In the black
the Scorpio moon hangs low
pale and full above the harsh
neon airport lights
local art hangs unpretentious
in frames lining the corridor
all the way to the baggage claim
she's rising now a magical kite
high helium filled balloon
no strings free to swoop and glide
among the galaxies
I wait for Herman
the pretty young woman beside me
walks off saying "that's cool"
she'd glimpsed the hippy beaded hair-wrap
Wendy of Cleveland worked for me
the night before
the night is clammy
sticky, sensuous, simmering hot
and that moon in Scorpio full
bloated, mysterious waits
the aircraft takes off with the roar
of a hundred thunders
heading straight for the moon I swear
red light flashing
aah yes off to starboard
swerving curving sharply
no one would dare
cross her path tonight
Pamela Sidney 25.4.94
The Oz Ooets Tour of America 1994
(written at at Milo's Cafe Columbus Ohio)
We've had our hands shaken
been complimented
treated with awe
announced as the troupe
with the cult following
we've had a sense
of being the first
making some sort of
poetry history
we've been handsomely fed
sheltered in the comfortable chaos
of modest 3 children family homes
in the retirement villa of a financial advisor
we've slept soundly on the floor
of a Texan cowboy country singer's ranch
been given black-eye pea soup and sleepy time tea
we slept in the spare bedrooms
of a millionaire's beach house at Port Aransas
overnight in a quaint cottage by a sacred well
in an A frame house in the Wimberly Hills Blanco Texas
these kind warm people
have welcomed and fed us
in their different ways
from barren fridges
over-flowing larders
in exclusive restaurants
unlimited charge cards
by candlelight amid mediaeval decore`
in an artist's warehouse
the banquet cooked
by a talented earth-mother
twin of Mama Cass
we stayed some days
at a house in the Ozark mountains
where we feasted on turkey
tender and succulant, smoked
for 7 hours followed by a dessert
so honey-drippin' sweet
our patates will never be the same again
we've been shown the local sights
beautiful suburban homes
universities
the quiet tree-lined Ohio streets
forests surrounding still lakes
we've been taken to gaudy bars
Karaoki bars
Elvis memorabilia bars
60s memorabilia bars
we've walked streets
strewn with the debris of poverty
felt the fear a person feels
when surrounded
by the angry, substance addicted and alienated
bitter at their life, raging high on cocaine
we've sailed along a gentle river
canoed between banks of sad weeping willows
we've climbed upon and given ourselves to
an enchanted rock, the sacred deep core
of the mother earth
we've watched the glib awesome Dallas skyline
grow into view, it's clusters of concrete towers
arrogantly announcing yet another proud city
I've seen the million lights of a city
spread like a canopy beneath me
twinkling sparkling precious jewels
sprinkled randomly over lush black velvet
we've been taken to bathe
in the waters of a sacred well
ancient feminine source
water spirit power
we've drunk champagne
from the bottle at midnight
while floating swirling
in a heated outdoor jacuse`
laughed and joked
and squealed with delight
at this existence
so unlike a poet's life
we have driven into the long hours
arrived deprived of everything
but a desire to read our poetry
we have seen an ideal weekend
turn into domestic high / low drama
the drunken sea-captain
the millionaire drug dealer
his cocaine addicted wife
who flattened both men
with ferocious crack-driven fists
we sat around a camp-fire in Wimberly Texas
listened to America's finest
country musicians play and sing
we heard folk-music's roots
echos of Woody Guthrie
in a man called Ramblin' Jack Elliott
listened to him jam and sing with friends
he told us how he nursed Woody
for the last 2 years of his life
Ramblin' Jack invited us to his concert
then shared his stage and his audience
for us to read our poetry
we know how it feels
to do 22 readings in 31 days
I know now the big city airports
all over America
feel more at home on a plane
than a bus
© Pamela Sidney 25.4.94
At
( a rap for
I call him a preacher poet
no religion just Kerouac jazz
declaiming beat rap poetry
waistcoat sharp, lithe young body
tailored business suit and tie
when he opens his mouth we admire
there's a little bit of Hendrix inside him
he's so cool just can't stop watchin'
so young to be so sure of himself
'cock of the walk' a dancer, he knows
just how his body goes
he's anarchy walking in conservative clothes
a gentleman perennial with 90's soul
he jumps on tables elegantly
stomps shouts n' rages just for stage
then whispers imperceptibly
just like those gone before
he knows he's 'on the road'
got somethin' inside that never goes
this poet's got a mission, he's movin'
got the travellin', jivin' words of truth
yeah, he's got, poetry
Pamela Sidney (approx) 1994
Downtown Cinncinnati
Across the
no one comes here
except poor artists and mad poets
blacks of all ages sit on the sidewalk
their children stare with bold old eyes
attitude not learned
yet but give them time
the few whites who live here
tread cool tread carefully
Kerouac still 'lives' here
still spoken of with reverence
Ginsberg is spiritual 'king of beat'
Cohen treads water behind him
slightly submerged waiting to surface
the 'spirit of Kerouac'
makes this journey possible
the welcomes touching
hellos and goodbyes too fast
just a taste
as we go through and past.
Orchard Streets' white blossoms
soft balm to Main Streets
swirling vortex'd crack joints
we leave Cinncinnati I snap photos
from the safety of a car window
feel like a voyuer
like a journalist
watching an urban war
I could die in the action
but do not risk
keeping my camera rolling
early spring's white blossom
fall over me like confetti
in mid morning
where yuppies re-decorate
and poor artists dwindle
to the fringes yet again
fuel stations
telephones
the lifelines
between cities
a soft bed the need
supermarket shelves
provide the food
the
mushrooms into blue
through the car's front window
big city
empirical thrust
buildings nestle together
like a concrete forest
© Pamela Sidney April 1994
