CLOUD VIEW POETS

$12, ISBN: 0-9725384-4-5. Available from Small Press Distribution or from Arctos Press.

CLOUD VIEW POETS
The Cloud View Poets anthology contains one poem by each of the poets who have attended David St. John’s Northern California workshops over the past four years. These 81 poets gather, 15 at a time, in ‘Lyn Follett’s living room on Cloud View Road to discuss poetry written by the masters and to offer their own work for group critiques. The anthology is capacious in the range of voices, forms and subjects it embraces. The poets are joined together by the idea that the reading and writing of poetry is a serious endeavor. They have published widely and accumulated numerous prizes and honors. Many teach poetry in universities, colleges, schools, prisons, and private workshops. All share a belief in the power of poetry! Cloud View Poets is more than a collection of accomplished poems. It is also a way to preserve those weekends spent learning about poetry from a distinguished poet and gifted teacher who navigates the diversity of the group with intelligence, passion and respect for the writing.

ILYA KAMINSKY

Author's Prayer

If I speak for the dead, I must leave
this animal of my body,

I must write the same poem over and over,
for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.

If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge
of myself, I must live as a blind man

who runs through rooms without
touching the furniture.

Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking "What year is it?"
I can dance in my sleep and laugh

in front of the mirror.
Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,

I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak

of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say

is a kind of petition, and the darkest
days must I praise.

JOSEPH ZACCARDI

Body of War

I remember a flower floating on water. What do I call it?
White blossom swimming in place? Brother holding brother?

To staunch bleeding apply gauze and pressure, then bandage.
I remember trawlers. Lean brown men. Nets laid in the brine

like fine doilies. Where red tide meets blue, sister caressing sister.
If there's a wound to the abdomen, inject morphine, tell them

it doesn't look bad, you've seen worse and theirs looks good,
pretty good. I remember gathering this part to fit that part. How

can I tell you? That it didn't bother me? There was no time to think?
That it was just a bad dream? Some nights I lie in bed trembling,

and if I try to speak, only consonant sounds come out, words
without vowels. Arm without "a." Leg without "e." And head.

How do I say head?