The Powow River Poets Anthology II

 

The Powow River Poets 

Anthology II

Edited by Paulette Demers Turco

Introduction by Leslie Monsour

Able Muse Press, 2021

Review by William Falcetano

The Powow River poets have done it again, like lightning striking twice in the same place: they have produced a second anthology of poems that amply justifies their well-deserved reputation as highly talented versifiers and master-craftworkers of the artform.  These excellent poems are distinguished by a graceful formalism, wry humor, scorching irony, delicious whimsy, insight into, and compassion for, the vagaries of the human condition. 

There is also a distinct note of localism which brings us to such magical places as the sand dunes of Plum Island and “the sun-speckled Merrimack” in that imaginary land “North of Boston” made famous by Robert Frost, as well as more far-flung Muse-inspired locales as the lush jungles of Honduras or a secret waterfall in Colorado.  In ancient times poets haunted obscure brooks or hidden dells where they would be embraced by Muses who inspired them to sing in meters and chant in rhymes.  Such inspired formal precision is on almost every page of this remarkable volume and it reminds the reader (this reader in particular) what makes poetry poetic.  How to explain this profusion of talent?  It has been rumored that they are imbibing the Muse-infused waters of the Powow River as it meanders through the charming hamlet of Amesbury (though I’m inclined to guess it’s equally the result of hard work and years of careful reading and pain-staking writing).  

This gifted group of poets normally meets at the Newburyport Public Library, which hosts their readings. As someone who has recently found refuge on Plum Island just before the outbreak of the pandemic, I was disappointed that this happy congress was canceled - another victim of the dreaded covid-19.  In lieu of attending live readings I offered to review this new anthology - it was a labor of love which I thoroughly enjoyed. 

Apropos libraries and poetry readings I laughed when I read Alfred’ Nicol’s funny poem “Nuts”, which offers glimpses of such recognizable denizens as the old codger who won’t live long enough to read the armload of biographies he is checking out; or the “struggling poets” whose audiences find “the open mic’s a magnet for the daft”.  

Another witty poem is A.M. Juster’s “Proposed Clichés”; some examples are:

More user-friendly than a hooker

hard up for cash.

Ask not what your country can do,

for fear of the answer.

Burn the candle at both ends

if you want to wax poetic.

If you’re crazy like a fox,

get tested for rabies.

I was touched by Kyle Potvin’s “To My Children Reading My Poetry after I’m Gone”, which offers a defense of poetic license and the right of the poet to dissemble.  She advises her children, if they search for clues about their mother in her poems, beware: 

...poets play with words, ignore the truth,

“manipulate” as Plath once said. A ruth-

less cutting, blending, marking up - that’s art.

Dears, best to trust what’s written in your heart.

Poetry also reveals truth through its manipulative art. Such revelations are everywhere to be found in this outstanding collection.  Pace Keats, however, truth and beauty do not always co-mingle, as Michael Cantor’s “Lament” reveals about growing old and

what it all comes down to - thoughts of shits

and weekends with the Times invade a kiss-

kiss-fuck-fuck-bang-bang mind as age submits

his calling card, engraved, upon a bone-

white plate...

In another memento mori James Najarian illustrates how the splendor of youth can suddenly be turned into something far from lovely when a frolicking frat boy meets his fate in a car crash.  Najarian, who envies “the ease of any of these guys”, first brings into focus the perfect prep school bodies of youngsters playing football in the April rain:

The lawn is a snarl of pectoral and arm

In a game I cannot play or even grasp.

However rough it seems, they mean no harm,

shoulder on shoulder in a perfect clasp

of biceps, deltoid, butt, and leather ball.

Then he hits the reader with the tragic reversal of fortune, marveling at how the frat boys are so “spendthrift with themselves, as only young men can be.” 

Another unbeautiful truth is told by Anton Yakovlev’s “Ask Anyone” which alludes the common occurrence of nighttime arrests in the USSR:

Ask anyone who lived in Soviet times.

It was at night that people went away. 

Faint blood in basements.  Vague rumors of crimes…

Quiet black Volgas gliding past stop signs. 

This anthology is also chock full of beautiful truths as well, much of it painting word portraits on landscape, seasons, gardens, and family. The editor, Paulette Demers Turco, offers two poems about her mother. In “Singer” she is depicted as a modern-day Penelope at the loom waiting for her husband to return (like Odysseus, he too is off at war) singing tunes at her Singer sewing machine. 

...her wish 

of daughters dressed by her - beyond her wish

when she took her vows on her wedding day.

While her love served in Normandy, she’d hum

soft tunes of his return - no sewing machine. 

Her trousseau was of borrowed silk and lace.

Her groom gave her a Singer. She’d teach herself. 

What is it about parents that inspires poetry?  Several poems in this collection draw upon memories of mothers or fathers. Rhina P. Espaillat, the ring-leader of this happy band of poets, offers a memory of strolling the promenade in Newburyport with her elderly mother. 

Widowed, confused, dimly aware

of who I was beside her there,

but fond of mischief, and still pretty.

She loved the river and the city. 

They are joined by 

...an old fellow bald and thin

Who gripped his cane and slipped right in…

What happens next I leave to the reader to discover - but the “mischief” made me laugh. 

There are whimsical takes on the philosophical musings of a speck of dust in Alfred Nicol’s “Old Haunt”, or the absurdities of border controls placed on the natural world in Nancy Bailey Miller’s Revisiting “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall”, in which she asks facetiously:

But why can’t we reroute the bird migration?

Insist on green cards from our waterfalls?

What monarch claims the path of butterflies 

in spring?

I have not, and cannot, do justice to this outstanding anthology, and its many fine poets, in a mere thousand words; but I’d like to reassure readers that every page of this excellent book is worth careful attention, especially if you enjoy reading well-crafted poems.

Andrew K. Peterson’s Good Game

 

Andrew K. Peterson’s Good Game, reviewed by Gregory J. Wolos

In his poem “Ars Poetica,” Archibald Macleish concludes, “A poem should not mean/ But be.” The implication is that the poem—a poem— is an experience unto itself, and not merely a rendering of an idea or set of ideas that could be paraphrased in prose. The experience (or set of experiences) occasioned by my reading of Andrew K. Peterson’s collection of poems, Good Game, is, I must confess, largely unparaphrasable. While the poems in Good Game display pyrotechnical virtuosity in their use of imagery and structure, too often I found my engagement thwarted by tantalizing allusions that hung just out of my reach, by semantic inversions that seemed linked only to themselves, and to scattershot experiments in form that seemed intended as a kind of Rorschach test for the reader’s journey to self-discovery, but which in fact came across as frustratingly solipsistic and opaque puzzles.

Looking for an entry, a point of embarkation, I turn to the collection’s title, and then to the first poem, “The Big Game is Every Night.” Peterson’s last stanza “it’s a big game/ & the big game is every night/ a mountainous rose/ swells of diamond surfers,/ dub sparks on the moon’s hood,/ a wolf at the brim of her kind” creates a hunger that I ache to have satisfied. As vivid as are the images of the rose, the diamond surfers, the sparks on the hood of the moon, and the wolf at the brim, for me, they collide without illuminating. Ever the pragmatist, when faced with weightlessness, I search for an anchor, and, as I have advised countless students over the years, when in doubt, return to the title. What’s to be made of Peterson’s offering up of the phrase “good game”? Seeking to experience Peterson’s work to the fullest, I run through any and all associations I can make. “Good game” is a platitude generally exchanged between competitors at the conclusion of a competition. Is it possible that Peterson has regarded his readers as opponents? Or are we ruminant targets, like rhinos and buffaloes, “big game” to be rendered fit for a museum diorama at the mercy of the poet’s obscurantism? Is Peterson’s title self-congratulatory, intended to describe the collection itself as a challenge that will ultimately benefit the reader? Adjectivally speaking, when I surrender myself to a poem or collections of poems, I like to think of myself as “game”—I am generally willing to suspend or accept, if even temporarily, the epistemological frame the poet is offering through their work. If I can make sense of their rules. But I want to be a participant, not merely an observer, of the poet’s “game.” Watching pyrotechnics for the sake of watching is a two-dimensional experience—it lacks depth.

I search for anchors, for clues: Peterson offers a direction in his opening poem, suggesting that what we’re searching for is “slow going, but it is going.” So there is movement to watch for—but movement to where (and from where), and how do we recognize it? In “Poem on Joan Mitchell’s Birthday,” there is a suggestion after imagery hinting at the singer’s cover art (“wild blueberry/ when I could/in the middle of that blued & purple cinema”) that “form shatters the void/ as a knife slides off her palette.” So it seems that the decision to “make” something, i.e., to impose form, equals “art.” And what then to make of Peterson choosing to refer to Joanie Mitchell as “Joan”? Naming (or renaming) is an aggressive act—a hint of cultural imperialism. I have a brother who intentionally mispronounces the names of French actresses. To what end? To draw attention to himself? To make it clear that he is possessing these personalities in his own, unique way? But what am I to get it out of it? As with Peterson’s poems and many of the forms he chooses for them, my first feeling is that of exclusion.

But I’m in “the game,” and I’m no quitter. And, seriously, I want to play. Reading Peterson’s “Serious Moonlight,” I’m drawn to the last lines: “in the moonlight/ in the serious moonlight/ oh unserious moon.” Peterson here seems to suggest the subjectivity of interpretation—whatever we make of the moon, it exists nakedly; if we turn moonlight into “a monument to memory’s fresh dance clothes set to tremble,” as Peterson does in the poem’s opening line, it is a matter of choice. Yet before I can dive deeply into “Serious Moonlight,” I’m confronted by Peterson’s decision to “i.m.” the poem to David Bowie. A handful of poem’s in the opening section of Good Game are “i.m.-ed” to musicians and writers, all dead. Is an “instant message” a dedication? A declaration of inspiration? A tribute? Deference to or ironic condemnation of a culture lost to social media? (Full disclosure—except for Bowie, I had to Google Peterson’s other “i.m.” reciptients.)

And so the reader is taken out of the immediate experience of the poem itself, connected to (or becoming lost within) a different kind of experience that requires assistance—either we look up Peterson’s allusions, or we defer to the final pages of the volume, which list the poet’s “Notes” on several of his poems. Is the added information these notes supply meant to further our interface with the poem? Are they intended to offer us glimpses into the poet’s notebooks so we can trace the genesis of a work from its birth-idea to its completion? Are they meant to show off Peterson’s wide-ranged exploration of diverse texts? If so, is the “Notes” section intended less as an explanatory connection to the volume’s early poems and more as a separate section in and of itself, in which Peterson noisily stakes his ground as an iconoclast? What is a reader to make of a note such as Peterson’s on his “Poem for a Disappearing Roommate”: “The poem’s form—stanza length, line word count, quotation length and page location of source material—was determined by chance methodology (I-Ching consultation).”

There are several poems in Good Game, particular in an eponymous section, that suggest the movement implied in the also-eponymous introductory poem—poems that “are going.” At least the titles of these guerilla poems (guerilla poetry involves, among other things, placing poems in unusual or unexpected places or circumstances) imply action. They also, perhaps for the only occasions in this volume allow me to place my feet on solid ground for a moment. Among these titles are: “Poem Placed on the Green Monster During Law Enforcement Counterterror Practice Fenway Park June 12^th 2016”; “Poem to be Dropped into Encore Boston Harbor Resort and Casino Construction Site (Failed)”; “Poem Placed BU Footbridge Over Storrow Drive Where Santos Laboy was Shot and Killed by Massachusetts State Trooper June 19^th 2015”. There is vivid imagery in some of these poems; I struggled however, to connect the language of the poems themselves to the clearly political implications of the titles (especially a long segment in the “Green Monster” poem that tested my lost years of intermediate level Latin.)

Andrew K. Peterson’s poems are a festival of forms, of fecund imagery, of challenging allusiveness. The collection features: the aforementioned descriptions of guerrilla poems (the thrill of participating in such guerilla activity is somewhat neutered by reporting them on paper in conventional form: they become cold history rather than a living statement); collages of meaning presented as a midnight cloudburst; instant messages to dearly departed artists; abstruse notes that do less to illuminate the poem they are connected with than draw attention to their own obscurity. If part of Andrew K. Peterson’s goal with Good Game is to open this reader to fresh thinking by breaking down preconceptions, he has accomplished that end. Is it fair of me to question whether or not the collection hangs together when Peterson’s object might be akin to proving Yeats’s observation in “Second Coming” to be true: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold./ Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world”? Does Peterson’s collection spring from an impulse parallel to that of Russian anarchist Mikhail Bakunin, who believed “The passion for destruction is also a creative passion”? Maybe. I can only report, for good or ill, that experiencing Good Game left me feeling as if I’d been invited to the gym to play ball, but never got picked for a team.

Somerville Poet Mark McKay / Writes a Poem A Day

  

 I have trouble writing a poem a month, at best. But everyday since 2017, Somerville poet Mark McKay has posted a poem on Instagram, and has developed a large following.  I had a chance to catch up with Mark via the Internet.

You have lived in Somerville for 2.5 years. How has it been for your creative life?

Living in Somerville has really kickstarted my creative life - at the beginning of my concerted efforts to write in 2017, I was living in the suburbs and relying on my own imagination to concoct and coax stories and poems from previous life experience. The vibrant art community and more urban setting in Somerville has changed the way I approach my craft, providing inspiration in everything from organized events, art shows, recognition of artists to the street art and ways that residents feel free to decorate the outside of their homes. Since moving to Somerville, I’ve also enrolled as a student with a painting school (Katherine Martin Widmer School of Painting) - being part of such a welcoming community and the prospect of learning a new way to express myself is one of my very favorite things. It’s so inviting and surprising every day just to walk the streets, community paths and observe the community’s active approach and appreciation of the arts.

You started a poem project on Instagram , where you have been posting a poem every day since Jan 1, 2017. What was the germ of the idea for this?

I began this project in 2016 in honor of National Poetry Month (April)- titling it “mckaystoryaday”. I have never considered myself to be a “poet” but have always engaged in correspondence and short story writing so wanted to contribute something literary to such an important celebration of the written word. I chose Instagram because I felt that words were not well represented there, that breaking up the format a bit with writing instead of photos would help my writing to be noticed. I have since found that Instagram is home to MANY poets and storytellers, a wonderful vibrant community.

My contributions in 2016 were infrequent, as I had not yet decided to make this a continuing project. Beginning in earnest on January 1, 2017, I vowed to keep it up as long as I could manage, changing my format from a fully formed “story” to conjuring images and feelings, hoping to challenge the reader to use their own imaginations to fill in those gaps...

Your poems are haiku-like--short snippets--that capture a moment in time. I also noticed you have short love poems that seem to be addressing an object of your affection. What poets have influenced you?

I have always loved the haiku form since it was presented to me in grade school English class, and through the years, I feel that reading such masters as Matsuo Basho have influenced me my whole literary life. Occasionally, I will visit and write in the traditional haiku form, I find that I reach for that form when I am in need of a calming influence - there’s just something both natural and mystical about it in my mind… I have since been introduced to many wonderful poets and poems I had missed, but honestly cannot say I have been directly influenced by them - my own words just feel they come from inspiration found reading short stories by my favorite authors like HG Wells, Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury and John Steinbeck.

As for addressing the object of my affection via the poems, I try to write with universal themes and simple scenarios that anyone can relate to - we all desire to reach the heart of someone with our art, I am no different...

Has writing become more essential to you during the pandemic?

Absolutely essential. Prior to this, I felt that I was sending these missives out as a blanket, hoping they would find a sympathetic reader. Now I feel that they are direct communications - a cry, arms opened to receive those who need, statements of intent & purpose, arrows to the hearts that need it. It also allows me to visit places and people in my mind that are not accessible during these times, a measure of much needed sanity.

You told me you started a fanzine in the 80s and 90s, which will be compiled into a book in 2021. Can you give us more details about it?

I worked in a copy shop in the late ‘80’s and was challenged by a friend to create a fanzine of the collages and short writings I had been doing while there was downtime. It was not intended to be circulated, but just as a fun project to share with the folks in the shop, but it was enjoyed and I was urged to continue. The cut and paste nature of it felt fantastic, and at the time I was discovering abstract art and particularly fascinated with the Dadaist movement from early in the century - such fertile ground! I wanted to contribute and having an outlet totally under my control was such a rush. I was able to create four issues (and many unused pieces) which became more literary-based as I went on and felt better about putting my writing in front of people. I read back over them a few years ago and did not dislike what was created so I decided to compile all the pages and write a book around it, discussing everything from the social climate at the time, my personal experiences and words of explanation for some of the more “esoteric” pieces included. Still a work in progress, but I will indeed self-publish the completed project in 2021.

You were a drummer for a number of years , then you switched to high tech. Was that because it is hard to make the daily nut as a musician?

I was deeply involved in the Boston Punk scene for a few years before deciding that there were not enough drummers to go around, so I bought myself a kit and started to teach myself to keep a beat. Some friends from High School were just breaking up their band, and I had achieved some basic proficiency so we formed a new band called Slapshot in 1985. We were able to keep this running for many years (they are still going, though I am long since retired from performing and playing) and travel extensively throughout the US, Canada and Europe, made several records and sold a few t-shirts. It was never about the money, so we always maintained day jobs to allow us to fund travel and band expenses. I’ve always loved how technology can keep people and ideas flowing, solve problems and connect us, so a career in this field was a natural fit. It’s not my passion, but I have a deep respect for the positive aspects that it can add to daily life.

Have you ever played the drum break for " Funky Drummer" by James Brown?

If you ever have the chance to check out any recordings I made with Slapshot, you will realize that - although I have a deep appreciation for music of ALL sorts - I was NOT built to be a virtuoso on my chosen instrument! So no, have never tried it (but indeed LOVE JB!).

How long will this poetry project go on, or will it never be finished?

Coming up on four years of daily writing is so much more than I hoped to accomplish and I’m driven by the positive feedback from readers which still both boggles my mind and warms my heart. There are times when it feels like a project of this length has run its course, that I have nothing more to say - but then I find a thread deep in my mind or heart that I feel encompasses everything that I am - giving me strength and resolve to continue for another day. I am trying my hand at some longer form writing, but have enjoyed this shorter format and feel very comfortable here… In short, there are no plans to stop.

9/26/2020

under dim streetlights, 

hands pushed 

deep into pockets - 

the sting of habit

the absence of purpose...

Somerville's Julia Csekö: A weaver of art and words

Interview by Doug Holder

I am a poet, so I work with my words. My canvas is a computer screen or a blank piece of paper. So I was pleased to find an artist who incorporates words into her art. Cseko, through her murals and other works confronts racism, consumerism and other vital issues head on.

DH: You moved from Brazil to Somerville--quite a contrast.  As an artist-- how has your experience differed?

JC: It is a huge contrast indeed and even though I’ve lived in Somerville for almost 10 years, you never fully get used to it, although you adapt. 

I’m from Rio, so, for starters I didn’t grow up with seasons like we have here. The low temperatures are something I still struggle with every winter. Pretty early on I learned that the Brazilian sense of humor can be a little abrasive to New Englanders and to not kiss my friends on the cheek when I greet them (not that we’d be doing a lot of that now regardless!). I do miss the warmth of my Brazilian friends and family, as well as the general festive and beach-city vibe in Rio. The tropical chic fashion, the stunning views, the late nights and incredibly fun and indescribable experience of Carnaval in the streets. 

On the flip side, Rio is an astoundingly unequal and violent city, where you have to know the no-go zones, have to be informed about ongoing turf wars around the city and have to be very aware of your surroundings all the time. As a white Brazilian I many times was perceived as a gringa, or tourist, which was quite unnerving, and quickly solved by speaking the language in the local Rio slang (and accent). 

Either way the experience of growing up hearing intense firefights near my house and ducking for cover is still vivid in my memory, and I can recognize many different types of firearms by their sound to this day. 

I do love the sense of tranquility and safety I experience living in Somerville. The concentration of higher education organizations is really something, and I never take it for granted. I live right next to Tufts, where I did my MFA, and I love the diverse and fascinating people that are attracted to this area. 

It is much easier to make plans here, perhaps because of the cold? People honor their commitments and I cannot say the same about the cariocas (people from Rio). I love the fall colors, and the flowers in the spring, which “surprise me” each year, and a sense that this is a city with the benefits of a small town and big city all at once, such as museums, concert halls, galleries, public transportation, and an international population, still it is fairly quiet, traffic is bad but not unmanageable, and it is relatively clean. I also appreciate Boston’s skyline, which is beautiful, but not overwhelming. Rio can be overwhelmingly big sometimes, and just going from here to there can be an adventure in terms of traffic and the fast pace.

DH: You incorporate the written word in your art. How do you decide to weave this element in your work?

JC:This started early in my BFA at the Federal University of Rio, probably around 2004, when I was about to graduate. The course was very hands-on and the theory was not addressing the issues I was interested in, so I did my own readings. I was fascinated by Philosophy and Poetry, and was eager to share these ideas with my fellow art majors (and anyone really). How to do that without tapping someone on the shoulder and reading to them? I decided to make paintings that would share the work of these authors on a monumental scale. Using bright colors to lure people’s attention. My desire was to create murals from the very beginning, but making public art does not come easy, so I started making paintings hoping that they would lead to public spaces. I wanted to take literary works that might be too obscure/controversial, or perhaps too dissonant to mainstream consumerist culture to the most public settings possible. Another reason to use text is a desire to let the viewers’ imagination construct their own imagery. I provide ideas, and they can illustrate them and hopefully bring them to fruition within their own internal dialog.

DH: Your works often deal with racism. In fact a mural of yours at Emerson College--
incorporated the words of the late civil rights activist John Lewis. Why did you take the words of Lewis--as there are many other texts you could have used?

JC:Whenever I work in a public space or receive a commission, my work becomes a collaborative effort. In this particular case, the work was responding to a very specific event. Earlier this year (2020) the Emerson Administration found anti-semitic and white supremacist graffiti at the Piano Row campus. They were quick to engage their community in a conversation, asking the student body how they would like to respond to the incident. The idea emerged to create a piece of art in response to the event. The Emerson Contemporary Gallery curator Leonie Bradbury put together a student advisory board and a conversation began between myself and the group to decide what text would be a good response to the hateful graffiti found on campus. I originally proposed working with a woman Jewish author, and Hanna Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism was close to being the selected text. However, on July 30th 2020, the very day we were to decide the author, Leonie sent me the essay written by John Lewis published that same morning on the NYT, on the occasion of his passing. We were both in awe, it was beautiful, it was uplifting, it was incredibly hopeful and it was a historical moment that we were witnessing. We took the essay to the student advisory board and after a brief discussion we all agreed that John Lewis was speaking loud and clear against white supremacy and all forms of bigotry as he did his whole life. It was a way to honor him and his memory, and to respond to the desire of the student body to use a text that showed hope and conveyed a message to guide us into a better future, more just, more equal, more peaceful. 

DH: The mural is titled " The Coney Island of the Mind." That's also the title of the great beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti's poetry collection. Were you influenced by Ferlinghetti?  Any other poets?

JC: Oh, Ferlinghetti definitely inspired the title of this series, I love his work. There is something about the beat generation poets that viscerally attracts me, a certain spontaneity, an ability to criticize openly, to think critically, look for alternatives and to perhaps search for ways to course correct, or just admit fault, admit fallibility and vulnerability. I love their call to be less rigid, more in touch with our needs, instincts and desires. We live in a time that is so conflicting. People in power are allowed to essentially behave like buffoons and criminals in the public sphere for anyone to see, while people who live paycheck to paychecks are expected to fall in line and behave. Wealth accumulation has never been so absurdly unequal globally. As a pacifist, I don’t condone looting or rioting, but I am surprised that it doesn’t happen all the time these days; people can only take so much abuse before snapping. 

Either we get to a point where we are all accountable for our actions and words, or we will get to a point when no one will be accountable. I believe that words have meaning and power, and that they should not be used lightly. We see so many words lose their meaning these days. We need to reclaim the power and meaning of words, and hold our leaders accountable to what they say. We need leaders that walk like they talk. We may be far from this right now, but I believe in course correction. It will be a long process and it starts with taking education way more seriously. We can’t form people to be a workforce, we need to form people to be citizens. We can’t expect people to vote or make good decisions when voting without having a good education. For that to happen we need social equality to sweep in simultaneously, since if you are living below the poverty line, survival becomes prioritized over education. This is a complex conversation, and we are just scratching the surface here. I hope that my work will contribute even if in the slightest way for course correction, to reclaim the power and meaning of words. I read and admire many poets, but ironically, I am back to the beats, and I am just starting to work with Diane Di Prima’s Revolutionary Letters. I realized I need more women authors in this series. After 16 years making these paintings in a non-linear way I want to be more intentional about representing a more diverse selection of authors, less Eurocentric and less patriarchal. I was shocked recently to look at my bookshelf and discover the much lower number of women/queer writers and artists on there. 

DH:Why should people view your work?

JC: I hope folks will become curious about the ideas and authors I share; I hope they will share my excitement in these ideas. As an artist I find that one of my roles is to educate myself continuously in hopes to be able to educate others. As an educator I believe that I learn from my students in the same measure that I teach them. I am hopeful that we will reach a point where the vision of Brazilian Philosopher and Educator Paulo Freire will be common sense, and that critical pedagogy will clear the way for an education and communication based in dialogue and diversity, freeing our minds and bodies from oppression.

Benefactors for the Ibbetson Street 48 Fundraiser

 

Thanks to all you poets and wonderful holy fools for supporting the Ibbetson Street Press:. Doug Holder/Ibbetson Street Press/Sept. 2020

Bill Falcetano

Tom Miller

Maureen McElroy

Rodger LeGrand

DeWitt Henry

Joy Martin

Gloria Mindock

Susan Tepper

Mike Steffen

Alexis Graudberg

Elizabeth Wolf

Ron Kalman

Barbara Brock

Karen Klein 

Ed Meek

Bridget Galway

Shelby Allen

Blaine Hebbel

Lee Varon

Steve Bodwell

Nina Alonso

David Miller

Phil Temples

Llyn Clague

Beautiful Music

David Donna

Wendell Smith

Rachel Cann

Small Poet at Large

Ruth Smullin

Helen O'Leary

Timothy Gager

Julia Carlson

Dennis Daly

Norlinda Conroe

Lee Varon

Phil Temples

Paul Steven Stone

Glen Bowie

Tomas O'Leary

Lawrence kessenich

Big Table Publishing

Steve Glines

Robert Miller

Michael C. Keith

Denise Provost

Harris Gardner

Zvi Sesling

Cynthia Duda

Rusty Barnes

Doug Holder to read for the Worcester County Poetry Association as part of their Frank O'Hara Award Celebration

 
**** Holder was the judge of the event in 2020.

Doug Holder Interviews movie critic, fiction writer, and journalist T...

Julia Emiliani: A Somerville Artist, Illustrator and Designer

 

"A Composition of Moments"   by Julia Emiliani

Somerville's Julia Emiliani earned a BFA in Illustration from Massachusetts College of Art and Design.While working full time as an illustrator at Wayfair, Julia also runs an Etsy shop of illustrated goods called Over it Studio. I decided to interview this talented artist,who resides in the "Paris of New England."

Where have you lived before, and how does Somerville compare?

I was born in Florida and raised in Connecticut, I’ve been living in the Boston area for the past nine years. I’ve lived all around Boston and have been in Somerville since 2017. I love how Somerville feels like a small town, but has all the perks of a city. There’s a sense of community and convenience coupled with beautiful neighborhoods and access to nature. Especially in these Covid times, I’ve been thankful for how accessible nature is in the city of Somerville. I’ve recently been drawing a lot of inspiration from it and have been enjoying long winding walks through Somerville’s many neighborhoods.

You have done a lot of commercial art, as well as your own. Can you tell us a bit how you manage both sides of your career?

It’s a tricky balance. My 9-5 takes up most of my time and energy, but I still try to take advantage of my free time to squeeze in personal work. Mornings are huge for me, and while not having an office to go to for my 9-5 can be a roadblock at times, I love having back all of the time I usually spend commuting. It’s when I feel most clear-headed and energetic, so usually use this time to paint before the rest of the world wakes up. I try to carve out peaceful moments like this for myself on evenings and weekends as well, but mornings are especially instrumental in striking a balance between 9-5 work and personal work.

The artist Norman Rockwell was known for his Illustrations in magazines.  He was accused by critics of not being a real artist, but simply an illustrator. Have you run into this?

I haven’t personally run into this, but I wouldn’t necessarily echo this idea! To me, art is self expression. Even if commercial art ultimately ladders up to a client, brand, or company’s business goals, the illustrator still has to bring their own thoughts, expression, and sense of self into the final deliverable in order to make it work. Of course a fine artist may have more wiggle room in exploring how they want to express, but the artist is never removed from the process, even for commercial work.

In an article from the Boston Globe, it described your handmade work as “cute and cheeky.” Is this how you would describe it?

I would definitely describe my work in that way at the time that article came out! And I think a lot of the work in my etsy shop (www.etsy.com/shop/OveritStudio) also can be described like this. Currently, the rest of my personal work draws a lot of inspiration from my experiences observing nature with my experience as a commercial artist. I find myself contrasting visual qualities of nature with that of digital art, and more frequently painting using analog materials as a way of slowing down and meditating on a single moment, especially in these hectic times. Now I would describe my work more as bold, graphic, and observational -- or something along those lines.

You developed a line of prints with people riding the MBTA. Tell us a bit about this?

At the time I was spending a lot of my time commuting and drawing on the T, so this series was very reflective of my experiences and surroundings in the Boston area, as well as my personal preferences in color and fashion.

How has the pandemic affected your career?

The pandemic puts everything in perspective. It makes me thankful to still have a day job and makes me think more intentionally about my personal work. It forces me to adjust how to market and sell work in a time where live events like craft fairs and gallery openings, that often bring in engagement and sales, aren’t what they used to be. It also forces me to think more critically about what I’m making and why, relative to these times. Whether it’s making work that brings delight and comfort, protest or activist art, producing work in an environmentally-friendly way, or regularly donating sales to causes that need support. All of these practices are now of higher priority in my work as I adjust to the changing marketplace.

What can we expect to see from you in the near future?

I have a lot of ideas! You’ll definitely see more painting from me, both small and large works. I also have some new printed goods dropping in my Etsy shop Fall/Winter 2020. Beyond that, I’ve been dabbling with different ideas - maybe a line of greeting cards, maybe surface design on fabric, maybe something with ceramics? We’ll see where my explorations take me.

Doug Holder interviews Boston Playwright Debra Wiess

Sprawled Asleep By David P. Miller

 

Sprawled Asleep

By David P. Miller

Nixes Mate Books

Nixesmate.pub/books

Allston, Massachusetts

ISBN: 978-1-949279-21-4

70 Pages

Review by Dennis Daly

Too often contemporary poetry dwells on the versifier rather than the verse. The confessional reigns and the uniqueness and self-importance of the poet drives both the narrative and the music. In the worst and most extreme examples of this navel-gazing art the poet and his readers develop an unhealthy bond of elitism, which separates them from any objective world view and renounces the joy of detail shared by soulful creation. David Miller’s first full length book, Sprawled Asleep, does not do this. Its meditations are directed by an exactness of observation that deemphasizes the poet-observer to the point of irrelevance. As this poet-observer fades, his objects achieve a singular, eye-opening clarity that leaves one somewhat stunned. The motif in which this observer delineates his objects is often mass transportation. Alienation, counter intuitive as usual, finds a niche here.

In his poem Look at the Sky Miller seeks word precision in his atmospheric scan. He does identify the observer’s position as in a bus, his intellectual preparation (it doesn’t take), and his sensory limitations. The piece opens with directness,

Pinned and plunging beneath the flat

of a thunderhead, a thick purple-

bruised ceiling more threatening

than night’s translucent black.

The bus scrambled out

from beneath that dark table,

toward the blue shelf

opened at the horizon.

I can write thunderhead. Or write

these: horsetails, lenticular,

buttermilk sky. What I want:

to exhale ah! Altostratocumulus.

To know the mundane sky

direct as knowing the breath.

No study or action of mind.

Gaze, or Don’t, Miller’s poem of humorous denial or, perhaps, faux resurrection, triumphs with deadly accurate observations and deductions. The poet considers the life or death evidence pertaining to an unmoving sedentary elderly man attracting some attention from his fellow travelers on the subway. A determination is made in the heart of the poem,

Men in shirts of Egyptian cotton,

suede shoes of charcoal grey,

slumped at the railings in end seats,

chins at their chests, wide woven hats

upside down at their feet,

are: asleep.

Asleep at the end

of the line and asleep

when the train switches back.

Sleeping for us who gaze, or don’t

at scaly red arms, the flushed crown

of a head, smart slim-fit jeans.

See his fingers are twitching.

Miller zeroes in on the mass of humanity in his poem Landscape with Hilton. He opens with the portrait of an elderly female beggar holding a paper cup in a wash of playgoers exiting a theatre. His action then moves to his well-drawn sketch of a waitress in a Faux-Fifties restaurant and past door men ushering a wealthy man to a taxi. This stratified jumble of society mixes in just the right way to elicit the connective Aha of memetic recognition. Next the poet surprises by etching historical contexts into the denouement of his urban landscape. The poem concludes this way,

Slide one block to the Tenderloin—

pale block letters against brick

remember Elegantly Furnished Rooms

Private phones Steam Heat

Hot Water Elevator Service

Private Baths $20 Month.

Above the sidewalk, a voided sign

for a vanished café, shaft rising

toward Corinthian columns and satellite dish,

overpainted entirely in white.

Taking one step beyond his usual ruminations, Miller’s deadpan tone of “just the facts, Ma’am” becomes almost Kafkaesque in his piece entitled Someone Else’s Daughter. Time in this strangely enclosed dimension intertwines with movement and thus with breath. The mode of transportation becomes more real than the travelers, who are reduced to mere passersby status. Instinct drives knowledge. Consider these lines,

The same train on the same rail

enters the same tunnel. Two faithful

train-on-track tones: the upper

thickens as tunnel walls resound

overtones against the body. Remember

how your dog always sat up when the Rambler

slowed, two turns before the house?

The train returns to open air and you rise,

Open eyes, the dog coming home.

My favorite piece in this extraordinary collection Miller entitles Another Poem About Fireflies. But this is not your generic firefly poem straining to connect the microcosm with the macrocosm. Instead Miller’s delightful meditation happens after he is drawn onto his porch by a misconception. He thinks he hears a soft rainfall or drizzle, but the basis of his sensory perception is rather the sound of leaves caught in an air draft. Nature sometimes surprises and this confused state can illuminate other mysteries. The poet notices how his objects assume a fuller reality as his perception withdraws. They dominate this shared world, and, to some extent, dispossess mankind. The poet describes his irrelevance,

I don’t remember when I last saw

fireflies, and I don’t know if I will ever

see them again. So stark, their white-yellow signals

pull from deep in the yard across the street,

and down the street. Each its own light-

point cycle, so many aerial lighthouses.

Flash cycle nebula densing the more

the more I abandon eye focus. This erratic

point cloud beneath tides of treetops,

and me in the fade to black…

The abnegation of self becomes an exquisite meditation and more in the collection’s concluding poem, Half the Day is Night. On the surface an ode to autumn’s equinox, the piece delves into eternal stillness. The poet outdoes himself in these lines,

I sit outside this dark September night.

The hand of dusk across my heart, my spine

caressed by stillness. The listening to come

to what there is to hear when nothing is to hear.

Miller’s remarkable poems lead us beyond his uncommon, well-wrought observations. They verge on the ethereal and visionary. Sprawled Asleep deserves serious artistic acclamation.