Issue 8
September 2001
Robyn Alter
I'm 20 years old, living on Long Island, in New York. I attend Nassau Community College and have been taking a wide variety of classes. I am too young and interested in way too many things to know what I want to do with my life yet. My main interests lie in literature, art, psychology, and music. I've been playing the flute for 12 years and am currently teaching lessons. I try to write one poem per night, and am looking forward to getting more of my work published.
Only As You Were Not...
I liked you only as James Dean,
So let's not update ourselves
To modern day absurdities.
If my abilities could change a decade,
I'd have done so in a moment's notice.
(I hated every aspect of you, otherwise)
Let's not squash that beautiful face
With your infamous smile,
That never failed to let me know
How you despised me in all my glory.
Oh, and don't open your mouth, darling,
Fabulous faces need not speak.
If I had created you, back in '70,
I'd have given you less injury, more forgery,
And some insight as to why we insist
On feeding those with no appetite,
On giving clamor to things that are quiet.
You like my music, and I like photos in sepia,
Chrome yellow, and tastefully ugly antiques.
So let's pretend, for just one day
That I'm performing and you are able to handle that,
That you don't cry or fall in love so quick.
Just for today, I can float through all the notes,
Because you won't fall so hard for my melodies.
Today, you're the one for me.
Take me with you, 1956
We'll highball in reverse,
Taking the curves in stride,
Because we must be careful,
We musn't hit upon drive.
Because I'm still your idol,
Your heartbreaker, your music-maker,
When we wake up and talk of what to refine,
Your words spill out in common time.
And I refrain from saying out loud,
How silly it is to sober yourself for me.
(Sit tight, leave me to dream).
It's in your stance, a replica of mediocrity.
A solid symbol of rock & roll.
But you've never tossed flowers,
You never shook your hips,
And you make little girls crazy for the wrong reasons.
Jimmy was golden and still remains the same,
Delightfully frozen on the screen.
(Just remember you'll never be.)
Your a sitcom, a connoisseur of late-night junk.
So relax with us, darling...
And tell us about the mansions you've built,
Over time in your wild imagination.
And I, who was born decades too late,
Fed off of you, vicarious to the greats.
But you, being treacherous, I missed the whole show.
I told you to quiet down, to stay pretty and sleep,
But it wasn't enough for you, to pose as my little prize.
You awoke and showered me with distractions.
I have misfortunes now, unaware of what it was like,
To be celebrated, photographed, a star in black and white.
July
My french vanilla joins your blush wine,
And I smile at the thought of a classical cafe.
There's light chatter under blueberry stars,
Of fresh melodies and flashy cars.
We are each fairly reflective tonight,
Marveling over the quality of July.
Few months can bear secrets,
But this one whispers a token of fall.
My memoir season.
I worry that the cold is an untimely thing,
But you assure me that it is in fact, wonderful.
Before your arms, there was the ocean.
A stretch of black dreams at night,
And my star sapphire in the morning.
Blue beauty washes out birds in my stomach.
Now there are conversations,
Chronicle plays, snapshots of my life.
And I am comfortably floating,
Delighted, through soft glory.
Theophillus
You spilled golden notes over Austria,
Warming the streets of Salzburg.
Today, symphonies still float
All around the mountains.
Some melodies are yellowing
From centuries of continuity,
Circling the peaks.
Time froze both of you,
And selected only one
To remain as beautiful.
Traveling
I like to imagine you
Stumbling around England,
Searching for rare items,
Or sitting in a pub, reading Camus
Over Brazilian wine.
I'll drink to that,
Only because you swear
It's the best of its kind.
I love to picture you
Sick of grunge in Seattle,
The star of lush parties.
You often wonder why anyone
Would ditch west coast life,
Knowing what this island is like.
You traveled easy,
In the days before you knew love.
Now in the city of Mardis Gras,
You'll have someone to miss
And you won't mind coming home.
October makes me sad,
I want to envision us
Decorated heavy with beads,
And my eyes wide
With everything I've never seen.
Destination, Accommodation
Bad news is when you're trapped in a house,
filled with dust bunnies and electrified cats,
sitting in cola puddles, playing with action figures.
The curtains are making me sneeze,
and my head is jammed in the plumbing.
So let's hop on a starship, destination galaxy hotel.
Decked out in silver suits, we're on a mission for accommodation.
Steady as androids, heading for heavenly reservation.
But even more beautiful than several exploding stars along the way,
was the moment when my curious eyes fell upon a face.
Yes, you were delightfully lit up by newly formed patterns in the sky.
You stood dignified, purified on cracked red soil.
I ended my voyage right then, just to stand near you.
We said nothing. And when the light of Earth disappeared,
I tumbled into your arms, and we shared a dance,
twirling easy, to the sound of solar winds.
"I should have been back by now," you said.
Then you looked at me and laughed.
For the moment, it was purely exotic.
And then it was comfortable.
I had stumbled upon home again.