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A Magazine of Poetry by Women

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JANEMARIE LUECKE

Fall 1987

Red Dirt Press, Inc., is the result of the v1s10n of eight women who wanted to provide more publication opportunities for
women. The publication of this magazine of women's poetry,
aptly named PIECEWORK, which draws on all the images of
women's work that is done "by the piece," is dedicated to all
the women who write poetry, sometimes in spite of their lives
and families.

PIECEWORK (ISSN: 0893-116X) .is published four times
a year. Subscriptions are $12 per year for individuals,
$16 for libraries and institutions.
A free copy of
PIECEWORK will be furnished, on request, to the libraries of prisons and/ or mental institutions. Single
Address all correspondence to
copy price is $4.
PIECEWORK, Red Dirt Press, Inc., P.O. Box 60693,
Oklahoma City, OK 73146.

A MAGAZINE OF POETRY BY WOMEN
FALL 1987
VOLUME 2, NUMBER 1

Poetry Editors: Ann Carlton, Abigail Keegan
Typesetting and Layout: Marian Hulsey
Camera and Stripping: Eloise Dycus and Martha Hayes
Printing: Elaine Barton
Distribution: Eloise Dycus
Public Relations: Peggy Durhc m

Published by Red Dirt Press, Inc.
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
'°Copyright 1987 by Red Dirt Press, Inc.
No part of this publication may be
or reproduced without written permission
UCO Women's Research &BOLTQtCellt.cr

100 N. University Dr
Edmond, OK 73034

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Red Dirt's Birthday Party...... ....... ............. ......................................

4

Featured Artist, Janemarie Luecke..................................................

6

Poems by Fa,ntured Artist, Janemarie Luecke
"Wild Bird Eggs"............................................ .. ........................... 7
"Tundra"...................................................................................... 9
"Julia's Message"........................................................................ 12
"Mom" ........................................................................................ 15
"A Benediction" by Katharine Privett............ ..................................
"Autumn Magic" by Susan A. VanSchuyver.....................................
"Autumn Temptations" by Sue McGinnis..........................................
"Feasting" by Mary Menges Myers............ .. ....................................
"Procrastination" by Riner Fitzgerald Moore. ..................................
"Woman Burning Leaves" by Katharine Privett...............................
"The Restoration" by Eve Lear ........................................................
"Miser" by Susan L. Smith..............................................................
"Absent Minded" by Jane Boese......................................................
"A Reflection on Life" by Naomi Schmidt.......................................
"A Lesson in Meditation" by Teresa Anne Carson..........................
"Tartarus of Women" by Betsy Ballard. ..........................................
"A Block of Ice" by Patricia Heck .................................................
"Double Feature" by Judith Rycroft................................................
"Healing in the Ozark Mountains" by Cindy Nietfeld .......................
"Teacher's Handbook Insert #1" by Betsy Ballard..........................
"An n Landers Here" by Marian C. Hulsey.......................................
"A Woman's Plac e " by Mary Menges Myers .....................................
"Farewell Song" by Renata Treitel..................................................
"This Key" by K. Sue Stark ey .... ... .... .. ... .... ..................... ................
"The Pushme-Pullyou" by Carol Hamilton..... .. .. .. .... .... .................... ..
"Surreal Inflatable Whale" by Robyn Perry..... ...... .... ... ..... .......... ....
"Duplicity" by Riner Fitzgerald Moore .. . :. ..... .. ... .. ..... .... ...... .. .. ..... ... .
"Landscape with Showers" by Sharon E. Martin ........... ............ .. .... .
"The Question of Beauty" by Carol Hamilton ........................ ....... ....

16
17
18
19
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
30
33
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43

For Younger Readers
"The loud Bast Wind is a banshee wind" by Carolyn Marel... ..... ... 44

"Mr. President:" by Blaine Wiggins................................................... 45

ATTENTION, poets, teachers, friends of poets:
POETRY CONTEST INFORMATION -- Page 46
CHRISTMAS and other Gift Suggestions
For Gifts That Keep On Giving
See Page 47

Works in this issue that were published previously are
here republished with permission of the authors.

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 3

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RED DIRT PRESS
The camaraderie of "women from all areas, from all levels of
education and life, brought together by a single thread--writing poetry," was the feeling one of the poets expressed to the women of Red
Dirt Press, after being a part of the press' first birthday celebration,
July 25. As the group of unacquainted poets gathered to share in the
eel Jt>ration, all the things that can divide women were dismissed and
the focus became the stories, the threads of similarities, the ties
that bind us together. There were stories of near suicides, addictions
to inappropriate relationships, of poetry's healing and saving their
lives. "Does our poetry come as therapy or as a result of a sensitive
soul which requires therapy?" was the question posed in the letter
which came the next week. "I no longer feel like an oddball," she
continued. "It's wonderful, knowing there are other women who have
felt and do feel as I do."
The afternoon reception featured the poets' reading their own
selections and relating a little of their lives. There were art displays
by Gail Garloch, Rebecca Friedman and Dorothy Moses, phot ography
by Robin Smith, jewelry by Theila Elliott, quilts and crafts by Visual
Memories, and dulcimers made by luthier Anna Koester .
The evening's festivities were kicked off with showing t hree videos by Norman artist Jeanne Hollenceck, followed by the poetry readings of Abigail Keegan and Doris Davenport, and the wonderful music
of Mary Reynolds and the Sisters of Swing.
A very special visual greeting from Maine poet May Sart on was
printed on a computer-banner for all to share:
"I salute PIECEWORK for publishing so many fine women
poets in the region. So many new voices! It is one more proof
that the best writers these days appear in the little magazines.
Bravo to the editors and to the poets!"
May Sarton
All the women of Red Dirt Press wish to thank all who attended
and those who have supported our first year with their subscriptions
to the magazine, and with their marvelous poetry, without which we
would not have a magazine to publish.

Pa&e 4, ~'all 1987 PIECEWORK

RED DIRT PRESS ' AND PIECEWORK'S BIRTHDAY CAKE
by Dorothy McGuinness, Moore

POET DORIS DAVENPORT
shares some of her poems
with the anniversary group
shortly before leaving the
state for a new teaching
fob
at
Bowling
Green
University.

(Photos by Marian Hulsey)

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 5

FEATURED ARTIST -- JANEMARIE LUECKE
Janemarie Luecke, O.S.B., is a native Oklahoman, born to the
western wheat lands of Okeene. As a member of her Benedictine
community she has lived and taught in a number of other areas of
the state--Guthrie, McAlester, Oklahoma City and Stillwater. She has
taught Old and Middle English at Oklahoma State University since
1966, and although she retired last year, she continues to teach one
class per semester at OSU.
Through her scholarship, teaching and lecturing, Janemarie has
contributed greatly to education in this state. She is a dynamic orator ,md for many years has challenged and inspired audiences here
and around the country to face our most ~ complex contemporary issues--civil rights, women's rights, U.S. involvement in Central America,
and the nuclear arms' race, to name only a few.
Besides being a skilled poet, Janemarie is the author of scholarly
articles, essays on social justice and religion, a book on Old English
rhythm, and a handbook on prosody. She has published two books of
poetry, THE RAPE OF THE SABINE WOMEN (1978) and WILD BIRD
EGGS AND OTHER MYSTERIES (1984). She is preparing her third
volume for publication. In addition, Janemarie has published her
poems in numerous magazines and journals, such as KUDZU, NEW
MEXICO HUMANITIES REVIEW and THE POETRY SOCIETY OF
AMERICA BULLETIN.
Janemarie has won honors for her poetry in contests and has
received grants to both Yaddo artists' colony in New York and the
MacDowell Colony in New Hampshire. Recently in the NEGATIVE
CAPABILITIES contest, judged by Marge Piercy, she received an
honorable mention for her series of ten "Cancer Poems." In these
poems, as Denise Levertov said, she "wrests poetry from the cancer,"
the cancer she is now battling. These moving and painfully beautiful
poems will be published in NEGATIVE CAPABILITIES this year.
On a personal note, I want to thank Janemarie, for she was my
literature teacher and poetic mentor through my twenties. I am proud
to be publishing the work of one of Oklahoma's outstanding educators
and poets.
A.K.

Page 6, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

WILD BIRD EGGS
A robin's egg came in the mail today
nested in cotton. The match box shape, the plain
brown paper wrapping, did not betray
the quaint fragility that it contained.
A tucked in note, warning care, gave way
to layered batting sheltering a stain
of sudden blue that thrilled with pleasure. Such
vulnerability I could not touch!
The long lost child saw th9 broken shell
lying between the stubbled cuts of wheat
short after harvest--its fragile wisp of yellowed
white and yolk splattered--and knew the grief
of trust tested and failed, of a hand that fell
just as her brother's fist unclosed in bdef
encounter. She could not hold in case
he'd drop on prickling flesh an infant mouse!
Love too comes in fragile selves of weakness
shelled in pastel, carefully hidden in hands
so lightly clutched that only the touch of meekness
--of weakness matched with tested trust--can stand
its frightful prospects: the risk of surface coldness,
of losing self in another's shifting sand,
of being tricked, the rational conclusion
that eggs will always shatter on collusion.

PIBCBWORK, Fall 1987, Pace 7

Just now I took the blue from out its cotton,
felt its coldness warming to my palm,
and wondered if my human touch had gotten
response of any sort inside. The calm
exterior unnerved my latent passion.
But you, my love, whose fingers move like dawn
need only touch to carefully unpeel
my years of fear, my layered garnered steel.
Then may we prick our weakened shells to free
the dove whose bones transparent still reveal
the marrow; from there only can we hope to be
built whole, and--loved--lovingly unveil
the force of dove's wings, the mystery
of wounded life which garden stones conceal,
until our endless strokes of love engender
trust that (wild bird eggs) we can surrender.
--Janemarie Luecke
Stillwater
from WILD BIRD EGGS

Page 8, Fall 1987, PI8CEWORK

TUNDRA

The flDwer-rich meadowland
growing above the 1bnit

of trees,
It was August. The humped
backbone of the continent
was vertebraed with snow;
bald tops of mountain
jutted out meekly, fringed
with a hairline of boulders;
far below, the timbered
chest of the Rockies
glowed dark and rugged.

, tundra is fragile
and may be permanently
damaged
if walked on repeatedly.
Reading the leaflet,
picking our way
between rocks algaed to green
and black, between talking,

It takes some of these plants
several hundred years
to achieve the growth
you see here: grasses,
herbs, sedge,
and a few dwarfed shrubs;
the Mountain Dryad;
She said,
"Will you be there--always-when I need you?" and I,
"If I am--if I surrender
that space, that free rapture
of striding unencumbered
the world's rafters--will you need me
then--when I'm weak, and wanting . . "
PIECEWORK, Flllll 1987, Page 9

Greenl.eaf Bluebells,
Alpine Forget-me-nots
(f1. ve-year-olds, low-growing,
may have stems a quarter-inch only
.in diameter, with showy flowers,
more blossom than leaves)
Sky Pilots.
Westward one day near the pole
six hours I rode
the curved rim of the world
watching a sunset.
Now stooping over stick-like
leaves I watched it blow
purple, pink, yellow,
feeling it rise in her reading:

Drought may occur
both sum mer and w.inter; blizzards;
be aw are of lightning hazards
with thunder.
(I answered)

Small leaves are protected
by masses of hair
or waxy substances
pigmented with red.
(She said:)

High w.inds, and
freezing-all w.inter
and even .in sum mermake for slo w-gro w.ing
"But . . "

Paie 10, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

rapid in season.
Harebells, Rydbergiathey know how to hold
from summer to summer,
budding in one,
bursting in bloom
a year later.
The cragged meadow unrolled
to the north hiding drops
of 5000 feet. We turned to the myth
of the Utes ringing this table in clouds,
drinking from bowls that are lakes
frozen black in the rocks.
We breathed in their strength,
leaving the plants

undisturbed
for the thousands
who fallow.
--Janemarie Luecke
Stillwater

PIBCBWORK, Fall 1987, Pqe 11

JULIA'S MESSAGE
Do not forget the people of the mountains!
Julia's words fell like small fingers of rain
piercing our breastbone
dislodging the marrow, sending
shockwaves through the membrane
of our entrails. We felt
her pain like the wretched path
ascending nearly perpendicular
to Abuelita's hut, her hope
like Esperanza
leading us onward.
How can we forget you
gutted rock, hacked to spines
worn down to treacherous smoothness
by oppression; rising relentless
but granting us glimpses
of your distant, snow-ringed volcano.
Can we forget
your faces--showers of bougainvillea
tumbling over walls in purples, magentas
masking the scars of hunger
the horrors: Magdaleno's eyes
devoured by ulcers, leathered feet
unwashed through years of scant water.
Can a mother forget her baby
cradled in her dingy veil
coated with three days vomit
its whimper becoming death's rattle.

Paee 12, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

And if she forgets
having buried so many
replacing them quickly
Can we forget the mothers
Angela. gentled by love
fired by struggle. by survival
Her--in Guatemala
her riven womb robbed of its child
stuffed with the head of her husband
Her sisters--searching the corpses
for missing sons and daughters.
Can we forget their eyes
full as the moon that later
washed over our faces.
We shall never forget you
Esperanza, who never left us
all the way back
down that torturous path
like a mountain goat
like hope
-waving your baskets
(for bread, for tortillas)
before our flagging spirits.
Te llevamos en nuestro corazon
El pueblo de las montanes.
--Janemarie Luecke
Stillwater

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Pqe 13

MOM
My mother bore us
spaced through eighteen
years, lost her teeth at thirty,
faced each season's change with certitude
of work, each month with cramping pain,
each day or two with gratitude
of folding yeast in flour
and kneading bread.

She t ook us in a stride
that multiplied her output:
not just some dozen ja rs of food
preserved for winter , hundreds--picked
from fields of garden, shelled and
peeled through endless hours
monotonously ticked
from child t ime.
She cut out blocks
of white from a blackened
pot she 'd hung over live embers
full of tallow, lye, and other facts
a child could stir and wonder at,
how it dared to come out soap
for washing, and bring her
ribbons at the fair.

Page 14, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

Sliced a roof of
apples, spread on a sheet
and turned to dry out in the sun
then stored in bags under the stairs
along with raisins and apricots
for munching on in random
hunger when fresh ones
were all gone.
Pieced quilts from
scraps, and crocheted
rugs from yarn of stockings
dyed to match the moods of children
stretching to independent youth
and so released the spinning
colors of labor unrelieved
but, whistling, done.
--Janemarie Luecke
Stillwater

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Paee 15

A BENEDICTION
The earth is tired;
she's worked hard
all through the spring
and summer
so that we may share
in the harvest.
Her store-rooms are full.
Her jars overflow
with corn,
her baskets with fruit.
Her vines sag
with sweetness
and her fields shine
in the cool evenings.
No wonder
she is drowsy
and can scarcely
stay awake
to tell the geese good-bye
or to listen
to the Ripe Corn Song.
Now she needs to pull
the radiance
of her patch-work quilt
over her head.
To rest
and, when winter comes,
to sleep long and deep,
warm in her soft
white blankets.
--Katharine Privett
Pawnee

Pa~e 16, Fall 1987, PI8CEWORK

AUTUMN MAGIC

We stand on the summit
Of Sparrowhawk Mountain
Overlooking the Illinois River.
The wind, crisp as a Granny Smith apple,
The earth, moist and nutty,
The sycamores, golden and blood-red,
The river, a snake tumbling over boulders and
broken tree trunks,
The valley, glistening and sweet,
We stand on the summit.
A word, a look, a touch
Communicates a comfortable feeling.
The channels of your mind
Are carved in a different pattern
From mine. So
The climb to reach this peak
Has been arduous.
We stand on the summit
To experience the
Autumn magic.
--Susan A. VanSchuyver
Oklahoma City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Pase 17

AUTUMN TEMPTATIONS
The brisk, cool wind blows gently,
twirling golden-red leaves
into crossword patterns
on the colorless grass.
Sweet smelling smoke,
billowing from a neighboring chimney,
climbs into the azure sky, losing its identity in a cumulus cloud.
Pumpkins lie in the halloween patch,
ready to have their personalities
forever imbedded in their orange epidermis.
Inside, the vegetable stew is bubbling,
creating a steady rhythm of percussion sounds.
The aroma of fresh baked cornbread
wafts from the oven,
like a secret vapor apprehending its quarry.
The fire's appetite for the seasoned pine logs
is evident by the brilliant yellows and reds
trapped in their pigmentations,
trying to escape
inside the stone-lined hearth.
With her awe-inspiring colors and unmistakable scents,
Autumn has invited herself,
once again,
into our lives.
--Sue McGinnis
Arlington, TX

Pace 18, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

FEASTING
I am rushing headlong down this autumn stream of days.
The fierce, fiery red of maples sears my senses.
The coin gold of softwoods glitters in the sun.
Nature's feast is spread before me.
I want it all. One lifetime is not enough.
There are many selves inside this body,
some have just awakened.
Youth is now behind me,
but mid-life's richness eclipses youth.
So I'll take my days, each a new adventure,
and let the well-spring deep inside me
challenge rampant nature.
--Mary Menges Myers
Oklahoma City

PROCRASTINATION
The sun this first day of
Autumn seems reluctant to
Leave the tea party of
Summer; and is dilatorily
Sipping from the bottom of
his cup.
--Riner Fitzgerald Moore
Wanette

PIBCEWORK, Fall 1987, Pqe 19

WOMAN BURNING LEAVES

She• s raked and burned all afternoon
and into evening-engrossed in scarlet maple, yellow elm,
star-shaped, star-fallen sweet gum.
And stands now
twined with ripe, dense, stinging
vines of smoke,
attentive to the hum of wheeling fire.
Leaves like old love-letters read again,
combed through,
then piled tenderly to be destroyed
she's turned into remembered passion
and new loss.
One last time, desire consumes the earth
and writes on air.
--Katharine Privett
Pawnee

Pa&t> 20, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

THE RESTORATION

Dark shadows on dew-spangled grass
Beckon my weary soul from troubled bed
Bare feet find sweet relief
Cool grass cushioned, dew washed.
Beneath tall pines at last I lie
Ten thousand needles soft, my bed
Pine-scented breeze, my fan.
Locust violins lead in
Lone dove's crooning
Bumble bee bass drones by
While sparrows' twitter weaves about
Rapt woodpecker's percussion
Pale spider swings on sparkling line
And softer play the violins.
Sun fingers my refuge probe
I wake to joy and dance my way
Tiptoe in sun-warmed grass.
This day that shall begin at noon
Has conquered all my shades of night.
--Eve Lear
Oklahoma City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 21

MISER
I heard empty cans clatter down a vacant street
as I stood in the old woman's kitchen
and watched yellowing scraps of paper
flap in the box fan's breeze.
"She's such a pennypincher,"
her daughter told me, "always
clipping coupons from the
newspaper, saving bread wrappers
and brown paper bags,"
but now her scissors lay on the table;
she had finished her ritual.
Her hands on a neat pile of clippings,
she smiled, her blue eyes
watering in the whites
she was quiet.
For a moment
she did not hear the emptiness
that holds its breath
on the edge of outside,
waiting for the scraping
sandblocks of dreams to
rasp an unknowable pattern
and the sycamore leaves
already yellowing
and curling
~ry

to fall,
finally,
to the ground.
--Susan L. Smith
Norman

Page 22, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

ABSENT MINDED
I put my scissors down right there.
Now they are gone.
No one knows where.
Biding his time,
Some gremlin crept
While I was busy or I slept;
Not bent on thievery or harm,
But .iust in play
With cunning charm.
To see if I can guess
T'was he, not just my mind deserting me.
--Jane Boese
Graham, TX

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Pace 23

A LESSON IN MEDITATION

Sit
Catatonic
• Eyes rolled back into the mind
which is dead
thoughtless
This is an exercise for the soul
The body
leave
search for the web
find the connection
and follow the vibration
Be nothing but a receiver
to the motion
The drum beats
and the lungs stretch
in rhythm
as the cavity fills with energy
from the snake's rattle
and the memory of a flutist
It is the attitude returning
--Teresa Anne Carson
Stillwater

Pqe 24, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

A REFLECTION ON LIFE
As I awake each morning
And· start each day anew,
I find that I get in a "fizz"
With everything I do.
I rush through all the household chores,
Wielding broom and mop
It seems such an endless thing
With not a place to stop.
I rush off on weekends
To buy food to grace our table,
To fill us with energy
And make us fit and able.
On Sundays I go off to church.
And my spirits are lifted up
For I know full well HIS BLESSINGS
Overflow my cup.
Then on Monday morning
Again I start anew
And do all the endless tasks
I know I have to do.
As I pause to reflect to days gone by
When I did all these things and more
But way back, oh say, twenty years,
It wasn't such a chore.
But now I get so weary
And my bones, they creak and crack
And I get that unpleasant feeling
Of an aching back.
'Tis then the light begins to dawn
And it is plain to see
That Father Time is close behind
And catching up with me.
--Naomi Schmidt
Barnsdall

PIBCBWORK, Fall 1987, Pase 25

TARTARUS OF WOMEN
Spread-eagled on the gym floor
I watch the other women stretch & strain
bend & twist
becoming that elusive other-putting themselves through torture
for their men
or themselves.
From our weird pelvis-tipped positions
we implore the fluorescent gods
ensconced on the pagan ceiling:
"Approach: make love to our now-thin thighs.
Kiss our sweating necks.
For you we do this."
High priestess, the instructor,
rebukes us by her own muscular presence.
Like the servants of Artemis
she seems to disdain the pleasures of our flesh.
Through our pelvic-thrust positions
her voice drones on, humorless.
Her pure, untouched face floats above her perfect body.
Writhing on the sweaty floor
I learn the lessons of a balking body:
"One and two and one and two . . . "
The pagan, demonic light mocks me,
and her voice chants on.
--Betsy Ballard
Norman

Paire 26, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

A BLOCK OF ICE
In a dark room
hallucinations sit on a chair
encroaching, often inundating him,
as the sight of his familiar old, monogrammed
robe momentarily comforts me,
enchantingly deluding me, fleetingly
mirroring the facade of my beloved brother.
Too soon, imploding reality shatteringly reminds me
that time has frozen him in an alcoholic vise.
Once beautiful, his face and body
unesthetically devoid of vitality
have become like his carpet stains,
regurgitated life.
Love, come sit with me. Let's hold each other
and pretend death isn't near.
Ricochet those childhood days off the wall
and I shall dream of feeding baby lambs,
bright blue skies and Blackie.
His words create images of happy days,
a momentary feast. Then silence
slowly slithers into the room
and wraps itself around my tongue.
I bend and kiss him goodbye.
Outside in the sun,
st~ing- at his unmowed lawn,
my heart melts
and runs down my face.
I bend and kiss him goodbye.
Outside in the sun,
staring at his unmowed lawn,
my heart melts
and runs down my face.
--Patricia Heck
Miami

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 27

DOUBLE FEATURE

When J was twelve years old
I gave up Saturday afternoon
movies in Capitol Hill.
Not even Flash Gordon
could save me from the danger
that faced the silver screen.
On Saturday afternoons
in the movies, the men come
and pass an empty seat to take
the one beside. They wriggle
in their raincoats
while their eyes, like minnows
in a pool, dart and hover
checking out the lay
of land and possibilities.
One hand is deep inside
a pocket. The other
makes a megaphone
to punctuate the Joundtrack
with ragged breath, or plucks
at nose or lip, covering
the mouth. What is it
about shame
the mouth wants to conceal?
One leg touches mine, a pressure
so subtle that I think perhaps
it's only my imagination,
like Mother said. I grip
my bag of popcorn and gaze
in desperate concentration
at the screen.

Page 28, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

One time, pushed into
unfamiliar courage, I blurted
"Stop that!"
The people in the row behind
said hush. The raincoat man
revealed his mouth
and looked at me
with cold and level eyes.
"Stop what?"
He went home with me
inside my head
and stared at me
through nightmares
for a while.
I didn't tell the manager
because who'd believe a kid.
Child molesters
hadn't even been invented.
Those raincoat men
with minnow eyes
and heavy breath ...
I used to wonder if they were
somebody's daddy.
--Judith Rycroft
Edmond

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Paae 29

HEALING IN THE OZARK MOUNTAINS
Traffic, sirens, cries for help
beat me without mercy.
Brutal pavement, pushes, pounds
till even bones would break.
Hands over my ears,
Spasms of pain forking limbs
and mind in seizures ... until
I can't live like this anymore.
Pulling this life together
to throw onto Ozark Mountains,
hoping a web there will hold
And give me some time free.
Magic Circle, drawn in dust, opens the way
from fearful deer to sharp-eyed crow,
Soaring Eagle.
Indian Princess becomes wise healer,
Strength straightens the spine,
A song begins.
Healer learning on herself.

Raindrops guide this body
toward gentle cleansing, soothing.
Aphrodite's softness becomes my own
Naked Nature leading the dance, ever-flowing.
Wind-power becomes motion-strength,
breath of life.
Harmonies uncover melodies buried
in the heart.

Pase 30, Pall 1987, PIECEWORK

Hold me, Barth Mother
Bnfold me in your warm everything.
Let me rest with you, rocking.
If I close IDY eyes, .
will you still be here?
Rumbling violence, darkness, storm,
I wake to these inside out.
Trembling Life-Force in both of us,
We are Terrible in common, so
I dare to face the Dark.
Steps on the trail touching in time,
knowing the song and the dance.
Moving along with the rest of the Living
My own steps in IDY own time.
A small campfire burns panic, grasping and failure,
Courage, compassion and hope rise Phoenix from the ashes.
Forest ritual soars, yet stays
Sticks sacrificed for light and warmth.

Walking gently in these mountains
I can know them up and down.
Choices unfold petal by petal,
immeasurable variety without confusion.
Webs of interdependence are imprinted as patterns
To use later when IDY footsteps will be harder to hear.

tXX>Women'lllean:IIABOLTQi-Calls

100 N. University Dr
Edmond, OK 73034

PIBCEWORK, Fall 1987, Pace 31

Millicent and The Bear sing to me of soaring.
Floating just above, watchful that I am alert.
Millicent frightens little girls in fairy tales.
Now she tells me we're sisters and she'll show me
terrors unimaginable in make-believe.

The Bear touches my soul, swaying in familiar rhythms
Fearsome beauty and strength are heavier happiness
than I have ever known.
The three of us return together, becoming one another
We bring a fresh song from the mountains,
and want to give it away.
--Cindy Nietfeld
Kansas City, MO

Page 32, Fell 1987, PIBCEWORK

TEACHER'S HANDBOOK INSERT 1H
This is one of those days
when I look out upon that dead sea
of blank, stopped faces
worn-out heads drooping upon unwilling arms
and in every slouched expression
I read a negation of my effort
a stamping-out of my own sweet self.
This is one of those days
when my messy desk blooms in a snide victorious garden of disorder
and the work not done assaults my hurting eyes
and the papers, unmarked, scatter on the unswept office floor
to match my littered, muddled psyche.
Why did I want to teach?

In Dante's Hell, pale Count Ugolino gnaws the brain-pan
of his eternal victim,
in an eternal frenzy over his own disgustingly eternal cannibalism.
On these days I become that victim
and each duty
each dead-faced student
tears out another bite from my exposed and deadened skull.
Why did I want to teach?

Even in this arid desert of my own parched Hell,
I sometimes manage to seize upon an answer.
Somehow the ravaged brain knits itself whole
the sun comes up
the brow clears
one remembers reasons.

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 33

I remember those who came to me
on the last edge of their private desperations:
a girl who wept of her ~ecret pregnancy
a boy who feared his suicide wishes would succeed
another whose parents offered him only
a fragmented, tormented picture of himself. saying,
"See? That's how you really are."
They came to me.
And there are days
small in actual calendar count,
of hurting brightness
when the light breaks through
and the blessed idea
sings through the classroom with a voice of grace
and the bodies straighten
and the glazed eyes clear
and the universe, for a small moment,
makes ordered sense in my disordered classroom.
They off er me the scarlet flowers of their wrists
the sparkling amethysts of their tears
the irightening blackness of their inner voids
and even from my own brain-torn pain
I find reasons to help them affirm their lives.
Those born in fire believe the scars of others,
and across the abyss, hands finally reach.
Now I remember why I wanted to teach.
--Betsy Ballard
Norman

Paiie 34, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

ANN LANDERS HERE

All day long
They are there-in my chair
on my stool
hanging on me
These lost, seeking--yet afraid
t o be found.
These who are and are not
my kids.
All day long
I listen,
List en and marvel at the courage
and strength of a
"no-good-goin' -to-the-dogs"
Generation .
My over-protected childhood did not

Prepare me for their pain,
Prepare me to advise them,
providing them survival tips,
So, I listen
And I envy them
having someone to talk to.
The confessional is a lonely place.
--Marian C. Hulsey
Oklahoma City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 35

A WOMAN'S PLACE
Sometimes I fancy myself
walking toward you-you bending over a flower bed,
taking care that your small plot
will not wither and die.
How could you, so in tune with nature,
embrace a religion of medals _and miracles?
You should have been born
into a world of lush nature,
of brilliant color, of temperate clime.
Instead, your home was on the Kansas plains,
where the weather was unkind to growing things.
But you could have brought forth life
from a stone, I think,
A woman creates her own world
when the world created for her is found wanting.
--Mary Menges Myers
Oklahoma City

P~e 36, Fall 1987, PIBCEWORK

FAREWELL SONG

for Diane Glancy

my friend leaps across distances
faster than prairie fire

for a bundle of corn clumps
she sings the wind
she is a thief she
steals away my words
a smoke cloud blurs the vision
of moccasins that leave no steps
her leather fringes flap
like falcon feathers
she leaves quiet as a shadow
her message stretching across the plains
a dark spot scars the earth
where a pole held my friend's teepee
I am left behind
remember to scatter last night's embers
--Renata Treitel
Tulsa

PIBCEWORK, Fall 1987, Pal'e 37

THIS KEY
This is the key I never gave back
because it reminds me of you
with its blank hole of an eye
turned outward

no vision

with its small, steely teeth
of numerals
cold and organized to wound
with its stem

encrusted with

past beliefs, long-layered
someday I'll discard it
mail it back
maybe deface or mutilate it
at the proper hour
timing is crucial
--K. Sue Starkey
Oklahoma City

Pace 38, Pall 1987, PIBCEWORK

THB PtJSHMB-PULLYOU

Magic hangs in the balance,
a slender tracing in the sky,
an infant's fingernail sliver
too slight for hanging clothes to drip,
too silvery to be stacked in golden
caches.
The magician stands before children
awakened from a night sweat.
They jeer at his tricks
and want to believe.
The unicorn poises in her white suit,
places ear to earth between dawn dances,
cavorts chained to a tree,
and I shoot myself down
from my covey.
--Carol Hamilton
Midwest City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Pace 39

SURREAL INFLATABLE WHALE
Come out, Margaret,
Mona called to the sun
and lay back in the dazzling kaleidescope
her tits shooting into the sky
and butted casually by jellyfish
like coffee filters gliding by
Sometimes I get visions that I'm floating
or that I'm just not here,
I am the water
and I lie back falling
You have to love falling
she said to the damp sand at the foam-line
(And isn't it enough to say
a seagull stole potato chips from our hands
ghosts sleepwalked past our blanket
Albiononi perched beside the blind lighthouse
as we peered into the fog at Kismet and said
Now we are in the future

how we goat-danced along the shattering
wave singing Look Away Dixieland
under a disintegrating sky and the jellyfish
smashed on the sand and the shy
toads hopped away from our shadows beneath the streetlight

Page 40, Fall 1987, PIECEVJORK

I abandoned my Guillaume Apollinaire boots
to the dark sand where a hunchback bulked on the lifeguard stand,
the Goddess of Loneliness,
the moon welled up like a blood drop
and we transfixed the waves with our clothes on
and sambaed in the glittering sea
she pointed her toe in a pool and halos swam
boiling into light, the moon burned from red to valium,
her clothes unlatched like veils in the tide, how she changed
her name to champagne, how poetry is where
you are and how you feel, saying,
Now: as we wade from the ocean dressed in phosphorescence?)
--Robyn Perry
Brooklyn, NY

DUPLICITY

Your love was like
A nectar-foxed bee
In a crabapple tree;
Where all the blossoms
Are compellingly sweet.
My love, I own, was in Eden
Self-confined .. .luckily the
snake was asleep.
--Riner Fitzgerald Moore
Wanette

PIBCEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 41

LANDSCAPE, WITH SHOWERS

Droplets spatter off the craggy peaks of your brow,
joining the mist at the edge of the waterfall
that send its spray
to dampen the dusty mounds of pectorals and biceps.
Rivulets collect, form channels that run
shallowly across the plains of belly, then
course, east or west and white-watered,
around the forested divide of your member
To descend the travertine falls of your knees,
branch into sluggish bayous and moist swamps
that muddy clay feet.
--Sharon E. Martin
Cushing

Pase 42, Fall 1987, PIBCRWORlf

THE QUESTION OF BEAUTY

I solved it, I think,
One day seeing a south window
Frame a branch at the extremity
Of the giant, disease-ridden elm,
Green grace lacing the sky,
There every day. Or the evening I
Stretched beneath the blossoming
Mimosa -- the pink-ballerina-skirt
Flowers stamped on the white moon.
Isolation. That is my answer.
Photographers lift and transport
One square of experience. Eve's
Translucent skin has never again
Been touched by such awe;
No poet's work cradled with such
Gentle tucking as his own,
No child's sleeping out of
The ordinary except to that
Forefinger which would trace
The curve of his brown cheek
In wonder. Stare at a lizard's
tail; Chart Thomas of Harkle's
Marginal scrawls til your eyes
Ache; look the sun in the
Eye until you are blind
And perhaps can see.
--Carol Hamilton
Midwest City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 43

For ou £ younger readers
The loud East Wind
is a banshee wind.
It's an old wind
and a bold wind.
It 's a bitter wind
and a cold, cold wind.
The loud East Wind
is a banshee wind.
It 's a wind that teases.
It's a wind that wheezes;
it t ears and it pushes
and goes where it pleases,
It rattles the windows-It bashes th e wall-It rushes, screaming,
down the hall.
It cries and whines
with a banshee call.
The loud East Wind
is a banshee wind-It's a moaning wind-It's a groaning wind-It's a vicious wind-and a lone, lone wind.
The loud East Wind
is a banshee wind.
It's an old wind
and a bold wind.
It's a bitter wind
and a cold, cold wind.
--Carolyn Marel
Edmond

Pege 44, Fell 1987, PIECEWORK

Mr. President:
There is a threat hanging over us.
Is it just a matter of time?
Who will do away with whom?
For what reason or rhyme?
Do you know the name of the man you hate?
Do you know his street address?
Do you know what he eats for breakfast?
Does he live east or west?
I can't answer these questions
And neither can you.
Who will press that final button?
Lord help us all if it's you.
--Elaine Wiggins
Sulphur

PIECEWO~ Fall 1987, Pace 45

CONTESTS
POETRY CONTEST FOR FEMALE STUDENTS
Ages 14-18
Any Subject, Any Style Poems
First Prize: $20
Second Prize: $10
Three Honors Awards
All prize winners will be published in a special issue of PIECEWORK
ENTRY FEE: $2 (1-3 poems--no more than 3 poems per contestant)
All entries must be typed
Keep your original, entries will not be returned (no SASE)
All entries must be unpublished when submitted
Type name, address, school on each entry
.. DEADLINE: All entries must be postmarked by Jan. 15, 1988**
Winners will be announced in the Spring issue of PIECEWORK
POETRY CONTEST FOR WOMEN
Any Subject, Any Style Poems
First Prize: $35
Second Prize: $20
Five Honors Awards
All prize winners will be published in a special issue of PIECEWORK

ENTRY FEE: $3 (1-3 poems--no more than 3 poems per contestant)
All entries must be typed
Keep your original, entries will not be returned (no SASE)
All entries must be unpublished when submitted
Type name and address on each entry
**DEADLINE: All entries must be postmarked by Jan. 15, 1988**
Winners will be announced in the Spring issue of PIECEWORK
Poetry Contest, PIECEWORK
P.O. Box 60693
Oklahoma City, OK 73146

Send to:

Pase 46, Fall 1987, PIBCBWORK

GIFT IDEAS
-----------------------~-----;

I

FOR THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING

PIECEWORK
A Magazine of Poetry by Women

We will send an attractive gift card for you
Send PIECEWORK to:Name _ _ _ _ __
Address
From: _ _ __
My Ad dr-,ss:
Send $12 per subscription to:
Red Dirt l'ress, Inc.
P.O. Box 60693, Ok!Hhuma City. OK ., l1'1G

!'all 1986

~

........................... . . .

MOCNRISING
CATRON GRIEVES

The poems in MOONRISiNr. by C11trr•n Gri.-,·e•
reflect lbe Indian heritag<' end surroundings 11f
its euthor, who W85 bor~ Hnd rai• rd in the
Wahillilla/Tailholt aree of Cherokee l "' rr· ·, ne11r
Tahlequah, Oklahoma, on lan<l 1Pttl-,d b'> her f amily after the Trail of TAar8 in 11118.
THE FEAST OF THE ASSlJMPTIO!'lS hv Abigtttl
Keegan, the first book of po•,trv r•uhlt,1..-..J h·-·
Hed Oirt Press, uses reli1tinn• •v:r.hol,sm : " f, ..,
the fremework on which th-, p,H l 1:wld• h,•,
eion of !i f e es II woman .

Please oer d ''-" f0l1<. w ,

g

:,ook(,) to :

1

'I '·!! !' '.'. A<., i • ., • THE ASSUMPTIOr;s
?,.. J; 1f1'1~1

ll ·~.'

Name

Address _ _ ___ _ _ _____ ···- ______ _ _ _ _ _
City____ __

_ ___ __ __,;T ________ Zip ___ _

R,.;:-f
!-''."»
P.•J. H"x 6, •
1

•• ,.

PUnh ., rrt'1 " •

L----------------

•

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______________
Uh 7:li-16

.,,. __________ _

I
I

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I

nsHORT STORY WRITERS**

Red Dirt Press, Inc., in response to your
inquiries about publishing
an anthology of short stories, is
making plans for such a volume
in the spring of 1988.
Send your short story manuscripts,
typed, double-spaced,
wit h a short biography
and a self-addressed stamped envelope
to
Short St ory Editor •
Red Dirt Press, Inc.
P.O. Box 60693
Oklahoma City, OK 73146

CALL FOR THEME POETRY
The American novelist Edith Whart on said in 1900, "Genius
is of small use to a woma n who does not know how to do her
own hair."
Women have been in battles with hair, its sexual and
political significance, for centuries. Hair makes statements for
and about us, and we are looking for the statements women
make about their hair. The editors want to do an issue of
poems, photographs and line drawings on hair.
If you have work, send it. If you don't, here's an idea to
work with: how do you see hair--yours, the blonde goddess'
hair, Veronica lake's dip, Clairol's creations, anyone's--how do
you see it?
We will put our issue together as soon as we have the
material from you, so start coming over ideas.

Pace 48, Fall 1987, P!ECEWORK

Univi1(1il~ll l~lfiiij1~n11li1
i1mi1~11r11n~d,OK
M 001 109 403
Red Dirt Press, Inc., a women-owned and womenoperated publishing company, is seeking manuscripts by
women writers. Novels, volumes of poetry and books of
short stories will be accepted. Send your typed, doublespaced (except for poetry) manuscripts for consideration, along with a SASE, to Manuscripts, Red Dirt
Press, Inc., P.O. Box 60693, Oklahoma City, OK 73146.

SUBMISSION DEADLINES: November 15 for winter issue; February 15 for spring issue; May 15 for summer issue; August 15
for summer issue.

SUBMISSION POLICY: PIECEWORK accepts submissions of
poetry by women, particularly from Oklahoma and the south
central region. Payment is in one contributor's copy, with Red
Dirt Press, Inc., retaining first rights only. Simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but please inform us of this. Submissions should be typed and accompanied by a brief biographical
statement of the poet and a SASE. We will report within three
months.

PIECEWORK is also accepting submissions of art work and
photographs, especially seasonal to be used as covers for the
quarterlies. Send black and white photographs or black ink line
drawings to PIECEWORK, Red Dirt Press, Inc ., P.O. Box
60693, Oklahoma City, OK 73146, by the submission dates
listed above. Payment is in one contributor's copy. Please
enclose a SASE.

Univili~11i11li11il~I1]jj~fl~i11ll1~1~1,~11i f'OK
M 000 997 573

PIECEWORK
FALL 1987
VOLUME 2, NUMBER 1

"I salute PIECEWORK for publishing so many fine
women poets in the region. So many new voices! It if
one more proof that the best writers these days appear
in the little magazines. Bravo to the editors and to the
i,oets!"
May Sarton

$12 per year
$4 single issue
Red Dirt Press, Inc., P.O. Box 60693, Oklahoma City, OK 73146



CIC"
f'91 §A1lftt,
t',,.;LcNl,Klf,
A Magazine of Poetry by Women

"-· --

,

._.{.\

.... ....
..,,\"i,;_;, ,,_

JANEMARIE LUECKE

Fall 1987

Red Dirt Press, Inc., is the result of the v1s10n of eight women who wanted to provide more publication opportunities for
women. The publication of this magazine of women's poetry,
aptly named PIECEWORK, which draws on all the images of
women's work that is done "by the piece," is dedicated to all
the women who write poetry, sometimes in spite of their lives
and families.

PIECEWORK (ISSN: 0893-116X) .is published four times
a year. Subscriptions are $12 per year for individuals,
$16 for libraries and institutions.
A free copy of
PIECEWORK will be furnished, on request, to the libraries of prisons and/ or mental institutions. Single
Address all correspondence to
copy price is $4.
PIECEWORK, Red Dirt Press, Inc., P.O. Box 60693,
Oklahoma City, OK 73146.

A MAGAZINE OF POETRY BY WOMEN
FALL 1987
VOLUME 2, NUMBER 1

Poetry Editors: Ann Carlton, Abigail Keegan
Typesetting and Layout: Marian Hulsey
Camera and Stripping: Eloise Dycus and Martha Hayes
Printing: Elaine Barton
Distribution: Eloise Dycus
Public Relations: Peggy Durhc m

Published by Red Dirt Press, Inc.
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
'°Copyright 1987 by Red Dirt Press, Inc.
No part of this publication may be
or reproduced without written permission
UCO Women's Research &BOLTQtCellt.cr

100 N. University Dr
Edmond, OK 73034

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Red Dirt's Birthday Party...... ....... ............. ......................................

4

Featured Artist, Janemarie Luecke..................................................

6

Poems by Fa,ntured Artist, Janemarie Luecke
"Wild Bird Eggs"............................................ .. ........................... 7
"Tundra"...................................................................................... 9
"Julia's Message"........................................................................ 12
"Mom" ........................................................................................ 15
"A Benediction" by Katharine Privett............ ..................................
"Autumn Magic" by Susan A. VanSchuyver.....................................
"Autumn Temptations" by Sue McGinnis..........................................
"Feasting" by Mary Menges Myers............ .. ....................................
"Procrastination" by Riner Fitzgerald Moore. ..................................
"Woman Burning Leaves" by Katharine Privett...............................
"The Restoration" by Eve Lear ........................................................
"Miser" by Susan L. Smith..............................................................
"Absent Minded" by Jane Boese......................................................
"A Reflection on Life" by Naomi Schmidt.......................................
"A Lesson in Meditation" by Teresa Anne Carson..........................
"Tartarus of Women" by Betsy Ballard. ..........................................
"A Block of Ice" by Patricia Heck .................................................
"Double Feature" by Judith Rycroft................................................
"Healing in the Ozark Mountains" by Cindy Nietfeld .......................
"Teacher's Handbook Insert #1" by Betsy Ballard..........................
"An n Landers Here" by Marian C. Hulsey.......................................
"A Woman's Plac e " by Mary Menges Myers .....................................
"Farewell Song" by Renata Treitel..................................................
"This Key" by K. Sue Stark ey .... ... .... .. ... .... ..................... ................
"The Pushme-Pullyou" by Carol Hamilton..... .. .. .. .... .... .................... ..
"Surreal Inflatable Whale" by Robyn Perry..... ...... .... ... ..... .......... ....
"Duplicity" by Riner Fitzgerald Moore .. . :. ..... .. ... .. ..... .... ...... .. .. ..... ... .
"Landscape with Showers" by Sharon E. Martin ........... ............ .. .... .
"The Question of Beauty" by Carol Hamilton ........................ ....... ....

16
17
18
19
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
30
33
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43

For Younger Readers
"The loud Bast Wind is a banshee wind" by Carolyn Marel... ..... ... 44

"Mr. President:" by Blaine Wiggins................................................... 45

ATTENTION, poets, teachers, friends of poets:
POETRY CONTEST INFORMATION -- Page 46
CHRISTMAS and other Gift Suggestions
For Gifts That Keep On Giving
See Page 47

Works in this issue that were published previously are
here republished with permission of the authors.

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 3

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RED DIRT PRESS
The camaraderie of "women from all areas, from all levels of
education and life, brought together by a single thread--writing poetry," was the feeling one of the poets expressed to the women of Red
Dirt Press, after being a part of the press' first birthday celebration,
July 25. As the group of unacquainted poets gathered to share in the
eel Jt>ration, all the things that can divide women were dismissed and
the focus became the stories, the threads of similarities, the ties
that bind us together. There were stories of near suicides, addictions
to inappropriate relationships, of poetry's healing and saving their
lives. "Does our poetry come as therapy or as a result of a sensitive
soul which requires therapy?" was the question posed in the letter
which came the next week. "I no longer feel like an oddball," she
continued. "It's wonderful, knowing there are other women who have
felt and do feel as I do."
The afternoon reception featured the poets' reading their own
selections and relating a little of their lives. There were art displays
by Gail Garloch, Rebecca Friedman and Dorothy Moses, phot ography
by Robin Smith, jewelry by Theila Elliott, quilts and crafts by Visual
Memories, and dulcimers made by luthier Anna Koester .
The evening's festivities were kicked off with showing t hree videos by Norman artist Jeanne Hollenceck, followed by the poetry readings of Abigail Keegan and Doris Davenport, and the wonderful music
of Mary Reynolds and the Sisters of Swing.
A very special visual greeting from Maine poet May Sart on was
printed on a computer-banner for all to share:
"I salute PIECEWORK for publishing so many fine women
poets in the region. So many new voices! It is one more proof
that the best writers these days appear in the little magazines.
Bravo to the editors and to the poets!"
May Sarton
All the women of Red Dirt Press wish to thank all who attended
and those who have supported our first year with their subscriptions
to the magazine, and with their marvelous poetry, without which we
would not have a magazine to publish.

Pa&e 4, ~'all 1987 PIECEWORK

RED DIRT PRESS ' AND PIECEWORK'S BIRTHDAY CAKE
by Dorothy McGuinness, Moore

POET DORIS DAVENPORT
shares some of her poems
with the anniversary group
shortly before leaving the
state for a new teaching
fob
at
Bowling
Green
University.

(Photos by Marian Hulsey)

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 5

FEATURED ARTIST -- JANEMARIE LUECKE
Janemarie Luecke, O.S.B., is a native Oklahoman, born to the
western wheat lands of Okeene. As a member of her Benedictine
community she has lived and taught in a number of other areas of
the state--Guthrie, McAlester, Oklahoma City and Stillwater. She has
taught Old and Middle English at Oklahoma State University since
1966, and although she retired last year, she continues to teach one
class per semester at OSU.
Through her scholarship, teaching and lecturing, Janemarie has
contributed greatly to education in this state. She is a dynamic orator ,md for many years has challenged and inspired audiences here
and around the country to face our most ~ complex contemporary issues--civil rights, women's rights, U.S. involvement in Central America,
and the nuclear arms' race, to name only a few.
Besides being a skilled poet, Janemarie is the author of scholarly
articles, essays on social justice and religion, a book on Old English
rhythm, and a handbook on prosody. She has published two books of
poetry, THE RAPE OF THE SABINE WOMEN (1978) and WILD BIRD
EGGS AND OTHER MYSTERIES (1984). She is preparing her third
volume for publication. In addition, Janemarie has published her
poems in numerous magazines and journals, such as KUDZU, NEW
MEXICO HUMANITIES REVIEW and THE POETRY SOCIETY OF
AMERICA BULLETIN.
Janemarie has won honors for her poetry in contests and has
received grants to both Yaddo artists' colony in New York and the
MacDowell Colony in New Hampshire. Recently in the NEGATIVE
CAPABILITIES contest, judged by Marge Piercy, she received an
honorable mention for her series of ten "Cancer Poems." In these
poems, as Denise Levertov said, she "wrests poetry from the cancer,"
the cancer she is now battling. These moving and painfully beautiful
poems will be published in NEGATIVE CAPABILITIES this year.
On a personal note, I want to thank Janemarie, for she was my
literature teacher and poetic mentor through my twenties. I am proud
to be publishing the work of one of Oklahoma's outstanding educators
and poets.
A.K.

Page 6, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

WILD BIRD EGGS
A robin's egg came in the mail today
nested in cotton. The match box shape, the plain
brown paper wrapping, did not betray
the quaint fragility that it contained.
A tucked in note, warning care, gave way
to layered batting sheltering a stain
of sudden blue that thrilled with pleasure. Such
vulnerability I could not touch!
The long lost child saw th9 broken shell
lying between the stubbled cuts of wheat
short after harvest--its fragile wisp of yellowed
white and yolk splattered--and knew the grief
of trust tested and failed, of a hand that fell
just as her brother's fist unclosed in bdef
encounter. She could not hold in case
he'd drop on prickling flesh an infant mouse!
Love too comes in fragile selves of weakness
shelled in pastel, carefully hidden in hands
so lightly clutched that only the touch of meekness
--of weakness matched with tested trust--can stand
its frightful prospects: the risk of surface coldness,
of losing self in another's shifting sand,
of being tricked, the rational conclusion
that eggs will always shatter on collusion.

PIBCBWORK, Fall 1987, Pace 7

Just now I took the blue from out its cotton,
felt its coldness warming to my palm,
and wondered if my human touch had gotten
response of any sort inside. The calm
exterior unnerved my latent passion.
But you, my love, whose fingers move like dawn
need only touch to carefully unpeel
my years of fear, my layered garnered steel.
Then may we prick our weakened shells to free
the dove whose bones transparent still reveal
the marrow; from there only can we hope to be
built whole, and--loved--lovingly unveil
the force of dove's wings, the mystery
of wounded life which garden stones conceal,
until our endless strokes of love engender
trust that (wild bird eggs) we can surrender.
--Janemarie Luecke
Stillwater
from WILD BIRD EGGS

Page 8, Fall 1987, PI8CEWORK

TUNDRA

The flDwer-rich meadowland
growing above the 1bnit

of trees,
It was August. The humped
backbone of the continent
was vertebraed with snow;
bald tops of mountain
jutted out meekly, fringed
with a hairline of boulders;
far below, the timbered
chest of the Rockies
glowed dark and rugged.

, tundra is fragile
and may be permanently
damaged
if walked on repeatedly.
Reading the leaflet,
picking our way
between rocks algaed to green
and black, between talking,

It takes some of these plants
several hundred years
to achieve the growth
you see here: grasses,
herbs, sedge,
and a few dwarfed shrubs;
the Mountain Dryad;
She said,
"Will you be there--always-when I need you?" and I,
"If I am--if I surrender
that space, that free rapture
of striding unencumbered
the world's rafters--will you need me
then--when I'm weak, and wanting . . "
PIECEWORK, Flllll 1987, Page 9

Greenl.eaf Bluebells,
Alpine Forget-me-nots
(f1. ve-year-olds, low-growing,
may have stems a quarter-inch only
.in diameter, with showy flowers,
more blossom than leaves)
Sky Pilots.
Westward one day near the pole
six hours I rode
the curved rim of the world
watching a sunset.
Now stooping over stick-like
leaves I watched it blow
purple, pink, yellow,
feeling it rise in her reading:

Drought may occur
both sum mer and w.inter; blizzards;
be aw are of lightning hazards
with thunder.
(I answered)

Small leaves are protected
by masses of hair
or waxy substances
pigmented with red.
(She said:)

High w.inds, and
freezing-all w.inter
and even .in sum mermake for slo w-gro w.ing
"But . . "

Paie 10, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

rapid in season.
Harebells, Rydbergiathey know how to hold
from summer to summer,
budding in one,
bursting in bloom
a year later.
The cragged meadow unrolled
to the north hiding drops
of 5000 feet. We turned to the myth
of the Utes ringing this table in clouds,
drinking from bowls that are lakes
frozen black in the rocks.
We breathed in their strength,
leaving the plants

undisturbed
for the thousands
who fallow.
--Janemarie Luecke
Stillwater

PIBCBWORK, Fall 1987, Pqe 11

JULIA'S MESSAGE
Do not forget the people of the mountains!
Julia's words fell like small fingers of rain
piercing our breastbone
dislodging the marrow, sending
shockwaves through the membrane
of our entrails. We felt
her pain like the wretched path
ascending nearly perpendicular
to Abuelita's hut, her hope
like Esperanza
leading us onward.
How can we forget you
gutted rock, hacked to spines
worn down to treacherous smoothness
by oppression; rising relentless
but granting us glimpses
of your distant, snow-ringed volcano.
Can we forget
your faces--showers of bougainvillea
tumbling over walls in purples, magentas
masking the scars of hunger
the horrors: Magdaleno's eyes
devoured by ulcers, leathered feet
unwashed through years of scant water.
Can a mother forget her baby
cradled in her dingy veil
coated with three days vomit
its whimper becoming death's rattle.

Paee 12, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

And if she forgets
having buried so many
replacing them quickly
Can we forget the mothers
Angela. gentled by love
fired by struggle. by survival
Her--in Guatemala
her riven womb robbed of its child
stuffed with the head of her husband
Her sisters--searching the corpses
for missing sons and daughters.
Can we forget their eyes
full as the moon that later
washed over our faces.
We shall never forget you
Esperanza, who never left us
all the way back
down that torturous path
like a mountain goat
like hope
-waving your baskets
(for bread, for tortillas)
before our flagging spirits.
Te llevamos en nuestro corazon
El pueblo de las montanes.
--Janemarie Luecke
Stillwater

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Pqe 13

MOM
My mother bore us
spaced through eighteen
years, lost her teeth at thirty,
faced each season's change with certitude
of work, each month with cramping pain,
each day or two with gratitude
of folding yeast in flour
and kneading bread.

She t ook us in a stride
that multiplied her output:
not just some dozen ja rs of food
preserved for winter , hundreds--picked
from fields of garden, shelled and
peeled through endless hours
monotonously ticked
from child t ime.
She cut out blocks
of white from a blackened
pot she 'd hung over live embers
full of tallow, lye, and other facts
a child could stir and wonder at,
how it dared to come out soap
for washing, and bring her
ribbons at the fair.

Page 14, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

Sliced a roof of
apples, spread on a sheet
and turned to dry out in the sun
then stored in bags under the stairs
along with raisins and apricots
for munching on in random
hunger when fresh ones
were all gone.
Pieced quilts from
scraps, and crocheted
rugs from yarn of stockings
dyed to match the moods of children
stretching to independent youth
and so released the spinning
colors of labor unrelieved
but, whistling, done.
--Janemarie Luecke
Stillwater

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Paee 15

A BENEDICTION
The earth is tired;
she's worked hard
all through the spring
and summer
so that we may share
in the harvest.
Her store-rooms are full.
Her jars overflow
with corn,
her baskets with fruit.
Her vines sag
with sweetness
and her fields shine
in the cool evenings.
No wonder
she is drowsy
and can scarcely
stay awake
to tell the geese good-bye
or to listen
to the Ripe Corn Song.
Now she needs to pull
the radiance
of her patch-work quilt
over her head.
To rest
and, when winter comes,
to sleep long and deep,
warm in her soft
white blankets.
--Katharine Privett
Pawnee

Pa~e 16, Fall 1987, PI8CEWORK

AUTUMN MAGIC

We stand on the summit
Of Sparrowhawk Mountain
Overlooking the Illinois River.
The wind, crisp as a Granny Smith apple,
The earth, moist and nutty,
The sycamores, golden and blood-red,
The river, a snake tumbling over boulders and
broken tree trunks,
The valley, glistening and sweet,
We stand on the summit.
A word, a look, a touch
Communicates a comfortable feeling.
The channels of your mind
Are carved in a different pattern
From mine. So
The climb to reach this peak
Has been arduous.
We stand on the summit
To experience the
Autumn magic.
--Susan A. VanSchuyver
Oklahoma City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Pase 17

AUTUMN TEMPTATIONS
The brisk, cool wind blows gently,
twirling golden-red leaves
into crossword patterns
on the colorless grass.
Sweet smelling smoke,
billowing from a neighboring chimney,
climbs into the azure sky, losing its identity in a cumulus cloud.
Pumpkins lie in the halloween patch,
ready to have their personalities
forever imbedded in their orange epidermis.
Inside, the vegetable stew is bubbling,
creating a steady rhythm of percussion sounds.
The aroma of fresh baked cornbread
wafts from the oven,
like a secret vapor apprehending its quarry.
The fire's appetite for the seasoned pine logs
is evident by the brilliant yellows and reds
trapped in their pigmentations,
trying to escape
inside the stone-lined hearth.
With her awe-inspiring colors and unmistakable scents,
Autumn has invited herself,
once again,
into our lives.
--Sue McGinnis
Arlington, TX

Pace 18, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

FEASTING
I am rushing headlong down this autumn stream of days.
The fierce, fiery red of maples sears my senses.
The coin gold of softwoods glitters in the sun.
Nature's feast is spread before me.
I want it all. One lifetime is not enough.
There are many selves inside this body,
some have just awakened.
Youth is now behind me,
but mid-life's richness eclipses youth.
So I'll take my days, each a new adventure,
and let the well-spring deep inside me
challenge rampant nature.
--Mary Menges Myers
Oklahoma City

PROCRASTINATION
The sun this first day of
Autumn seems reluctant to
Leave the tea party of
Summer; and is dilatorily
Sipping from the bottom of
his cup.
--Riner Fitzgerald Moore
Wanette

PIBCEWORK, Fall 1987, Pqe 19

WOMAN BURNING LEAVES

She• s raked and burned all afternoon
and into evening-engrossed in scarlet maple, yellow elm,
star-shaped, star-fallen sweet gum.
And stands now
twined with ripe, dense, stinging
vines of smoke,
attentive to the hum of wheeling fire.
Leaves like old love-letters read again,
combed through,
then piled tenderly to be destroyed
she's turned into remembered passion
and new loss.
One last time, desire consumes the earth
and writes on air.
--Katharine Privett
Pawnee

Pa&t> 20, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

THE RESTORATION

Dark shadows on dew-spangled grass
Beckon my weary soul from troubled bed
Bare feet find sweet relief
Cool grass cushioned, dew washed.
Beneath tall pines at last I lie
Ten thousand needles soft, my bed
Pine-scented breeze, my fan.
Locust violins lead in
Lone dove's crooning
Bumble bee bass drones by
While sparrows' twitter weaves about
Rapt woodpecker's percussion
Pale spider swings on sparkling line
And softer play the violins.
Sun fingers my refuge probe
I wake to joy and dance my way
Tiptoe in sun-warmed grass.
This day that shall begin at noon
Has conquered all my shades of night.
--Eve Lear
Oklahoma City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 21

MISER
I heard empty cans clatter down a vacant street
as I stood in the old woman's kitchen
and watched yellowing scraps of paper
flap in the box fan's breeze.
"She's such a pennypincher,"
her daughter told me, "always
clipping coupons from the
newspaper, saving bread wrappers
and brown paper bags,"
but now her scissors lay on the table;
she had finished her ritual.
Her hands on a neat pile of clippings,
she smiled, her blue eyes
watering in the whites
she was quiet.
For a moment
she did not hear the emptiness
that holds its breath
on the edge of outside,
waiting for the scraping
sandblocks of dreams to
rasp an unknowable pattern
and the sycamore leaves
already yellowing
and curling
~ry

to fall,
finally,
to the ground.
--Susan L. Smith
Norman

Page 22, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

ABSENT MINDED
I put my scissors down right there.
Now they are gone.
No one knows where.
Biding his time,
Some gremlin crept
While I was busy or I slept;
Not bent on thievery or harm,
But .iust in play
With cunning charm.
To see if I can guess
T'was he, not just my mind deserting me.
--Jane Boese
Graham, TX

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Pace 23

A LESSON IN MEDITATION

Sit
Catatonic
• Eyes rolled back into the mind
which is dead
thoughtless
This is an exercise for the soul
The body
leave
search for the web
find the connection
and follow the vibration
Be nothing but a receiver
to the motion
The drum beats
and the lungs stretch
in rhythm
as the cavity fills with energy
from the snake's rattle
and the memory of a flutist
It is the attitude returning
--Teresa Anne Carson
Stillwater

Pqe 24, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

A REFLECTION ON LIFE
As I awake each morning
And· start each day anew,
I find that I get in a "fizz"
With everything I do.
I rush through all the household chores,
Wielding broom and mop
It seems such an endless thing
With not a place to stop.
I rush off on weekends
To buy food to grace our table,
To fill us with energy
And make us fit and able.
On Sundays I go off to church.
And my spirits are lifted up
For I know full well HIS BLESSINGS
Overflow my cup.
Then on Monday morning
Again I start anew
And do all the endless tasks
I know I have to do.
As I pause to reflect to days gone by
When I did all these things and more
But way back, oh say, twenty years,
It wasn't such a chore.
But now I get so weary
And my bones, they creak and crack
And I get that unpleasant feeling
Of an aching back.
'Tis then the light begins to dawn
And it is plain to see
That Father Time is close behind
And catching up with me.
--Naomi Schmidt
Barnsdall

PIBCBWORK, Fall 1987, Pase 25

TARTARUS OF WOMEN
Spread-eagled on the gym floor
I watch the other women stretch & strain
bend & twist
becoming that elusive other-putting themselves through torture
for their men
or themselves.
From our weird pelvis-tipped positions
we implore the fluorescent gods
ensconced on the pagan ceiling:
"Approach: make love to our now-thin thighs.
Kiss our sweating necks.
For you we do this."
High priestess, the instructor,
rebukes us by her own muscular presence.
Like the servants of Artemis
she seems to disdain the pleasures of our flesh.
Through our pelvic-thrust positions
her voice drones on, humorless.
Her pure, untouched face floats above her perfect body.
Writhing on the sweaty floor
I learn the lessons of a balking body:
"One and two and one and two . . . "
The pagan, demonic light mocks me,
and her voice chants on.
--Betsy Ballard
Norman

Paire 26, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

A BLOCK OF ICE
In a dark room
hallucinations sit on a chair
encroaching, often inundating him,
as the sight of his familiar old, monogrammed
robe momentarily comforts me,
enchantingly deluding me, fleetingly
mirroring the facade of my beloved brother.
Too soon, imploding reality shatteringly reminds me
that time has frozen him in an alcoholic vise.
Once beautiful, his face and body
unesthetically devoid of vitality
have become like his carpet stains,
regurgitated life.
Love, come sit with me. Let's hold each other
and pretend death isn't near.
Ricochet those childhood days off the wall
and I shall dream of feeding baby lambs,
bright blue skies and Blackie.
His words create images of happy days,
a momentary feast. Then silence
slowly slithers into the room
and wraps itself around my tongue.
I bend and kiss him goodbye.
Outside in the sun,
st~ing- at his unmowed lawn,
my heart melts
and runs down my face.
I bend and kiss him goodbye.
Outside in the sun,
staring at his unmowed lawn,
my heart melts
and runs down my face.
--Patricia Heck
Miami

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 27

DOUBLE FEATURE

When J was twelve years old
I gave up Saturday afternoon
movies in Capitol Hill.
Not even Flash Gordon
could save me from the danger
that faced the silver screen.
On Saturday afternoons
in the movies, the men come
and pass an empty seat to take
the one beside. They wriggle
in their raincoats
while their eyes, like minnows
in a pool, dart and hover
checking out the lay
of land and possibilities.
One hand is deep inside
a pocket. The other
makes a megaphone
to punctuate the Joundtrack
with ragged breath, or plucks
at nose or lip, covering
the mouth. What is it
about shame
the mouth wants to conceal?
One leg touches mine, a pressure
so subtle that I think perhaps
it's only my imagination,
like Mother said. I grip
my bag of popcorn and gaze
in desperate concentration
at the screen.

Page 28, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

One time, pushed into
unfamiliar courage, I blurted
"Stop that!"
The people in the row behind
said hush. The raincoat man
revealed his mouth
and looked at me
with cold and level eyes.
"Stop what?"
He went home with me
inside my head
and stared at me
through nightmares
for a while.
I didn't tell the manager
because who'd believe a kid.
Child molesters
hadn't even been invented.
Those raincoat men
with minnow eyes
and heavy breath ...
I used to wonder if they were
somebody's daddy.
--Judith Rycroft
Edmond

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Paae 29

HEALING IN THE OZARK MOUNTAINS
Traffic, sirens, cries for help
beat me without mercy.
Brutal pavement, pushes, pounds
till even bones would break.
Hands over my ears,
Spasms of pain forking limbs
and mind in seizures ... until
I can't live like this anymore.
Pulling this life together
to throw onto Ozark Mountains,
hoping a web there will hold
And give me some time free.
Magic Circle, drawn in dust, opens the way
from fearful deer to sharp-eyed crow,
Soaring Eagle.
Indian Princess becomes wise healer,
Strength straightens the spine,
A song begins.
Healer learning on herself.

Raindrops guide this body
toward gentle cleansing, soothing.
Aphrodite's softness becomes my own
Naked Nature leading the dance, ever-flowing.
Wind-power becomes motion-strength,
breath of life.
Harmonies uncover melodies buried
in the heart.

Pase 30, Pall 1987, PIECEWORK

Hold me, Barth Mother
Bnfold me in your warm everything.
Let me rest with you, rocking.
If I close IDY eyes, .
will you still be here?
Rumbling violence, darkness, storm,
I wake to these inside out.
Trembling Life-Force in both of us,
We are Terrible in common, so
I dare to face the Dark.
Steps on the trail touching in time,
knowing the song and the dance.
Moving along with the rest of the Living
My own steps in IDY own time.
A small campfire burns panic, grasping and failure,
Courage, compassion and hope rise Phoenix from the ashes.
Forest ritual soars, yet stays
Sticks sacrificed for light and warmth.

Walking gently in these mountains
I can know them up and down.
Choices unfold petal by petal,
immeasurable variety without confusion.
Webs of interdependence are imprinted as patterns
To use later when IDY footsteps will be harder to hear.

tXX>Women'lllean:IIABOLTQi-Calls

100 N. University Dr
Edmond, OK 73034

PIBCEWORK, Fall 1987, Pace 31

Millicent and The Bear sing to me of soaring.
Floating just above, watchful that I am alert.
Millicent frightens little girls in fairy tales.
Now she tells me we're sisters and she'll show me
terrors unimaginable in make-believe.

The Bear touches my soul, swaying in familiar rhythms
Fearsome beauty and strength are heavier happiness
than I have ever known.
The three of us return together, becoming one another
We bring a fresh song from the mountains,
and want to give it away.
--Cindy Nietfeld
Kansas City, MO

Page 32, Fell 1987, PIBCEWORK

TEACHER'S HANDBOOK INSERT 1H
This is one of those days
when I look out upon that dead sea
of blank, stopped faces
worn-out heads drooping upon unwilling arms
and in every slouched expression
I read a negation of my effort
a stamping-out of my own sweet self.
This is one of those days
when my messy desk blooms in a snide victorious garden of disorder
and the work not done assaults my hurting eyes
and the papers, unmarked, scatter on the unswept office floor
to match my littered, muddled psyche.
Why did I want to teach?

In Dante's Hell, pale Count Ugolino gnaws the brain-pan
of his eternal victim,
in an eternal frenzy over his own disgustingly eternal cannibalism.
On these days I become that victim
and each duty
each dead-faced student
tears out another bite from my exposed and deadened skull.
Why did I want to teach?

Even in this arid desert of my own parched Hell,
I sometimes manage to seize upon an answer.
Somehow the ravaged brain knits itself whole
the sun comes up
the brow clears
one remembers reasons.

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 33

I remember those who came to me
on the last edge of their private desperations:
a girl who wept of her ~ecret pregnancy
a boy who feared his suicide wishes would succeed
another whose parents offered him only
a fragmented, tormented picture of himself. saying,
"See? That's how you really are."
They came to me.
And there are days
small in actual calendar count,
of hurting brightness
when the light breaks through
and the blessed idea
sings through the classroom with a voice of grace
and the bodies straighten
and the glazed eyes clear
and the universe, for a small moment,
makes ordered sense in my disordered classroom.
They off er me the scarlet flowers of their wrists
the sparkling amethysts of their tears
the irightening blackness of their inner voids
and even from my own brain-torn pain
I find reasons to help them affirm their lives.
Those born in fire believe the scars of others,
and across the abyss, hands finally reach.
Now I remember why I wanted to teach.
--Betsy Ballard
Norman

Paiie 34, Fall 1987, PIECEWORK

ANN LANDERS HERE

All day long
They are there-in my chair
on my stool
hanging on me
These lost, seeking--yet afraid
t o be found.
These who are and are not
my kids.
All day long
I listen,
List en and marvel at the courage
and strength of a
"no-good-goin' -to-the-dogs"
Generation .
My over-protected childhood did not

Prepare me for their pain,
Prepare me to advise them,
providing them survival tips,
So, I listen
And I envy them
having someone to talk to.
The confessional is a lonely place.
--Marian C. Hulsey
Oklahoma City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 35

A WOMAN'S PLACE
Sometimes I fancy myself
walking toward you-you bending over a flower bed,
taking care that your small plot
will not wither and die.
How could you, so in tune with nature,
embrace a religion of medals _and miracles?
You should have been born
into a world of lush nature,
of brilliant color, of temperate clime.
Instead, your home was on the Kansas plains,
where the weather was unkind to growing things.
But you could have brought forth life
from a stone, I think,
A woman creates her own world
when the world created for her is found wanting.
--Mary Menges Myers
Oklahoma City

P~e 36, Fall 1987, PIBCEWORK

FAREWELL SONG

for Diane Glancy

my friend leaps across distances
faster than prairie fire

for a bundle of corn clumps
she sings the wind
she is a thief she
steals away my words
a smoke cloud blurs the vision
of moccasins that leave no steps
her leather fringes flap
like falcon feathers
she leaves quiet as a shadow
her message stretching across the plains
a dark spot scars the earth
where a pole held my friend's teepee
I am left behind
remember to scatter last night's embers
--Renata Treitel
Tulsa

PIBCEWORK, Fall 1987, Pal'e 37

THIS KEY
This is the key I never gave back
because it reminds me of you
with its blank hole of an eye
turned outward

no vision

with its small, steely teeth
of numerals
cold and organized to wound
with its stem

encrusted with

past beliefs, long-layered
someday I'll discard it
mail it back
maybe deface or mutilate it
at the proper hour
timing is crucial
--K. Sue Starkey
Oklahoma City

Pace 38, Pall 1987, PIBCEWORK

THB PtJSHMB-PULLYOU

Magic hangs in the balance,
a slender tracing in the sky,
an infant's fingernail sliver
too slight for hanging clothes to drip,
too silvery to be stacked in golden
caches.
The magician stands before children
awakened from a night sweat.
They jeer at his tricks
and want to believe.
The unicorn poises in her white suit,
places ear to earth between dawn dances,
cavorts chained to a tree,
and I shoot myself down
from my covey.
--Carol Hamilton
Midwest City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Pace 39

SURREAL INFLATABLE WHALE
Come out, Margaret,
Mona called to the sun
and lay back in the dazzling kaleidescope
her tits shooting into the sky
and butted casually by jellyfish
like coffee filters gliding by
Sometimes I get visions that I'm floating
or that I'm just not here,
I am the water
and I lie back falling
You have to love falling
she said to the damp sand at the foam-line
(And isn't it enough to say
a seagull stole potato chips from our hands
ghosts sleepwalked past our blanket
Albiononi perched beside the blind lighthouse
as we peered into the fog at Kismet and said
Now we are in the future

how we goat-danced along the shattering
wave singing Look Away Dixieland
under a disintegrating sky and the jellyfish
smashed on the sand and the shy
toads hopped away from our shadows beneath the streetlight

Page 40, Fall 1987, PIECEVJORK

I abandoned my Guillaume Apollinaire boots
to the dark sand where a hunchback bulked on the lifeguard stand,
the Goddess of Loneliness,
the moon welled up like a blood drop
and we transfixed the waves with our clothes on
and sambaed in the glittering sea
she pointed her toe in a pool and halos swam
boiling into light, the moon burned from red to valium,
her clothes unlatched like veils in the tide, how she changed
her name to champagne, how poetry is where
you are and how you feel, saying,
Now: as we wade from the ocean dressed in phosphorescence?)
--Robyn Perry
Brooklyn, NY

DUPLICITY

Your love was like
A nectar-foxed bee
In a crabapple tree;
Where all the blossoms
Are compellingly sweet.
My love, I own, was in Eden
Self-confined .. .luckily the
snake was asleep.
--Riner Fitzgerald Moore
Wanette

PIBCEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 41

LANDSCAPE, WITH SHOWERS

Droplets spatter off the craggy peaks of your brow,
joining the mist at the edge of the waterfall
that send its spray
to dampen the dusty mounds of pectorals and biceps.
Rivulets collect, form channels that run
shallowly across the plains of belly, then
course, east or west and white-watered,
around the forested divide of your member
To descend the travertine falls of your knees,
branch into sluggish bayous and moist swamps
that muddy clay feet.
--Sharon E. Martin
Cushing

Pase 42, Fall 1987, PIBCRWORlf

THE QUESTION OF BEAUTY

I solved it, I think,
One day seeing a south window
Frame a branch at the extremity
Of the giant, disease-ridden elm,
Green grace lacing the sky,
There every day. Or the evening I
Stretched beneath the blossoming
Mimosa -- the pink-ballerina-skirt
Flowers stamped on the white moon.
Isolation. That is my answer.
Photographers lift and transport
One square of experience. Eve's
Translucent skin has never again
Been touched by such awe;
No poet's work cradled with such
Gentle tucking as his own,
No child's sleeping out of
The ordinary except to that
Forefinger which would trace
The curve of his brown cheek
In wonder. Stare at a lizard's
tail; Chart Thomas of Harkle's
Marginal scrawls til your eyes
Ache; look the sun in the
Eye until you are blind
And perhaps can see.
--Carol Hamilton
Midwest City

PIECEWORK, Fall 1987, Page 43

For ou £ younger readers
The loud East Wind
is a banshee wind.
It's an old wind
and a bold wind.
It 's a bitter wind
and a cold, cold wind.
The loud East Wind
is a banshee wind.
It 's a wind that teases.
It's a wind that wheezes;
it t ears and it pushes
and goes where it pleases,
It rattles the windows-It bashes th e wall-It rushes, screaming,
down the hall.
It cries and whines
with a banshee call.
The loud East Wind
is a banshee wind-It's a moaning wind-It's a groaning wind-It's a vicious wind-and a lone, lone wind.
The loud East Wind
is a banshee wind.
It's an old wind
and a bold wind.
It's a bitter wind
and a cold, cold wind.
--Carolyn Marel
Edmond

Pege 44, Fell 1987, PIECEWORK

Mr. President:
There is a threat hanging over us.
Is it just a matter of time?
Who will do away with whom?
For what reason or rhyme?
Do you know the name of the man you hate?
Do you know his street address?
Do you know what he eats for breakfast?
Does he live east or west?
I can't answer these questions
And neither can you.
Who will press that final button?
Lord help us all if it's you.
--Elaine Wiggins
Sulphur

PIECEWO~ Fall 1987, Pace 45

CONTESTS
POETRY CONTEST FOR FEMALE STUDENTS
Ages 14-18
Any Subject, Any Style Poems
First Prize: $20
Second Prize: $10
Three Honors Awards
All prize winners will be published in a special issue of PIECEWORK
ENTRY FEE: $2 (1-3 poems--no more than 3 poems per contestant)
All entries must be typed
Keep your original, entries will not be returned (no SASE)
All entries must be unpublished when submitted
Type name, address, school on each entry
.. DEADLINE: All entries must be postmarked by Jan. 15, 1988**
Winners will be announced in the Spring issue of PIECEWORK
POETRY CONTEST FOR WOMEN
Any Subject, Any Style Poems
First Prize: $35
Second Prize: $20
Five Honors Awards
All prize winners will be published in a special issue of PIECEWORK

ENTRY FEE: $3 (1-3 poems--no more than 3 poems per contestant)
All entries must be typed
Keep your original, entries will not be returned (no SASE)
All entries must be unpublished when submitted
Type name and address on each entry
**DEADLINE: All entries must be postmarked by Jan. 15, 1988**
Winners will be announced in the Spring issue of PIECEWORK
Poetry Contest, PIECEWORK
P.O. Box 60693
Oklahoma City, OK 73146

Send to:

Pase 46, Fall 1987, PIBCBWORK

GIFT IDEAS
-----------------------~-----;

I

FOR THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING

PIECEWORK
A Magazine of Poetry by Women

We will send an attractive gift card for you
Send PIECEWORK to:Name _ _ _ _ __
Address
From: _ _ __
My Ad dr-,ss:
Send $12 per subscription to:
Red Dirt l'ress, Inc.
P.O. Box 60693, Ok!Hhuma City. OK ., l1'1G

!'all 1986

~

........................... . . .

MOCNRISING
CATRON GRIEVES

The poems in MOONRISiNr. by C11trr•n Gri.-,·e•
reflect lbe Indian heritag<' end surroundings 11f
its euthor, who W85 bor~ Hnd rai• rd in the
Wahillilla/Tailholt aree of Cherokee l "' rr· ·, ne11r
Tahlequah, Oklahoma, on lan<l 1Pttl-,d b'> her f amily after the Trail of TAar8 in 11118.
THE FEAST OF THE ASSlJMPTIO!'lS hv Abigtttl
Keegan, the first book of po•,trv r•uhlt,1..-..J h·-·
Hed Oirt Press, uses reli1tinn• •v:r.hol,sm : " f, ..,
the fremework on which th-, p,H l 1:wld• h,•,
eion of !i f e es II woman .

Please oer d ''-" f0l1<. w ,

g

:,ook(,) to :

1

'I '·!! !' '.'. A<., i • ., • THE ASSUMPTIOr;s
?,.. J; 1f1'1~1

ll ·~.'

Name

Address _ _ ___ _ _ _____ ···- ______ _ _ _ _ _
City____ __

_ ___ __ __,;T ________ Zip ___ _

R,.;:-f
!-''."»
P.•J. H"x 6, •
1

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PUnh ., rrt'1 " •

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nsHORT STORY WRITERS**

Red Dirt Press, Inc., in response to your
inquiries about publishing
an anthology of short stories, is
making plans for such a volume
in the spring of 1988.
Send your short story manuscripts,
typed, double-spaced,
wit h a short biography
and a self-addressed stamped envelope
to
Short St ory Editor •
Red Dirt Press, Inc.
P.O. Box 60693
Oklahoma City, OK 73146

CALL FOR THEME POETRY
The American novelist Edith Whart on said in 1900, "Genius
is of small use to a woma n who does not know how to do her
own hair."
Women have been in battles with hair, its sexual and
political significance, for centuries. Hair makes statements for
and about us, and we are looking for the statements women
make about their hair. The editors want to do an issue of
poems, photographs and line drawings on hair.
If you have work, send it. If you don't, here's an idea to
work with: how do you see hair--yours, the blonde goddess'
hair, Veronica lake's dip, Clairol's creations, anyone's--how do
you see it?
We will put our issue together as soon as we have the
material from you, so start coming over ideas.

Pace 48, Fall 1987, P!ECEWORK

Univi1(1il~ll l~lfiiij1~n11li1
i1mi1~11r11n~d,OK
M 001 109 403
Red Dirt Press, Inc., a women-owned and womenoperated publishing company, is seeking manuscripts by
women writers. Novels, volumes of poetry and books of
short stories will be accepted. Send your typed, doublespaced (except for poetry) manuscripts for consideration, along with a SASE, to Manuscripts, Red Dirt
Press, Inc., P.O. Box 60693, Oklahoma City, OK 73146.

SUBMISSION DEADLINES: November 15 for winter issue; February 15 for spring issue; May 15 for summer issue; August 15
for summer issue.

SUBMISSION POLICY: PIECEWORK accepts submissions of
poetry by women, particularly from Oklahoma and the south
central region. Payment is in one contributor's copy, with Red
Dirt Press, Inc., retaining first rights only. Simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but please inform us of this. Submissions should be typed and accompanied by a brief biographical
statement of the poet and a SASE. We will report within three
months.

PIECEWORK is also accepting submissions of art work and
photographs, especially seasonal to be used as covers for the
quarterlies. Send black and white photographs or black ink line
drawings to PIECEWORK, Red Dirt Press, Inc ., P.O. Box
60693, Oklahoma City, OK 73146, by the submission dates
listed above. Payment is in one contributor's copy. Please
enclose a SASE.

Univili~11i11li11il~I1]jj~fl~i11ll1~1~1,~11i f'OK
M 000 997 573

PIECEWORK
FALL 1987
VOLUME 2, NUMBER 1

"I salute PIECEWORK for publishing so many fine
women poets in the region. So many new voices! It if
one more proof that the best writers these days appear
in the little magazines. Bravo to the editors and to the
i,oets!"
May Sarton

$12 per year
$4 single issue
Red Dirt Press, Inc., P.O. Box 60693, Oklahoma City, OK 73146