Shoe drawings, stabillo, 1995-96

Edwin Drummond, Strand magazine query (no date given)

STRAND

The universe is one poem, on-going, tending to infinity and ultimate openess, as our truer poems and science do. In an oceanic maze of mazes, a seamless matrix whose caul is language, poems, at their best, return us to discover - and recover -the process of life streaming within, and all around, in which we too swim, until de-solving within the.one continuum of all being as single drops of, mainly, what we call water.

With the kind and generous support of A.DOFE, Inc, 'A non profit, public benefit corporation supporting contemporary art and the people who make it', there is a new thread in the World Wide Web: STRAND; a monthly gathering of poems addressing 'the society in wilderness, the wilderness in society.'

Anyone who has gathered poems out of the suck and surge of nature and nurture is invited to meet, through their poems, each month in the pages of STRAND. Whether fresh from the coast or the street, in the office, in love, on the rocks... STRAND welcomes poems that have it up to Here - and then some: superfresh air. At least on paper.

In time, perhaps such poems, together, could become a new branch of the Great Green Belt of Living Poetry circling the Earth, an ecologos, an archipelago of language under pressure in the wild. Whether on the mountain face or in the computor's, looking for a ledge in the sirened night, gazing into a microscope at the Gordian knot of a strand of DNA (Do Not Amputate), waiting at the bank, on the moors with binoculars for the curlew to speak its name, or cheek to cheek on the bus... poems make oxygen. People breathe more easily, opening their hearts in their mouths.

The hummingbird imagination has to check out everything, from the black holes of rifle barrels and eyes, from ants to dictators; flower nostrils, fears, ears of grass; from words to chains, forgetting nothing, not even nothing, street trash huddled in a corner by. the driving wind, clutching its small cup of honey. Small, daring, darting, with a sharp nib for the hard arse of authority on the one hand, receptive as the monthly bed of roses a woman makes on the other, a clutch of poems for all seasons, STRAND declares open season on having any agenda other than going against the flow of what's expected.

We will be both a window in the city and its ledge outside. The poem as nest. With a small quiet bang - like the cracking up of earthworms tossing their soil caps off after rain, that have returned to fields where the chemical warfare has been ended - each new universe of discourse, each truly new poem, can not only startle us: land minds to roof gardens, thought for food, water for a dry art, or heart, it can sustain us when everything else runs out.

My name is Edwin Drummond. The author of A Dream of White Horses, reflections of a life on the rocks, (1987, Baton Wicks(UK), my earliest stories appeared in the Sierra Club publication, Ascent: (1969, 71, 73 & 1989). My current work in progress is The Stone Butterfly, (Jonathon Cape/Random House), a story of suicide and the divine. Writing poems has been my daily bread for forty years. Currently the recipient of an A.Dofe Working Artist Award, I have also received a Keats Prize and a National Poetry Award. Which I trust no one will hold against me.

This first airing of Strand includes two poems of Alison Deming, a Whitman Award winning poet. They show in some way I believe that promise of new life that Strand aims to plant in the middle ground.

Each month ten, short sharp poems will be chosen. Every sixth month, space will be devoted to a longer one or two.

People of every age, from the earliest to the latest, are invited to contribute; from anywhere; child, woman, man. Although in English only for the time being, we will always consider a translation, accompanied by its native tongue original.

Every trimester STRAND will be published as a small magazine, containing those poems■that have been published on the WWW over the preceding months. On occasion there will be a review or essay. Each year there will be an award for the single most vital poem, as judged by the readership.

Such is the map. Now let's see where the river takes us.

—Edwin Drummond

Journal, Loch Ness Monster

12/22 Met Neil O'Neill at Brazilian artist Zoravia Bettoil’s Solstice party in San Francisco. No idea if he’s interested in me but we have a raucous time together. He made a fuss over my princess dress, sneaking surreptitious glances down the front. I snort, “Are you admiring my pearls?” Someone was taking a photo of me. He came over and put his foot on my chair, draped my arm over his thigh, under his kilt, holding onto my wrist. My face was flaming. He’s gregarious, charming, works the room with an ease I have to admire. I’m suspicious of making a conclusion that he likes me, but he seems to be as drawn to me as I am to him. He’s nice-looking, a bit short, has a paunch (like Waldo). I gave him a photo from Thanksgiving. He exclaimed “I’ve got to lose 20 pounds! I’ll use it as a dart board.” Self-effacing, self conscious, genuinely sweet. I made the mistake of reaching for his kilt button he held up for me to read. He slapped my hand, I’d fallen for the age-old gag, lifting a man’s kilts. I was so embarrassed. He said something about pulling the knife from its sheath, how cold it was to slide back in, and how the sporran hid a baby Loch Ness monster. I fairly shrieked with laughter. He observed, “Note the terror, combined with interest.” If he wasn’t so attentive to so many people, I’d say he’s definitely interested in me. “Hard to say,” Verona opines.

RRWG reading, Higher Grounds

Poem for Sarah published in Voices Israel

Poem for Sarah

 

Letter to a bad tenant

Justine Onta, for you,
I cleaned my house,
and put new sheets on the bed,
I took care of all the details
to ensure your pleasant stay.
In return, you were to complete small tasks,
pick up the mail, post the bills, water the plants.

I even sent you a reminder cards,

and called you long distance.

I let you stay into August

through Labor Day, for nominal rent.

I arrived home to a dirty house and shower, 

filthy sheets—stained with candle wax, 

oil slicks and random bleach stains. 

All my plants, dead, my neighbors

tried to keep them alive when they realized 

my plants were dying.

If only you had told them,

they would’ve gladly done it for you.

For this favor, to you and your aunt Mimi

who assured me of your trustworthiness,

and responsibility, you ruined my credit rating,

penalties and late charges, more than the bill.

To add insult to injury, 

your one rent check bounced, with more penalties

you never paid the second month's rent check. 

The cable was cut off, the phone bill in arrears.

Contrary to your claims, I know you stayed 

at my house the entire time because you made 

many long-distance phone calls 

for which you never paid.

I would've gladly given you 

the last three weeks rent free

because you are a student.

Instead, your stay cost me money,

and my friendship with your aunt.

You left me bereft, out-of-pocket.

I accepted you in good faith 

and was treated with disrespect.

You also left your blue scarf and shampoo.

I will hold them hostage until you settle up.

No answer was the loud reply.

Dec. 1, 1996