Poet Of The Week

Week of Mar 17 - Mar 23

James G. Heck and Caron Andregg

Past Poets Of The Week


by e-mailing a few of your shorter pieces or one long piece to me ALONG WITH a brief bio. It's fun, it's easy, it's free. Impress your friends. Impress your mother.

Send to: POTW@PoetrySuperHighway.com




James G. Heck


Jim Heck is a 32 year old Graduate of Rutger's University College in English.

His father; Captain Norman Walter Heck, Jr., died in Vietnam on December 8, 1964 when Jim was 2 months old. His fathers death, the exploration of his spirituality and other childhood losses form the body of his work.

He has had work published in: A Half Dozen of the Other, The Rutger's Review, The Livingston Medium, Poets-on-the-line, Images of God, In Vivo, Kudzu, So It Goes, Syzygy ("Sis-Si-Gee") & The Wicked. He has been a featured reader at The Squire Pub in NYC, The Court Tavern in New Brunswick, NJ, Java Market in So. Orange, NJ , Chapter One in Highland Park, NJ and Cafe Improv in Princeton, NJ.

He would like to thank his wife and son for enriching his life.

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by James G. Heck and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Paramita 12/15/96

I am arriving at the other shore
Had many rivers to cross
have fallen in
been pushed
held under
amazed at the cruelty of strangers
till I saw it in myself.

Blue faced
I've drowned in this sea of needs
and when I gave up
my corpse following the tides
I became the river
kissed the shore with my tide

Once I asked God;
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
Now I ride on the waves
in the waves
am the wave
in motion.

Mouth full of sand
surveying the variety of life
I've tasted this before
it is my life alive
bitter and sweet
I look back to realize
I've gone nowhere
there is no other shore.

"Nagasaki Sponge-Cake*"

On the back of your neck
in the crook of you knee
a thief waits
with an atomizer full of
the scent of
'the genuine and original
Nagasaki sponge-cake'

Stronger than any know drug
turns time into
lead when away
ether when near.

Keeps my heart
in a bakery box
white string
neatly tied around.

*Inspired by a line from Yukio Mishimaís The Damask Drum

There's No Lack of Void*

There's no lack of void;
empty stomachs,
clearly not mine,
empty minds,
clearly none of ours,
empty graves

A grave diggers wife
gets flowers

Flowers arent words
can fill a vase
cant fill a silence
when words fail.

Avoid dependance
on surrogates
they wilt by
their nature.

*Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot

Caron Andregg


Caron Andregg lives and writes in Southern California where she (surprisingly) settled after living in Northern California, Alaska, England, New York and Florida. She also runs her own media research firm and writes ad copy on the side. She has two chapbooks, "Dangerous Curves" and "Pavlov's Mistress", and another one in the works. She thinks travel IS education. She thinks falling in love is a recreational activity. She doesn't look like she writes.

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Caron Andregg and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

In Rome

Walking on the beach
she stepped on a tarball
then balanced on one foot, steadied

her right hand on his left shoulder
while he stooped on one knee
to gently prise the tar from her toes.

In Rome
the posture alone
would make them wed.

Last One Up

The last one up wakes
to find the eggs already laid
tiptoes on sleepy feet
toward the swordplay of silverware
the quiet clash of knife on plate, wedding china
in a compromise pattern, already chipped.

Day breaks, conversation strains
floats in disconnected storm cells
above the breakfast table
fragile and transparent as Steuben glass
sputters to a stop among the yolk and shards
as we stumble from meal to meal.


We lay in bed, back to back, burning
where the flesh intersects: shoulder, kidney, hip
the soles of our feet.

I would rather feel the palm of your hand pressed against my
holding back the shadows from the moon through the blinds
which lay across our backs like bars.

But no-one wants to be the first to turn around.
For you, only, I will try. I will try. For you.


Your eye still gleams
with a white spark
as the grey years
wash with rose
like clouds at evening
while the yellow sun
mellows into red
as we walk together
through green trees
under the blue stars
while night deepens
into black.

When Men Sleep

When men sleep
heaped like crumpled sheets
all open wrists and palms and knees

rounded mound of shoulder
leading down to hip
matted thatch of hair

down of dreams on gleaming skin
they are all soft corners
long bones and planes

folded into rolling curves
open cups of light and shade
to trap our tenderness.

When men sleep
their guileless puppy-sleep
they draw the night in

with their breath
hold it closed and safe
tangled in their angled arms.

When men sleep
we forgive them