I ', I ) I 'I'( )I' POETRY NORTHWEST I );(( i<1 (V;(~<oner + V O L U M E N I N E N UM B E R ON E SPRING 1968 I:l>l l < )RIAI. CDNs t ) I .TANT s :<I< Is(>l) I l<»l icy, I'r nlk Jones. 4'illia») H..'<latcbett THEODORE ROETHKE The Things I Steal from Sleep (from the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke) ( ()VI:R I )1:.SIGN I'.DITORIAI. A s s l s TAN T CAROLYN STOLOFF Four Poems 4111119OWns I.(1 Lei»lbacller CAROL HA.LL The Absent Quartet . 10 I.EWIS TURCO The Sideboard 13 ROBERT HERSI-ION Two Poems ALVIN GREENBERG Cover froln a s)()ni inle draudnd( by the nationally New Year's Eve, 'l966 17 tenor<(n sc(dptor and painter Hilda 3forris o f Portland JAMES MAUCH Three Poems STEPHEN KESSLER A Sonic Boom! 22 HEATHER McHUGH Stream of Kitcheness 22 STUART SILVERMAN BOARD or AD vl s ERs Two Poems Leonie Ada»Is, Louise 13ogan, Robert I'itzgerttld, Robert B. Heiln );(», CRAIG CURTIS Stanley Kttnitz, J;(clcson Matltews, Arnol<1 .itein Two Poems 25 BRENT LOGAN Sonnet in Her Absence WILLIAM HARMON Two Poems 27 POETRY NORTHWEST SPRI NG 1968 VOLUME IX, NUMBER 1 BENJAMIN SALTMAN Sunny Engines 29 Published quarterly by the University of Washington. Subscriptio»s an<1(»;»»( DAVID WIDENER scripts should be sent to Po e try N o r t t(u'cst, Parrington Ha l l, U » i v crsily Two Poems Washington, Seattle, Washington 98105. Not responsible for unsolicile<l »»»»( 30 scripts; all submissions must be accon)panied bv a. stam»cd„ scl I-;(<l<l(.< ss«l JOHN TAYLOR envelope. Subscription rate, $3.50 per year; single copies, $1.00. Two Poems 33 ARTHUR Ic. OBKRG © 1968 by the University of Washington Two Poems l)is(ributc(l by B. DeBoer, 188 High Street, Nutley, N.J. 07110; a»<l MICHAEL VA1<iiWAI.LKGHKN West. by 1.-S Distributors, 552 McAllister Street, Sa» 1 (a»ciscn, (';(lil'. ')din,' Two Poems ROBLKY' WILSON, JR. The Marauder 39 P O E T R Y N O R T H W E S T STANLEY COOPERMAN Two Poems 40 S PRI N G 1 9 6 8 M ORTON M A R C U S Two Poems 42 FRANCES COLVIN The Great Museum Robbery THE THINGS I STEAL F ROM SLEEP RAMONA WEEKS 47 Two Poems (frotttthe notebooks of Theodore Roethke ) ADRIEN STOUTKNBURG Science Non-Fiction . 49 Feeling exists in time, and in a dream. SHIRLEY KAUFMAN The things I steal from sleep are what I am. Two Poems 50 W. R. MOSES August: Lake of the Woods 53 Why is poetry scary? In truth, the diabolical comes with its desolations, Its voices, its sulphurous shimmers, On desertand plain, over the warped bedstead, T he wavering delusional flowers.. Change of Address The minute rages in the clock. Notify us promptly when you change your mailing address. Send both the old address and the new — and the ZIP Code numbers. My bane, my joy, Allow us at least six weeks for processing the change. My bandy-legged boy, Came roaring down that manicroad .. Harvard is not enough. I walk in this great decay: The woods wet by the wind, The dying moss, the brown F eatures of time's delay.. I seem to be in darkness all the time. NORTHWEST He believes too much, and he knows too much, That's what we call mad. Now certain names knock on us like a bell. Who would believe the meaning of a stick? There's no one here to tell us we are ill; Reared in another place, he came to woe The loved adore the loved; the sick the sick .. As to his dinner: it was the thing to do .. I am undone by knowing what I've done. Shall the gnarled soul Be reminded again Running from God's a long race, and it always ends in a dead heat. Of anold motion, A slapping of water? For hell is always here: upon the chair And in these papers strewn upon the Hoor. There is suffering and imaginary suffering. Both can be productive of art. I'm tired. Is that maturity? I lost what I found On a dark day, Do I stink the rolling air? A mind unsound This guilt's enough for towns of men: I n extremity. I keep it navel-tight; My pride tilting at sticks, I put this darkness in the air. The mirror told a dirty joke. When shadows start, a changeling steps Into my dearest dream. A heavenly swearing, tearing off a piece of the wind with his wild w ords.. I'm waiting for what I am. He stretched himself into the greatest good, I'm feeling with my feet Only to break the borders of his mind: To make myself complete. All these went spinning like a cloudy day. 0 God, we' re all so full of splits. Can I have Blake cutting an orange'. There are brains strewn with nothing but bones. My hair and my ear, my most local condition, O.K. You' re in agony: make with an agony poem. My mile-high meringue, my prodigious pudding .. I tasted, and I ate the world. A mere dying-beetleenergy. I once took third place in a hog-calling contest. POETRY NORTHWEST I fear I have no mind at all. Curolye Stolon 0 ye motions in air, the chameleons of disorder! Four Poems The shape of the mind changes, and we move slow and silvery. What stamp is on my brow, most particular Toe? IS THIS THE P L A CE ? The bright features of lost angels: Yes, yes, T he bright stars say.. Awakened from death in a strange city by a bolt of sun, or a maid's key­ Something in me doesn't want to be a poet. the closetdoor isajar in a hotel room that smells of hot paper. I praise myself with howls. Voices scribble the ear; a bell rings; there's a squeal in the works of a clothesline; This swarm of swells betrays, engines rattle the knobs of a chest; The small trees swirl around, scooped out, we have no defense. From nests And only motion stays The thin wafts of the ground, of linens we rise damp stripped T he chilly, daft profound. of familiarhands. There's nothing to do but ripple the broad calm of avenues I was not good enough for my own madness. trailing a wing and a shadow across the piazza at noon. If we dip The birds are going, and their slight songs. I am ready fora deeper silence. in narrow streets to pry for local graffiti we see pigeon women at windows, heavy breasts on sills of their arms, For a moment, he almost knew what he was doing. mouths full of names: Giovanni, Leonardo, Armando, plump as worms. No way back through the long arbors of the dead. Our parade ofloons floats by A desire to love myself in another world. unconcerned policemen; greedy eyes widen to old geography. We pass barriers of backs. Is this the place? When am I sick? When am I well? Not even God, I think, could tell. We feel a tug at the sleeve and wheel, ready to dive. I feel sorry for the cave, said the Bear. A boy with something to sell! We reach out — to touch a wall. In his grave he went on dying. (arranged by David 8'agoner ) POETRY NORTHWEST I inch my way bhndly CHRONICLE through midnight, the deserted avenue. for Jean Where is he? I clutch the hilt Lost in the shower of faucets my hand closed on when I fell. in clashing cymbals of dishes it's March — I' ve lost my hands Does it hold a steel blade? or the prop of a spoiled child. cold crockery cuts my ankles and the wheels split This must be my street. Though he holds my thumping heart in his pocket The children tug my apron the wounds of their mouths open I drag my meat from folds of his cloak and hope the cop on the beat they squeeze me, screaming, with tears in April a clatter of hail will stroll through the bar door the roof of my mouth is frozen twirling his stick, that he' ll look up and down when I call They mount my thighs their ponies and not mistake me for a criminal. to pummel the toys of my breasts the toys of my breasts — their rabbits Yes, the hand of authority to pick at my eyes' raisins lifts me, slips me my key. as their fevers rise in May Mother croons inmy ear: I am here, I am here, June — Ivacuum around them roots stamped in the soil as I splash in her warm spring not to be reached with reason opening circles into morning. their thorns in my mesh all winter their joints the hips of my roses. P OET IN TOW N FROM A CRIB W IT H H I G H S I DES Eyes rising from under ponds of classes, you, scholarly to the blunt At the throat of the cathedral he pulled point of a pun, run the wool over my light. I toppled from those who love you, who would hold like a paper doll, my hat you even by a long cord began to bite my temples. like a dog in the dangerous country. Lonely loose-jointed and afraid of nothing Skin numb, mouth dry, but nobody, quietly frantic in your hotel knees dragging snow, N ORT H W E S T POETRY you call from the deep dictionary well And now I spin on the silky tide for a touch of warmth, a short stop In a whirlpool wider than my heart, in somebody else's tomb.