FIELD #64 (Spring 2001)


Carl Phillips Like History
Karen Rigby Knife. Bass. Woman
Bruce Weigl Home
Josip Pupacic My Three Brothers
Mary Crow Travel
Sandra McPherson Blossom River Drive
Children of the Village
Christopher Davis Under the Projection Booth
John Gallaher Gentlemen in Turbans & Ladies in Cauls
James Tate Never Enough Darts
In a Past Life
Wendy Battin An Asterisk Named Fred Astaire
The Ferry Lies Down on a Sharp Rock
Jeff Hoffman All My Boxers
Carol Potter Exile
Translation Problems
Ali Yuce Spindle
Jack Stewart Firefight
Lance Larsen Yellowstone, Burning
Funeral Buffet
Robert Thomas The Blue Willow Curse
Heather Sellers The word (father) occurs to me
Bucky Ditched Me
Celia Gilbert Mimosa
What She Found
Jonah Winter Variations on a Theme by Copernicus
Christopher Howell Backyard Astronomy
Angie Estes Amor Ornamenti
Thorpe Moeckel Shadow
From Monument Peak
Mark Irwin The Field
Jean Valentine To the Bardo
Doug Anderson In Case You Think This Is About Fidelity, Let Me Set Your Face on Fire
Petitionary Prayer on Nguyen Duy's Roof
Poetry 2000: Three Review-Essays
David Young Reading Larry Levis (Larry Levis, The Selected Levis)
Pamela Alexander The Landscape of the Mind (Peter Klappert, Chokecherries: New and Selected Poems 1966-1999)
Martha Collins  Nine Times Out of Ten (Ho Xuan Huong, Spring Essence, translated by John Balaban)


I made mistakes in French.
I made mistakes on the French train.
I made mistakes in the hotel.
I was tired
in a French town.
I got lost.
I made bad change.
I could not understand the woman
I was traveling with. In English.
We were driving
a car through cicadas.
It's a translation problem.
That one place in the city of.
In the town of.
Something you thought
you could find,
but can't locate.
Perfect posture,
beautiful eyes, but
you had to wait for her
If you wanted her.
Village of. City of.
The town you could get lost in.
Train hurtles
through the station
and does not stop.
I made mistakes.
I was riding
in the wrong coach.
I was sitting backwards
in a foreign tongue.

--Carol Potter

Copyright c 2001 by Oberlin College. May not be reproduced without permission.


Blasphemous I know to fill my plate while the dead
mumble about eternity. If only I dared
to peek in the casket, if only I could confess
to a priest who grasped the epistemology
of hunger. The table is as long
and lacquered as a bowling lane, full as a king's
pantry, and I'm always arriving famished.
If only I knew how I lost my shoes
and who fitted me with this embossed silverware.
Such obscene abundance--quiche,
tortellini, figs, borsch, game hens stuffed
with giblets and sage and all the vices
of the overfed. If only I knew these great aunts
buttoned up the back like religious dogma,
if only the croissants didn't glisten so.
Listen, dark cousin, avatar, or whoever
you are--I'm famished with waiting, full
of this world and its pottage. When will you break
bread with me, lead me across the water,
let me use your face as a mirror?
If only the dead could bury the dead, if flutes
and peasant dancers, if a proper manual,
if my unclean lips and a little rain. If eating
weren't always a substitute for something else.

--Lance Larsen

Copyright c 2001 by Oberlin College. May not be reproduced without permission.
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