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IOANNA WARWICK How to Jump From a Moving TrainBackwards. If you jump forward, you’ll be sucked down under the wheels. You must jump backwards blindly, rolled into a ball, chin upon chest, hands cradling the back of your neck. Beforehand, observe the terrain where you’ll be thrust as in a centrifuge away from the speeding locomotive. On a soft meadow, you just might get up; on sharp hard gravel, bones will break. I’m doomed to carry these instructions in the fragile planet of my skull. Sometimes, after meeting someone new, I suddenly think, “A good person to know: she could hide me; no one would suspect.” Why did I shudder when a Buddhist acquaintance proclaimed, “There is no doubt: in your last past life, you died at Auschwitz.” I was speechless. Only now I know it’s enough to be a child of survivors, to whose cunning luck I owe my life – and an old movie bleeding through, of blindly jumping backwards, away from the transport – crawling on the gravel; a life before I as born, always running in the dim smoky cinema far away in my mind. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
 IOANNA WARWICK, an extraordinary poetic voice, "was born in Poland and came to [the United States] when she was 17. She has published in Poetry, Ploughshares, anthologized in Best American Poetry 1992 and received awards from New Letters (New Letters Poetry Award), Madison Review (Felix Pollack Poetry Prize), and was a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize from Nimrod . | 06.03: 033 page navigation
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ANTHONY LICCIONE U-TurnWalking in the middle of the city center purging through directionless pigeons they shuffle to the side giving a pathway, cooing to the awkward of her moves- as the sun seeps through her umbrella into the hot shade of melting mascara, with flowers in her hand, freely dropping their pedals to the shiny sidewalk. The crowd at the bus stop looks at the unusual forecast of a remote face, as she tells the people that it will storm, as we are dirtiest of souls in need of cleansing- some grin and laugh, shuffling spit to the other side of their mouth, outrageous they go looking for their number bus- humanizing her as another deranged. As she disrobes dropping each piece of clothing delicately to the shiny sidewalk, down to her pubic hairs and teardrop breasts cigarettes bounce and burn another session, bystanders have stopped talking obtrusively- pulling a gun from her handbag and she shoots a man drops to his knees pleading her to stop, feeble as the naked roses torn with thorns. Pigeons scatter and fly, the glitter of sidewalks that lead to a destination. Someone is dying against a rusty U-Turn sign where a world has created to reciprocate chaos as a boomerang sin makes its turn on returns- there is desire to die by a Yield sign or Stop in the madness of history repeating itself. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
A1 Wireless ANTHONY LICCIONE, from upstate New York, has written poetry for over ten years. His poems have or will appear in Snow Monkey, Baby Clams Press, Nuvein Magazine In 2005 Foothills Publishing released LICCIONE's first chapbook Heaven's Shadow | 06.03: 033 page navigation
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IONNA WARWICK Ghost Forests The CarpathiansWoolly threads of conifer breath rise, tiny bent souls. Sheep curdle into small clouds. On the slopes, a ghost forest – strangled spruce, green only at the top; underneath, gray sticks, broken branches like stunted antlers. No one enters this forest of nothing – you’ll only get scratched, slip on the needles and fall – Still I press into the thicket, squeeze between spindly trunks, until like a starveling tree I stand in the inner dusk, Still I press into the thicket, squeeze between spindly trunks, until like a starveling tree I stand in the inner dusk. Beyond, crescents of meadows. Sunlight beads the bowed tips of grass. Grandmother weaves for me crowns of white clover. What gray hunger draws me past the smiling green into the ghost forest – As if there weren’t already too many dead – As if each silent tree said, You shall know. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
 ABOUT POET IONNA WARWICK | 06.03: 033 page navigation
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