Spring/Summer 2006, Volume 22.3
Poetry
John Randolph Carter
John Randolph Carter (MA, University of California, Los Angeles) is a poet and artist who currently teaches at California State University, Fullerton. He was a finalist for the National Poetry Series, Carnegie Mellon Press Competition and the University of Wisconsin Press Prizes in Poetry. His poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, Bombay Gin, Exquisite Corpse, Faultline, The Journal, and Poetry International, among others. His artwork is part of numerous public collections including that of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. His one-person exhibitions include the University of Michigan Art Museum and the Minneapolis Institute. Other work by John Randolph Carter published in Weber Studies can be seen at: Vol. 18.2. See his other work on the web at: https://www.corpse.org/issue_10/poesy/carter.html, https://www.corpse.org/issue_9/poesy/carter.htm, https://www.bu.edu/trl/1415/carter.html , https://www.figdust.com/quietsville.html , https://www.corpse.org/issue_11/gallery/carter/index.htm, https://www.corpse.org/issue_10/gallery/carter/index.htm.
Fishing With a Witch
I wish I were going
fishing with a witch.
We could pack our rods and
tackle and drive to a remote
and quiet part of the river,
put on our waders, tie on our
lures and cast into the slow current
and the calm eddies.
The trout don't seem to care
who catches them—which
fish is caught by me
and which by the witch.
We're equally successful and
fish at a leisurely pace.
Periodically, I glance over and
see her there in her black pointed
hat looking out across the surface
of the water.
As you get to know witches,
you find it's not all flying
on broomsticks and casting spells.
Sometimes even witches need to take a break.
I'm glad to see this quieter and
more introspective side.
Her face is calm. Her gaze is distant.
One imagines her mind to be both
above and below the water.
Her smooth countenance resembles the
quiet surface in which we fish.
Borrowed Emblems
Framed.
They remind me of the war.
The war I missed.
I was too old, too young.
I fell in between wars.
A good place to fall.
A lucky place to fall.
Bombazine.
What does it mean?
Perhaps I made it up,
as in a dream.
Threatening clouds gather
above the mountains.
They shake their fists at me
and call me names.
I'm not intimidated.
I have a black umbrella.
The woodshed is full of wood.
My socks have holes.
It was only yesterday.
Now it's going to be tomorrow.