireslit bythe young: How creatures survive in circles In the mindlessdrift of winter. But we turned back, Took the roaddownwithout compass In the dark of our slidingnest, Safelike some mute carolers In the middleof a Christmascard; Down throughsomewherewherewhite meets night (loingsomewherewe couldn’tsee At speedswe couldn’tcomprehend, I huggedbythe oilyblastsof heat, 8!aringoff into the blank of direction. HUM I n wt-:51 45 Robin Morgan THE FATHER “Girls of your age are the freshest,purestthings Our BlessedLord hasmade.” I was justtwelve,andfatherless. The winter carrousel in Central Park was ours. I drank hot chocolate, he chain-smokedcigarettes. Books,relics,blessingswarmedme lessthan his smell,of lime andincense.I was not Catholic,but he still held me on his lap, and sent me flowers on Father’sDay. He was new in my world of women ; my mother andaunts thoughthim strangebut safe, and useful to our needs. I wrote him letters every day, learnedLatin with delight, spentweekendswith his parentsin the country. His motherhadbeendying sincehis birth; for fortyyears shethrived,patientto outlive her husband,take solepossessionof their son. His father told Irish jokes and felt betweenmy legsto warn me not to let boystouch there. He never did that. Often we didn’t touch at all,but sat and watched the spacethat breathedbetweenour hands. He said I would outgrowhim, and every birthday,teasedmy bitterness at others who,he smiled, had gone before me, and would follow. He askedfor the frock I had worn the daywe met, and foldedit in a box tied with satinribbon, 46 POETRY to rememberme as a child,I thought. He calledme Princess. Once,he was drunk,and slappedme in the face. Years later,married andpregnant, I saw them in the parkone summer afternoon, his collar cast away besideher shoesand socks. I-Ier pinaforewas stained. Surprisingthem,I loomed,a green round shadowagainstthe sun, and laughed “You don’t know me!” but pity stungmy eyesat her protectiveanger for him who,kneelingon the grass, lookedas if he saw heat shimmeringwith some dreadedannunciation. PeterCooley THE ROOMS I keepleadingthe blind man throughrooms where the stones are all that’s left. I put his handsto their sides,say they’rewarm, that one’ssoft, he can eat them. I give him names to put on them I makeup as I go. Look, your woman, a friend. . . . I see shadowsof words I’ve givenhim glisten under his fingers,hardeningto light. Till he’sspeakingmy words to the stones,he can hearme, he’sholdingone up, repeatingmy name. I hearit growingharder than stone as I leave. NORTHWEST 47 JolmJudson MORGAN’S CANES Morganhad a limp.Whenhe was twenty—nine he caughthis rightfoot in a traphis brother set for bear,andbecauseof this he took to makingcanes. When he boughtnew sows and plowedthe pig—yardwider he savedwhat roots than it was before, larger snouts. the shoatsmightwaste themselvesupon or hurt their Theymadefor betterwalking,or a sure support conversationwhen the talk for was interrupted he bya suddenwaft from overalls, or felt had and the time come for hawkingspit poundingit of to punctuatethe graveness a point.Theywere and the like alwaysgnarled bronzed, canes I mean, pine sometimessee in the where bark has you woods, splithigh in tree reflects it like the so eveninglight on sun shield burnished and madefrom wrist—sized on a polished or amber, kind old—timersused bendtheir backs wood,the to I-Ie’d to whenthe plowsgotstuck. cure them for a year, close old sow’s like then the grainwith an bone,just a big his bat. othin’ like leagueplayerwith favorite “N sealin’ the the tourists shut a sow for right, way windowswhen he’d twelve car theypassmy place!” shout,near o’clockat Hamm’seachFridaynight,standingat the bar andstrikingthe cane againstthe darker wood, justto demonstratethe pointas fact,or just it in case some younger buck,knowing was Morgan and the smellthat madehim rich now ripeenough to air his pride,mightcare to hold his nose and laugh. 1' U I-.‘l M V StevenFoster Two Poems ON A GOOD MATTRESS,VVARM MILK dozing,our cats grow into the spread. the bedroomis gravidtonight, like the square-belliedtrucks on Interstate 30 andthe men who guardthem throughthe dark. Nancyhasslippedfrom a dull book into relaxeddelirium; breastsslackenedunder the sheet, shesleepsdead,but murmurs, the clockseemingto labor betweenher sprawledlegs. doesn’tsheknow shehasbecomea cat after a full day’smeal—— or a mountain,or a bendingbranch, or a sultrydayin Kansas? once when shethoughtshewas alone sheskippedacross the grass of the meadowbehindPole Mountain, and was the meadow. the worn brown purse is her too. lll:l.‘»‘t(’.I‘of the houseam I, now: l’1~:Ac12a blueprinton white donecarefullybythis hand——« which even as it grows complete underthe spellof entire sleep, wnvcrs, runs red and yellowdownthe page: HUN I II W l'}.‘i'l' 4-9 dissolvesthings,woman, cat and flesh, spreadinginto the colorsand shapes of a ragman’swagon. I can’t resistdrowningin blue-green. gluedtogetherwith goldleaf a shatteredvase is a brain,is sleep— is a spider’sweb at dawn. MR. KELLY’S CANCER Nine weekshe bloatedand starved, a stumpstuffed with mistletoe, while Mrs. KellyfrenziedGod at Wednesdaynightprayer meetings. Who elsecould preachthe highschoolboys sheandthe elderssaid. Theywent to purge that fruitless pregnancy, their handson his head, anointingwith prayers,vegetableoil, believingtheir Godand St. James, or whateverdid burn Kellydownfor a while—— cleanas a knife scouredin Bled for Praise. Whythen did Kellylater up and die, beforemore prayers could unrealizethe fact, strangledbyhis badorganicluck? The highschoolboysWhoredand drank, lost their burningcauses, their shepherdof certainty. Their green lust chilled again the veins of Mr. Kelly, cloggedthe narrow ways to his presumption. PHI’ | RI $ JoanLaBombard OHIO: 1925 Now at the dark’sperpetualdescent, I rememberthe hoses,loopedlike snakes, The arcs of silver spilledin little lakes, All that rainbow bridgeto summer, bent Under the hangingstars. Theyswung so low Our shirt-sleevedfathers grazedthem longago; Giantswith silver whips,who couldcrack down A showerof stars to coolourparchinglawn. That time of summer, there was alwaystime. Shrill voicescounting:twenty,readyor not, And bodieslightas moths or a firefly’s Glimmer among the elms and then wink out, Or at the statue—maker’ssuddenwhim, Swingfrom his handin easyequipoise, Creatingmarblemythsof girlsand boys, While the water falls like silver over them. Our porchesbloomedwith shyand spinsteraunts, Daisy,Olivia,Elizabeth— ’.l‘heir names a nosegayor an orchard’sbreath; Amongthe pottedferns and bric—a—brac 'l‘hcyflutteredfans or flirted gauzysleeves, (?:ugc(lin a latticework of trumpetleaves, And madea constant litanyof talk ’l'i|l porchesdarkenedand the cage went black. ./\ml in the smotheredfurnace of the street A Immlly Ford goes byon muffledwheels; l’.n\IH::.n “ H u u 1 H w I< :;'r 51 g ti C01446home.The coast is clear. The river’s voice Ravelsthe labyrinthof spaceand time. dance I The blurred canoes, the pavilionswim In wrinkled splendoron the water’s face And the ridinglightsof towns alongthat shore Hanglike a chain of tears we bargainedfor VVhenfirst we set our small boatsbobbingfree, And never dreamedthe river flowedaway. Here in anothertown the sprinklersjewel The blue suburbandark with their clear fall, And other voiceschantthe ritual Of lost and found bypatioand pool And other children streak like meteors In the forbiddencountryof the street On tipsywheelsor skittish,silver feet— The kicked can tinkles sweetlydownthe years. I rememberthe hoses’steadyare And women gentleas the names theybore On porchesspicedwith rose or lavender, Hunghighlike cages on the honeyeddark; Daisy,Olivia,goodnight,goodm'ght— As clear andchangelessas enduringmyth, The water falls throughtime of its own Weight And singswith the Ohio’srisen breath. Robert H ersbon Two Poems WHAT THEBELLHOP SAW breakfastin a charlotte luncheonette shadowsof miami birds on the cleanstreets of denver i ate too much dessert |'l|| [H1 the bathroomgrows bigger and biggerand bigger facesand kneesfragmented in a hundredmirrors a door moves an army marches i take a stepforward my facesgrowingbigger and biggerand bigger this cityis not my city downtownoaklandpaintedon the windows Cagneymoviesand too much breakfast bostonstones make my coffeegrey i readthe kansascitystar in bed one hand in my pants the television getschannel2 on channel 5 and channel 7 on channel3 it turns itself off the sore on my nose doesnot heal there is a knock on the door it is yesterdaykneestogether requestingpermission to leave the room CHOOSING A COSTUME 1. i mukl go as you you as me Inphlingyour shorts up with tighthands In mnw to our hosts as our hosts to mum-. as ourselves ul|I' lzm-scarvedin our backs lnul-.iI|;'_out 1l.II|lI‘l1l. lmuplcinsgarreta. hobart tlmmzu; :|. ll(tl1(lI‘lCl(Swilliam r. king l Home I II \\ I '.'I min andbill Vic and sade laughingwhile we dress the animalsalwayswatching the sneezingelephantthe drunkenmonkey as miss mousie and the frog 3. cat politelyringsthe bell theres plentyof time this delicatewire construction beingan exact replicamany times enlarged of the central nervous system of a squirrelas the bullet strikes oddsor evens bullet or squirrel 2. as our blondemothersholdinghands across blondenebraska as the bitter painof our fathers wrappedin newspapers my hard~eyedgrandfather hidinghis baldnessat 85 watchingfrom the back of the store as my father sells a pairof kitchen curtains your fatherslost plays my fatherspoem in the journal-american your fathers remote broadcasts from the claremonthotel my fathers cardsyour fathers wine your grandfathersthe lawyers the hollywoodlawyereatinglima beans in his emptyhouseand the man who namedhis three sons john I‘nI< I NV my great—grandfatherthe rabbi singingat the sedersin the bronx in tophat and cutaway all his sons were engineers your great-grandfatherthe goldminer who alwayspissedoutside now our son his barkingcough our nightsour terror waitingfor him to strangle 3. i choosea skeletoncostume one of a thousandfrom woolworths we call them all woolworths no matter what theycall themselves i havelearnedto be secure havingno names andall names you are little bo peep a bonnethidesyour eyesand your sheep are strayingone byone and theywill not return andtheywill not be missed take your time dressslowly draw one costume over the other slowly the partywill not beginuntil we arrive if then andwhen we walk throughthe door to greetthe frozen rabbits the shakingkings havingrememberedwhat we wantedto be we will be to the surpriseof all aln-sserljustthe same =sI In I II \'\' I‘ .‘L'|‘ 55 About Our Contributors EUGENERUGGLES,a merchant seaman from BodegaBay,California,last ap- pearedin our Winter 1966-67issue. JAMESM. KEEGAN,a Jesuitprieststudyingin Boston,publishedhis first poems in this magazine. A STUARTSILVERMANlives and teachesin Chicago. HAROLDWITT is a frequentcontributor to this and nearlyevery other literary magazinein the country. ‘N ILL STUBBSlives in Latrobe,Pennsylvania. CHARLESBAXTERis a senior at Macalester Collegein St. Paul,Minnesota. These are his first publishedpoems. HELEN SORRELLSlives in Pacific Palisades,California. DANIELLUSK is a graduatestudentat the Universityof Missouri. ALEXANDERKUO teachescreative writingat Wisconsin State University,Osh- kosh. MICHAELS. HARPER,from Brooklyn,is teachingEnglishand Negrohistoryand literature at Contra CostaCollegein San Pablo,California. JANEHAYMAN teachesgradeschool in SantaFe. SISTERMADELINEDEFREES,better known to our readersas Sister MaryGilbert, teachesat the Universityof Montana. JOHNMOOREis also a professorat the Universityof Montana. JOHNCREIGHTONis a cargo inspectorand oystermanat CambridgePort,Mary- land. HALE CHATFIELDeditsH imm PoetryReview. TOM WAYMAN is a graduatestudent at Irvine. HAROLDBoND’s first book,Daiiciiigon the Water,will be publishedby The CurnmingtonPressin 1969. BARRYGoLDENsoHNteachesat GoddardCollege,Plainfield,Vermont. HENRYCARLILEteachesat Portland State Collegein Oregon. ADRIANNEMARCUSlives in San Rafael,California,and has publishedwidely. HARLEYELLIOTTworks for the SyracuseUniversityPress. DONNABROOKattendedthe Universityof Michigan.This is her first appc.ar:nn-<- in any magazine. PETERW1LD’sfirst book,The Aftewiooiiiii D11?/fi'lv(I_\',was publishedthis y('.'u‘ by the Art Associationof Cincinnati. RALPHROBINteachescreative writing at The American Universityin Wnulu ington,D.C. STANLEYRADHUBERteachesat Portland State College. ROBINMORGAN,poetand free—lanceeditor,lives in New York. PETERC0oLEYis a graduatestudentat the Universityof Iowa. JOHNJUDs0Nteachesat Wisconsin State University,La Crosstt. STEVENFosTERnow teachesEnglishat SanFranciscoState Coll<-p,v. JOANLABOMBARD,whose work has appearedin many 1n:1;::17.i11vs.livw. In '-ml . Monica. ROBERT‘HERsnoN's second book,Grocer-_vLists, was pnblislu-«II1‘: «'n|l\ I». DcanlmgPress. 50 PoetryNorthwestPrize Awards,1968 HELEN BULLISPRIZE:$100 .\':m(lraMcPherson,for “Two Poems”(Summer,1967)and “Three Poems”(Winter,1966-67) GwenHead,for “Five Poems” (Spring,1967) Previous Winners HaydenCarruth (1962) JohnLogan(1963) Donald Finkel (1964) Mona Van Duyn(1965) Richard Hugo(1966) Winlickl TownleyScottandKatie LO1.1Ch1’l611’l1(1967) T1.n«;ono1<1~:ROETHKEPRIZE:$50 JohnWoods,for “Six Poems” (Autumn,1967) Previous I/Vinners Carol Hall (1963) lticlmrd I lugoandKenneth 0. Hanson (1964) KennethO. Hanson (1965) William Stafford (1966) CarolynStoloff(1967)