{begin} inter\face 10 Spring 1995 ========================================================================== This issue of inter\face is dedicated to Women on the Net. Contributors to this edition of inter\face: ------------------------------------------- Allegra Sloman antoinette claypoole Holly Bittner Nadya Lawson Druis Beaseley Tanya Manning Eliza McGrand ========================================================================== Please see the end of this document for subscription and contribution information and the address of our world wide web page. ========================================================================== inter\face is: An electronic literary magazine dedicated to exploring the relationship between poetry and electronic media. inter\face looks forward at the future of poetry through the acceptance, knowledge, and utilization of the ideas of past and present. inter\face is about language and writing, not computers. to be a woman on the net is to live in the confluence of irritation and exhultation . to see the gap . to live the gap . to regroup by being alone . it is to twist in the wind of privilege while hearing the singing just over the hill . -as We are phoneixs rising, Our mouths snatching like fire from the ashes of burnt voices, dried tongues and closed throats We are the speading dawns whose welkins know no end to their children-- sky, ocean, mountains, hope, love, life, Whose wombs knows all that grows above away beyond this earth stars, ice, novas Whose minds know that conquest starts with closed deafness, myopism, atrophy -our wings know not these things -tm ========================================================================== Allegra Sloman -------------- argella@smegheads.montreal.qc.ca -------------------------------- IN COLOURS UNSUSPECTED (in memory of Paul Blackburn) looking...subsequently thinking and feeling. The body still a quarry, to the end and beyond. (He used to hitch-hike to see Ezra. Their own poet(h)ics, what to say in all the welter, why bother speaking of it, why keep trying.) the gulls a thread of lust and contemplation (he died, _entered the grove_, before that provoking old man, was born and died in the fall) after you die, is the world the smallest portion of your legacy? o god, that word again...try dressing it, a doll or four-in-one puppet Red Riding Hood, Grandma the wolf, the woodcutter a rowdy poetry...unh...the intensely sensate poetry of ...eeyah...lovely stuff and buoys and gulls and intersecting lines of love, the shoving leopard of poetry (?) I can imagine sitting with him, cadging his cigarettes, coughing reflexively and laughing, mostly (as I do sometimes) listening the voice of it, a/cross the hours of a lifetime, finite printing and pruning of _a life's work_ and living it - in simultaneity Travel. I have never been south of Buffalo. He picks out Dutch squares for me to walk around and about. There is Spain, as seen from the marblehard floor of all places, a bank. Is it that important, to move this body through space, to be elsewhere and other? To capture foreign winds and photons and bring them back, if not for me, for whom? He _does_ it for himself. To cerebrate the sensation without injuring it. Without blasphemy. With no trace of the maudlin or mind of a mis- anthrope. The self-destructing task unasked for, unannounced original, unwelcome guest, to become FULLY HUMAN. Implication BEING there's a way of learning what it means and then becoming happen stance and twisting strings of DNA the patterned hierarchies of status and inheritance, everything and nothing where I came from as many answers as imagine *styles of communication and interpretation* culture a language around which lies have aggregated nationality determined by a collection of lawsuits (i was a tree, a nematode, the muck primordial, jes' lucky I guess) what was determined in advance how many chances do I get? who's in charge? who would want the job? which questions are a waste of time imponderable liberty . unquenchable lust . inevitable end a job like any other, glamour or craft, attention to detail, a good memory - it has advantages and perils...no pager going off at 2 ay em but then again you're at the Muse's bloody beckon every minute that you're conscious grist your own blood, kids to put to bed and deaths to mourn One rearranges pain so as to make it, somehow, pleasing. Whether the wild call under the window of a lover or your own most private outpourings t ou j ou rs en iv ree a special drunkenness informs your every move . on a good day The planing and the marquetry can wait. Now that you've got your work cut out for you. There's no talking to me in this mood. He knows this much, keeps pummeling the modeling clay. Is dat your poem? He knows. A cockroach slides out of the keyboard. I lose it, cursing, in the chaos on the table. It's dopey with the poison in its body, climbs down the wire spiral, and I kill it. Did you got him? Yes. I got it. Wander back to the sofa, curtains closed, apartment airless, tea cold. It's just the way I like it. Pick up the book again. It was a gift. Why am I thinking of the death and resurrection? He lived and died. It's just a fancy/cum/conceit to think the dead will rise not from their graves but from a library. O leave a diary. Historians will pry and you will live, live. Your children's eyes in colours unsuspected since the troubadours. Be translated, o my people, know what is ephemeral pay in the coin of that fading realm. Contemplate the polygons of filtered light. The ceiling's come adrift of perspective. The bed's a raft. My thirteen-month-old snores like something in a cavern. The eldest heaves a parody of a world-weary sigh, still sound asleep. Mi esposo grasps the pillow, ballast against nudges from a flotilla of feet. Five in the morning. A brief untroubled sleep. It's waking that poses problems. If I ever get to New York, perfesser, I'll find your grave and trace your name with a finger. I make no petitions, these days. But if I ever make it to the navel of the world, ultimate port and paradise of matter, I will find your grave and say a word or two. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Thank you for realizing a dream of five years' standing and pubbing In Colours Unsuspected. The kids I wrote about in the poem are now almost old enough for net addresses of their own. And why the hell not? their 86 year old great grandmother is getting a net address too..." allegra ========================================================================== antoinette claypoole -------------------- papermoon@opendoor.com ---------------------- quiltman I. bare brown skin shoulders drink deep spring sun warmflesh entry into womb place dreams seep heat soothes liberated tomb slap in the face dies slaps slaps of smelling salts halt chiffoned heep of me cloisonne pin upon lapel and hat once they tried to make me that II. walking behind you slowly, i giggle stretching earth sign fingers tugging braids "make room for me" back straddling can my belly be bones which mount medicine we share can my knees please and clutch kiss sun danced skin dark and free i ride your back ride you back to unpaved places wild fusion transparent motion Sky-wedded healers come to walk as One sighing palm becoming thigh sepia cheek shoulder mouth to ear dissolving words of fear III. beneath the fainting couch i hear beaded hatband man sliding through painted wide white world he carries her medicine he rain soaked he medicine she rain medicine soaking dry scrub oak bring water to his life bringing water to her life now no thirst now flesh offering love all ways saves our people ========================================================================== Holly Bittner ------------- HOLBIT@TEMPLEVM.bitnet ---------------------- Meditation on the Rebound Amidst the fall weekend twilight I pack up my goddess breath and wait for night to pick me up so we can fall together over you. We show up in black on your doorstep, you greet me with your cauldron mouth and I stir, closing the door on the moon, who does not own you. Above the stairs I glitter in the clutter of your chambers. You encircle me and I simmer, hard-boiled concoction of your luxury. You only eat red meat and I am no chicken bone. Here I am, woman-beast: I can bleed for you. You cannot conquer, still you try to get in, bury your self in my white skin. Bound to my exposure, you're my half-baked Prometheus. You fire me up with each ransom kiss. But I am small, I will not contain you. Instead I wan at your constancy, slide down, slither around your protrusion, your illumination. Candlestick trickster, you flickered out after the glow. Now I'm lying, hardened fast in this pool at the bottom of you, too stuck to scrape off. (Once, I walked on the side of a mountain. Life hung between me and the drop off. If I leave, will you find me in the midst of my forest of inconsistencies and if I rise up with my screams will one day you retreat at the locking of my knees? You grabbed me up in the sale of someone else's certainty, cheapened by the drudge of dried-up desire. I am here with you because I choose to be and because I am not free. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Holiday (A Family Portrait) The men are gone. The women peek at each other from behind magazines they are not reading. There are three of them inside the cottage, a mother and her two daughters. The men have been on the lake since dawn, returning only for meals which the women had dutifully prepared. Now the three sit alone together again in the small living space. It is their third day here, or perhaps, the third phase of the same day. In any case, the women have had their fill of clear Canada sky, and the sun's patient, mocking persistence has driven them to confine themselves indoors, daring to breathe only each other's air. By this time, there is nothing left to say. It is no use complaining. It is no use pretending they are happy. There is no one but themselves to talk to. The only other voice to be heard out here is the preacher from the church retreat, the Holy Rollers, they joke, across the lake gearing up each evening as the sun goes down, a recurring broadcast for the family's ears only, one they cannot turn off. Today too is tapering to an end and the women do not mention its fading but mentally cross off the separate blocks of time they have somehow successfully shared, with the same thick black X. The sun begins to recede again, and the daughters rise up as if sleepwalking, moved by no apparent force , but leaving their mother alone in the cottage to head toward the water side by side, scanning the ground for rocks that might trip them. The sisters stand in silence on the dock for a long time, it seems, until the older one reaches into her pocket, pulls out a cigarette, lights it and flicks her ashes casually, either not looking or not caring where they land, or both. The younger sister leaves her side, climbs down into the awaiting rowboat, pulls up the anchor and rows herself slowly away from the land, away from the other women, into the shadowy glare, disturbing the still water with her sudden motions. As the women become separated by space and by darkness, each hears the same voice boom out across the water from the other side. "Hallelujah! We shall all be saved..." The voice continues in exuberant urgency, unfaltering, for an eternity. When it finally stops, the night is black and cool and not quiet but vaguely alive with the faint hum of a boat's motor, audible to both of the sisters, though they believe themselves to be apart. The men are coming back. Somewhere, inside the cottage, the mother sits by herself, beautiful in bright, artificial light. She has forgotten her daughters, her husband and her sons. She listens intently to the mosquitoes smacking their small winged bodies up against the porch screen over and over, trying to get in. ========================================================================== Nadya Lawson ------------ The Girl She was a pretty, brown-skinned girl A pretty brown-skinned girl but her hair, her hair was long, wavy her long hair waved at me from two plaited pony tails that hung down to her chest and ended in red ribbons. Her plaited pony tails pranced in rippled red ribbons that hung down to her chest and she Was a pretty, brown-skinned girl with long wavy hair in plaited red ribboned pony tails pranced down to her chest. Her red rippled ribbons matched her red checkered dress. The red ribboned plaits matched her her checkered dress and she was Pretty, brown-skinned which perfectly set off her pretty, brown eyes and she was Kneeling in a brown pew, brown palms pressed in prayer pressed up to the heavens brown eyes pointed up to the heavens too, she Was kneeling in a brown pew, pressing her eyes praying her palms pointed to heaven. She was kneeling in a brown pew, praying in a calendar that was hanging over my bed on a nail, she was kneeling Praying with her red ribboned plaits prancing and her palms pressing her eyes pointing in a pew on my calendar on my wall over my bed. Under her picture read, "Fulton Family Memorial Funeral Home." She looked like she was praying but I knew. Oh she looked like he was innocent with her red ribbons and red checkers and eyes and palms pressing, pointing up to the heavens long plaits prancing, waving in that pew but I knew what she was doing really. I knew that she was really thanking God I knew what she was doing she was gloating really she was thanking God for making her pretty, brown-skinned with hair long enough to plait long enough to ribbon long enough to Prance on her chest she was thankful to look like her and not like me and I watched her. Every night I watched her praying, gloating really being thankful for her long wavy hair that pranced even though she was pretty, thankfully and Not ugly like me and I watched her, every night sitting in that pew sitting in that calendar sitting over me gloating, not praying and I watched her thanking, praying and I Watched and prayed too. I watched and prayed to look just like her. Oh I knew she was smug in that pew pretending to pray, but gloating really thanking really thanking God that she was brown-skinned and not black like me and thanking God for hair that was long not picky, wavy not nappy oh I knew she was Thanking God for what she had but I watched and prayed I watched and prayed I pressed and pointed to what she had too I watched and wanted all that she had too. ========================================================================== Druis Beaseley -------------- Canto to Osun - Iya Mele O ondo lake formed wh/her brother shifted, stretched, quaked pushed the stone a/part up went trees ridges formed looking like reclining bodies curvaceous - seductive lake laps against the boundaries of the deep brown banks th/shape contain & concentrate her power you feel it - deep like a marijuana high smoky - altering your sense of time you know space - floating lake is always moving flowing, ebbing back and forth from center to shore her sister the wind blows over her, moving her fluid depths shifting & swirling her lake was once honored ridden upon w/reverence praised, fed, sung to for the sweetness sweetness of her waters & gifts of substance many ride upon her now for personal pleasure no longer knowing th/ they are connected until she grabs a per/son from their boat & takes them to her depths lake ebbs - laps - lows - swirls teaches th/ fluidity & flexibility are the sustainers in life. ========================================================================== Tanya Manning ------------- TM5498@cnsvax.albany.edu ------------------------ Amorous Dementia I've drank elixirs, offered sacrifices, performed rituals, fasted and prayed. Still the sins feel unforgiven. Still I cannot cleanse myself. Forgiveness I cannot claim because you still draw me, taunt me, subdue me, conquer me, ravish me, doom me. I've dusted myself with the most fragrant powders, but your scents won't leave my system. Each of your fruits enticed me. Each of your promises made me sway, sway to you. I prayed at your altars, hoping in time for the deliverance from heartache and the deliverance of divine favor. But I have been praying for years, anticipating the advent of grace for my faith in each of you. But no one descended, showering me with a luminous love. I thought each of you was a god. I knew each of your names, your special incantations, your special needs, adopting them as my own. Whether you needed a beast of burden, maternal caretaker, intimate servant or game to be conquered I was there. I bore your usage of me in hopes of you revealing to me that my soul and offerings were pleasing to you. I am unrewarded for my worship. ========================================================================== Eliza McGrand ------------- elliza@toast.ai.mit.edu http://www.ai.mit.edu/people/elliza/elliza.html ----------------------------------------------- Dark Rosaleen polishes under the buttons of her shoes, laces her cambric hold-me-tight, squeezes her soft ass past the black table, between the door and the Sunday chair to the moon's back reach, stars' lap, rubs her hips, her cream-skinned back, on dense grass rampant with violets and dandelions gone to prickles. There is no defense against Rosaleen the Dark. Fall into her hair, lick her milky breath, dance against what sings her feet, play the hammer on her dulcimer, tease silver trickles of angel honey. Make a liquor of Rosaleen as hard as a glass wall and golden as loneliness in summer. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- What Women Know We know tautness the balance between what we cannot accept but are made to accept the bareness beneath children's fine, floating hair and the smell rising from their sleep the pain we surround and absorb into bones the frag ility fracturing of old female bones the food going around and around before us without stopping, how essence rises juice seeps, and how it falls apart How the doll breaks and who puts it back together ========================================================================== How to access inter\face magazine --------------------------------- WWW: http://www.albany.edu/~interfac Gopher: gopher.etext.org: Zines/Interface gopher.cic.net: e-serials/archive/alphabetic/i/interface wings.buffalo.edu: internet/library/e-journals/ub/rift/journals/list/interface FTP: ftp.etext.org: /pub/Zines/Interface/ ftp.cic.net: /pub/e-serials/archive/alphabetic/i/interface/ AOL: Select keyword: PDA; Select: Palmtop Paperbacks; Select: Electronic Articles and Newsletters Subscriptions: interfac@cnsunix.albany.edu (real person, not automated) Contact Editor(s): Benjamin Henry Tanya Manning Contributions: interfac@cnsunix.albany.edu ========================================================================== All rights to the texts contained in this document are owned by the authors. Please distribute, copy, and email inter\face to all your friends and anyone you think would be interested. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- inter\face magazine welcomes contributions from writers who think their work is appropriate for this space. Please email to the above address. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Thank you for reading inter\face 10. inter\face is produced at the University at Albany, SUNY. Thank you to CNS for computer time and space. ========================================================================== {end}