poems

Online Magazine Monthly July 2003  Issue #8

ISSN 1479-425X

Cover Page

Stephen Vincent
Poems from Walking

Interview
My e-Conversation With Stephen Vincent
by Nnorom Azuonye

Emman Usman Shehu
Two Poems

Robert John Helms
Reflections of Spring

Esiaba Irobi
Kingdom of the Mad

Past Issues

Home

STEPHEN VINCENT


WALKING (1)

I was a large thing walking,
I was a small thing walking,
I was walking a small thing
walking a large thing walking:

I was a large thing walking,
my son was a small thing running,
my daughter a series of hearts:

There was a green eyed woman,
I could hear her in the dark forest-
no moon thick trees-
down there
across the creek
flailing or holding back
waiting to perch
on the neck
to invite the man.

You could hear the music start
And know the man, small the stone rolling gathers,
The light industrial sound mounts
A clarinet without sides,
Or an inside
Delivered out.

To hear the music circle
Without finance or vision,
The division, my daughter screams,
My son chortles: What arm
Around the throat or waist? What victim?
The joy delivered backwards. What's a
Young man to do?

What she dances,
Her hands plying her crotch,
"I'm squeezing my vagina. It's good
Massage. What do you think of
the Pointer Sisters?" Four years
Old. "Look Dad," a few minutes later
In the bathroom, "I'm pissing
standing up. None got on the floor."

Walking & walking & walking.
You are not with me anymore. Happy.
Sad. You name it. I don't care.
Walking. Walking. What's a life?
Though I hear you walking.


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