Journeybread Recipe by Lawrence Schimel

Even in the electric kitchen there was the smell of a journey.
—Anne Sexton, “Little Red Riding Hood”

1. In a tupperware wood, mix child and hood. Stir slowly. Add wolf.

2. Turn out onto a lightly floured path, and begin the walk home from school.

3. Sweeten the journey with candied petals: velvet tongues of violet, a posy of roses. Soon you will crave more.

4. Knead the flowers through the dough as wolf and child converse, tasting of each others flesh, a mingling of scents.

5. Now crack the wolf and separate the whites—the large eyes, the long teeth—from the yolks.

6. Fold in the yeasty souls, fermented while none were watching. You are too young to hang out in bars.

7. Cover, and, warm and moist, let the bloated belly rise nine months.

8. Shape into a pudgy child, a dough boy, lumpy but sweet. Bake half an hour.

9. Just before the time is up—the end in sight, the water broken–split the top with a hunting knife, bone-handled and sharp.

10. Serve swaddled in a wolfskin throw, cradled in a basket and left on a grandmother’s doorstep.

11. Go to your room. You have homework to be done. You are too young to be in the kitchen, cooking.

From: Datlow, Ellen and Winding, Terri (eds.), Black Thorn, White Rose, 2014, Open Rose Media: New York City, pp. [unnumbered].
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=4SFEBAAAQBAJ)

Date: 1994

By: Lawrence Schimel (1971- )

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Two Boys by Doug Anderson

They take the new machine gun out of its wrap
in pieces, the flat black barrel, the other
parts, delicate in their oil, plastic stock
like a toy until snapped onto the rest,
pressed against the shoulder of the corporal
with almost white blond hair. He looks around
for something to sight in on. With a grin
the other, darker one points to three
children dawdling to school along a paddy dike.
The first rounds are high and the gunner adjusts,
fires again, the children running now,
the rounds pluming in the wet paddies,
another click and all but one child has made
the safety of the treeline, the other splashing
into the new rice, and as the gunner sights in
on him, this eight year old, with wisdom perhaps
from the dead, yanks off his red shirt, becomes
the same color as the fields, the gunner lowering
the muzzle now, whispering a wistful, damn.

From: https://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2010/sep/22/poetry-two-boys-doug-anderson/#

Date: 1994

By: Doug Anderson (1943- )

Dusting by Marilyn Nelson

Thank you for these tiny
particles of ocean salt,
pearl-necklace viruses,
winged protozoans:
for the infinite,
intricate shapes
of submicroscopic
living things.

For algae spores
and fungus spores,
bonded by vital
mutual genetic cooperation,
spreading their
inseparable lives
from equator to pole.

My hand, my arm,
make sweeping circles.
Dust climbs the ladder of light.
For this infernal, endless chore,
for these eternal seeds of rain:
Thank you. For dust.

From: https://www.ct.gov/cct/cwp/view.asp?a=2162&q=275616

Date: 1994

By: Marilyn Nelson (1946- )

Perth by Ee Tiang Hong

The city has no centre, focal landmark,
no Place de la Concorde, Padang Merdeka, Tien An Men,
no particular square, terrace, public park.

On important days citizens do not converge,
as elsewhere, for a common purpose — they feel
no urge to (there’s no compulsion);

would rather windsurf, sprawl on beach, go bush,
or some place else, even overseas (if it’s
not too far, not too expensive).

Alternatively, might as well stay home,
weed, mow the lawn, try a new recipe, barbecue,
lounge, have a beer, watch tv (Love you Perth).

Of course. Or else. Yet sometimes,
for a while, I’d rather be away
from family, neighbours, visiting friends;

be all alone, to daydream, diverge, de-centred,
but no looking back to brood, and not too far ahead,
just the opposite foreshore, Bassendean.

And the Swan, quiet, deathly pale at evening.

From: http://www.softblow.org/eetianghong.html

Date: 1994

By: Ee Tiang Hong (1933-1990)

Noonday Game, South Africa by Ralph Nixon Currey

Once it was buffalos,
Rhinos and hippos
By whom this noonday
Game was played;
Now it’s the cars of human beings
That nose each other
Out of the shade.

From: Currey, R.N., Collected Poems, 2001, David Philip & James Currey: Oxford & Cape Town, p. 19.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=vkivkL-OohwC)

Date: 1994

By: Ralph Nixon Currey (1907-2001)

At Last It’s Come by Sulpicia

At last it’s come, and to be said to hide this kind of love
would shame me more than rumors that I’d laid it bare.
Won over by the pleading of my Muse, Cytherea
delivered him to me. She placed him in my arms.
Venus has fulfilled what she promised: Let my joys be told
by one who is said to have no joy of her own.
I would hate to keep what I’ve written under seal where none
could read me sooner than my lover, for pleasure
Likes a little infamy; discretion is nothing but a tedious pose.
Let it be known I have found a fitting partner.

From: Rayor, Diane J. and Batstone, William W. (eds.), Latin Lyric and Elegaic Poetry: An Anthology of New Translations, 1995, Routledge: New York, p. 84.

Date: 1^st century BCE (original in Latin); 1994 (translation in English)

By: Sulpicia (1^st century BCE)

Translated by: Mary Maxwell (19??- )

Bastille by Pierre Martory

You let your shirt hang down
putting on airs of cuffs
at the edge of ending night
like the end of a java with double ritournelles
or the way the canaries in the cage of still-closed mornings
were singing that it mattered little
to them that their windows were open
the stones the paving stones the door-frames the armatures
the window-frames the sheets of the bed clothes in their colors
were beating the dawn along with us
better drums than your belly
better drumsticks than my fingers
and the trees and the roofs the river and its bridges
the clear distances of the city the factories without smoke
bathed as at their birth stammered
a trial hello
that only ended however
in this word round as a doubloon
placed on the edge of that day
by a considerate friend
the sun on your arms naked against my cheeks
hello I said to you
the day of quatorz’juillet.

From: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/41039

Date: 1994 (original in French); 2000 (translation in English)

By: Pierre Martory (1920-1998)

Translated by: John Ashbery (1927- )

Rondeau I: Like the Mourning Dove by Christine de Pizan

Like the mourning dove I’m now all alone,
And like a shepherdless sheep gone astray,
For death has long ago taken away
My loved one whom I constantly mourn.
It’s now seven years that he’s gone, alas
Better I’d been buried that same day,
Like a mourning dove I’m all forlorn.
For since I have such sorrow borne,
And grievous trouble and disarray,
For while I live I’ve not even one ray
Of hope of comfort, night or mourn.
Like the mourning dove I’m now all forlorn.

From: http://faculty.msmc.edu/lindeman/piz3.html

Date: 1397 (original); 1994 (translation)

By: Christine de Pizan (1364-c1430)

Translated by: Charity Cannon Willard (1914-2005)

Profiles of my Father by Rhyll McMaster

I
The night we went to see the Brisbane River
break its banks
my mother from her kitchen corner
stood on one foot and wailed, ‘Oh Bill,
it’s dangerous.’
‘Darl,’ my father reasoned,
‘don’t be Uncle Willy.’

And took me right down to the edge
at South Brisbane, near the Gasworks,
the Austin’s small insignia winking
in the rain.

A policeman helped a man load
a mattress on his truck.
At a white railing we saw the brown water
boil off into the dark.
It rolled midstream higher than its banks
and people cheered when a cat on a crate
and a white fridge whizzed past.

II
Every summer morning at five-thirty in the dark
I rummaged for my swimming bag
among musty gym shoes and Mum’s hats from 1940
in the brown hall cupboard.
And Dad and I purred down through the sweet, fresh morning
Still cool, but getting rosy
at Paul’s Ice Cream factory,
and turned left at the Gasworks for South Brisbane Baths.

The day I was knocked off my kickboard
by an aspiring Olympian aged ten
it was cool and quiet and green down on the bottom.
Above the swaying ceiling limbs like pink logs,
and knifing arms churned past.
I looked at a crack in the cream wall
as I descended and thought of nothing.

When all of a sudden
Dad’s legs, covered in silver bubbles,
his khaki shorts and feet in thongs
plunged into view like a new aquatic animal.
I was happy driving home;
Dad in a borrowed shirt with red poinsettias
and the coach’s light blue, shot-silk togs.

From: http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/mcmaster-rhyll/profiles-of-my-father-0072046

Date: 1994

By: Rhyll McMaster (1947- )

Advent Calendar by Rowan Douglas Williams

He will come like last leaf’s fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud’s folding.

He will come like frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.

He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.

He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.

From: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2005/dec/24/featuresreviews.guardianreview23

Date: 1994

By: Rowan Douglas Williams (1950- )