Huff

<BODY BGCOLOR="#808080" TEXT="#080000" LINK="#FFFFFF" ALINK="#000400" VLINK="#FFFFFF"> <div> <B>Huff</B></div> <div> <IMG SRC="09d58020.png" border=0 width="600" height="2" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <bR> <div> <B>The Water We Came From</B></div> <bR> <div> Steven Huff</div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="09fe66b0.jpg" border=0 width="230" height="363" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <bR> <div> Steven Huff's poetry and short fiction have appeared widely in journals, including <I>Chelsea</I>, <I>Many Mountains Moving</I>, <I>Tar River Poetry</I>, <I>Kestral</I>, <I>The Bellingham Review</I>, and <I>The Hudson Review</I>. A story was included in <I>Pushcart XX: Best of the Small Presses</I>. He is host of "Fiction in Shorts", a twice-weekly radio feature on Rochester, New York's NPR station, WXXI-FM. A former reporter, he now serves as Publisher / Managing Editor of BOA Editions, Ltd., Rochester, New York.</div> <bR> <div> Steven Huff's Website - <A HREF="http://www.stevenhuffedit.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="http://www.stevenhuffedit.com"><U>stevenhuffedit.com</U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <I>"Steven Huff's clear, precise poems overflow with the things of this world and with a deep sense of contemplative dailiness steeped in the broth of Zen. They are free of beguiling ambition, refreshing in their candor, a genuine pleasure to return to."</I></div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> --Sam Hamill</div> <bR> <div> From the book:</div> <bR> <div> <B>Balls</B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> I caddied some days, & others I hunted lost </div> <div> balls in surrounding woods, & sold them </div> <div> back to golfers. Good clean ones were surprises, like </div> <div> finding an egg in the henhouse after you thought they'd </div> <div> stopped laying. I had one lucky tree in the woods that </div> <div> lured balls to its shadow, giving me new Titleists</div> <div> like truffles, again & again, until I'd exhausted its generosity. </div> <div> Or I'd see one down a woodchuck hole, just out of </div> <div> reach, a colorless eye looking at me, worth fifty cents, </div> <div> maybe a buck, but not about to give itself. Some </div> <div> days when I caddied I'd get a frustrated golfer who'd </div> <div> slice one into the trees, cussing me for casting a </div> <div> shadow & blowing his concentration. I'd plan to </div> <div> find it later by marking in mind some knot or </div> <div> eerie bend of a limb where it had sailed in disobedience. </div> <div> One man even went nuts, slamming one ball after </div> <div> another into the brush, deliberately; & we walked </div> <div> back to the clubhouse, his muttering voices slugging it out. </div> <div> On the back deck at sunset I approached men, </div> <div> ripe with martinis, glad to buy their own </div> <div> balls back (some even had their names on them);  </div> <div> winking me compliments on my enterprise, as though </div> <div> I'd screwed them & they liked it. They gave me </div> <div> nicknames: Chipper, Ball-Boy, Ball-Fetcher, Balls.</div> <bR> <div> **************</div> <bR> <div> <B>Washington Night, November, 1969</B></div> <div> <B>          </B><I>-after the march for peace</I></div> <bR> <bR> <div> I noticed the couple standing in the doorway </div> <div> of the dark hall where scores of us had rolled </div> <div> our sleeping bags. An hour before we'd passed around </div> <div> eyedrops & losenge remedies for the tear gas sprayed </div> <div> on us like water on running flames. They had no </div> <div> blankets, those two, nothing; I told them I'd spread </div> <div> my bag open & share it. Relieved (though they </div> <div> seemed to know someone would offer), they lay </div> <div> down-uneasily & tenderly-I could tell they'd </div> <div> never slept together before.  We pulled our </div> <div> coats over ourselves for blankets. I'd lost </div> <div> my friends in a melee of sirens & gas & people </div> <div> trampled under panicked legs. I'd found this building </div> <div> by accident, with its four vacant floors already </div> <div> huddled with strangers & with toilets overflowing. </div> <div> Somewhere in this city I had a lover I hadn't seen in </div> <div> months since she'd left for school, but knew </div> <div> she'd also come here to lock arms against the war. </div> <div> No hope of finding her in this mess, but </div> <div> I'd scanned the room, & the faces of a million </div> <div> or so all day. Yet, why pine for her in the midst </div> <div> of this crazy business of shutting Washington down, </div> <div> spitting at the tripod machine guns on the capitol steps</div> <div> aimed at us, linked by a cable & a single nerve?      </div> <bR> <div> Now here was this girl from somewhere, red-haired</div> <div> throat naked, asleep between two boy-men, snoring </div> <div> like a truck so I couldn't sleep, & the chill of concrete </div> <div> creeping in my bones, how I wanted to put my </div> <div> arms around her, touch my face to her face, </div> <div> to her life, whatever it was, whatever its realities.  </div> <div> Am I nostalgic to wonder where they are now? </div> <div> If they stayed together, had children, if their </div> <div> children behaved, if they're still pacifists, or if they </div> <div> worry that their radical past will suddenly fall out </div> <div> in front of them & one of them will lose an election. </div> <div> When her boyfriend sat up, his stirring opened </div> <div> her eyes. "You were snoring," he said. They </div> <div> giggled & went back to sleep. They were </div> <div> like that, those two-they trusted the night.</div> <bR> <div> **************</div> <bR> <div> <B>Then</B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> If some diggers should find</div> <div> us in a million years, you</div> <div> & I will look so alike by then.</div> <div> No doubt their attempt to </div> <div> assemble our bones will get me</div> <div> a leg of yours & you'll get </div> <div> parts of me. But, no matter.</div> <div> As they sift the sand from </div> <div> around us they'll find some</div> <div> outlandish things. I can see </div> <div> them nodding, saying, <I>Religious</I></div> <div> <I>significance</I>; never guessing,</div> <div> I hope, what junk we owned.</div> <bR> <div> Perhaps by then they'll have</div> <div> a gadget to read the tiny</div> <div> particles of our deceased</div> <div> personalities.  Imagine them </div> <div> holding a sensitive wand </div> <div> beneath our stoney chins like</div> <div> a buttercup, & then running it</div> <div> slowly along the scraps of our </div> <div> spines. They'll wire tags to </div> <div> our toes, describing our kind:</div> <div> <I>Clinging sentimentalist lovers</I>.</div> <div> They'll give you a name. I'll</div> <div> get one too. Then the diggers</div> <div> will stop to eat lunch by </div> <div> the lake. The sandy earth will lie</div> <div> open around us, alone, & the </div> <div> sky will be wide, wide & blue. </div> <bR> <bR> <div> The<B> </B>Water We Came From<FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#111111" FACE="Comic Sans MS" ><I> </I>is a 76 page paperback, hand-sewn, with flat spine. </FONT></div> <bR> <div> <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#111111" FACE="Comic Sans MS" >TO ORDER </FONT>The<B> </B>Water We Came From <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#111111" FACE="Comic Sans MS" >($13.00) ON-LINE</FONT></div> <div>  <form target="paypal" action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"> <input type="image" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/btn/sc-but-01.gif" border="0" name="submit" alt="Make payments with PayPal - it's fast, free and secure!"> <input type="hidden" name="add" value="1"> <input type="hidden" name="cmd" value="_cart"> <input type="hidden" name="business" value="fhp@foothillspublishing.com"> <input type="hidden" name="item_name" value="The Water We Came From"> <input type="hidden" name="item_number" value="03-1"> <input type="hidden" name="amount" value="13.00"> <input type="hidden" name="no_note" value="1"> <input type="hidden" name="currency_code" value="USD"> </form>        <form target="paypal" action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"> <input type="hidden" name="cmd" value="_cart"> <input type="hidden" name="business" value="fhp@foothillspublishing.com"> <input type="image" src="https://www.paypal.com/images/view_cart.gif" border="0" name="submit" alt="Make payments with PayPal - it's fast, free and secure!"> <input type="hidden" name="display" value="1"> </form>  </div> <bR> <bR> <div> To order by mail send $13.00 per book plus $1.25 shipping and handling per address sent to. </div> <bR> <div> Send orders to:</div> <bR> <div> FootHills Publishing</div> <div> PO Box 68</div> <div> Kanona, NY 14856</div> <bR> <div> <B>Thank you for your support! </B></div> <bR> </BODY>