Wordlovers Weekly
Marc Sherland, Pavel Chichikov, Sorana Salomeia, Bill Cunningham, Neil Hawkes
with support from Ernest Williamson III
Volume I:iii. 5 February, 2004
The Sforza Horse

Taller than brash, boldest brave this great horse,
That beauty's wings unfolds, to man reveals,
Such perfect poise, though clay, our breath still steals,
And in our dreams, trots to gallop its course.
We dare not blink for fear its massive hooves,
Will clatter off the podium and stamp,
Restless with courage, whilst gnashing teeth clamp,
To leap clear of the earth and over rooves.
I hope immortality is assured,
For our estate commend and to gods' praise,
Our poor health in its perfection cured,
Will grant us vitality all our days.
Yet all us fashioned of clay, by youth lured,
We look to its vision of life secured.

Marc Sherland
December 2003


Perhaps the world
Is a refining fire
For we are seared and blinded

How can it be you suffer so, who have been all to me?
If heaven's love holds such a plan
It is to bright for me to see

God is not always loving
Or lovely
Perhaps God is Love

Perhaps, through pain
Love comes
Into the world

A world that is not evil, but wracked
With its own imperfection
For only Love can be perfect

In such striving comes great loss
But Love comes to grief with us
As has been shown, perhaps

Perhaps in your pain
You are love and loss personified, so
Of all the world, most precious to Love


Love yourself as you can
Love requires
No other

Neil Hawkes

From the Editor's In-box...

Mate in 77

love made the sun set
she cornered conception 
black hole understood 
the end is the beginning
send me back the old man said
take hold of my elusive skin
lick the froth from the many wishes
in my hairs of gray
yet love made the sun set
as the beginning is the end
of only a sandy cry 
from hollow and pithy

Ernest Williamson 
I, Ernest Williamson III, am completing the M.A. in English at The University of Memphis. My publication credits include, "ElectricAcorn", "The Canopic Jar", "Entropic Desires", "The Makakta", and others. I am also a painter and composer. I represent the United States of America. With reference to my profession, I am a Teacher/GraduateStudent/Proofreader/Writer.
For the Sake of Saturday 
I sought the coils in dainty yellow pillows 
aggrieved with one blink by me 
the dust mites parading around invisibly 
living as we do at times aggressively untidy
as the fragments of all tawny subjects 
yet the day this day kills the ills of sneezing 
and my age the kiss of old wine wont bug me
since the anguish on my face 
mucus salty to the tongue 
rendered numb touches 
for she kissed me again 
on my 75th year 
all for the sake of Saturday.

Ernest Williamson

Touch her to enter ! Our muse, temptress, tomentor, or angel of inspiration.

The Fit 

 It's not too easy to trim
The pileated woodpecker to a poem
Because the long beak and the name
Won't fit a convenient frame

But the beak shims under the bark
Where the cold-stunned beetles lurk
And the long bill rings in its work
In the sap-vacated dark

With a stiff and a scarlet crest
And a white splash on its breast
It circles the tree trunks lest
You prove a catching pest

Two thirds the size of a crow
Wary of watchers below
It sounds like an axman's blow
In the darkening woods and the snow

   Pavel Chichikov
   January 31, 2004

Oyster World.

Young Will would travel in his mind
Go off to Xanadu,
Some scented treasure he would  find;
Perhaps in London Zoo?

Perhaps he'd go to Brighton Beach
And buy an ice-cream there,
There was no place outside his reach
If he only had the fare.

One day he'd fly off to the moon
With a billy-can and tea,
Pick fresh wild roses right on noon
While swimming in the sea.

He found the spots where he would go
From books that he had read,
His mum agreed that it was so
As she tucked him up in bed!

Bill Cunningham

Synchronous Anchorage

How can you ask me if I love you true ?
Truth is the frisson that fuels my soul,
That in its furnace heart, stokes darkest coal,
And bursts to flame only when near to you.
When to the stars their bright I cast my eyes,
And see their pin pricks in the firmament,
Yet know how vast up close their blaze is spent,
Does not compare to love; there's no surprise.
In cauldron pools of magma melted earth,
That hubble - bubbles with sheer alchemy,
Heaves out its lust as if to spring to birth,
No comparison to our syngamy.
So now ask not (not ever), what love's worth,
It is such force as ever, finds its berth.


Marc Sherland
January 2004

The March

A sheer deep wall, cascade of ice
That falls and freezes leaning west -
Eroded roots of trees encased

It sweats and overbuilds a caul
Of sunwhite luminance, a dazzle
Shining out a signal

Then a patch of snuffcloud trims
The flame of sunlight, limbs
Trees into fluorescent columns

The forest is a bluelit tomb
The chamber of a buried sun,
The sky a muffled drum

Tombward and a march
Bluewhite and slow, the sun yellow match
Above a rolling ivory catafalque

Slowmarching waters guide the horses,
Winter's thickened forces -
Rivers freezing slowly in their sluggish courses

Who's escorted, mourned and buried?
Whose body is it being carried
To the graveyard February

Cover Lent in shrouds of oaks and ashes,
Do him honor as he passes -
Death itself is snowflakes on his lashes

   Pavel Chichikov
   January 31, 2004


I'm in a state of shock. I try to imagine what person can put "corrupt"
and "the smell of fish cooking" in the same sentence.
 Bill Cunningham


Abracadabra from nowhere, with lightning and thunder, you entered life, you stepped on life's giant stage.

Hocus Pocus, a simple gesture and, like a wonder, red roses fell out of your hat in a cascade.

Hey, Presto, you asked me to examine your hat and all those wonderful things. You performed forward, but at the same time, as I stretched forward my hand I fell in trance and heard dream-like how you whispered my name.

Abracadabra, and so, at once, the time stood still and all life brightened up and I became warm. 

Hocus Pocus, I was like wax in your hands and all enchanted I fell for your soft charm.

Allekazu, a magic circle around my heart. A ring of pretty cloths in a golden tone, I was enchanted by your art and, surprised, I was in love and, like a child, I believed in an illusion. 

Voila, bewildered and hypnotized I had fallen for your magic and tricks.

Shazam, your high hat was prepared. I saw through your magic all at once.

Hocus Pocus, gilded words and paper flowers laid sprinkled around.

About us without sympathy... And all your gloss was gone. Left stood only a simple jester who lived highly on people's faith and fantasy.

Without explanation, you were gone like a fate's irony.

Yet, here in my window is your hat with roses inside, my tears dropping over them.

Was it a dream, was it a magic spell or was it more than that?

                                  -Sorana Salomeia

Editor's Favorite
January 2004

Old Love

Old Love

I'll turn these eyes away to look at stars,
For you have told me straight that you must leave,
And if I look, my temper I deceive,
To be the victim, of emotion mars.
So take your things, I would not have you stay,
If you must go, I will not beg you wait,
Put down to fortune and that poor friend fate,
Sit by this window, stare in longing way.
The moon too soon is full of halo glow,
Icy, crisp, brittle frost lone my heart cries,
I cannot say good-bye, so callow go,
Do not this tempest tempt, for my part tries.
Whistle the wind, gale and hurricane blow,
Through empty house gust, swirl dust and past stow.

Marc Sherland
January 2004


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