January 27-February 2, 2003: Jude Goodwin and Scott Malby


week of January 27-February 2, 2003



Jude Goodwin and Scott Malby


BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click here for submission guidelines

Jude Goodwin
jude@goodwinstudios.com

Bio (auto)

Jude lives in Squamish BC Canada Life made her take up writing poetry sometime in the summer of 2002 These days, peers are telling her to push it along, push it along Book illustrator, cartoonist, webmaster, mother, 50 Visit Jude on the web, here.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Jude Goodwin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Still Fingers

During the season of her unravelling
she would lie on her quiet bed
and listen to the grey
chanting on rooftops

outside The earth
was pulling at the sky
dragging its threads down and
stuffing them into the dirt
Around her, winter walls
allowed no glimpse
but somewhere women like her
were splashing about, gathering
the string, the ribbon, the yarn,
piecing and weaving
and knotting where she

was done She understood
this time around
and had let her needles fall
Family and friends
and husband slipped off the rods
(all those little loops) Shock kept her fingers still

Geese Shadows

Something
is pressing on the windows I think it might be God The skies are full, 
can’t tell the birds
from the debris While the mountains stagger,
in their usual motionless way,
all else is aroused
The trees have been scrubbed,
their nakedness
protests like dry bamboo;
gangs of leaves and colour
compete across the highway
desperate to fill the other ditch;
geese shadows
rip along bone-
white rooftops
and in the basement
I can hear the dog-
pacing
It is as I predicted
when we traded rings
and later
excised them from our flesh
That terrible blue sky persists;
so too the fierce
and autumn wind
The Fire is next

Hurrah

A commotion on the river
implores us to hurry hurry
across dense sands
through nude and scratching bush
We push aside
the sheets of rain
and behold a broad landscape
of river rock and carnage –

a multitude of bodies, eyes pecked
and scales dull in death Sleek and proud almonds
no longer slicing through salty seas,
released at last
from insane obligations:
to battle upstream;
to wrestle beneath unyielding logs; flip
vainly in still ditches and
surprising pools
In the air a host
of seabirds
clamour with voice and wing
Their chorus is a celebration They swoop and dive and land,
take air to swoop and land again
as one, like great feather-gloved hands
clapping hurrah

“It’s Nature’s way” a man grizzles
from within oilskin and hipwaders His rods lean idle Last week, the river was full of him,
sentinels,
marking the passage
of something noble.

In Cafe (against the rain)

There’s a hole in the sky –
I hear a man say;
his comrades nod
In cafe against the rain, 
their heads are bent
and blend like autumn foothills

Outside, yellow leaks through
and the cliffs are startled
awake They rise and open their breasts;
offer up scab and finger pocket;
moan for strong hands to
stroke and massage
with powders Their devotions

are legion Inside
the young man’s face is longing
His shoulders are textured;
I imagine touching his arm but
what I’d find
underneath all that cotton
frightens me

An old wood door is relief
from such challenges
My hands are warmed by coffee
not stone Outside

the grey is back
and those rocky whores
have covered themselves


Scott Malby
beowolf2@harborside.com

Bio (auto)

Malby lives along the Oregon coast in Coos Bay He has been published in other places but what’s important to him is not his credits Rather, it is what he finds out about himself and the world around him through the act of writing poetry The world is an insane place He would be the first to admit he is having trouble finguring it out Sometimes he gets the words right Like a Navajo rug, all his poems have a flaws The reason for this is because he is flawed It comes with the territory.

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Scott Malby and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Under Construction

The landscape is changing I miss the ice cream man I miss the late night orgies,
the knee jerking parties
the moving at the speed
of light, I miss the music
swelling so loud it becomes
part of your spit I miss
the land of zero gravity where
everything goes your way
as if you’re flying through
the unbelievably karmic
benediction of the whole
damn human race!

I miss not knowing we’re in
an era of endless duplication
where all fathers are dead
where we’re the illegitimate
issue of puff daddy economic
prophets wrapping us like punks
in the hell of their perdition
saying play it by the rules
and in time you too might
be Chairman Of The Board There are no breathing spaces,
no skies the limit, no poetry,
science, metaphysics you can
turn to when the universal
takes a hike and all you can
think is to reach for another
bottle of beer

At times like this I miss
not being a slob, stupidly
difficult and obscure.

Depositions Made Public

You can’t speak truth to power Life is a shoulder fired missile It’s a place of imperfect information
where the future is an aggravated
assault and thinking is a terrorist
action You can’t even trust your
priest’s agenda

Everything is fundamentally flawed
when who you’re seen eating with
is more important than the food.