Thursday, August 27, 2015

Some pictures from the Allen Ginsberg Award Ceremony--- Newton Writing and Publishing Center--Aug 2015

Gloria Mindock/Doug Holder
( Left to Right)   Jennifer Matthews, Doug Holder, Robin Stratton
( Left to Right)  Dianne Robitaille, Robin Stratton, Doug Holder
Tim Gager( above) Doug Holder
Robin Stratton with Doug Holder
Doug Holder--Recipient of the Award

Waking the Bones By Elizabeth Kirschner




Elizabeth Kirschner






Waking the Bones
By Elizabeth Kirschner
Published by Piscataqua Press
160 pages.

Review by Alice Weiss
    


There are bare facts in any life.  A memoir writer can choose to examine them in a multitude of ways. We have some shared expectation that that examination will be linear and that what is revealed to us will be implicitly defined by time.  In her Memoir, Waking the Bones Elizabeth Kirschner’s simply ignores all that, she draws a circle in a blizzard, and meditation by meditation, she comes closer to  a way  of understanding how her life is strung together and a way through to the living of it.

The bare facts of Kirschner’s life: she was abused by both parents, she seems to have had no relationship with her older siblings except they gave her the nickname “Little Bits,” (both a  sound cognate for Elizabeth, and  a metaphor for how scattered she feels).  She sings.  She marries; she and her husband live near Boston College where he works as a scientist.  She has a son,  Ryan.  Throughout the marriage she suffers a serious seizure disorder, and then a major psychotic breakdown.  Later she leaves the husband and moves to a cabin on the coast of Maine where Ryan visits on weekends.

As in any circle, the end is the beginning. We slip through tropes like a ribbon highway: the gestation of the moth from pupa to adult, Elizabeth always looking for the”eclose.”  Winter is everywhere, and snow is treasured as dreams, and light and woods.  There are angels, horrible events, her father cutting her back where her angel wings would have been leaving her bleeding, her grandmother and she each other’s guardian angels.  Kirschner does not go for simple simile. The following is an example of the way the mind of this speaker winds itself around its images and voices, revealing herself both to herself and us.  The paragraph is from the “Prelude” to the book.
She (Mom) planted my hand under the Singer Sewing machine until my fingers bones wept. . . the Singer Sewing Machine  went rat a tat tat as the needle bore in and out of me like that of a ferocious acupuncturist.  I wrapped my bleeding hand in toilet paper, walked out the door and stepped barefoot in Spring snow melt—Beyond the pain that held me in I smelled the pomegranate air, tasted the brandied sun.  I began to sing “Bring in the Clowns” while I, . . . walked out of the child that I was, to ghost her and make a blizzard in my brain in order to remember to forget the childhood I was walking out on. (Page 3.)

The scene is cinematic, horrifying, the language at first strangely comic “rat a tat tat,” you hear a child’s voice, almost reporting, not experiencing the pain.  That comes with the “ferocious acupuncturist.”  We see the horror of that, but also a strangely experienced humor.  Acupunture is clearly not in the world of the child Kirschner reports but “ferocious” is pure child.  The combination of child world and wounded adult experience is characteristic.  Here we know an acupuncturist is actually a healer who use needles to ease pain,  The mother’s twisting of her maternal role indeed, her  power, is echoed and compressed in that ferocious acupuncturist.  Further, the child’s coolly wrapping her hand in toilet paper, flat, and realistic, even walking barefoot, but into the Spring snow melt and smelling the “pomegranate air.” Those last two phrases claim to be the child’s but there is a knowing in them that mixes in, that process where she moves herself beyond pain into a lushly sensual image,  But she does not want to stop at beyond pain, she wants to go beyond herself, to “ghost” the vulnerable child that she is, at that point, to make the blizzard “to remember to forget the childhood I was walking out on.”


    One striking thing about this work is the tremendous agility of Kirschner’s mind: its capacity to make its experience of nature, science, story, snow, ocean, not a metaphor but a replacement for the memories, for the contents of her wounded mind.   Nonetheless there is a problem.  It is hard to live in the real world of relationships and laundry.  Finally in a mental hospital with what sounds like a massive psychotic break, which she calls “Walking with Winter,” she begins to articulate a different motive from just waking the memories she has hidden in that blizzard. To stay with the world she needs a tether.

"My boy turned eleven today, yet I’m fading away, sliding in my brain of winter                  . . .Dot, dot like Rorschach tests while I tap, tap, trying to find the line, that’s serve as lifeline, keep me tethered to the world."

It is the brilliance of this poet that she finds the line between slipping out of self into metaphor and back tethered to the self in a kind of living metaphor: the cabin by the sea in Maine.  Here she builds a real house and imaginary ship garden. She pays attention both to her dream of soul and her life in her body.

"I sip hot cinnamon tea on this October morning while pondering that color of my soul. While pondering the color of my soul, I fill up with urine and yearning, only to empty myself of that urine and yearning.  I see that my soul is blue and it’s going to be half past evening all day.  (Page 5)

This too is contained in the Prelude.  In the beginning is the end.  It is as if she is saying take this journey with me, we will end up in the peace of evening.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Ibbetson Street 37 Featured in Poetry Daily Aug 26, 2015

Poetry Daily           
 

Featured Poet
Jennifer Barber

Jennifer Barber is the 2015 winner of The Word Works Tenth Gate Prize for her poetry manuscript Works on Paper, to be published in 2016. She is the author of Given Away, Rigging the Wind, and Vendaval. She teaches in the English Department at Suffolk University in Boston, where she also edits the literary journal Salamander, now in its twenty-third year. Her recent poems have appeared in Poetry and Pangyrus, and this year she completed a translation of Ici en exil by French poet Emmanuel Merle. Translations from the book are forthcoming in the Massachusetts Review, Metamorphoses, Modern Poetry in Translation, and Upstreet.

View featured poem

About Ibbetson Street
Ibbetson Street
In this issue of Ibbetson Street you will experience poetry by such fine poets as Jared Smith, Brendan Galvin, Jennifer Barber, Kathleen Spivack, Marge Piercy, Linda Conte, and many more.

Ibbetson Street
 
Issue 37

Monday, August 24, 2015

Doug Holder receiving the Allen Ginsberg Award-- Newton Writing and Publishing Center--Aug 2015--Video

Doug Holder receiving the Allen Ginsberg Award-- Newton Writing and Publishing Center--Aug 2015-- Courtesy of Glen Bowie
 Click on to view video--       http://youtu.be/lTG5IK_UYiM



                                       ABOUT THE VIDEOGRAPHER


*****  Glenn Bowie is a published lyricist and photographer from the Boston area. He also owns and operates an elevator company that supplies custom-built elevators for clients from New England to Hollywood. Author of two poetry and photograph collections (Under the Weight of Whispers and Into the Thorns and Honey), he donates all profits from his books to various charities for the homeless and local animal shelters.

Friday, August 21, 2015

Welcome to The Hastings Room for our second annual Seamus Heaney Memorial Reading. Aug 26 7PM



Hastings Room--First Church Congregationalist--Series Curator: Michael Todd Steffen 



Welcome to The Hastings Room
for our second annual
Seamus Heaney Memorial Reading

And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens… — “Song” S.H.

Wednesday 26 August 2015 at 7:00pm
First Church Congregationalist
11 Garden Street, near Harvard Square

Featuring Greg Delanty and Tomas O’Leary

By Michael Todd Steffen

I just wanted to make a few comments about our event this Wednesday evening.

The brief discussion at this year’s Memorial Reading will raise topics such as “crediting poetry,” Heaney’s disposition to an art devoted to things as they are, ideas about song and lyric as traditional poems, forms from the past addressing things of our time, and so singing, in Heaney’s words, “close to the music of what happens.” This makes lyrical poetry different from the news or “reality” shows.

Why state something so obvious? Because today via the Internet we are able to access news, music, movies and programs, surfing the links, as well as poetry pages, at the risk of giving them all the same sort of attention. In fact, poetry, good lyrical poetry especially, asks of us more focused attention on particular word choice, the arrangements of words and phrases, not just their literal sense, but their multiple suggestions and allusions.

So to content-read through one of Seamus Heaney’s poems, like “The Underground,” the first poem in Station Island, would result in missing a lot of the poem’s intentions. There is so much present that is not outwardly stated, the public image of the couple in the modern city compared to Greek mythology, the couple’s intimacy likened to the fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel, the exhilaration of memory, the pain of loss, the separated individual’s anxiety yet also transformation, and so much more, all just suggested by the rhythms of the language, the allusions to flowers, to Orpheus, and the emphases of words and phrases.

This is not a poem we’ll be discussing Wednesday evening. I just use it as an example, because it has the astonishing resonance of a great lyrical poem. You don’t have to work to memorize it. It settles in on its own. I read it for the first time almost thirty years ago and though it is a poem of only 16 lines, it keeps revealing new things to me.
Our guest readers Wednesday, Tomas O’Leary of Cambridge and Greg Delanty, an Irish-American citizen who is poet in residence at St. Michael’s in Vermont, will be remembering Seamus Heaney. Greg and Tomas and their work are definitely UP to the occasion. Greg knew Seamus personally. There are several photos of them together here and there.

In his widely anthologized career, Greg Delanty has won the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award, the Allan Dowling Poetry Fellowship, a Guggenheim, and he is a former President of the Association of Literary Scholars, Critics and Writers. Add to that an Austin Clarke Centenary Poetry Award and an Irish Arts Council bursary, and on and on.  An entire issue of Agenda (summer/autumn 2008) was devoted to celebrating Greg on his 50th birthday, upon the rare achievement at that young age of releasing a Collected edition.

Tomas O’Leary is one of the most appreciated characters on the Boston Area poetry scene, certainly in Cambridge and Somerville. Though Tomas was raised in Somerville, his manner is all emerald and fifey, unaffectedly so. If they both weren’t so well known, I’d try to introduce our Irish guest, Greg, as Tomas and vice-versa, to see if anybody would catch us out.

As well as a poet, Tomas is a translator, folk musician, artist and art therapist. He has this broad approach and embrace of character sanely maintaining joker and gentleman, much as Greg does. They each have the knack of being able to make you feel good with an insult, and giving you second-thoughts at a compliment. That is what we’ll be dealing with.

Both poets have a new collection of poetry out. I’ll be talking about those books Wednesday. The poets will be reading from them as well as from their previous collections. It will be well worth everybody’s effort to come and help us celebrate Seamus Heaney. He was one of the truly great poets of the language, as well as such a kind person. Cambridge and Harvard got to know that, so it’s right that we’re doing this at First Church.

Oh and: Come early. Last year we were at standing room only. And nobody left early.


Thursday, August 20, 2015

The Jewish Burial of Allen Ginsberg by Karen Alkalay-Gut

The Jewish Burial of Allen Ginsberg
Karen Alkalay-Gut

Allen Ginsberg's father's grave



My friend Professor Karen Alkalay-Gut has written and filmed her tour of poets' graves. She sent me the Allen Ginsberg set of the series.

When will you look at yourself through the grave?”
---Ginsberg, “America”



At five in the morning we landed in Newark airport. It was still too early to go to visit family or check into a hotel. Our closest and safest welcome could come from the cemetery, the cemetery that Allen Ginsberg described in his poem, “Don’t Grow Old,” and “Death and Fame,” B’nai Israel Cemetery, on the border of Elizabeth and Newark.

It was an easy ride even in the dark, driving right along the border of the airport. Maybe because we’d been there before we seemed to know the way. Maybe the GPS found it. Maybe it was Ginsberg himself who directed us. His “Don’t Grow Old” poem with his anticipation of his father’s funeral the next day echoed in my head.
Near the scrap yard my Father'll be Buried
Near the Newark Airport my father'll be

Okay, so which way do we go, Allen?

On Exit 14 Turnpike NJ South
Through the tollgate Service Road 1
The gate loosening from its hinges swung open, the brick guard house, windowless and empty greeted us. We walked straight ahead towards the “green painted iron fence”
Some directions were no longer relevant. There was no Winston Cigarette sign, and the Pennick chemical factory he mentioned was probably what is now Pittney-Bowles, but the sign he mentioned from the Budweiser Anheuser-Busch brick brewery shone red in the blue dawn and the Penn Central power Station transformer wires hummed overhead. Planes were landing, trucks were whizzing by on the highway, trains clanging. It seemed like the center of the world instead of a deserted graveyard.

It was becoming daylight and we soon began to see familiar names. Ginsberg’s father Louis, indeed, lay “next to Aunt Rose/Gaidemack, near Uncle Harry Meltzer/one grave over from Abe's wife Anna.”



The simple grave is inscribed with two lines of a poem by Louis himself. “The Answer of Death” ends with “Death has one answer/One alone: Explaining a riddle/ With a stone.” When he supervised this addition, Allen must have realized that he would someday see to having a few lines of his own engraved on his paired monument.


Where was the mother for whom Allen wrote his best known poem, “Kaddish?” Where was Naomi? Her absence seems to reinforce the sense of peace in the family plot. Naomi who had died on June 6, 1956, was buried in Beth Moses Cemetery in West Babylon on Long Island, with no Kaddish said over her grave. But even if someone had insisted that she be brought to the family plot, there would not have been room for Naomi. Instead Louis’ second wife, Edith, would much later be placed on Allen’s other side. The woman who had brought stability, peace and love to Louis, to Allen, and to the rest of the family, she was perhaps more suitable to accompany Allen in his eternal rest.
And Allen is indeed here part of a loving family. His stone is almost identical in size to the surrounding stones of his family. It is just a bit more crowded. There is an additional title and a longer quotation from his work.
An earlier verse of “Don’t Grow Old” written for Louis Ginsberg’s death closes Allen’s own epitaph. He had published them separately, sung them, and chanted them, and thought of these lines as the fruition of his Buddhist training.


The first time we visited Allen Ginsberg’s grave a few years back I saw none of the surrounding elements. Only the Hebrew heading startled me. 
 
There can be no exact translation, because the phrase doesn’t quite make sense. “The poet of the generation – seeks unity,” or “the poet of the generation that sought unity,” “The Poet of his Generation, In Need of Unity.” Something like that. “Who wrote that?” I asked Bob Rosenthal, Allen’s secretary. “Probably Rabbi Zalman Schachter Shlomi,” Bob wrote me. I asked my brother, Joseph Rosenstein, who knew the Rabbi, to find out. He saw it as meaning "singer of the generation" and as "seeker of unity." The dash between the two phrases, my brother told me, was intentional. The rabbi was a good friend and had given Allen the tallit in which his ashes were wrapped.


When I die,” Ginsberg began his last poem, “I don't care what happens to my body,/throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River/bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery.” But cremated bodies cannot be buried in Jewish sanctified ground. And the ashes had been divided to be scattered in Jewel Heart, Gelek Rinpoche’s sangha in New York, with another third brought to a memorial at Shambhala Mountain Center, to be later shared with his life partner Peter Orlovsky.
But by the time of Allen’s death, the cemetery had fallen into the hands of the stonecutter who had no particular interest in Jewish laws, and the Rabbi instructed Bob Rosenthal to bury the remaining ashes in the prayer shawl, with the tassels removed, and Kaddish was said for the poet. Bob kept a tablespoon to scatter years later on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem, according to instructions.

So he remained a wandering jew, even in his death, and yet every touch his remains made with the earth at last was deliberate, was part of his great-ness, every ash reminding one of what a human being needs.


Karen Alkalay-Gut
Professor Emerita
Department of English
Tel Aviv University
Ramat Aviv

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Romantic Outlaws: The Extraordinary Lives of Mary Wollstonecraft and her Daughter Mary Shelley by Charlotte Gordon



Professor Charlotte Gordon/Endicott College






Romantic Outlaws: The Extraordinary Lives of Mary Wollstonecraft and her Daughter Mary Shelley by Charlotte Gordon
(Random House, 2015)
By Lawrence Kessenich

If you’ve ever wondered, as I have, why the name of Mary Shelley, the wife of famous Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, is so often written Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Charlotte Gordon provides a full and fascinating answer. Although Mary Shelley never knew her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, who died ten days after her daughter’s birth, Shelley not only inherited her mother’s name but also her spirit. And, as Gordon makes us fully aware in this lively biography, what a spirit it was—in both of them!

Despite the fact that mother and daughter only lived together for ten days, Gordon presents their lives like a dramatic, intertwined novel, alternating chapters on each and continually leaving the reader to wonder what will happen next—and what new parallel will emerge in their lives. By presenting these two amazing women side-by-side, Gordon helps us to know both of them, and their times, better and to admire what they accomplished.

Wollstonecraft is best known for writing A Vindication of the Rights of Women in 1792, a book that provided an eloquent, ringing defense of women’s rights at a time when most people wouldn’t even consider the subject. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to call her book the opening volley of the Women’s Movement, and it was written nearly two centuries before general acceptance of women’s rights in Western nations! Spurred by the helplessness of her mother in the face of an abusive husband, Wollstonecraft saw the subjugation of women—and especially married women—with a clear eye and called it what it was: slavery. Although her arguments were dismissed by most men—and women—at the time, she had laid the groundwork for later writers and crusaders.

One woman who decidedly did not dismiss Wollstonecraft’s arguments was her daughter Mary. Her father, William Godwin, a philosopher and novelist who also challenged the status quo in his writing, revered Mary’s mother, engendering a deep respect for her in his daughter—until, that is, his daughter acted upon his and her mother’s words and challenged the status quo herself. At seventeen, Mary eloped with married poet Percy Shelley, and lived with him out of wedlock, inviting—and receiving—the approbation of polite society and her supposedly revolutionary father. Both Mary and her poet husband read and reread Mary Wollstonecraft’s work, and spent their life trying to live by her tenets of personal freedom that disregards societal norms.

But being an outlaw—Romantic or otherwise—carries a stiff price, and both Marys paid that price throughout their lives. Both were mocked and scorned, privately and in public, for living lives of sin. Mary Wollstonecraft had an illegitimate child by American businessman Charles Imlay and was impregnated by William Godwin before the two were married. (Not surprisingly, considering the contemporary belief that, outside of a few days after menstruation, frequent sex made pregnancy less likely!) Mary Shelley broke up Percy Shelley’s marriage and was also impregnated before she married Percy (after his ex-wife committed suicide). Because of this, and because they espoused “free love,” both Wollstonecraft and Shelley were called whores and snubbed in public.

Worst of all, despite the fact that both Wollstonecraft and Shelley were highly original, skilled, professional writers, their being free thinkers and women often prevented them from being taken seriously by most of the writing establishment and the public at the time. And those who wrote about, and falsely interpreted, Wollstonecraft’s and Shelley’s lives immediately after their deaths also ensured that both writers would be misunderstood for nearly two more centuries. As Gordon describes it:

Wollstonecraft was written off, first as a whore and then as a hysteric, an irrational female hardly worth reading—slander that proved so effective in undercutting the ideals of A Vindication of the Rights of Women that it persists today in the rhetoric of those who oppose feminist principles. Mary Shelley, on the other hand, would be condemned for compromising the revolutionary values of her genius husband and her pioneering mother [and]…she was discounted as intellectual lightweight, her only important work done with the help of her husband.

The irony is that these were both highly intelligent, learned women—mostly self-educated, of course—who were capable of holding their own with the learned men of their time. Wollstonecraft took on social and political philosophy, expounding original and thought-provoking ideas in those areas—which were often praised, until it was discovered that a woman was putting them forward. Shelley’s Frankenstein challenged the ruling ethos about the unassailable goodness of science and progress—an ethos very few men were brave enough to challenge, and no one thought a woman had the right to challenge. And her education was so wide that, later in life, she was able to write (anonymously) five volumes in a book series entitled Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men.

Perhaps the biggest irony of these great, independent lives, as Gordon describes them, is how much both Wollstonecraft and Shelley suffered over the men they loved most. Then again, perhaps it is not ironic, or even unusual. Don’t we still see strong, intelligent, independent women pining away for men who hardly seem to deserve them?

Wollstonecraft’s romantic nemesis was American businessman Gilbert Imlay, whom she met in Paris during the French Revolution. They seemed a perfect intellectual and romantic match, and spent blissful months together. But Imlay’s attentiveness to Wollstonecraft soon waned, and he used his business travels to get away from her. Wollstonecraft, who had become pregnant by Imlay, refused to accept that the relationship was not the ideal one she had envisioned.

These feelings were exacerbated when their child was born and Imlay did not care for the child as Wollstonecraft did. Long-lasting post-partum depression intensified Wollstonecraft’s suffering, and she pursued Imlay with a vengeance via letters and during infrequent face-to-face encounters. Ultimately, it took several years before she finally gave up on him and found her own equilibrium again.

Although Mary and Percy Shelley were artistic soul-mates until the tragic end of his life, he caused her a good deal of suffering during their years together—and, as Gordon fairly represents it, Mary could be hard on him, too. Shelley could be the very embodiment of  many people’s image of the Romantic poet: dreamy, impractical, self-involved, putting art above everything else. Unfortunately, these attitudes usually left Mary, who was trying to write herself, to deal with the everyday responsibilities of running a household: planning meals, caring for children, shopping, paying bills, and so on. (Her mother had similar problems with Mary’s father, Godwin, who wanted little involvement with domestic duties.) Of course, as a wife of her time, Mary was expected to do these things. But Mary was not a typical wife of her time, she was the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, and she came to resent Percy’s comparative freedom.

To make matters worse, Percy often had crushes on younger women—as he’d had on Mary when she was seventeen and he was twenty-two. These younger women were often part of social groups with whom the Shelleys spent a good deal of time, so Percy’s flirtations were in full view of Mary. Although Mary espoused free love, in the event it was often difficult to see herself displaced in Percy’s attentions.

Percy always came back to Mary, however, even if she sometimes made it difficult by being cold and distant. He seems to have loved her to the end, as she did him, even if they were not as close as they’d once been. And they never ceased sharing their literary efforts, each going to the other for advice and support until the very end.

But with all the sturm und drang that sometimes characterized their love life, these two women produced an impressive array of fiction and nonfiction works. To give just two examples from the output of each: Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Women has a fresh, personal voice that makes its world-changing arguments clearly and simply, unlike most contemporary philosophical writers, which is why it still speaks to us today. Her Letters Written during a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark seems to have introduced a whole new style of essay writing, full of personal and passionate responses to people and places. Gordon doesn't make this comparison, but this style sounds to me like a pre-cursor to the New Journalism of the 1960s.

As for Shelley, her Frankenstein was a bold and wholly original work of philosophical fiction whose theme is as challenging today as it was when she wrote it. Her “monster” has become an icon of Western civilization, and with the advent of the atomic bomb, her cautionary tale about the hubris of science was instantly proved prescient. Her voluminous, erudite contributions to Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men demonstrates the depth and breadth of her knowledge as well as her writing skill. As one source describes her contribution to this series:

Shelley's biographies reveal her as a professional woman of letters… Her extensive knowledge of history and languages, her ability to tell a gripping biographical narrative, and her interest in the burgeoning field of feminist historiography are reflected in these works.

These two bold women led interesting, complex, difficult, colorful lives, and Gordon presents them to us with all of their complexity and contradictions. She makes us appreciate how important it is that the reputations of Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley have been rehabilitated over the past few decades. And Gordon’s well-thought-out dual biography will certainly continue to advance those reputations. She sums up the importance of these two women at the close of the book:


Without knowing the history of the era, the difficulties Wollstonecraft and Shelley faced are largely invisible, their bravery incomprehensible. Both women were what Wollstonecraft termed “outlaws.” Not only did they write world-changing books, they broke from the strictures that governed women’s conduct, not once but time and again, profoundly challenging the moral code of the day. Their refusal to bow down, to subside and surrender, to be quiet and subservient, to apologize and hide, makes their lives as memorable as the words they left behind. They asserted their right to determine their own destinies, starting a revolution that has yet to end.




                                                        ABOUT THE REVIEWER

                                     
During his time at Houghton Mifflin, Lawrence Kessenich recruited W. P. Kinsella author of “Shoeless Joe,” Rick Boyer’s “Billingsgate Shoal”, a mystery that won an Edgar Award for best mystery novel of the year, “Confessions of Taoist on Wall Street,”by David Payne, and “Selected Poems of Anne Sexton,” edited by Diane Middlebrook. Kessenich was the editor for Terry McMillan’s first book “Mama,” as well. Kessenich is an accomplished playwright, poet, and a managing editor for the literary journal: Ibbetson Street.