INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Michael D. Long
Karyn M. Wolven
Ann Arbor Review is an International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2004
All rights revert back to each poet.
Fred Wolven, Editor
Artist: Carol Weid, Michigan. This sketch of the
Blue Front in Ann Arbor appeared on title pages of Ann Arbor Review
and in subsequent publications. The Blue Front was a local landmark
near the University of Michigan campus in Ann Arbor, and this sketch is from
the original issues.Carol was a staff member then.
AAR est. in 1967 as a 48 pg. magazine was produced
and grew into 2-3 book length issues per year until $s evaporated in 1980.
Chris Lord, Gerald Clark and Shutta Crum were a dedicated staff of new
AAR published Duane Locke, Dave Etter, Peter Wild, Sam
Cornish, Elisavietta Ritchie, Coleman Barks, Larry Eigner, Knute Skinner,
Barbara Hughes, and newer writers. Now in an ezine format AAR
publishes the best of new poems by today's poets in the tradition first set
in the 70s and 80s.
PHILOSOPHER BY THE SEA
The philosopher observed the
Each wave had gold twists, seaweed,
The waves' gold hair, each wave, a mermaid.
But the philosopher said there are
Too many mermaids in the turbulent sea
For a philosopher to love mermaids.
The philosopher asseverated that all
Generalizations such as "mermaids"
Are unrealities since generalizations
Never fit particular cases.
Only the radical singularity
Of the concrete particular is reality.
So while the philosopher sipped
Campari and dry vermouth,
Speculated, the radical singularity of a mermaid
Appeared, gold twists for hair,
Her upper body, pale, freckled skin.
Her freckled breasts had pale coral nipples.
The philosopher was too absorbed
In his exquisite and erudite cogitations
To notice this singular mermaid.
She swam away.
When some angels become bored with being absolutes
Desire the puzzles and pulsations of the relative,
Decide to drop through clouds to earth.
Angels who have no bodies, have no
Difficulties in finding a proper fit.
These angels invisible and unseen for aeons,
Selected the brightest dresses, so eyes
Will gawk and become glued to their contours
As their apparent bodies swish as if realities.
Down the boulevards and grand avenues,
Angels know that poker chips and banknotes
Will be tossed at their high heels.
SAMUEL JOHNSON KICKED A STONE REALLY BELIEVED HE KICKED A STONE
As the philosopher said, even the empiricist
Who struggles to see the object as it really is
Cannot be sure what he perceives to be real
Really is real. Light conditions can disfigure
A coffin to appear as a chalice, a Holy Grail.
Love of a girl with gold twists in her hair
Can turn an abandoned bottle cap into a cathedral.
Words can fool one into believing
He saw, even touched, a slender angel
Who wears only a translucent silver shawl
Decorated with silver opaque lilies.
The girl with whom the philosopher drank champagne,
Asked, "How do you know
You are holding me naked in your arms?"
The philosopher looked at her, said, "I don't."
Being an analytical philosopher, I dissect
The phosphorus of love. Find inside
The brightness, a night, a darkness that blooms
As if it were a bed of dark flowers.
I write down all these observations
On long sheets of yellow paper,
Catalogue all the instruments and witnesses
Required to arrive at my inconclusive conclusions.
To relax from this arduous task, I take
A slender water pail, water my striped gourds.
I then leave my garden to go inside,
Turn the lights off, sip white wine,
Dream about the phosphorous of love,
Wonder why its brightness is so cold.
Duane Locke, Tampa