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Victor D. Infante, Stranded: Poet Mark Strand preaches political indifference at UCI


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The Kyrielle, a French poetic form, is often used in hymns. It carries a refrain in the last line of each quatrain. Usually written in iambic tetrameter — i.e, eight syllables to the line. The word is from the Old French kiriele, which is a derivative of the word for a type of Christian liturgical prayer.




At first he plays among the dolls,
Dreams he is swept over the falls,
Wakes to hear the family roar,
Night strangers banging at the door.


Shy smiling child, red baseball cap,
Hides his face in her lap.
Their raging shakes us to the core,
Night strangers banging at the door.


Carefully he stands on his ground,
Listens to another sound,
Directs his ear to ignore,
Night strangers banging at the door.


Now he stands to argue his fate,
Stunned by the color of their hate.
He wont hear his mother called whore,
Night strangers banging at the door.


He had hoped my voice would comfort,
now hears only his crumbling hurt.
Stepped on saplings never soar:
Night strangers banging at the door.


Hector Q. Mooney


more poems

Marcia Lynn Neill, Marijuana bon mots

Patrick Julian Cassidy, A Haight Street lullaby





















VOLUME 2, NUMBER 26    <>   MONDAY, JULY 2, 2001

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  Ron Henggeler, Gnosis 2

amazing grace

Thinking the world should entertain you leads to boredom and sloth. Thinking you should entertain the world leads to bright clothes, odd graffiti, and amazing grace in running for the bus.

— Anon.

Sumer is icumen in: the birds are chortling, the flowers sing, and in the Bay Area thoughts turn to baseball and beaches.

Here, for your delectation, is a collection of California words and images. If they offer a subtle reminder of the creative energies we are at risk of losing, then they serve a serendipitous double purpose: for a more coherent exploration of that danger, consult Rebecca Solnit’s eloquent “Hollow City.”

Betsey Culp



Why does it always seem to seem
That comforts of a luscious dream
Conflict with my reality
To make them a necessity?
Could not there be some new laws made
To counteract this cruel charade?
This blackout threat is not pretend!
But where is, “Shower with a friend”
Or, “Spare the heat and share a bed?”
A thrifty bio-mass instead
of something non-renewable
Is helpful and quite do-able.
Just think of others one could aid
When this small sacrifice is made:
Rest’rants whose ice cream turns to goo,
Rare fish congealing in our zoo,
And patients who for want of heat,
could catch pneumonia from cold feet.
I’ve just begun and those I’ve missed
could make a never ending list.
Why we don’t really need more laws.
This is such a compelling cause.
Big business wins, there’ll be new poor.
The word must out, concise and sure.
A civic duty, can’t you see?
Survival rests with you, and me.
When new poor come, how can we feed’em?
WHERE are the POETS, now we need’em?


Tim Nuveen


From mind to hand


Her letters are devoid of decoration
She doesn’t use fancy note cards
Or stationery
But I love them
I always have, especially at Dad’s for the summer
Waiting for the mail every evening
When I read her gifts
I picture her
At her big, oak desk
With upright posture
Pressing Bic pen to standard white writing pad
Standard, basic, white, unlined
So sterile
Neat and functional and perfect in its form
Yet there’s this quality to her handwriting
Of something under the surface
I can’t explain
It’s flowery, wild, superfluous
Bursting with pleasure
It comes forth beneath the measured weight of her pen
And the words, Mom!
“You carry within yourself the seeds of greatness”
Like she’s living by passing along what’s inside her mind,
Passing it to the reader
Instead of keeping it for herself
From mind to hand


Molly Lori
Putnam@ Alemany

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