HAYDEN'S FERRY REVIEW
SUMMER 1990 ISSUE 6
Table of Contents
Fiction
Chuck Rosenthal
Pere De Nom [25]
Gary Fincke
Story Stories [42]
Tara Masih
Turtle Hunting [55]
Richard Ploetz
Home [61]
Laura Ellen Scott
Agent of Memory's Body [80]
Susan Benjamin
Piano Days [90]
Poetry
Joy Harjo
The Field of Miracles [7]
Peggy Shumaker
Across the Line [21]
Sara Harrell
The Cane of a Duck [34]
David St. John
Uptown Love Poem [36]
Lonely People in Lonely Places [37]
Maura Stanton
Youth Orchestra Playing Mahler's Ninth [38]
Charles Casey Martin
Beds [54]
Cynthia Hogue
Dreamer's Twist [57]
All You Do to Call [59]
Christopher Davis
Rapture [78]
Diane Kirsten-Martin
La Vie Interieuere/Yonkers [79]
Quinton Duval
Flying [85]
Testing [86]
Sharon Bryan
Imitations of Mortality [87]
Diane Glancy
Homework [100]
Contentment: December Twenty-Ninth [101]
Art
Editor's note: The ten featured photographs exemplify contemporary American portraiture of aging and the elderly Jim Stone
Tiny: Yuma, Arizona [32]
Ada MacGregor and her squash: LaCrosse, Wisconsin [33]
Jim Goldberg
Untitled [40]
Untitled [41]
David Fisk
Mary White and Princess Ella [74]
Name Unknown [75]
Hattie Boatright [76]
Elizabeth Kelley [77]
Debbie Fleming Caffery
Polly [88]
Michael Spano
Portrait of the artist's father [89]
Symposium on First Books of Poetry [102]
Philip Levine [103]
Maura Stanton [105]
David St. John [106]
Sharon Bryan [108]
Peggy Shumaker [109]
Ai [111]
Thomas Lux [113]
Beckian Fritz Goldberg [114]
Charles Wright [116]
Interview
Sharyn Stever
Landscape and the Place Inside: An Interview with Joy Harjo [9]
Contributors [118]
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Issue 6 Staff
Managing Editor
Salima Keegan
Fiction Editors
Barbara Nelson
Dianne Nelson
Poetry Editors
Sharyn Stever
Wendy White-Ring
Art and Design Editor
Vivian Spiegelman
Editorial Assistants
Jeanne Clark
Kelleen Zubick
Editorial Advisor
Ron Carlson |
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Poetry Selection – David St. John, Lonely People in Lonely Places
Clarisse had been polishing the plates
Even though no one was expected for dinner;
Somehow, it made her feel a bit more alive
As she listened to the dogs
Barking along the lane, marking the progress
Of the postman towards her door. He'd
Certainly have something for her today perhaps
The glass chimes she'd ordered from Boston,
Or the Pewter ladle her sister had promised
After their Mother's death. Maybe there
Would be her box of narcissus bulbs. Soon,
She'd be planting
And praying to all the goddesses of the moon
For another spectacular season, her usual
Triumphant garden--one that made
The strolling couples pause and lean together
For a moment, their breaths mingling in the
brisk
Spring air as they regarded that precise chaos
Of blown color she'd used
To surround her cottage. She loved to watch
As they stood at her white gate, pointing and
exclaiming
At the layers of fern and crocus, wild heather
And rose, holding each other a little
Closer before they turned, disappearing up the lane
To the village, singularly content, and pair by
pair.
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Fiction Selection – Chuck Rosenthal, from Pere de Nom
It doesn't matter what you call it. Time passes, things change a little bit. The older I got, the simpler I saw things, and the simpler I saw things, the more complicated they got. At my best, I tried not to notice. There were lives of time, streets of time, days of time. I took a job collecting garbage.
The only hard part about the job was the work. We started around 2:30 a.m., just after the bars closed, and went and got coffee, then hit the streets making as much noise as we could. You had to bang your can on the truck and do a lot of yelling to hear each other over all that can banging. You carried your own can into somebody's back yard, dodged the clotheslines, kicked the dog, found the garbage and stuffed about four cans of what somebody thought was well-packed garbage into your own can, that was after you got the cat or rat or possum or whatever mammal you found in there out of the cans and onto the lawn. Then you put your can on your shoulder and squatted under the clothes lines and kicked the dog and yelled back at whoever you woke up while you were doing all that, usually the person who owned the yard, upset you made so much noise while you were back there discovering their fucking garbage.
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