FathomOnline

 

 Fathom 1984

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

Babila Mutia
Margaret Snyder (3)
Lex Gigeroff
Nicola Young
Paul Deagle (2)
Philip Graves
Sean Bedell (3)
Lynn Courtney
Amy R. McEwan
Sara Davina
John Mallon
H.M.
Patricia Boyle
dixie MacDonald (2)
Andrew Little (3)
Sophie Dessureault (2)
James Cranton
Christopher Aucoin
David Swick (2)

Prose

Giles Osborne

Artwork

Jane Mothersell

Extras

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Sean Bedell

 

 

The Sphere

Strung out as the babe
   wrapped in his shroud
      with stains where splinters
        pierce his feet

a brown burrow
ponders each lap from the trickling creek
(the dry, muddy water)
(the water which flows but cannot speak)
   a trickle in time
   until the parchment of your skin
   merges with the sun, and salt, and time.

The burrow stamps and grunts
lapping the mud and the cracking clay
waiting for a sign of rain
mixing memories with dreams of arid grass
to defy the blazing sun.

Hooves split
spitting blood
(the deep red blood that trails on reddish banks
and dries in larking paths)
(dry blood merging with the dry blood at his feet)
and as he turns his grey and wizened forehead
he sees his second shadow come to greet him.

To drink no more
although the heavy mud dries in his throat
turning to dust upon his tongue
which hangs from his mouth
and turns to dust

He too will fill the pool
that floods the race
he too will dry along the banks
denied a lender vision of the sea.

 

Berlin

Come for a ride on the bus
No bureaucracy...no fuss
We’ll drive along the wall
And catch a glimpse of guards there on patrol.

They’ve been there for so long
That their boots are worn quite thin
Still they don’t mind:
Their feet became much tougher in the interim
They wear green tunics
They get red stamps for pay
They watch a public television
They travel by subway

But WE, on the other hand,
(we are better oft)
We cruise through towns,
And stop at candy shops.
We stay away all night;
We trim the naked light.

Come for a ride on the bus
No bureaucracy…no fuss

 

[The oasis of my travels]

The oasis of my travels
Shimmers on the arid plain.
I have stumbled through many
Star lit nights
To bear my thoughts:
My desires.
I have walked the dusty road
And now wait at your door.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul