Dilettanti
1996
Online Poetry
Contents
- Scott Blount
- Something for Saturday
- Kelly Hicks
- Solstice
- Untitled
- Amaris Smith
- October
- There is a Building
- Mark Box
- Dance of Dances
- Laura Atkins
- Quilted Memories
- Wyn Fortenberry
- Hardcore Jesus
- Flowery Skirts
Something for Saturday
Scott Blount
rats. nothing.
i've been blowing on
this stick
this pipe
this clarinet
and...
rats. never.
my lips seem
out-of-tuneness
and blister-red
from blowing.
review my notes,
sounds playing on my albums,
confidently
then...
rats. great nothing.
not asking for
Coltrane,
no moon-washed
praise to God
on vinyl.
just sound
moving from the night
through my body
to my
fingers...
...rats.
Solstice
Kelly Hicks
On summer nights,
worn down by the tedious details
of living that was meant to be
at its most relaxed,
they slept in different rooms.
The train passed several times
in the night,
the faraway sound of the engineer's horn
droning from miles away,
weaving itself into their dreams.
The dreamers never stirred.
Trains rumbled by,
their lumbering weight scraping the tracks
and releasing sparks of pressure.
Some nights,
one or the other stood awake
on the balconies, sleepless,
watching the trains pass.
They wondered about journeys,
destinations, travelers.
On those nights they returned
to seperate beds,
wistful for something that they
could not name.
They spent the early hours
of the morning
staring into dark,
listening to silence,
wishing for blank dreams
to take the place of the ache
that never left their souls.
On summer nights like those,
dawn came after an eternity of sighs
greeted with gazes of weariness.
Another day had begun,
another chance to share a careful smile
and listen to the trains passing.
Untitled
Kelly Hicks
In the still of the night, when talent seemed most promising
and held no witness to my hesitant entrance
no lofty ideals to attempt
Only time to measure slowly, preciously
hoping that patience would spin a simple bowl
from dust to clay, mud to a solid form
A little muscle ached from hours of leaning
over a relentlessly revolving wheel;
the quiet cold feel of the clay yielding
drawn up over and over through my fingers.
Finally a shaky result emerged from my hands;
I let the wheel slow to a stop,
shook my head nearly imperceptibly, knowing
that there would be no nod of silent approval.
So light would never touch it from the row
of darkened windows, empty still after hours.
Leaving the room just as I found it,
I turned off the humming light
and shut the door as softly as I could.
October
Amaris Smith
listening to the world
with winter coming on
the air is cold but gentle yet
Like old paintings of a gentle Death
muted and soft. Lights in the darkness
only mellow, make things more specific
A solitary figure walking by
seems more lonely, conversation
a mystic thing as it fades away
out of sight
Voices invisible, unlike winter itself
which rests its fingers on my eyes
through the half-open window,
fragile seeming yet
unmerciful --
everything I hear is a pause
between breaths. The joyful voices echo
and lose all humanity, laughter like that
of wolves and jackals: words are lost
Can you tell it is October
October, with winter curling down
to brush its cold darkness
against my cheek
There is a Building
Amaris Smith
There's a building guarded by trees,
sheltered and protected from any cruel eye dismissive,
that I love; and
it has lately been determined
this building is useful and necessary,
its history attractive,
it needs a new purpose, they say;
But I know this old housing,
I have pried open its paralyzed long-propped doors
I have walked in its dusk
smelling of paper and aging passions,
I have listened for the voices of its halls
Behind the thinnest sheen of years
these long lost voices sound,
the voices of girls my age;
Their words hang faded in the air,
They are the dust that sleeps in the cracks
of the walls and floors, that mutes
the porcelain basins and doorknobs;
A closet holds only a runaway broken brush,
the brush holds a twist of red hair,
the hair holds my attention, my imagination;
Oh, let this building be,
let the dust keep its peace, let them rest
where they lived, these girls,
in this place where the only speech
is the dance of motes
in a ray of sun
in this empty room.
Dance of Dances
Mark Box
With the rythm of your voice
My inner child begins to dance
Free with grace and smooth accord
The notes to play take me away
Free of all inhibitions and fear
I dance as though it were my last
Free to breath and drift away
My soul dances with no body movements
Free at last my mind erupts
All thoghts are gone except just one
The dance of dances
I danced alone.
Quilted Memories
Laura Atkins
My grandmother was always quilting using
needles, thimbles, cardboard squares, scissors,
wooden frames, and white cotten batting.
My childhood dreams were fastened tightly,
she wrote them in with thread.
Each square is a peice of something old.
Scraps of my baby blanket, pieces of my Sunday dress.
She used colored peices or red, gold, green, and blue,
cut in shapes of rectangles, triangles, and squares.
They were delicately pieced to form a Texas Star.
The star is placed in the center of each large block,
backed with blue taken right out of the sky.
These blocks are bordered with small stripes,
made from dad's corduroy jeans and flannel shirts.
She bound the edges with a round whip stitch,
which are now torn, ripped, frayed, and ragged.
Corners have come unstiched with time.
The satin stars still shine and glitter in the light.
On cold, winter days this quilt is warm.
It holds my memories of life.
It tells a story of precious times.
Parts of dreams that have come and gone.
Before my grandmother passed away,
she gave this special quilt to me.
I see her love in each tiny stitch.
I feel close to her when I hold it tight.
As I fold my quilt into a small square,
Pieces of my life are put away on a shelf.
Until the next time I take it down,
My memories will stay folded there.
Hardcore Jesus
Wyn Fortenberry
Get punk rock about Jesus.
Everyone jiggle your heads.
Praise and exhalt his name.
Join hands to feel his powerful surge
race throughout your body.
Fill your hearts with hope and joy.
Break through the superficial barriers
that conceal his name so that others
may rejoice and dance about.
Flowery Skirts
Wyn Fortenberry
I see three girls in a row wearing flowing flowery skirts.
One wears an austere face.
Through her eyes leads to a world where one man beats
her mind senseless until it bleeds ill will to all males.
Another covers herself in decorative paints.
It inhibits the self-confidence of natural beauty to seep
through her pores.
Has she lost all faith in her peers or is it clear where
her objectives lie.
The third sits quietly, gracing me with her timid smile.
She knows how I feel and is flattered sincerely.
The nature about her could crush the hardest stone to
dust, but the fear of knowing her allows me to
remain a coward.
I try to avert my eyes from her presence.
I can't stand the reality that rests, but the flowery
skirts work as a panacea for my pain.
