FathomOnline

 

 Fathom 2006

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

 

Wesley Colbath (2)
Colby Gaudet (3)
Ami Harbin
Chrissy King (2)
Jean-Marc Prevost
Sarah Robart
Heather E. Thomson (2)
Johanna Bargman

 

Prose

Melissa Barr
Deanna Foster

[PDF]

Wesley Colbath

 

 

Finding Juan

we’d been out already.
reduced to a chafing torpor before reaching the Citadel
our denim pants crippled by momentous droplets

i thought it wiser the second time, considering,
to just wear nothing ­–
but a bathing suit.

beside the park the excavator is lifting a great grandfather oak.
he died the way all old trees hope to go,
lodged deep in the rent made
in the roof of someone’s minivan

it was pleasant confusion, the tropical September air
coming in erratic, vigorous gusts
which we leaned into as we hopped about,
mindful of downed lines
and their quiet snake death.

                            sticks
                 gravel
        fibrous shards once quiet signs –­

find themselves alike in a phylum of projectiles­–

messengers unheeded        as we tack amongst the jetsam ­–
towards the harbour.

pausing in an alcove,
we respectfully grant passage
to                                       RRINTON ST.,

and its long scrunching of plastic and wet asphalt in a playful
friction

dominating the air

we are curiously conscious now
no longer enveloped by corporate humility we felt in the darkness
of dead downtown
i look and see the sky has changed ­–
it is flushed and tumid with the gentle light
that embraces
burning.

beyond the picnic tables and parking lot-swimming pools,
a refinery lies across the harbour
one
stack
blazes,
a rough and powerful spray of flame gushes forth ­–
Lucifer plays it like a flute,
calling awesome waves inland
they play like stupid, strong, passionate children

colliding sloppily with each other as they rush about a crowded
room

when their merriment is finished
there will be no toppled lamp, no ripped curtains
only a man
standing alone quietly in the dawn
looking down at torn canvas, the shimmer of pulleys bobbing just
under the surface ­–

a splintered      bowsprit

 

Walking Home in January

there is a boy in the playground
behind the old chain link fence.
he is ruddy faced
from the determination in his little legs,
as he leans forward ­–
and pushes a snowball with all his might.

we miss it:
the simple and sorely missed ability
to be truly enveloped by a moment, an idea
something we knew
before our minds were taught
what worry was, before
the custom and vocabulary of the rapid,
raucous life we are all too used to living
was cast over our minds
like a great,
saturated
net.

it is unimpeded sensation
that we yearn for as we grow and try to write,
accurately,
about things.
we slowly realize the dichotomy,
Their ability to receive what now elicits that stirring in us,
and ours in contriving it so that others may feel perhaps only the
minutest fraction of it ­–
a yawning,
insurmountable gulf.

the snowball, once the size of a misshapen melon
now reaches the boy’s chest,
and is freckled with bits of gravel.
the boy gives one last heave
holds his breath ­–
       – and slumps against the side of his creation.
there is laughter by the swings
the boy is already gone.

my smile and quiet laugh, as I turn away to cross the street
is at once nostalgic and bitter ­–
like the smell of fallen leaves
damp and discoloured
upon the forest trail.

 

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