Willawaw Journal Spring 2025 Issue 20

Cantateur

–after Tympan by Jacques Derrida

A note held softly on air
A notion married to a pitch
And the pitch joins the enigma
As if something were said.

The title of the paper, “Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, the Roots of the Five Note Motif
in Modern Existentialism.” Then later unhinging both Dark Side of the Moon and the
Wizard of Oz at the same time a strange unnatural synergy is created, where mentally
disturbed Englishmen suddenly try to depress the munchkins. Obviously there is a
connection that must be studied further.

Lift from the shoulders of dry paper,
Let fly your tones
Rattling dry bones tweezering into the air
Made hot and moist with breath.

I called the UPS man and he sang his excuse to me. A show tune entitled “Bad
Weather in Tennessee.” Rotten news. But cheerfully received.

When Tom was born. He was silent. Reserved, wrapped tightly like a pale eggplant in
a towel. And looked with incredulous eyes. And quietly squawked, with the voice of a
cantateur. Something deep inside me gladly shattered.

What is there left to say about Marc Janssen, other than he should eat more vegetables? Maybe his verse can be found scattered around the world in places like Pinyon, Orbis, Pure Slush, Cirque Journal, Two Thirds North, Poetry Salzburg and also in his book November Reconsidered. Janssen coordinates the Salem Poetry Project, a weekly reading, the occasionally occurring Salem Poetry Festival. And he keeps getting nominated for Oregon Poet Laurate. For more information visit, marcjanssenpoet.com.

Jive

I fly between galaxies
sun to sun
on a trapezoid kite,
a song of infinite jest
cradled in photons,
a lovechild of dust.

Elements jive through
the angles of me
leaving a choir of voices
I hear with my breath.

When I wake they laugh
at my hunger,
and the artifice of dimension.
They entice my pattern
to let my genes
fling apart
on a speckled wind.

Gary Lark’s most recent collections are Coming Down the Mountain, Easter Creek, and Daybreak on the Water. His work has appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, Catamaran, and Rattle. Gary and his wife Dorothy live in Oregon’s Rogue Valley. GaryLark.work

Surrounded by Poppies

—after Paula Modersohn-Becker, Old Poorhouse Woman
with a Glass Bottle, Oil on canvas, 1907

She brought me to this garden of red poppies—
a young woman with paints and easel in a long bag.
Her thin fingers turned my head to the light,
tied the white bow under my chin, smoothed the skirt
of my Sunday dress. Folded my hands just so
to show my wedding band. I loved my husband,
but he left me nothing. If I owned this garden,
I would grow tomatoes … fennel … dill.

I want to please this woman—she is nice—
but I am old, my back hurts, and you see my color.
Why does she not ask the dainty white lady
in the house on the corner to hold this foxglove
with flowers like thimbles, to wear a red poppy
on her sleeve? I am late, I must make potato soup
at the poorhouse. Why can the artist not go there,
paint me in my blue apron holding a leek?

Dreams of Eating

‌                                                                    1
I ascend a bank covered with fine ice crystals. The sky, too, is white. At the top of
the bank the sky turns sapphire, filled with multicolored, magical birds like those
on the cover of the Audubon Society book. A hummingbird hovers nearby. A turkey
sandwich filled with cranberries and a pumpkin ice cream cone sit on a stump. I
take bites of each. This tastes like a real turkey sandwich … this tastes just like
pumpkin! I can do anything now. Eat without calories…fly?

‌                                                                      2
I walk up the main street of our village. Icicles drip from chimneys, snow covers the
sidewalks. But the air is warm. Footprints trail off into tall Douglas fir. I fit my feet
carefully into each impression. Beneath a fir tree, my father-in-law stands in his
overalls, eyes and cheeks glowing. I rush to meet him. He lived not far from here.
We stayed with him at his cabin many times. “Will you eat for me?” he asks …
“Mashed potatoes.” He reaches down, runs his fingers through the snow.

‌                                                                       3
A tall ladder leads to a loft filled with steam. White-uniformed people wash laundry
in old-fashioned washing machines. In another area, white-aproned people cook in
a large kitchen. An older woman with a heavy German accent says, “Try some ______.”
(I don’t understand the word.) She offers me a small plate and points to a long table
laden with delicacies. I collect hors d’oeuvres like precious shells on a beach. But
another woman hands me a dinner plate filled with…what, the main course? I want
my small plate. Where is my small plate?

Phyllis Mannan lives with her husband and daughter in Manzanita, on the North Oregon Coast. She has published a memoir, Torn Fish: A Mother, Her Autistic Son, and Their Shared Humanity, and a poetry chapbook, Bitterbrush (Finishing Line Press). Her poems have appeared in Cirque, Cloudbank, North Coast Squid, Rain Magazine, Willawaw Journal, and elsewhere.

William Turner

–after Steam Boat in a Snow Storm, 1812

First boat and sea and light
then only sea and light then
only light
and look! within that light an almost Not gesture of a boat.
No rules: where colors should sit, how lines should behave
or what reflection belongs to what hour.
Just Light,

the way that Light is pushing its
incontestable speed into bodies.
An impolite, indiscriminate, articulate
Counselor of decay and celebration,
a jubilant devouring child-god rushing out through his hand
like hot gold pouring onto canvas
into the cold linear ache of this place
and in so doing forever defining for us a soul:
that light which longs to escape.

Rebecca Martin studied poetry at the College of Creative Studies at University of California at Santa Barbara. She received the Dale Stamros Poetry award, and published poetry in the literary journal Spectrum. She has enjoyed working as a teacher and professional storyteller in the US and beyond, and also has been published as a freelance writer for newspapers and other venues. She lives in the Willamette Valley near Brownsville, Oregon.

Dawn Patrol

Crack, crack go eggs on the skillet. Now and then
a small streak of blood. Scrambled one day, sunny

side up the next. He’s gone of course but like always
the mourning doves call, they call through dawn.

There are giant waves to surf, perilous cliffs to climb.
Adrenaline chase on the dawn patrol is what he calls it.

Hummingbirds click calls like friends on the welcome
mat. They hover nearby, their wings beating hard.

They must know a secret or two, but off they dash.
There’s never time to say bye. The eggs have cooled

again as they always do. My son remains a long way
from home. The world is full of unknowns.

Richard L. Matta’s poetry has appeared in MacQueen’s Quinterly, Stirring, Gyroscope, ONE ART, Watershed Review, many international haiku journals, and elsewhere. He was recently nominated for a Pushcart, and is an award-winning short form poet.