The Ecphorizer

Indian Market Place (Ghazals)
Phyllis Bourne

Issue #37 (September 1984)

Dawn breaks over the Andean mountains
and the marketplace awakens to its daily life.

Bright red, blue, green designs adorn coarse homespun clothes
displayed on wooden benches in artistic disarray.

Sitting on sun-warmed stone steps
an Indian woman lazily spins her wool.

From a tiny coal stove standing on the curb
rises a delicious smell of frying fish.

Voices, shouts, laughter, music resound
a cacophony of orchestrated noise.

As people go by, an old Indian watches silently
seated in the recesses of his tiny stall.

Hidden in a dirty adobe corner
a sad little boy plays his hand-carved flute.

Dark braids, rosy cheeks, young Indian girls
send shy gazes to parading soldiers.

Dressed in black, two old ladies embrace each other
as they stop by the door of the old church.

Throbbing with life, the marketplace
gathers vendors customers spectators.

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Summon
Allen Swoh

Issue #37 (September 1984)

in iron of the night of Christ,
when Florida thru keys is cased in 1
ice-cube, I-swoh summon the summer night
not far from Dimplestone, night when Ohio
forests of fireflies line the insides of
chagrin, its valley. "Luxury Mayonnaise,"
Mack intones to Lore & me, for we whirr
on blacktop thru the greening blackness, munching
slim Spam on whitebread with the Hellmans dry
tractorgrease clotted. thru windows of Ford
Woody the woody dampness, cool within warmth,
deluges us wolfcubs.

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