What May Have Been: Letters of Jackson Pollock and Dori G by Gary Percesepe and Susan Tepper

What May Have Been: Letters of Jackson Pollock & Dori G

Gary Percesepe & Susan Tepper

Cervena Barva Press September 2010

ISBN 978-0-9844732-8-1

$15.00



The letters in this novel are as tumultuous as Jackson's paintings,

splattered in movements, layer upon layer, as the story reveals

itself the same way the paint speaks abstractly:



"Before you, all I could see was a pit. Dori look what you've

done for me already! I'm partly to blame for your troubles.

I'll never call you a little girl again. Inside your body I reach

the center of the earth."



This is a love story and a story of lust between a seasoned womanizer who is a self-absorbed artist, and a young naïve woman. In places this story feels as if it could be a fairy tale, but in essence, Pollock is speaking to himself, longing for his own youth and the rigor of those early experimentations, in this case through narrative? Yes. There are two voices, Pollock and Dori, but are they really one Pollock?



"Pollock turned back to her. She studied him in the dying

light. It occurred to him that he could share with her the

thoughts he'd pieced together in the car, lay them out in

sequence, with the earliest, tidiest first, just lay them down."



The two authors take an interesting view of who Pollock was and how

he effected a larger audience:



"DORI. YOUR NAME IS DORI. KEEP THAT UNDER

YOUR PRETTY HEAD OF HAIR. No I don't play golf.

I'm a painter. A painter and your lover. That's the sum

total of my life."



Irene Koronas

Poetry Editor:

Wilderness House Literary Review

Reviewer:

Ibbetson Street Press

“‘Sez’ Malachy McCourt to Somerville” by Tracy L. Strauss

“‘Sez’ Malachy McCourt to Somerville”
by Tracy L. Strauss

“I like the name ‘Somerville’,” Malachy McCourt said over the phone from his home in upstate New York, “it’s got a nice euphonious ring to it. ‘Somerville’ – sounds like the wind whistling through the trees.”

In fact, as we spoke about his upcoming appearance at the 8th Annual Somerville Writers Festival, to be held November 13, the wind was doing just that.
Malachy McCourt, Frank McCourt’s younger brother, has had a varied career as a writer, actor, and politician. A co-writer (with Frank) of the play A Couple of Blaguards, McCourt has written and published close to ten books of essays, history, and memoir, including The New York Times bestseller A Monk Swimming. His work has also appeared in many magazines including New York Newsday, National Geographic, Conscience Magazine, and New York Times. McCourt’s column, “Sez I To Myself,” appears in Manhattan Spirit, The Westsider, and Our Town in NYC.

However, McCourt does not consider himself a writer: “I happen to be an author,” he said, “but I don’t consider myself a writer. Writers are people who are diligent and disciplined and all that, and I am not.”

When approached to participate in the Festival, McCourt said, “Yes, yes, yes!” Speaking engagements are his passion. “But I don’t consider it speaking or lecturing,” he made the distinction. “I consider it chatting with people. I like sharing whatever looney thoughts I have and then there’s the mischievous part of me that I know is going to piss people off. I like that because people absolutely disagree with you. The constitution gives you that right. Free speech is very expensive. We ought to get as much of it as we can. It’s more important than money. And it’s very important to writers, who don’t make a lot of money.”

In 2006, McCourt was the Green Party candidate for New York State. Running under the slogan “Don’t waste your vote, give it to me,” McCourt promised to recall the New York National Guard from Iraq, to make public education free through college, and to institute a statewide comprehensive “sickness care” system. He lost to Democratic Party candidate Eliot Spitzer.

“I have no formal education,” McCourt said, “so it always amuses me that people ask me questions. I’ll be delighted to share my ignorance with you. I don’t know anything about anything. All I have are opinions.”

McCourt is currently working on a one-man show about H.L. Mencken. “Like myself,” McCourt explained, “Mencken was a non-believer in organized religion, or in a vengeful deity. I believe there’s a plague of organized religion in our country that needs to be stopped. It’s akin to organized crime because they – conservatives – threaten you if you don’t do certain things. They say you will go to hell for eternity, and that various entities will shove red hot pokers up your armpit forever and ever. It’s just torture.”

McCourt has also led a prolific career as an actor on Broadway and Off-Broadway, as well as in regional theaters, movies, and soap operas such as “Ryan’s Hope,” “One Life to Live,” and “All My Children,” on which he has had a recurring Christmas-time role as “Father Clarence,” a priest who shows up to give inspirational advice to the citizens of the fictional town “Pine Valley.”

In the 1970s, McCourt was one of the first talk show hosts on the Christian radio station WMCA, and also worked at WNYC and WABC. He was also a frequent guest on the “Tonight Show,” “Merv Griffin” and “Tom Snyder” shows, and, more recently, “Conan O’Brien” and “The Late, Late Show.”

As someone with public appearance experience, McCourt has advice for those writers preparing for a public reading: “Read monotone, or invest your work with life and drama,” McCourt said. “That’s what you have to think about.”

For aspiring writers, McCourt clarifies focus: “The main thing about writing,” he said, “is don’t edit – there are editors who get paid to do that and you shouldn’t be putting people out of business. Don’t worry about grammar, it’s not your business either. Punctuation is totally a matter of opinion. And don’t ever show any of your work to relatives until you’re published. Then they can argue with you.”
“There are two things to avoid in writing,” McCourt added. “Shame and fear. Don’t be ashamed of anything you’ve done. Well, do be if you want to be, but don’t be afraid of it. Put away fear and never, never judge your work. You will always find it guilty.”



********** Tracy L. Strauss teaches writing at Emerson College in Boston.

Review of RENEWAL by Diana Kwiatkowski Rubin

Review of RENEWAL by Diana Kwiatkowski Rubin, 123 pages, 2010, Xlibris Corporation, www.Xlibris.com, paperback, $15.99, trade hardback, 24.99, eBook, $9.99

By Barbara Bialick

Diana Kwiatkowski Rubin’s voice in RENEWAL, comes forth as mature, spiritual and rhythmic. Rubin, who comes from Edison, New Jersey, has published in a number of journals, five books of poetry, two books of stories, a cookbook, and a children’s book. Two of her poems were winning entries in the 14th Annual New Jersey Wordsmith contest. But her Xlibris marketing service calls the book “a literary masterpiece that touches on sundry themes.” That is terrible marketing that made me want to dismiss the whole book. But I did find some lines that showed the spark of poetry.

One of the better poems was “Caribbean Ghost Ship,” which begins: “Terrified, for several days/after volcanic eruption,/molten lava,/she clung desperately to life…soon arrived a rainbow of visitors,/a green parrotfish awakened/from its protective cocoon…”
As she often does, she ends the poem with a spiritual slant, “Her sunken bulkhead, setting her free/to start over anew in spirit.”

The two winning poems were “The Waves At Wildwood Crest” and “Swamp Vision.” The first is a short poem, that is similar to her many Haiku entries, which she does pretty well. She writes, “Bold, sienna sunset/to her astonishment/my daughter swims/with dolphins swirling…her clandestine dream/unfolding…”

“Swamp Vision” is a good example of melodic rhythm: “White ducks waddle/across the frozen pond/…One, two, three four…January’s fabulous parade.” But it is a bit too reminiscent of the famous children’s book, “Make Way for Ducklings.”

“Summer Haiku”, which consists of four haikus, is a little more original, and begins: “The sweet taste of pear/combats the blistering sun/late summer delight.” Its third haiku reads: “Bold red ladybug/dotted upon a soft fern--/wonder to behold.”

But that about ends the wonder.

The Blue Hour of the Day:Selected Poems by Lorna Crozier

The Blue Hour of the Day
Selected Poems
by Lorna Crozier
McClelland & Stewart
Toronto, Canada
Copyright © 2007 by Lorna Crozier
ISBN: 978-0-7710-2468-9
Softbound, 251 pages, US $17.95

Review by Zvi A. Sesling


Every once in a while I get lucky, like recently in Vancouver where unable to find a small independent bookstore I settled on a Chapters, a national chain in Canada. On the second floor of this attractive and bright light store there was an information person scurrying about so I stopped her in the History section and asked about local poets. She took me to the Poetry section and handed me five or six books. After perusing them I chose Lorna Crozier’s The Blue Hour of the Day, Selected Poems. The woman who had helped me seemed very pleased, “You know, in my opinion, you have picked Canada’s best poet,” she said. She may well be right, even if I am unfamiliar with many Canadian poets.

Crozier has published fourteen books of poetry and in Selected Poems nine of those volumes are represented. They showcase a poet of immense talent with a keen eye for familial relations, love and grief, coupled with humor every reader will relish. There are also very sexy poems, which women seem to make more engaging, enough so to tingle flesh.

Of the some 140 poems in the selection, there are so many that I like I will mention only two or three in this review, though each poem in from The Sex Lives of Vegetables is a gem of observation and humor.

Crozier also writes of the pain of relationships as in “A Man And A Woman” where the prairie is marriage, drought their lives together and rain...

Wind blows from the west.
In a double bed a man and woman
lie side by side, pretending sleep.
Breathe in, breathe out.
When he feels me move, he rolls over,
turns his face to the wall.
Why don’t I tell him it’s okay?
I know he’s awake, I can’t
touch him, can’t speak.
My hand would have to separate
from my body to reach for him.
A country lies between us, a prairie
winter; years and years of drought.
When did it begin?
Wind blows from the west.
Surely even in this dusty room,
this marriage bed,
the small rain down will rain.

Here the frustration, years of boredom and the feeling of being trapped are vented, yet there is always hope.

Crozier also has opening lines that make a reader want to read on. In “Nothing Missing”
four lines engage instantly: Mother and I wait for my father/who has gone into the labyrinth of rooms/where life and death dance like angels/ on the tip of the doctor’s tongue.

There is “Without Hands” which the poet dedicates to the memory of Victor Jara whom she notes was a Chilean musician whose hands were smashed by the military to stop him from playing his guitar and singing for his fellow prisoners in the Santiago stadium [where he and others died in 1973]: All the machines in the world/stop. The textile machines, the paper machines,/the machines in the mines turning stone to fire./Without hands to touch them, spoons, forks and knives/forget their names and uses, the baby is not bathed,...

Oh yes, I love this book for all the wonderful poems Lorna Crozier has written over the years, for the honesty and images that have inspired poets and will continue to do so for future generations of poets. Highly recommended.

"What an Old Man Sees Sitting Down, A Young Man Cannot See Standing Up" (IBO Proverb)

"What an Old Man Sees Sitting Down, A Young Man Cannot See Standing Up" (IBO Proverb)

By Doug Holder

Somerville resident, Wellesley professor , and Poet Ifeanyi Menkiti celebrated his 70th birthday on Aug 28, 2010. It was a surprise birthday hosted by his family. It started at the Dilboy VFW Hall in Davis Square, and ended with a feast and celebration at his home on Malverne St. just outside Davis Square. Menkiti is a celebrated philosopher as well as poet, and is the owner and some say savior of the famed Grolier Poetry Book Shop in Harvard Square in Cambridge. Originally from Nigeria, Menkiti has taught Philosophy at Wellesley College for many years, and has published numerous collections of poetry, as well as being a loyal friend to poets and writers.

As evidenced by the crowd at the VFW Hall, Menkiti has touched the lives of a wide cross-section of people. There were fellow Nigerians in long, colorful and flowing African robes, as well as staid academics clad in boat shoes and chinos.

There were two featured readers at the festival that was hosted by Menkiti's son Bo. One was the noted poet and translator David Ferry,( Who will be a reader at The Somerville News Writers Festival) and Tomas O'Leary poet, and beloved Bagel Bard. Ferry read some excellent translations of Horace, and O'Leary charmed us with his witty yet profound poems and songs. O'Leary who defected to the Republic of Cambridge years ago, was born and bred in Somerville and was evidently in his element. As always O'Leary had a generous dose of the Irish charm and blarney with everything he read.



Menkiti's children, Nneka, Ndidi, and Enuma, as well as Carol his wife spoke of the man's sense of dignity, his commitment to education, community and his embrace of the cultures of the world. There was also a presentation of an honorary driver's license, a gift from Frances Tingle, the mother of Jimmy Tingle. It seems that Menkiti still does not drive at this ripe age, and takes a bus to work daily.



There were also presentations of Nigerian dance, songs in the native language of IBO and reading from the Nigerian poet Chinnua Achebe. The family put together a multi-media presentation of Menkiti's life that traced his beginnings in Nigeria to the prestigious trappings of his longtime academic appointment.



After there was a dinner and celebration in a large yard outside the Menkiti home on Malverne Street. Here Menkiti greeted many guests, family, friends and neighbors-- a long and varied lineage that has marked this man's rich life.



In many regards attending this celebration was like attending a big reunion for the poetry community. I ran into the poet and novelist Collen Houlihan, Tapestry of Voices founder Harris Gardner, noted poet Kathleen Spivack, President of the New England Poetry Club Diana Der-Hovanessian, novelist and W.B. Mason Creative Director Paul Steven Stone and his wife Amy, performance poet Michael Mack, Grolier Poetry Book Shop staff member and poet Elizabeth Doran and many others.



Menkiti has lived in Somerville, Mass. for many years, and I am glad to count him as a friend. He is one of the major players who has helped Somerville, Mass. become "The Paris of New England."

Lyrical Somerville with Doug Holder in The Somerville News

The Lyrical Somerville is a weekly column in The Somerville News--here is this week's issue.





http://thesomervillenews.com










Cynthia Staples is a Somerville-based writer and photographer. It may have been coincidence, but moving to Somerville a few years ago lit a creative fire that she hopes will burn a long time. Her writing can be found online and in print publications including African Voices, Creativity Portal, Dead Mule, the Seattle Times and Terrain.org. She’s appreciated the opportunities to share her photography at the Nave Gallery and through Somerville Open Studios. You can follow both her words and images at http://www.wordsandimagesbycynthia.wordpress.com/.

The Absence of Color

Does sadness have a color?
Muted blue perhaps tinged with gray,
White with ash layered throughout like Morbier cheese?
Not black. Black is beautiful
As is gold, brown and green. They indicate life.
Sadness equals absence
Of light and color and warmth.
Arctic white then, yes,
That’s the color of sadness.

_______________________________________________
To have your work considered for the Lyrical send it to:
Doug Holder, 25 School St.; Somerville, MA 02143.
dougholder@post.harvard.edu

How “I” Write a Poem by Doug Holder

How “I” Write a Poem

By Doug Holder







I am about to embark on another teaching adventure since being laid off from my job at McLean Hospital over a year ago. I will be teaching two creative writing classes at Endicott College. The class will start out with poetry writing, then move on to memoir and end in fiction. Since poetry heads the pack I have been thinking a lot about my writing process. I view myself primarily as a poet and journalist. I have had a fair share of poems published, edited the poetry magazine “ Ibbetson Street” for 12 years, interviewed a slew of poets from the famous, infamous, to the obscure. Of course what works for me won’t necessarily work for you. Poetry is an art that deals with emotion and feeling—and that is the very stuff that can’t be pigeonholed into any scientific formulas.

First off I carry in my back pocket a small notebook. Like a western gunslinger I am ready to take it out at the slightest provocation. If there is a snippet of conversation that gets my tattered red flag up, if the whiff of perfume from a beautiful girl entices me, if the weathered face of the man adjacent to me in the café sparks my creative juices—I am ready. For me the essential tools for a poet is walking and reading. Walking you say? Damn straight. And maybe even strolling. We move so fast these days that all we get sometimes is the blur from a car window, the animated advertisement outside the subway window, the flash and bytes on our computer screen. I pick up so much material when I walk. The conversations, the parade of people, the strange way nature sprouts from the cracks in the concrete, etc…

Now reading may seem an obvious point to many. But I am surprised to find at times that aspiring poets often read very little. The only way we start to learn is by example. When we are young we imitate other writers we admire (God knows I beat the Jack Kerouac thing to death!), and as we mature hopefully we find our own voice. Now I don’t mean only read the classics. I mean read everything you can get your hot little hands on. The morning rag for instance. Scans of the daily newspaper are great places to glean ideas. I always read the Arts/Leisure section of the New York Times, book reviews, and obituaries (I love these to “death”). There is always something to use, and make sure you jot it down in your little book. Also-read poets of course-- from Homer to Hollander. Browse through contemporary literary magazines like Poetry, Rattle, Istanbul Literary Review, American Poetry Review, Ibbetson Street, Endicott Review, and others. This of course covers a wide spectrum of magazines. I believe you should read the little magazines, as well as the top shelf ones to see what is out there.

For me, and I think most writers worth their salt will agree; it is important to write every day. Write, write, and write, even if it is gibberish. Keep a journal. This will keep you in the practice of writing. Writing is like a muscle—it gets flabby when it is not used. Make writing a daily ritual, like that 8A.M. cup of java.
I would also advise you to form your own writing groups. Despite the romantic notion that poetry should be written in isolation, while you moodily walk along the beach downing pints of whiskey— well, you can forget that. I mean there are retreats and such, but you need to get feedback from other writers. So form a group with writers you respect and who will be honest about your work. And make sure you have a tough skin. When you are passionate about your work and someone criticizes it can hurt and hurt badly.

Remember first drafts of poems or any writing are seldom finished. I don’t think any poem is truly finished. The famous poet Robert Creeley told me he never revised a poem; if it didn’t work he threw it in the trash. I wouldn’t advise that. Good poems come from bad poems. Great things come from the compost heap of literature. Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” was gleaned from a cheap soap opera of the day for instance. So Revise, Revise, And Revise.

I was once writing an article about Robert Pinsky, the former Poet Laureate of the United States. He said the problem most young writers have is that they are afraid to appear stupid. To compensate they use big words, and high-toned rhetoric that sounds pretentious and stilted. Don’t afraid to be stupid. Success is built from failure. They are opposite sides of the coin, but they are still part of the same coin.

Of course this is just the barebones of poetry writing. But hopefully it will get you in the right frame of mind to write. And remember it won’t be easy at first, but as my cornball uncle used to say “It could be verse!”



***** Doug Holder is the founder of the "Ibbetson Street Press." His work has appeared in Rattle, the new renaissance, The Boston Globe, Endicott Review, and many others. He holds an M.A. in English and American Literature and Language from Harvard University. He teaches writing at Endicott College in Beverly, Mass., and Bunker Hill Community College in Boston.

SUNDAY, AUGUST 8, 2010 A Reading By Mark Pawlak and Mary Bonina in Down East Maine

SUNDAY, AUGUST 8, 2010 A Reading By Mark Pawlak and Mary Bonina

By Chris Cittenden ( "Owl Who Laughs" Blog)


August 2nd marked a special day for poetry in Down East Maine. Editors, writers and literary leaders converged to hear Mark Pawlak and Mary Bonina read at the Machias Public Library. In attendance were: (a) the Salt Coast Sages, a flourishing group of poets based in Machias, led by Jerry George, (b) the editors of Off The Coast, our area’s only world class literary magazine, Valerie Lawson and Michael Brown, (c) various wordsmiths of all backgrounds from near and far, (d) a polyglotism of curious tourists and onlookers. The room was packed, rare for our region, and the atmosphere hummed with expectation.


Pawlak, in a nutshell, could be described as historical, amiable and brilliant. He has edited Hanging Loose Press for thirty years. Also, he hobnobbed with some of the legends of poetry. You’re dealing with someone who studied extensively with Denise Levertov. For detailed information on this wonderful and talented bard, check these
links:


http://www.cervenabarvapress.com/pawlakinterview.htm


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Pawlak


Over the last five or so years, Pawlak has bestowed an especially great honor on my hometown. He has been using Lubec, Maine as a muse. Happily, there is now an accumulated body of Pawlak work that could be called the Lubec Collection. Some of these poems, each an acute vignette of the people or place, can be found here:

---------- http://www.shampoopoetry.com/ShampooThirtythree/pawlak.html http://www.breakwaterreview.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=category&id=34&Itemid=53 ----------


As if the Down East region weren’t honored enough by the presence of Pawlak, his wife Mary Bonina also read for us in Machias. It was a memorable convergence, indeed! Bonina also studied with Denise Levertov, as well as Ken Smith. She has many publications and seems especially prone to winning grants and awards. One of her pieces, we were informed, had been chosen for a granite monument! I could kick myself for not writing down the details. I believe this immortalized poem is etched on an obelisk somewhere in the Boston region. For more on Bonina’s publications and various accolades, check out her homepage: http://www.marybonina.com/home.html


I would like to mention that Bonina has completed a chapbook for Cervena Barva, one of my favorite small press publishers. Cervena Barva is associated with a group of poets in the Cambridge region. I’m not sure of the whos and hows, but these cool poets participate in a number of literary projects, including the following (as well as Cervena Barva): The Bagel Bards, Wilderness House Literary Review, Istanbul Literary Review, and Ibbestson Street Press. I’ve worked briefly with editors Irene Koronas and Robert K. Johnson, who are affiliated with this group. The experience has been nothing but positive and indelible. They love poetry and painstakingly struggle for vigorous awareness.


At our get-together, Bonina read many poems that could be described as freshly nostalgic. The well-crafted phrases enticed us like fluent and lissome creatures of air. Pawlak’s work was sometimes political, often satiric, and always expert at combining disparate yet connected images. Much of his repertoire consisted of found poems, that is, poems constructed of excerpts from newspapers, books and other media. He proved himself a master at this skill, swinging from humor to sharp insight--or sometimes merging them in a deftly tuned cluster of phrases. I deeply and emphatically thank both Mark Pawlak and Mary Bonina for gracing us with their warm presence and their unimpeachably fine art. Viva Pawlak! Brava Bonina! Excelsior Down East Maine!

The Place of the Yellow Woodpecker by Hugh Fox

The Place of the Yellow Woodpecker
By Hugh Fox
185 pages (2010)
The Drill Press, Cedar Park TX
ISBN 978-0-9840961-5-2


REVIEW BY STEVE GLINES

Hugh Fox is a perpetual mystery to me. I’ve read about a dozen of his books (and edited one) but, for me, it’s hard to tell where one book ends and another begins. I’m convinced that Hugh Fox sits at his typewriter/computer and types for three or four months or until he thinks he has enough material to fill yet another volume whereupon he cuts it off, slaps a title on it and calls it a book and oddly enough he often finds someone to publish it.

This little volume, The Place of the Yellow Woodpecker, takes place on an island off the coast of Brazil during the course of roughly a year. All the usual suspects are there, Harry Smith, Bernadette, Blythe, and assorted characters (or is it caricatures) from his other books. Hugh slips easily between non-fiction and fiction with the same characters appearing in both and only a disclaimer on the cover informs us of the difference. This is fiction … I think or he thinks. I don’t really know.

Hugh’s style is stream of consciousness. Sometimes descriptive – at one point he spends three pages describing the little hamlet, too small to be a village – that serves as the location for this work – sometimes pure narrative – we learn all about the characters that inhabit this place. My personal favorite is the old man who sits in his kitchen all day reading Thomas Aquinas. Why? We’re never told except that he serves as a foil for his mid thirties daughter, an old maid by local standards – sometimes philosophical – not in any organized way but more like the wise comments your grandfather user to utter at odd moments.

Be warned, reading Fox is not for the faint of heart; strong coffee, a bright light and a willingness to place yourself completely in the hands and mind of this prolific scribbler are required to suck the elusive juice from the page. Fox combines the best (and worst) of Charles Bukowski (of whom Fox is a well renowned scholar) and the worst (and best) of Kerouac. In short, I love him and hate him all at the same time. Your mileage may vary.

Hereafter Landscapes by Jody Azzouni

Hereafter Landscapes
by Jody Azzouni
The Poet’s Press
Providence RI
Copyright © 2010 by Jody Azzouni
ISBN: 0-922558-42-6
Softbound, 55 pages, no price indicated

Review by Zvi A. Sesling

Always a sci-fi fan, always concerned about the environment, I found myself fascinated by Jody Azzouni’s Hereafter Landscapes. He has visions of the future, the Earth in its final days, the apocalypse of war, the pathos of hunger, nuclear winter – a nightmare of possibilities, a prophet of things to come. Hopefully not in our lifetimes or even in the distant future.

Here are some lines from a few of the poems (I indicate title and lines):

Title: And yet we still wonder where all the fish went
lines: We eat bushmeat now/(with our gloves of blood)

Title: We are trolls
lines: so we live in cans/(like snail)/like hermit crabs

Title: When cardboard will be a step up
lines: (I keep telling you the news no wants to share.)/The extinction wars/(the acid of
ocean; the absence of frog).

Title: When even hurricanes get really big
lines: Shivering our timbers into crunch.
(Can we hear the warnings yet?)

These are just a few of the titles and opening lines of Azzouni’s poetry, more like Nostradamus telling a future we cannot comprehend. Think about it, when Nostradamus wrote 500 years ago only DaVinci could envision airplanes, but no one could foresee atomic bombs, satellites, the weaponry of today, the billions of people, rocket ships tothe edge of the solar system and beyond.

I dare say people can see, even predict, the future Azzouni writes about, but not with his bleak view of mankind, the animal/fish kingdoms and the visions of the horror of the end of not only humanity, but Earth itself.

Decades: A Poem from Jason Wright

( From the 50's-- Horn & Hardart)



The Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene got the poem "Decades" from Somerville, Mass. poet Jason Wright

Jason Wright lives in Somerville, and is the Founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His goal is to live on a boat some day with his beautiful love Lisa. He enjoys writing poetry, playing music and long walks on the beach. He has written over two thousand unpublished poems. He will be famous for sure posthumously, but does his best to live a poet’s life. You can see more of his work at Oddball Magazine, where he welcomes submissions.




Decades



For Mom







1920-1929



The Sultan of Swat, the King Supreme

The Prince of swing, it’s in a dream.



Fedoras and three-piece-suits,

double breasted



gangsters not arrested,

money golden crested.



Do the Can-Can to a 20’s beat

dance the Charleston, with these swinging feet.



The dance is grooving, a sophisticated cat

Money is swindled, like wood being kindled.



It’s rich in here, poor over there.

Gangsters didn’t worry. Gangsters didn’t care.



The Chicago hit list was growing and thriving

When you pay your debts, the Mob isn’t dying



You’ll live to swing on the dance floor

That’s the roaring 20’s the first of 4.



1930-1939



The Worlds hung-over, and colder then ever

The people look hopeless, they’ll never get better.



More people homeless, due to lack of money

It’s the great depression, cloudy not sunny



The War time boomed, and now were broke

For many living, life is just a joke.



The stock market is crashing, Uncle Sam’s dying.

Depression runs rampant, no one’s trying.



It’s a lowlight, broken wings when birds don’t fly

The 30’s decade (when baby hope cries)





1940-1949



What a decade were starting

With the troops departing and



Our business is booming once again

Our heroes they‘ll fight, and many will die



But well see them all again

Such proud men, proud for the U.S.A



Fighting the Anti-Christ

every single day.



Baseball hasn’t stopped playing

Although our troops are gone



Music hasn’t stopped playing

Although our troops aren’t here


The heart still sings a song

And they know that we all care



We all know where they are

But when will they come back,



To all the men, we’re fine back home

Drop the bombs, Attack!



1950-1959



Be-Bop du bop, singing on top

Elvis, a Nashville boy



Climbing the charts, and breaking the hearts

Rock and Roll can never stop



With a slick hair style

and Chevrolets shining

Parents don’t like this jazz

And they won’t stop pining



Black and White T.V and the Sullivan Show

Keeps us entertained through



Rain, through snow

Baseball, the All American dream



Everyone wants to be on the team



The Beatles, haven’t yet arrived

Probably just forming



“Johnny and the Moondogs”

How long can this dream last?







1960-1969



Started off innocent enough

The Beatles stepped off the plane in 64



Brought history to music

Ellis Island, just off the shore



But something’s changed

Beatniks and Hippies,



Poppers and stoppers, pot and trippies

The President is dead. His brother soon after



What the hell happened in this chapter?

The Civil Rights Leader, when he made the change



He said We had a chance. He said we had a dream!

Birmingham’s child killed



Time heals all pains, but killed in your prime?

Just like the Civil Rights leader



we were ambushed somewhere every day

The Government brought us over there



and that’s where our bodies will lay

Back home their celebrating “Free Love”

Woodstock, and Pot smoking



Over here they don’t support us

And don’t care that we are choking.



Stimulating their minds with music and peace

I want these things, can I have a piece?



So this is what’s happening

Free love and War



Our government corrupt, our hippies too much

our leaders are gone, a new decade



God, we’ve had enough!



1970-1979



Wow, are we hung-over!

The jungle strike has left us spent



and has left love a loather

Our Beatles are broken up



They just don’t care to be together

Bob Dylan sings of “Hurricanes”



But not an anomaly of weather

Jimi and Janis, and the Lizard King



Drugs, and alcohol have taken away all these things

Bell Bottoms are still around, but now they’re even neater



Disco fever is running rampant with Saturday Night Fever

Welcome Back Kotter, where did you go?



A new series of shows, no one cares

And this hangover grows



The Black Panther party is aggravated and with every right they should be

Remember we killed their leader, and time heals everything?



Political Prisoners, and nothing is tolerated

Freedom is dead and in place instead



Free love has become the leader

And don’t forget the pills pink, blue, red



the spoon, the lighter, the acid queen

pass out, the morning after.



1980-1989



It’s a Digital Age, when Pepsi makes commercials

Tight jeans, and Bright threads



The punkers, and the poppers

The rocker non-stoppers



Big hair bands, and lots of hair spray

Men wear the make-up when they’re on the stage



Roller Skates and Mini-Boomers

Carry the boomer over the shoulder



Listening to Billy Jean, Billy Ocean, Billy Joel, Billy Idol

Billy’s run rampant. This is the Digital Age



Hi-tops, Hi-fi speakers, drive-in movie theaters

The losers, the tweakers, and the football team.



Society is colorful, so colorful

The Sugar Hill Gang keeps the teens dancing



And New Age classics appear on the movie screen

Fab Five Freddy delivers the message



Gets rap going into the next dimension

This is the time when they dropped the Bomb



But the bomb was just a song

When the Artist was known as Prince



Michael J. Fox and Michael J

Back to the future, and the future back to you



The Ricker rocked on the Silver Spoons

This is the 80’s like boom boxes and digital tunes



1980 the year this poet was breathing through.



1990-1999



The Time is changing but the future isn’t so shocking

The clock still digital. Still tick-tocking.



By this time, thoughts of flying cars

Hover boards and Stations on Mars



But our cars are on wheels

And big money deals



No space suits, but plenty of lawsuits

Lots and lots of Baggy clothes



Instead of moon boots I suppose

So the future still looks real



So what’s the Big Deal?

with 2000 approaching



Will we be soon flying?

With Robot butlers



with gold plated pilings?

Remote control TV’s all



replaced with RC rooms,

like escalators in every home.



But one thing will change

And that’s the truth



The music will change

will change the youth



The drugs will be more commercial

the THC rising



The Government will still lie

And will never stop lying



But one thing will change, and will change the most

With the ozone gone this world will roast



The heat will rise, and lower the sky

It’s no disguise



The future is in the hands of the youth

It’s sad but that’s the truth.



Jason Wright © 1998

Review of “the zoo, a going: (THE TROPIC HOUSE)” by J. A. Tyler

Review of “the zoo, a going: (THE TROPIC HOUSE)” by J. A. Tyler, fiction, Sunnyoutside, Buffalo, New York, 23 pages, 2010

By Barbara Bialick

Isn’t it practically archetypal to compare one’s family to a zoo? Especially when they behave badly in public, such as at the zoo itself? J.A. Tyler’s new chapbook, is a glimpse into his upcoming book, “The Zoo, A Going” set to be published by Dzanc Books in 2013. But don’t wait till then to check him out.

In only 23 pages, Tyler gives us a mélange of Freudian and probably Jungian symbols, and just plain cursing and speaking, that help this neurotic little kid figure out how he fits in with his folks and the animals.

The cover, designed by Anna Mutzes of Birdfish Studio, is just what the little volume needs—an old fashioned drawing of a woman, man, and boy’s eerily embodied-looking clothes resting near blue striped wall paper, as if for a photo, without any heads, feet or hands…

I wouldn’t even begin to analyze these individual vignettes, which include, for example,
“The Tree Snake”, the “Bird-Eating Spider” and “The Turtle”. The sign in front of the turtle says he’s 110 years old. To the boy, “People lie and I don’t think this turtle can be three or four times my dad or my mom. It is a turtle.” Lying is the point in this one. He quotes his mother in italics, “So help me god Jonah put your fucking toys away for once. I am going to step on them and break my fucking head.” But the boy is quick to point out his mother has never broken her head open nor stepped on his toys, except for one mini drumstick that cracked.

The boy is afraid to tie his shoelaces near the Boa Constrictor. “I could throw you in there. I could if I wanted to,” his dad says. “You want me to throw you in there?” The dad then says “Don’t worry…I won’t throw you in there today.” The boy concludes,
“he doesn’t say anything about tomorrow, which is somehow just like my dad.”

J.A. Tyler is the author of several novellas, including “Inconceivable Wilson” (Scrambler Books, 2009) and “A Man of Glass & All the Ways We Have Failed” (Fugue State Press, 2011). He is also the founding editor of Mud Luscious Press (mudlusciouspress.com).

The Endicott Review: Volume 27, Issue 1

The Endicott Review

Volume 27, Issue 1
Spring 2010
Copyright © 2010 by The Endicott Review
ISSN 1548-5242
96 pages,


Review by Zvi A. Sesling



One tidy little journal put out by a college is The Endicott Review from Endicott College in Beverly, MA. The issue is divided into sections entitled College, Family, Artwork, Nature, Childhood, Love, Artwork, Self, Death and Dreams/Future, each section providing writing by, in some cases, young, enthusiastic writers with promising futures and lots of talent.

Some poems jumped out at me like Richard W. Moyer’s Movies, Youngstown, Ohio, 1940. Having lived in Youngstown in the 1950s and even written a poem or two about it, I wondered who Moyer was, certainly not 84 years-old, I think. Anyway, it was interesting nostalgia.

Marcia Molay wrote Poetry Class with a first stanza that states:

Some topics suggest
the life stories
of all the students.
Deep feelings are
best expressed in
a kind atmosphere,
good work encouraged.
Poetry class is that.

Or you can revel in Lauren Fleck-Steff’s short piece I’m jaded

There’s a gold ring
around the moon.
I’ve been told it
forecasts love.

The moon has lied before.

Among the better poems in the journal as those by Jim Mullholland (Witnessing A Blue Morning Sky), Emily Braile (Fight), Lauren Peterson (Barbie’s Dark Side), Janine L. Certo (The Hamster), Doug Holder’s two poems and Chad Parenteau’s three poems. Lest anyone not mentioned think their offerings are not held in the same esteem, they should not fear. The poems in this review just happened to catch my fancy.

The magazine also contains excellent artwork, the favorites (again, those not mentioned should have no anxiety at being less talented), being Johnny Bonacci touching photo of a mourner at the Vietnam Memorial in Washington D.C., Ripley Doten’s almost surrealistic photo by the ocean which leaves the viewer to ask: person or statue? and Kristen Bernard’s photo entitled “Face.” Some of the artists have also contributed poems to exhibit their multifaceted talent.

The Endicott Review is a bundle of talent that I highly recommend to any reader looking for talented writers of poetry and prose, art and photography.

Rattle Issue #33 Summer 2010

Rattle
Issue #33
Volume 16, Number 1
Summer 2010
Alan Fox, Editor-In Chief
Timothy Green, Editor
12411 Ventura Blvd.
Studio City CA 91604
Single copy $10, 1 year (2 issues) $18

Review by Zvi Sesling


Here is a magazine worth every dollar invested in good reading. Starting with Tony Barnstone’s noir sequence, Jack Logan, Fighting Airman, through the tribute to humor, Rattle provides non-stop entertainment with poets I have heard and not heard of, read and not read before. None of the writers let me down. Editor-in-Chief Alan Fox contributed to the compendium as did Tomaz Salamun, Aram Saroyan, Tom Myers, and nonagenarian Ed Galing. The Tribute To Humor is intelligently introduced by Editor Timothy Green. I was especially taken by Toi Derricotte’s six line killer entitled Rome. It shows she understands men perfectly (and maybe some women too). Richard Garcia comes in with the ultimate play on TV’s Sixty Minutes curmudgeon with A Poem By Andy Rooney. He nails the old man perfectly. There are plenty of other bone tickling offerings as well.
For those who have enjoyed Rattle through the years, this is a more than satisfying issue.
If you have not read Rattle before, you too will become a fan.

Somerville Writer Will Fertman: From China to Cheese.

Somerville Writer Will Fertman: From China to Cheese.

By Doug Holder

Being a ritualistic early morning denizen of the Bloc 11 café in the Union Square section of Somerville, I couldn’t help but notice a man somewhere in his thirties, with a shock of Harpo Marxish curly brown hair, laboring over a computer like a mad scientist. Another writer in the Paris of New England you say smugly? Well you are right.

Will Fertman, 32, lives in the Davis Square section of Somerville but commutes down to Bloc 11 because he can’t write at home, and the Bloc 11 was on route to his job at the Boston Review, a literary and political journal based in our burg. Fertman and I eventually came out of our respective shells and started to converse. I asked to interview him, and he consented to a 7A.M. meeting.

Fertman, after experiencing a stint of wanderlust that took him from China, to New York City, and eventually to here in the Ville, has found our city a place to firmly plant his feet. He grew up in Winchester, Mass. and later graduated from Sarah Lawrence College, eventually getting his MFA from Goddard College in Vermont. He told me that even though he lived in NYC he prefers Somerville. Fertman said: “ New York is too conformist. By nature I am somewhat of a hermit. My idea of a good evening is inviting someone over my apartment for dinner. You don’t do that in N.Y. In Somerville I enjoy the eclectic texture: the students, the Brazilian immigrants, the old-time Somerville residents—all here in Union Square.”

In 2008 Fertman landed a job as an advertising and promotion director of the Boston Review. The Review is a well-respected literary and political journal that publishes some of the work of the major political thinkers, and literary lights of our time. Here Fertman worked with the likes of Pulitzer-Prize winner Junot Diaz, poets like Mary Jo Bang, Timothy Donnelly and others.

While working at the Boston Review, Fertman labored over his novel that was inspired by his time living in the Republic of China. He told me it is a story of an Asian Frankenstein. It all takes place in the sometimes gothic and rabidly industrial society of contemporary China.

Fertman has recently left the Boston Review to write for a cheese magazine titled “Culture.” The magazine is looking to possibly locate in Somerville. Although Fertman is no cheese expert, he gets to write a column in which he can ruminate about cheese, from the sharp and biting Cheddar to the more “holy” grounds of Swiss. In one column Fertman wrote it concerned a 15th century heretical philosopher who speculated that earth was formed from, well, a blob of cheese. Needless to say this did not go over well with the powers-that-be at the time.

Fertman listed his favorite Somerville haunts to procure this epicurean delight. On his list was Sherman’s Market and Capone’s in Union Square, Dave’s Fresh Pasta in Teele Square, and other cheese hubs.

Fertman told me he always likes to offer his readers a hook in his writing. He wants to make his readers laugh or gasp, maybe both. Fertman believes that writing is not a “polite” art—and he is dedicated to putting sizzle in the reader’s steak.

Fertman’s favorite writers are Iris Murdock, Raymond Chandler, and Shelley Jackson, to name a few.

And to young writers wherever you are Fertman opines:

“ The two things that I learned was to write constantly, read religiously, and write about what you are interested in. Don’t wait to be recognized; send your work out; start your own magazine, or your own blog—be persistent and network with other writers.”

Fertman believes that an MFA in Writing is not for everyone, but he needed the discipline to write a lot and at level that you need to make it in the biz.

Like any true Somerville scribe, Fertman shook my hand after the interview, and retreated into the recesses of Bloc 11 to pound the keys on his shopworn laptop.



http://culturecheesemag.com

************************************

From Will Fertman's column about cheese in "Culture Magazine"


Cheese might seem like a wholesome business on the surface, but here at culture we’re not afraid to peel back the wax and give you a taste of the gamier side:

Dec. 7, 2005,
Memphis, TN (AP):
Jessica Sandy Booth, 18, was arrested over the weekend and charged with four counts of attempted murder and four counts of soliciting a murder . . . According to police, Booth was in the intended victims’ home last week when she mistook a block of queso fresco for cocaine, inspiring the idea to hire someone to break into the home, take the drugs, and kill the men . . . “Four men were going to lose their lives over some cheese,” said Lt. Jeff Clark.

Popular Poet Populist: Jean—Dany Joachim

Popular Poet Populist: Jean—Dany Joachim



Interview by Doug Holder



Well – I interviewed the Poet Laureate of Boston Sam Cornish, the Poet Laureate of Portland, Maine Steve Luttrell, and just recently the Poet Populist of the Republic of Cambridge, Jean—Dany Joachim. Both Jean and I teach at Bunker Hill Community College, and both of us are poets. One day perhaps I will be able to interview the Poet Laureate of Somerville if the city ever gets off its haunches. Jean Dany Joachim was born in Port-au-Prince Haiti. In his online bio it states "…his writing found its voice in the never-ending, complex reality of his country." Joachim is the author of " Chen Plenn-Leta", and his work has appeared in anthologies and numerous literary magazines. I talked with him on my Somerville Community Access TV show "Poet to Poet: Writer to Writer."



Doug Holder: So, as I said in the introduction it has been said that you found your poetic voice with the "never ending complex reality of your country." Explain.



Jean--Dany Joachim: The first poem that I wrote when I was 13 years old dealt with the reality of Haiti at the time. The poem was titled

"Good Morning." That poem was the first one that made me start writing. My writing dealt with Haiti, the land, the dreams, the aspirations, and the political trouble. Later I discovered poetry for the language. The Creole language. It is a beautiful language that has a lot to do with French. This is because for close to 200 years the French were in Haiti..



DH: You are the second Poet Populist in Cambridge. Tell us about the position.



JJ: 2007 was the first year Cambridge went with this concept. They did not create it; it was first started in Seattle. Seattle had the first "Populist" instead of the commonly named Poet Laureate. In 2007 I was one of the finalists for the position, and I was eventually selected. I wasn't even sure what the position was about when they called me in 2007 to tell me I was nominated. Peter Payackwas the first Poet Populist--before me.



DH: What is the difference between a Poet Laureate and a Poet Populist?



JJ: Bluntly speaking the Poet Populist is Cambridge. Cambridge must have its own way, so therefore it has the Poet Populist. ( Laugh) It's just a different name. It is a position for the promotion of POETRY and the art of words in the City of Cambridge, and even beyond.



DH: Do you think there has been a greater awareness of Haitian literature due to the tragic earthquake?



JJ: I think Haitian writers with a few exceptions are generally unknown in this country. I think because they write in French. There are very few presses that are translating Haitian writers. I wish more translation could happen. I wish more translation could happen.



DH: Is there any signature quality to Haitian writing?



JJ: In Haitian art there is a lot of vivid colors. This definitely comes out in the writing.



DH: Tell us about your City Night Reading Series.



JJ: It started more than 10 years ago. At Bunker Hill Community College in Boston I used to run a series titled" Sunset Poetry Series" It was a once a month series with readings from faculty and students. So after years doing it at the college; I thought why not do it outside. I originally wanted it to be nomadic, city to city. But I realized this would be a great deal of work. I had the series at UMass Boston, in Chelsea, and other venues until I found Cafe Luna in Central Square.





FOUR CHAIRS



Four chairs sit

On a porch, they're waiting



Four chairs all dressed up

Sitting without a word

Four chairs of hope

In wait to be useful



Four chairs next to each other

Which are sometimes face- to- face

Four chairs of labor

Relieving the human tiredness

For chairs which cure



Four chairs observing

Life which ravels

Four chairs of silence

Four chairs in wait

To hang the words.



On the porch

The four chairs sit, they're waiting.

A Writer’s Journey: At the Norman Mailer Writers Colony By Tracy Strauss

(Strauss and fellow feline resident of the colony)








Tracy Strauss has been a long time friend of the Ibbetson Street Press and a regular at the Diesel Cafe in Davis Square, Somerville. She was kind enough to write this account of her residency at the Norman Mailer Writers Colony...




A Writer’s Journey

I just returned from a week at the Norman Mailer Writers Colony, in Provincetown, Ma., where I received a scholarship to work with seven writers, under the direction of Kaylie Jones, in memoir. I first studied with Kaylie Jones (daughter of From Here to Eternity’s James Jones) last summer when I was accepted on scholarship to the Southampton Writers Conference’s memoir workshop with Frank McCourt, who, just two weeks before the workshop, grew gravely ill, and died. Kaylie replaced him as my teacher. This summer, I could not pass up the opportunity to work with her again, on my second memoir, Hannah Grace, about healing from PTSD through my relationship with a cat (http://thehannahgracebook.wordpress.com).

Arriving at the Norman Mailer Home on Commercial Street, I was awed by the view of the Massachusetts shoreline. The workshop took place inside the home, where we met for four hours every morning, sharing and critiquing our writing as the tide went out, and in.

Unlike the Southampton Writers Conference or the Bread Loaf Writers Conference, which I attended in 2008, each attendee at the Norman Mailer Writers Colony is fully-funded, aside from a $225 administrative fee. Housing is generous – I was placed in my own fully-equipped condo near the beach, where I found Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason and a thesaurus on the bookshelf, and where the kitchen cabinets were populated with pots and pans, tea and Progresso soup. Attendees are on their own for most meals, and with a stove, oven, refrigerator, plus supplies, eating in is a budget-conscious option.

Interestingly, my condo was the only one with a cat-flap on the door and, beginning my first afternoon in residence, a cat appeared there, meowing. When I left my condo to eat dinner with fellow writers, he circled my feet and rubbed up against my legs. Throughout the week, the cat visited me often – given that I was writing a book about my relationship with a cat, I considered him my talisman.

Staff members Guy Wolf and Jessica Zlotnicki helped us get acquainted with Norman Mailer’s legacy with a tour of the house, including his writing room, located in the attic, which, with its slanted ceiling, small windows, and cramped, rudimentary space, reminded me of my attic apartment in Cambridge, except that I don’t have a plethora of books about Hitler on my shelves or a Bellevue sign to remind me not to stab my spouse. The house was open for us to write in at our leisure.

The Colony loaned us bicycles to explore Provincetown, which I did on sunny afternoons, riding out to the Tidal Flats, where the “Life Seen and Unseen” theme became my (writer’s) journey, where I walked, and walked, and walked across rocks and water, unable to see my destination, but was compelled to continue onward. I listened to the call of Sandpipers and traversed steep boulders, flat slabs, rough and smooth rocks, which tested my footing. I thought about ways to surmount the obstacles I faced in writing my book, then went back to the Norman Mailer House to work.

Time to write is priority at the Colony. I spent many afternoons penning my chapters, and completing writing exercises assigned to fuel our creative process. The week ended with a luncheon held at the Norman Mailer House to commemorate our week’s work. We were also invited to a gallery opening in town. As we said our goodbyes, we vowed to keep in touch and support each other as we complete our books and work to publish them. I know we will.


Tracy Strauss



***********Tracy Strauss is a poet and nonfiction writer. A 2005 Somerville Arts Council Literary Fellowship Award winner in poetry, her work has been published in The Hummingbird Review, Ibbetson Street, Spoonful, and War, Literature & The Arts. A chapter from her first memoir, Personal Effects, was recently published in The Southampton Review. She has been a featured writer at SUNY Stony Brook Southampton, and the “Tapestry of Voices” and “Poetry in the Chapel” series in Boston. She is currently working on a second memoir, Hannah Grace, about healing from PTSD through a relationship with a cat. She teaches at Emerson College.

Legends of Winter Hill by Jay Atkinson

Legends of Winter Hill

by Jay Atkinson
Three Rivers Press
Softcover, 363 pages, $14
ISBN 0-9796816-6-0

Review by Zvi A. Sesling


Too many writers choose Boston for their detective stories. But Jay Atkinson, who wrote Legends of Winter Hill, has chosen true life than fiction. His hero is Joe McCain, a real detective pursuing real criminals who commit real crimes. Atkinson’s revelations about true crime is, as Humphrey Bogart says at the end of The Maltese Falcon, “The stuff legends are made of.”

Atkinson takes through the back alleys of crime – dirty cops, murder, robberies and lesser crimes like insurance fraud, workmen’s comp fraud – a hodge podge of major and lesser crimes that could – and do – fill the book.

He takes us through Somerville, eating at Redbones just off Davis Square and a Vietnamese Restaurant in Union Square. He takes us into Boston, Chelsea, Medford, Revere and other communities in the greater Boston area like Quincy, trying to videotape a man who is defrauding an insurance company with a fake injury. Everywhere he takes us where perpetrators live or operate and you wonder how he and McCain survive their run-ins with the underworld, and even clean cops who do not like the idea of their own being uncovered as dirty.

Each chapter is like a separate story and the dialogue, like the action in the book is real, not made up fiction, which makes it all the more interesting.

You will know the people, the locations and most of all you will know McCain through
Atikinson’s eyes and writing, which is crisp, fast paced and not only a true crime book,
but a look at the history of criminals, including the notorious Teddy Deegan case in which law enforcement officials framed several men, two of whom died in prison, for a murder they never committed and which cost taxpayers not only to keep them locked up,
but the millions of dollars they were awarded for their lost years. Yes, it is a book worth
reading and learning the lessons of criminals and misguided law enforcement which, more than likely, still happening

The Closing By Chava Hudson

The Closing

by Chava Hudson
Zingology Press
Copyright © 2010 by Chava Hudson
Softcover, 184 pages, no price listed
ISBN 1452865426

Review by Zvi A. Sesling

Chava Hudson has succeeded where other writers have failed: you know what murder is about at the beginning, yet the novel works, the people are believable and so you keep on reading.

Hudson’s story is about a real estate agent in a realty firm that does a bit more than sell realty. In fact, the way they drum up business will just kill you. But that’s all I’ll tell you, except that the novel is filled with irony, a touch of humor, but more important, leaves you with serious questions about moral values, mortality and what the future might bring to an ever aging population, a theme done many times, but here with a new twist.

Singles, Anne meets Steve and the romance begins. But Steve’s mother gets in the way, and not as you might imagine. Still, Anne, whose boyfriend has abandoned her, finds a new romance irresistible, even with the knowledge she keeps inside.

The story is fast paced, easy and fun to read and, perhaps, should be read by people with Victorian ideas of life and death and what is noble and what is not.

This is Ms. Hudson’s fourth book (she also writes poetry and edits the online journal zingology). It took her just over a year to write the closing, but the novel idea (yes I mean that both ways)came during a walk around town where she saw a for sale sign on a front yard. The realtor's name was Kevorkian, which got her thinking. Hudson had also just returned from Costa Rica where she spent two weeks at an artist colony and rode up to Monteverde with some friends she had made there. The result, a book worth reading.

Small Press Review: Poems from the Left Bank: Somerville, Mass.

(July-Aug 2010)



_____SOMERVILLE_____


Poems from the Left Bank
By Doug Holder
Alternating Current 2010
PO Box 183
Palo Alto CA 94302 USA
$5


Review by Hugh Fox




You want a trip into the depths, heights and widths of everyday reality of everyday in Somerville, Mass? Doug Holder’s latest is the best way to begin. You’re there! Just the kind of details that create essential unforgettable realities: “ Two old women/ Walk down my street/ Each morning/ Lugging two shopping bags/ And two widow humps/Arm in Arm/ A tight embrace/ of frail appendages/ Pushing each other/ At no more than a snail’s pace… (“Two Old Women,” p. 10) It’s true that Somerville, just next to Cambridge, is a place that seems to have stepped out of time into time into timelessness, reminiscent of Chatham, a “ward” in Chicago, back in the 1940’s…or Paris’ Left Bank (the origin of the title) more or less at the same time.

Holder has the eyes of a painter/sketcher/photographer. No one else on the scene can evoke so much reality with so few carefully chosen key descriptive words. A line here, a line there, and suddenly you’re right in the middle of his daily street reality “ “I could not decide whether to turn into it. / I was at the cusp of decision. Looking down its dramatic curves/The close habitation of sunlight and brooding shadow, the incestuous tangle of backyards/ The sudden eruption of a hill/In a stretch of flattened pavement/ The indicting chorus of Blue Jays/ Casting invective to the cold wind. (“Hamlet St., Somerville p. 11). It would be fun to see some Somerville film genius do an image-drifting film through Somerville with Holder himself reading the poems as the images drift by.