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Issue No. 1, Aldebaran Review


Aldebaran Review no. 1

March 1967

a selection of poems

 •

 

 


 

  •

 

The power of darkness equals the power of light

 

The power of darkness equals the power of light

     the flight of the wings making a dark rushing,

the speed of which was the sound of Einstein thinking

     with his soft eyes, Jewish, and strange mind

which went straight to the sky,

     through it out to the outermost inmost the skin of the circle

sloughing around in his slippers, the old man in his bedroom,

     his study, his classroom: all rooms were one

room, the pace of his mind; the deep darkness

     through which the birds of his mind made their thought,

The power of thought equals the power of darkness

     equals the power of light.

 

—Gail Dusenbery (Chiarello)


 

 


 

  •

 

 

RE-ENTRY

 

I get the feeling that he's very high.

 

I get the feeling that he's coming down

slowly. I see him float

into the forest. His study

surrounds him. I see clear pine trees

pierce his glass-like palace.

His form bent over

a manuscript,

his mind,

bent over a pencil.

 

I hear the parachute

but never see it fall.

 

—Richard Krech

 

 


 



 

 

  •

 

TO BOB

 

WE HAVE LOST THE LAND

                OR

    HAVE BECOME SEPARATED

                      FROM OURSELVES

    AS GRASS PULLED FROM

        ITS SHAFT

     WE STAND WITH NO MEANING

             IN SPACES

THE OPENED GROUND IS AS

STRANGE AS THE OPENINGS

BETWEEN OUR FINGERS.

 

—Eileen Adams

 

 



 


 

  •

 

#76 Mrch 8 67

 

G o d b y e s

 

       whiles

 

    the poem, a small

      and common

    thing

 

we're living it up

in the quiet snow

 

 

 

#140 Oct 28 67

 

S. Thomas More said

 

     Tarry while I

       put aside my beard it

 

          has not committed treason

 

 

                             canonized 1935

 

            up at the City Gates

             the dreamers face

                             invisible

 

—Larry Eigner

 

 


 

  •

 

 

A HUNDRED VOICES AT ONCE

 

You hear this calling.A bird

again and again.

 

Again and again.What sign

can I give to myself?

 

What is the night,to such

a calling bird?

 

Again and again,I ask

to speak only to myself.

 

You hear this calling.A bird

again and again.

 

Again and again.Now I

listen to be hearing.

 

Again and again.The voice

falls off of me,found dumb.

 

You hear this calling.You hear

this calling.Again and again.

 

Again and again.I have

lost my voice,for want of myself.

 

You hear this calling.A bird

again and again.

 

Sept 28 1966

 

 

—Doug Palmer

 

 


 

 • 

 

LETTER SEVEN (for Jeff)

 

Nighttime and I died

and all the pieces of me

scattered through

the sharp curve of sky

and came to rest on

their own hesitations

                                        (my restlessness

proven         and the hope of a sometime)

 

peace mockery

as cheerful as the laughing girl at Playland

 

you said        the years from 18-22

were the most important        in anybody's life

so I tried to think about what had happened

to me then        (since I should think

about these things at the last

and I wanted to know what I did

                                       with myself

 

I know what        I waited

 

what was it like        you say

it was under water and breathing blood

and it was like         waiting

                                   it was like waiting

 

I can't tell you                   the dead

 

see themselves suspended in a spiderweb

caught between

 

and they do not touch back again

 

so you must ask me another night

when you have begun to live a second time

and I can give you a third answer

to what is         after all        only one question

 

—(Sister) Mary Norbert Körte (O.P.)

 

 

 


 

  •

 

THREE MONTHS

 

For three months I debated:

acorn, walnut,

butter brickle,

When I discovered it was my mother's nip

I was already in the womb.

 

—Michael Attie

 

 


 

  •

 

JAPANESE THOUGHTS OF AN AMERICAN POET

 

 

 

*

first rains

neon fireflies

beside a black river

 

 

*

giving poems

away

disguised as political pamphlets.

 

 

*

corn is ripe somewhere

a warehouse of scarecrows?

soup after prayers.

 

 

*

the poem must be done

just right

no one will notice

 

—Gene Fowler

 

 





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Aldebaran Review
Berkeley, CA
ph: Website created by Jannie Dresser, janniedres@att.net

johnoliver.simon@yahoo.com