Winter Dreams by Philip E. Burnham, Jr.

 


Winter Dreams 

by Philip E. Burnham, Jr. 

ISBN: 978-1-329-61896-1 

Ibbetson Street Press 

25 School St. 

Somerville, Mass. 02143 

The more I read these poems by Philip Burnham, the more I enjoy rereading them. One reason I kept returning to their lyrical descriptions is the pleasure that comes with an appreciation of their craft; a pleasure that began with “That Snowy Field,” the first poem in the collection: 

So undisturbed and seeming singular 

As if it fell a sheet of paper here 

New snow is cover to a neighbor field 

* * * 

When children may print angels to the sky 

And I, in love, will write your name with mine 

On this imagined sheet of paper here 

So undisturbed and seeming singular. 

This is not the only poem in Winter Dreams, which brought to mind Eliot’s line, “In my end is my beginning.” “On Crissy Field” and “Rainbow Rain,” also have endings that concretely echo their beginnings. These couplets are from the latter poem, "Blue rain, green rain, yellow rain, red,/Mist, showers, torrents, thunder heads. … And stored within our watershed/Blue rain, green rain, yellow rain, red." Other poems, such as his audaciously titled, “Bare Ruined Choirs’” are more oblique in their implication that to live may be to go around in circles and that, possibly, the best we might hope to accomplish would be to craft beautiful circles.  

I hesitate to praise these poems for their accessibility and traditional formalities for fear they will be dismissed, as out of fashion, but in Frost’s tennis match Philip deserves a low seed. Because of his dedication to the formalities of meter, line length and rhyme, they have a surface clarity. Reading them I never found myself disoriented and going “Huh! Where am I?” or asking, “What is going on here?” His themes are universal: birth, life, death, spring, summer, autumn, winter, loneliness, love, loss, grief and exultation. You will find little to puzzle over in these poems but much to ponder. 

Here in “Walking October,” he muses upon his mortality 

Crisp apples drop hard off the orchards trees  

Thudding to ground a hazardous drum-roll 

Of solemn, ceremonial gravity 

Marking the dispatch of an other Fall. 

* * * 

There is no telling if we may repeat 

Another year the possibility 

Of walking through October's vast retreat 

When endings seem in the majority.  

And again on this same theme in “August Shadows”: 

We have been here so many times before, 

Brief lives with seasons, unprepared to part, 

We stand half in the house, half out the door, 

Our mind to come inside, but not our heart. 

Philip is a widower and four of the poems are addressed to his deceased wife as "Birthday Greeting[s] IX, X, XI, and XII …” Of these number XII “California Family/Louise at Seventy-five, February 27, 2014," is the only one of the 74 poems in the collection in free verse; it ends: 

Where you might now be walking 

On the beach or in a meadow 

Had only death not said,' 

“Come, drink my wine."  

Her death has been only alluded to in the first three of these poems each of which has a regularity of meter and rhyme, but here, when “death” is at last admitted, the formalities are discarded. It is as if death is the one event that can disrupt the personal order of one’s life. But the disruption is temporary; the order may be recovered, as it is in the poems surrounding this one; it may be recovered through the comfort of the poetry. Yes, this collection says, our lives need rhyme contained in a metric of reason.   

Many of his best poems are ones of melancholy and parting, of taking leave of people, things and life but they are, never the less, exhilarating because melancholy is not depression and, while it may trigger grief, separation, whether caused by time or distance or death, provides rich opportunities for appreciation. "Quartet," which begins, "The shingled roof's a dance and slight of rain,/A breaker sea's tattoo and slip from shore," and ends, "Its score of nature's and unnature's notes/Played in my youth and now in my retreat." is a good example of the many poems in this collection that thrive upon this tension. 

However, Winter Dreams also has much cheer and Philip has a mastery of light verse, which he displays in several poems; perhaps best in this channeling of A. A. Milne, “Getting What One Asked For”: 

When I was merely four - or, three, 

Curious adults asked of me, 

"Philip, what would you like to be 

When you grow up?" Precociously, 

I would reply that if I might, 

I'd like to be a famous knight, 

With shiny armor for my coat, 

A castle circled by a moat. 

Time and again I was moved by the ritual formality of Winter Dreams. I am not sure these cyclical themes could have been expressed as well in freer verse. With their recurrent themes composed in couplets, quatrains, sonnets, villanelles and other forms of his invention I think this poet is saying, “While I am not telling you anything you have not heard before, but these truths need repetition. They are couched in rhyme and metric regularity to aid the memory, so they may more easily become known by heart, as they must be, if we are to share in the survival of our humanity.”

A Day in the Life: Early Morning : Union Square, Somerville

A Day in the Life: Early Morning : Union Square

By Doug Holder

Early Morning, Union Square. I walk down Bow Street—Goodyear's lights are on-- and a slow stream of people with tired treads, dirty transmission fluid, in need of change—of oil, in need of alignment, enlightenment—make their way into the office. I hear the jocular good morning from the Hispanic crossing guard—we are all her children, as she guides us through the gridlocked traffic of the Square. In the post office—I exchange gossip with the clerk—she told me a SWAT team was here earlier, “Well—I figured I would tell my journalist—thought you would like to know...” She tells me she is going to retire next year... “Maybe I will work the election booths with the other old ladies,” she laughed. At the Community Laundromat on Bow Street—a gaggle of homeless men are in semi-coherent chatter: “ Hey you are a weird dude—stop touching me,” one tells the other. There is an argument about which liquor store opens the earliest—vodka nips are in vogue for them. Bloc 11 is open—and there are the usual. A tall man with a reddish beard engrossed in his book, and the handsome woman I have seen for years, with a helmet of stylish gray hair-- (me thinks she works at Harvard), props a book up for her before work read. Hip baristas croon at me “The usual?” Honey grain bagel --tomatoes-- dry-- I add my hummus and fish in the back room. Outside the parade starts-- mothers with their strollers, the tight spandex of the bicyclists. At the Union Square Smoke Shop where I get my Globe and Times—the Indian woman at the counter chirps a “Good morning.” There is a strong smell of tobacco and I watch the lottery people ask for arcane combinations of tickets, mega this and thus—and in the back an opium den?—no, TV sets where patrons are hypnotized, and watch the numbers cross the screen. Back in the Bloc11 I solicit teaching advice from my friend Steve Swensen, a retired teacher from St. Joseph's and Somerville High. He feels lucky to have spent a 39 year career around a few blocks—more or less. Later I listen to a group of dog walkers talk about their canine charges as if the mutts were in psychoanalysis—a treatment plan for each—I suppose every dog has its day. People start to squeeze in Union Square Donuts—artisan donuts—not the pedestrian glazed munchkins you get at Dunkin. There are cabals of people at tables—hunched over—hatching conspiracies—or so it seems. The Neighborhood Restaurant is still there—I remember their Cream of Wheat—that wonderful—cinnamon infused lead weight in my stomach. And the outdoor eating under a lattice of vines. Bloc 11 fills—Mayor Curatone, dapper and handsome, in a dark suit—fields a pitch from another developer or what not. Mothers try to muffle their babies' cries. People come and go, and get on with their lives..

Aeronaut Brewing Offers a Sip of Brew and a Taste of the Arts

Aeronaut Brewing Offers a Sip of Brew and a Taste of the Arts

By Doug Holder

A cold rain blanketed Somerville when I met with Ben Holmes and Randy Winchester at my usual corner at the Bloc 11 Cafe in Union Square. Holmes, who looks to be in his twenties is the founder of the Aeronaut Brewing Company on Tyler Street just outside Union Square. Holmes lives in the Spring Hill section of Somerville, and he told me his family has a long lineage in our town. A close relative lived  for over sixty years on School Street ( My stomping grounds), and his family owned a tinware factory in Somerville as well. Winchester who runs the Duck Village Theater component of the venue has a less illustrious background in Somerville, but he has lived in our burg on and off for a total of 10 years. He recently had to move to Arlington, Mass. because of the skyrocketing rents the city is experiencing. For over  30 years Winchester worked at MIT  where he ran video network systems along with other varied duties. Now he books musicians and other artists at the Brewery—as well as conducts research on yeast for the development of new and enticing craft beers.

The Aeronaut is a place to get a draft to be sure. But it is also hosts indie-style music, as well as classical, jazz, fusion, etc.. It houses a science lab that makes for interesting local brews, and even boasts a studio that live streams( on the internet) many of the performances that take place here.

Aeronaut opened June 21, 2014, and it is located near another innovative spot-- the Artisan's Asylum. Holmes said of the Asylum, “ We do a bunch of things together. The Asylum works with metal, wood, high tech, and computers. So we have projects like manufacturing tap handles, and other related stuff.”

Winchester told me a bit more about some of the artists and musicians they have hosted. It is an eclectic list. They have provided the venue for Shakespeare productions, rap groups, massive light and sound projects, Brooklyn-based jazz ensembles, and Reggae groups. Ubiquitous Somerville artist Paul Gonzalez lll has displayed his work here and, local composer, and singer Marlene Tholl has performed in the space, and the list goes on.

The lab where brew masters experiment with different forms of yeast, has produced some exotic concoctions. There is Expat—a roasted and aromatic brew—Orangutan Skies—made with tropical and citrus hops, Cocoa Sutra—infused with cacao nibs from Somerville Chocolate, and others.

I asked Winchester where he got the name Duck Village Stage. He told me that Duck Village is a section of Somerville based around Dane, Washington, and Beacon Streets. It is has been said that Duck Village was popular among illegal makers of moonshine during Prohibition  because in this densely populated environ it was easy to escape the cops. The said Brewery is firmly in Duck Village territory.

Holmes told me he has a 10 year lease for the enterprise. He said he hopes that Somerville will make his neighborhood into a Fabrication District, where innovative places such as his can be protected from the skyrocketing rents gentrification will bring.

It is evident that these two men are representative of a new breed of entrepreneur/innovators—here--in--the Paris of New England.

For more information go to http://www.aeronautbrewing.com

A Collection of Friends by Thomas Sheehan

 

A Collection of Friends by Thomas Sheehan

Review by Nina R. Alonso

A Collection of Friends by Thomas Sheehan brings the reader into his life with intense physicality, the rough texture of early and later years. The story that opens the collection, Dumpmaster’s Boy, brings us the sandwich he’s carrying to his grandfather, “the great sandwich in a line of great sandwiches...wrapped in brown paper and tied up in white string by my Grandmother, Mary Brennan Igoe.” We feel the characters, hear the noises the stove makes, watch this grandmother’s eyes, and the world is palpable.

His detailing of the dump is both precise and gorgeous: “Old wet blankets falling apart. Horses in there someplace, perhaps pieces of them...Cluttered newspapers...ink blobbing in clumps, words going downhill like sundown. Squashes rotted to the last seed of hope.” Sheehan’s writing is often poetic, pulling the last bit from whatever he’s seen and felt.

In these days of irony and abstraction, it is a relief to read someone who is connected to life, however disturbing, painful and surprising. In The Great God Shove, a bullied boy finds a way, despite his small size and years, to go on the attack, and the writing’s neither indulgent nor syrupy.

Later stories explore characters, a chronic drunk, a fellow student. In Parkie, Tanker, Tiger of Tobruk it’s a soldier friend back from the war. “That afternoon I realized Parkie had come home to die,” seen and felt in a deeply essential way. “Our differences were obvious, though we did not speak of them. The sands of North Africa had clutched at him and almost taken him. Off a mountain in Korea I had come with my feet nearly frozen.” These are fine stories.

Trumbo a film review by William Falcetano

 








Trumbo 

a film review by William Falcetano

Our fate, whether we like it or not, is that the cinema has become our history textbook.  It is from movies that people learn about the Holocaust, President Kennedy’s assassination, Iwo Jima.   Some film makers carry out this pedagogical function brilliantly; others take too many liberties, or worse, distort history altogether in the service of vile bigotry (D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation) or loathsome ideology (Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will).   Cinema can teach lessons both true and false, and can do so well or badly.  Film can be propaganda or education; and as in education the student must carefully select the teacher.  In the case of Jay Roach’s tribute film to Dalton Trumbo we have an example of how the cinema can be both educator and entertainer. 

Mr. Roach pits against each other two powerful performers – Bryan Cranston, whose Walter White of Breaking Bad and whose portrayal of President Johnson on Broadway has catapulted him into the stratosphere of stars, and Dame Helen Mirren, who has spent her whole career in that elevated rank of best actors.   These strong-willed figures engage in a titanic high-stakes struggle full of mutual loathing that forms the central dramatic axis of this moveable feast of a film.  Both characters – the screen writer Dalton Trumbo and his nemesis the Hollywood gossip columnist Hedda Hopper – are so finely accoutered, so impeccably dressed, and so authentically turned out that you would think you were thrust back into the post war world of the late 1940s by some sort of virtual reality machine.  The brilliant technicolor look of the costumes and the sunshiny lighting of Southern California border on the cartoonish.  These ultra-real touches are set side by side with actual black-and-white film footage from the era, depicting real people in newsreels or in film.  But Mr. Roach goes one further and includes “rusticated” versions of his own faux-authentic film in which actors play actors, such as John Wayne or Kirk Douglas, or real figures such as President Kennedy.  At the very end of the movie the audience is given a chance to judge the faithfulness of Mr. Cranston’s Dalton Trumbo when footage of the actual Mr. Trumbo appears and his speech patterns, his cadence, his urbane manner all resemble the theatrical illusion created by that magician of an actor, as if life were imitating art.

What we remember today as “the McCarthy era” was a kind of miasma of fear and paranoia that spread throughout the country.  Hardly anyone was untouched by it; even those who acquitted themselves well for a time, such as the great Edward G. Robinson, wavered, buckled under the pressure, or cooperated with the witch hunt to give up information (“I only gave them what they already knew”, Robinson, played by Michael Stuhlbarg, protests in a line strikingly familiar to us from James “Whitey” Bulger). 

When we meet Dalton Trumbo he is at the height of his career on a stage set with Edward G. Robinson playing a gangster, holding a revolver in a period-perfect film noir – this is a movie about movie-making.  Trumbo signs a contract with Louis B. Mayer (Richard Portnow), head of Metro-Goldwin-Mayer Studios, for a record sum – he is the best paid writer in Hollywood.  But the right-wing Hedda Hopper is playing hard ball; she corners her former lover Louis B. Mayer in his office in an attempt to intimidate him into breaking his contract with Trumbo (he does).  An audible gasp went up from the audience when Mirren delivers an ethnic slur like a punch below the belt.

Then it all falls apart, as other actors, led by John “Duke” Wayne, played with convincing heft by David James Elliot, Ronald “Dutch” Reagan, and Robert Taylor, form a committee of their own to uphold “American ideals”.  Reagan and Taylor are seen giving testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee.  Trumbo, as one of “the Hollywood Ten”, is imprisoned for contempt of congress; after he is released, he cannot find work – he’s been blacklisted.  (“What’s your position on the blacklist?” one reporter asks – “on it” was his terse and witty reply.)  

One sub-plot involves Trumbo’s friend Arlen Hird, played by the comedian-turned-actor Louis C.K.  Mr. Székely is not a bad actor; but he is not in the same league as Helen Mirren and Bryan Cranston.  The movie would have been improved had Mr. Roach shortened or cut scenes calculated to evoke sympathy for Mr. Hird, a smoker who loses a lung (Trumbo is hardly ever without his cigarette holder in this era when smoking was deemed glamorous).  The same can be said for Roger Bart’s role as the oily movie producer Buddy Ross.  Movies alas are our textbooks; but when they try to be as detailed as books they can falter or fail.  Sometimes less is more. 

The next part of the film depicts Mr. Trumbo’s slow, arduous ascent from this low point in the 1950s to the rehabilitation of his reputation – and his career – in the 1960s, ending with his acceptance speech in 1970, when he receives a lifetime achievement award from the Screen Writers Guild.  Mr. Cranston brings out the true grit and calm toughness of Dalton Trumbo – who not only served time in prison for his ideals, he clawed his way back into the game script by script, revising the work of hacks, and writing his own screenplays for the mercenary B movie mogul Frank King, played with gruff and gleeful corpulence by John Goodman.   One of these scripts – The Brave One – wins the academy award for “best story” (the last film to do so), only to be received by a representative of the Screen Writers Guild on behalf of the fictional “Robert Rich”, pseudonym for Dalton Trumbo, who must watch the festivities on TV surrounded by his cheering family. 

It was his family that gave him heart through this trial by fire, and it was his family that pulled together – each working jobs as couriers, operators, or typists to keep the machine running smoothly to pay the bills.  Dalton’s daughter Nikola Trumbo, played by Elle Fannnig, was a consultant on the film and it reflects her point of view.  She ends up taking on her father’s toughness and his ideals after the obligatory adolescent struggle.  Trumbo’s wife Cleo is played by the amazing Diane Lane who portrays the loyal 1950s wife – but with a twist when she stands up to her husband when his tyrannical quest not to be beaten by “them” turns him into a bully.  The courage to stand up to bullies is what this movie is all about.

The big breakthrough comes when the great director Otto Preminger (played by a bald Christian Berkel) bucks the system and credits Dalton Trumbo for the screenplay for Exodus; then Kirk Douglas (played here with uncanny resemblance by Dean O’Gorman) let it be known that Trumbo was one of the screenwriters for Spartacus, the sword and sandal epic, starring Douglas as the slave-turned-revolutionary and Lawrence Olivier, who appears in a scene from the film in bad Roman drag.  Trumbo is a film about films and the business of film making, in which writers write about writers, and vindicate a noble craft along with one of the martyrs of that profession who stood up for the ideals of free expression and free association.  Against him were powerful and popular figures such as John Wayne, Ronald Reagan, and Hedda Hopper, who wrapped themselves in the flag in the name of “American ideals”, only to soil that flag and scar the country for which it stands.  Brave ones made their voices heard, including Humphrey Bogart and his “dishy” wife, the incomparable Lauren Bacall – both seen in grainy video protesting like ordinary citizens.  The voice of Lucille Ball is heard on the radio defending the constitution with unassailable common sense.  Others acquit themselves honorably or shamefully.  

Aristotle famously defined tragedy as the kind of drama in which the hero passes from happiness to misery.  Our hero does this; but then moves in the opposite direction – from the nadir of his career in the 1950s to his apotheosis in 1975, when he is belatedly given the academy award for The Brave One – bravery, it seems, is something this writer knew a little bit about.  We find ourselves leaving this movie, which comes at a time that is beginning eerily to resemble the fear and loathing of that ugly chapter of American history, wishing we could say the same for our country. 

The Lesser Guardian By Joanna Nealon

Joanna Nealon

The Lesser Guardian
By Joanna Nealon
IN Publications
Waban, MA
ISBN: 978-0-9819797-7-9
41 Pages

Review by Dennis Daly

Visionaries visit us infrequently with their scientific insights predicting future worlds of exotic machinery and wondrous societies. Even less do we hear from that particular brand of prophetic dreamer who imagines humanity’s ethereal, yet existential, destiny. Joanna Nealon, in The Lesser Guardian, divines out, poem by poem, a transfigured world of the human heart, beyond DNA, transcending corporeal flaws. She compels her hoped-for eternity into the reality of poetic lines that ring of clarity.

Nealon’s collection has a trajectory that gloriously ascends into the atmospheric layers of earth’s heavens from sulfuric depths. Her opening poem, Have A Nice Day, showcases a dry wit (exhibited in its title) as it cries out for human understanding and the salvation it brings. She opens the piece with a prison metaphor,

Anchored in its bone cage,
The heart lives alone.
It cannot breakthrough the bars
Without destroying itself.
It can only send out cries,
Some soft, some strident,
Through lips and eyes,
Calling attention
To its solitary confinement

In Banbury Cross the poet’s persona is visited by disaster (presumably riding a cock-horse), the imagined conclusion to a nursery rhyme’s innocence. Old Testament Job has nothing on her. The lightness of glee devolves into grief’s weightiness. Her misfortune begins,

He snatched away my joys,
Tore my loved ones from my arms,
Killed my creatures or drove them into exile,
Drained the color from my dawns.
Begrudging me my bright raiment,
My light laughter,
He pulled the rings from my fingers,
The bells from my toes,
Unmade my music.
‘And she shall have dirges wherever she goes’.

Nealon seems to confront reality internally, mulling it over and challenging it. Meditation becomes another sense used by her, and her mind’s eye sees the construct of fragile personhood facing off with mortality. Her poem, A Cold Exchange, highlights this in a dialogue with Death. She posits the evolution of human essence through the perception of truth. Here’s the heart of the piece,

“Death,” I say,
“I have known you for so long,
And yet we are still not friends,”
“True,” says Death,
“I never knew how to win friends.
But I do know
How to influence people.”
“But not enough,” say I,
“To teach them how to live.

Yeats had his Rosicrucian esoterica, which he mined for poetic inspiration to very good effect. Nealon does likewise with her terminology derived from anthroposophy and stresses the point with the introductory referencing of Rudolf Steiner, an Austrian philosopher and cabalist, who lived in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, that she employs. Nealon clearly seeks the light of truth in her art. She transforms the raw and arcane material of mysticism into imaginative craftsmanship.

The longest poem in her collection, Nealon entitles Crossing. Here she lays out an optimistic blueprint of striving beyond her disappointment in life’s obtuseness and rampant ignorance to imbue her idea of consciousness with transformative powers. In addition she personifies with authority this stage of understanding and lets her persona speak thusly,

I am The Lesser Guardian of the Threshold,
Who bars your way.
You brought me into existence
Through your thoughts, your words, your actions.
Before this,
You bore me invisibly within you,
But now I stand revealed.
From this moment on, I charge you to transfigure my form
Into radiant beauty

Throughout this collection the poet as seeker discovers the invisible world and its characteristic boundary beyond mere physicality. She speaks of eternity and remembrance. Her religion mirrors life and her exemplars grow great hearts, propelling them into the angelic hierarchy, or perhaps further. The transitory nature of flesh and blood gives up its secrets slowly and in a way that does not decrease its consummate attraction. Nealon in her poem Not A DNA Signature makes sense of her dual nature this way,

I am merely borrowing
A body and a geography,
Though I helped to make this body
From ice and stones and astral dregs,
Shot through with memory of Sun
That warms my blood!

I am a spiritual being
Sitting by the wreck of my ancient mother,
Cradling the hurt in my children’s lives,
Listening for my husband’s courageous step.

I am a spiritual being
Singing to parakeets in the morning,
Crying after a newscast,
Trying, trying to remember
That I am a spiritual being.

Utopias, both spiritual and temporal, have a long history of human obsession. Nealon suggests a near perfect consciousness that exists as a parallel and spiritual entity. She sees this invisible existence as a consequence of perceptible internal actions. Her poem Learning To Tell Time concludes with such a declaration,

Stepping forth from the dream of Night,
The self stands juxtaposed
To the fierce gatherings of Group Souls.
The self is its own unique species
And bears allegiance to all.
Its mission is Love,
Lifted from instinctive depths
To freedom’s conscious heights.

Nealon’s poem, Beyond Astronomy, provides inward directions to the source of her muse. Stars flame spectacularly there. She describes the mode of sensation and the potential for creativity,

Through the heart’s clear glass
Shines the gaze of the hierarchies,
Spirits of stars,
Weavers of worlds,
Molders of form,
Upholders of life.

Joanna Nealon burns with the flames of inner visions and the heat of cosmic identifications. Happily for us, her shimmering and aura-prone poetics benefit.