Friday, August 08, 2008

Review of the Ed Galing Propaganda Press Series by Pam Rosenblatt



(Ed Galing)



Diner (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing


Bargain Basement and other selected poems (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing


Out On A Limb (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing


Shadows on the Wall (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing


Chasing The World never catching up (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing



Five of Ed Galing chapbooks have been reprinted by Propaganda Press in 2008: Diner (Peerless Press, 1999), Bargain Basement (Peerless Press, 2001), Out On A Limb (Peerless Press, 2002), and Shadows on the Wall (Peerless Press, 2006) and Chasing The World never catching up (Propaganda Press, 2008).

In each of these chapbooks, Ed Galing reveals poetry that is down-to-earth, concrete, and filled with wit. The typical reader probably thinks he can create poems just as wonderful as Galing writes. But, most likely, the reader turned poet is wrong. Galing’s poetry isn’t easy to recreate. Galing makes everything he writes look easy. Even the designs of his five chapbooks are plain and simple: 8 ½” x 11” standard white paper with a muted colored covers folded in half and held together with two regular sized staples along with no tables of contents pages or page numbers. Even the chapbooks’ titles are down to earth. Each title is developed from a poem within each of the chapbook, except for Chasing The World never catching up, a collection of poems first published by Spare Change. The titles’ simplicity make the reader wonder why Galing has chosen these particular titles, these particular poems. While Chasing The World never catching up, is a more complicated title to go with a more difficult read, Shadows on the Wall really has some controversial, difficult poems. Yet, Galing is an ordinary, no-show-off type of person. What you read is what you get. Or is it?

In life, Ed Galing is not your everyday type of guy writer, though he writes about life’s everyday happenings and progressions. He is a renowned 91 year old poet who was Poet Laureate of Hatboro, Pennsylvania in 1978; was nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice; has written over 23 books; published his works in over 400 magazines including RATTLE, POESY, MAIN STREET, QUERCUS, and IBBETSON STREET. He loves to play the harmonica and enjoys dining out, especially at diners. He was married for over sixty years, and has two sons, two grandchildren, and a great-grandchild.

In the chapbooks, Galing discusses things like diners, diner employees and customers who frequent diners, Pennsylvania, poverty, homelessness, home, mental illness, the Jewish holocaust, Jewish lifestyles and customs, old age and it’s implications, the ‘simple’ life, music and musicians and burlesque, dancing, the Twin Towers bombing, and family.

A lot of different themes run throughout Galing’s chapbooks, but the one we will write about today is Galing’s “home”, as in where home is, and how he keeps finding home in the various places he frequents. Many of the poems seem to be autobiographical.

In Diner, Galing writes about “diners, and those who work them”, the “restrooms”, the “counter work”, the “cashier”, “customer blues”, and a “diner”. After reading these poems, the reader gets the sense that diners are a friendly, surrogate family world to the speaker. Galing mentions the word “home” in “diner”, which is the title poem of this chapbook, and the reader understands that the diner is a place where the speaker feels comfortable enough to call “home”, a place where he has laid down roots, in a sense.


diner


it’s only a diner.

i eat there a lot.

people are nice here…

friendly…

waitresses smile

and make you feel

at home…

it’s only a diner…

yeah… but it’s more than

that…

it’s the place where

i feel like i’m with a family

feel less lonely

feel happier

knowing that other people

eating in their own little

booths

feel the same way too…

it’s only a diner…

but the men and women who

work here spend almost all their

lives

doing a hard day’s work and night’s work

and some of them call it

home, too…

just the way i do…


it’s only a diner…

it’s only a diner…


Through simple description, sentence structure, word usage, and repetition, Galing has conveyed his philosophy that home isn’t necessarily found in a square building structure with four walls, windows, a front door, a doorbell, and green lawn in the suburbs, but it is simply where you feel like you fit in, as Galing writes, “it’s the place where/i feel like i’m with a family/feel less lonely/feel happier/knowing that other people/eating in their own little/booths/feel the same way too…”

Galing’s chapbook, Bargain Basement, deals a lot with “home” and where home is, as can be viewed in the first poem, which is once again the chapbooks title poem, “Bargain Basement”:



bargain basement


one of the best things

about Horn and Hardarts

was the way they

treated me;

like a gentleman,


even when i was down

and out, not

a nickel in my pocket…

i could always get a cup

of hot water,

and help myself

to the ketchup…

made the best tomato soup in town…


and even the napkins

were free.


In “bargain basement”, again, Galing has journeyed outside the traditional view that

a real house is what a person should call home. Here Galing describes a restaurant, which is in a “bargain basement”, to be like “home” to the speaker who is probably homeless and receives “a cup/of hot water”, “ketchup”, “the best tomato soup in town” free of charge. The speaker says, “Horn and Hardarts/…treated me:/like a gentleman,” Such a warm and friendly environment makes the speaker, who may be Galing himself, feel at “home”.

Galing actually writes about a disruption in his family home life in the poem, “farewell to paradise”, also found in Bargain Basement:


farewell to paradise


the day my father

left and didn’t

come back

i was sixteen


i remember

walking into

a room as quiet

as a tomb,


my mother sober

faced standing near

the mantle

told me she had

news for me,


and when she told me,

i listened but

felt like dying,


and inside my heart

drummed a death song

and i watched my

mother dying too,


and i wanted to

take her in my arms

and tell her that

everything would still

be all right,


but i didn’t do it…

instead i walked out the door,

went across the street

to the small park


and it was cold and

i sat down on a bench

and i cried my


fucking eyes out


In a progressively sad and then suddenly angry tone, Galing writes about a very personal experience, an experience that had a traumatic affect on him. He was so distraught that he “…sat down on a bench/and (he) cried (his)//fucking eyes out” His once perfect family structure had broken. In “farewell to paradise”, Galing’s speaker says goodbye to the home life he once knew.

Through lower case the entire poem, including the first person, “i”, Galing has gently eased the reader into his life, though the ending line, “fucking eyes out” reveals

the speaker is not happy. Galing tells the reader things as they are. Simply put. No jargon attached. And it’s a relief for the reader to understand concretely where the poet is coming from.

Galing reveals more about his early home years in “GOOD DAYS AND BAD”:


GOOD DAYS AND BAD


we had our good days

and our

bad days

just like

anyone else…

people think when

you live in

south philly

you’re bound to

be different

cause maybe you

don’t have a

lot of money

and you live in

a row house

in a small

street

and sometimes

the garbage

and rubbish

is all mixed up

and scattered

everywhere

and the cars get

snowed in so

deep in the

winter

sometimes you’re

wishing you were a

million miles away…

but hey,

when you live in

south philly

you’re special


Obviously, Galing’s speaker identifies “south philly” with the place where Galing himself lived, the place where “we had our good days/and our/bad days”. Galing seems to write autobiographically about his poverty as a child living in South Philadelphia, as when the speaker explains, “cause maybe you/don’t have a/lot of money/and you live in/a row house/in a small/street/and sometimes/the garbage/and rubbish/is all mixed up/and scattered/everywhere”.

The speaker has been subjected to South Philly’s poverty, which isn’t such a pleasant memory, but Galing ends the poem on a positive note, writing that “when you live in/south philly/you’re special”. The speaker may have lived in the impoverished city of South Philly, but he knew it was his home, the place where he had roots.

In Galing’s “FAREWELL, SOUTH PHILLY”, the speaker again autobiographically talks about his mother. The whole poem is about “home” and identity, and about how


….These are the real south Philadelphians…

my mother was one of those.

long after I had left the old neighborhood

to get married

she remained behind

living poor in the third floor front apartment

where I had left her


taking care of the outside marble steps,

sweeping the street;

always cheerful and happy,

hardly any money, being on welfare.

she loved her surroundings at fourth and

Tasker,

and always looked out the third floor window

waiting for my return visit…


Galing writes how the speaker’s mother has found “home”, especially revealed

when he describes her “taking care of the outside marble steps,/sweeping the street,/

always cheerful and happy, hardly any money, being on welfare./she loved her surroundings at fourth and Tasker,…” She had found permanence, while Galing’s speaker has left this solid place for somewhere else. The speaker returns to the building site after a long time, long after his mother’s death. The speaker admits, “And I never cried so long, or so hard, in all my life.” The speaker has closure on the place where he was raised, where his mother was “at the window where my mother used to wave to me so many times/when I returned to see her…/I could swear that I saw her face looking down/at me, now, and waving,/and suddenly I smiled and waved back,/and whispered, goodbye, Mom…” Again, Galing has revealed a sense of “home” in Bargain Basement. Although his mother has died, the speaker still has a sense of belonging to a place which holds many memories for him.

Galing writes about “home” quite often in the five chapbooks mentioned in this review. But the strongest sense of “home” and permanence that Galing conveys is in “Because You Asked” in Chasing The World never catching up when writing about his relationship with his wife:


Because You Asked

For my wife, R.I.P.


are we dead?

she asks me


no, i say

we are still

alive,

but we are

old, she says,

we have to die

some day, i tell

her gently,

not yet…

but when you’re

old you die

my wife says,

don’t you know that?

we all die, i agree,

but even the very young

die,

the rich die,

the poor die,

the homeless die,

the soldiers die, too;

unless an accident happens

when we will die,

let’s not rush it,

it will come soon enough…

do we live here?

she ask again, as

if she forgot we have

lived in our home for

fifty years,

of course we live here,

i reassure her softly,

you and me… we live here,

where are our children?

she wants to know

they have long gone away,

i reply,

it’s just you and me.

we hug each other

eighty-eight isn’t

easy.

neither is alzheimers.


Galing has composed a wonderful poem about his wife and his kind, and gentle caring for one another. The poem flows from line to line, enjambment after enjambment. And, once again, the concept of “home” is discussed, this time Galing uses the words, “our home”, to show that the speaker, Ed Galing, knows what a strength there is in having a real home, family, and wife, as read when he writes, “do we live here?/she asks again, as/if she forgot we have/lived in our home for fifty years/of course we live here, i reassure her softly,/you and me…we live here,…”

Galing has written about the different stages and kinds of “homes” he as speaker

has encountered throughout his life, ranging from diners to bargain basements to south philly to the home his mother and he lived in during his early years to the home he and his wife raised their family in.

Diner, Bargain Basement , Out On A Limb, and Shadows on the Wall , and Chasing The World never catching up all poetically describe Galing’s journey to find “home” whenever and wherever he can.

These short and sweet chapbooks are excellent reads for people who want a down-to-earth, gentle, often humorous, and sometimes eye-opening as well as mind-opening, reading experience.

Hopefully, these chapbooks will make the permanent move to a shelf in your bookcase.

Pam Rosenblatt/ Ibbetson Update



###

Monday, August 04, 2008

Ries Reviews : Mindock, Sonnenfield, Witte

BLOOD SOAKED DRESSES

By: Gloria Mindock

Ibbetson Street Press

25 School Street

Somerville, MA 02143

Price: $13.50 / 62 Pages / 45 Poems



IBSN: 978-4303-1034-1



Review By: Charles P. Ries
Word Count: 270



In her third book of poetry, “Blood Soaked Dresses” Gloria Mindock raises horror to transcendent allegory. With language that has a lyrical soft quality to it, her new book of poetry becomes the perfect vehicle to express moments (sad, horrific, and glorious) that are set in El Salvador during its civil war from 1980 to 1992. When we see the massacre of innocents continuing in Kenya, Somalia, Darfur, Iraq, Afghanistan – the list becomes painfully endless. Her book becomes a timeless poetic prayer for peace.



Her book of poetry is about the most painful of subjects. Through Mindock’s love of this culture, its people, words, and many flavors, she creates transcendent metaphor after transcendent metaphor. Here are a few cherry-picked from her poem, “Seeing Is Only a Flawed Secret”: “A long shadow filling my body”, “I have conversation with the abyss”; "My weary mind is just a symbol.” “The sky is gray today. / healing itself back to blue.” Jesus, rearrange your schedule. / Go, show me your lips. Make your kiss / a compass so I know where to go.” “I look out the window and feel / like a fool. / Everyone carries on with no ears. / Such motionless supervision – a crime!” Amazing - and these lines and phrases are taken from just one of her 45 poems.



Mindock’s success with “Blood Soaked Dresses” is all the more remarkable given how very hard it is to write about horror. If a poet can enter into this world, speak to this blackness and create a wisp of hope, then the poet is by demonstration is a great writer indeed.



_______________________________



typewriter art

By: Mark Sonnenfeld

Marymark Press

45-08 Old Millstone Drive

East Windsor, NJ 08520

Price: $4 / 16 Pages



ISBN: 978-0-9798819-9-2


Review By: Charles P. Ries
Word Count: 308



Mark Sonnenfeld is a unique creature in the small press. His world is one that lives at the intersection of poetry, word, and visual art. Many times his use of language has nothing to do with complete thought or meaning, but rather the splattering of words in a random cascade. We might call his work “experimental”, but for the fact that poetry, as one of writings shortest forms, lends itself to constant variation and experimentation. His new book, “typewriter art” is no different. Dedicated to small press pioneer and all around good-guy Joseph Verrilli, he takes words, or rather the ink-on-paper-image of words, and collides them with a phrase. On page 8 we find word the word “Mark” in 68 point type face and below it the phrase, “Magazines from the stack”. On page 5 we find the phrase “I woke to head pressure” in 14 point type laid onto a page that has a series of letters extracted from words in 68 point bold black type face. His work is so conceptual that it is even hard to clearly describe – it must be both seen and read.



So what is one to make of this? Is it poetry or is it visual art? Certainly it is experimental, and in each art form there is a mad scientist who will push the medium’s relevance toward the absurd, toward meaninglessness, through the trap door of context, and perhaps, toward yet new meanings. Will this become the rage? Will thousands of writers try to do what Sonnenfeld has done? I doubt it, but the highest form of flattery isn’t always imitation, sometimes it is our acknowledgement to artists like Sonnenfield that we have experienced their creation and encourage their continued exploration. The great literary unknown will be a richer friendlier planet because we have pioneers like Sonnenfeld orbiting the “word”.



___________________________________________



THE WIND TWIRLS EVERYTHING

By: Francine Witte

Muscle Head Press Chapbooks

Boneworld Publishing

3700 County Road 24

Russell, New York 13684

Price: $7 / 40 Pages / 25 Stories



Review By: Charles P. Ries

Word Count: 366



Francine Witte’s book of flash fiction/prose poems gives us two wonderful things. The first is her nimble and effortless use of story, form, and technique. This collection of 25 short form vignettes shows us how quickly a skilled writer can create place, character, conflict, and move a story to a stratifying conclusion. Witte who is also a poet and a playwright applies these two forms into interesting, fast moving short stories. Her technique is effortless and invisible, but central to making these stories move forward.



The second gift of “The Wind Twirls Everything” is her reflection on love, clueless good hearted men, place, and family. The men who populate her stories “try” to do the right thing, they are not without heart and soul, but still they do manage to stumble. Into this mix are the women who love, long for, or try to stay away from them. This collision of interests and abilities gives the stories in this collection their strong core. She is quick and nimble as she riffs around a variety of topics: a chair, a love, a city, a time, a man, a woman.



There are many great stories in this collection: Jake Is A Forgotten Place, Someone Keeps Calling, My Husband’s Mistress, Joe and Sue Get In The Car, to name a few. The open paragraph of her story, “The Romance Of Sadness” gives us a taste of how well and how quickly Witte invites us into her world, “One day, she fell in love with the sadness. Unlike the man who had given it to her, the sadness would stay with her long into the night and never leave. If the sadness did leave, there would more sadness. And that was good.” And again her opening paragraph of “Someone Keeps Calling”: “A faraway voice. Like a voice underwater. He says hello. Nothing more. He hangs up. Calls back. His breath is angry, inviting, sexual. He’s distant, but intimate. Saying nothing. Saying everything.”



What a treat to see Witte bob and weave structure, pacing, and story with such alacrity. How wonderful to read stories that run no more than 350 words in length contain so much heart, humor, yearning and meaning.



________________________________________________________



Charles P. Ries lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His narrative poems, short stories, interviews and poetry reviews have appeared in over two hundred print and electronic publications. He has received four Pushcart Prize nominations for his writing. He is the author of THE FATHERS WE FIND, a novel based on memory and five books of poetry — the most recent entitled, The Last Time which was released by The Moon Press & Publishing. He is the poetry editor for Word Riot (www.wordriot.org). He is on the board of the Woodland Pattern Bookstore (www.woodlandpattern.org) and a member of the Wisconsin Poet Laureate Commission. But most of all he is a founding member of the Lake Shore Surf Club, the oldest fresh water surfing club on the Great Lakes (http://www.visitsheboygan.com/dairyland/). You may find additional samples of his work by going to: http://www.literati.net/Ries/

Nancy Milnor: The New Director of The Somerville Public Library















Nancy Milnor: The New Director of The Somerville Public Library
Library

The last thing you expect to encounter is a lilting Southern accent when you walk into the Director’s office at the Central Branch of the Somerville Public Library. But that’s part of the package you get with the new Director Nancy Milnor. Milnor is a native of Tennessee and has run libraries in Galveston, Texas, St. Louis Missouri, to name just a few locales. Milnor’s last job was the relatively “genteel” position of director of the Connecticut Historical Library. She left those tony environs to work in the milieu that is her first love: the public library system.

Milnor said: “I came to Somerville because I wanted a change. I love the rich cultural life in the Boston-area and Somerville is the most active, and participatory community that I ever worked in.” She finds Somervillians, young and old, interested in the library and the community-at-large.

Milnor has several projects she is pushing including: the continuation of free English as a Second Language classes, and the improvement and preservation of the Historical Archive. She said librarian Kevin O’Kelly is the head of this department and will be working on a survey with an outside agency concerning the needs of this valuable depository.

Milnor has an eye on the future, and is aware that libraries are rapidly changing with the high tech world. Many older residents and lower income folks use the library for computer access, often because they can’t afford to have a computer at home. The Young Urban Professionals among us use all the collections that the library has to offer according to the Director. Milnor said: “ We use product technology, databases, but we use books, and books are and will still be read. I don’t see the disappearance of the physical book.”

The library, according to Milnor, still orders reference books, magazines, fiction, nonfiction, —the whole range of literature.

The modern library, Milnor said, has a broader role as an educator and as a community center in which people can search for job opportunities for instance. She said that the Swedish retailer IKEA is going to have an online application station for Somerville residents at the Central Branch soon.

The Central Library is in the midst of renovation, and our interview was often punctuated with the sound of workmen, and the scuttle of painters and carpenters outside Milnor’s open door. Milnor said that the plaster is being repaired, new carpets are being appointed, and she expects all this to be done by the fall.

Milnor said she is an “amateur poet”, and that one of her advanced degrees from the University of Tennessee is in English. She lists her favorite bards as Eliot, and Plath, among others. She said she may even sample the poetic fare of Somerville’s literary group the “Bagel Bards” that meets every Saturday morning at the Au Bon Pain in Davis Square.

Milnor is a dyed-in-the-wool archivist, and realizes the importance of preserving Somerville’s newspapers not only on microfilm but also in hard copy. Unlike the writer Nicholson Baker she doesn’t feel that there is a systematic plan to destroy books and newspapers by university or public libraries.

Milnor said she is dedicated to making the library “Even better.” As I left her office she was already on the phone -- undoubtedly making that vision happen.

Sunday, August 03, 2008

This is where you go when you are gone by Tim Gager




This is where you go when you are gone
by Timothy Gager
http://www.timgager.com
Cervena Barva Press, $7.00
www.cervenabarvapress.com

A review by Mignon Ariel King

One might expect less poetry from a natural-born fiction writer than appears in Tim Gager's "this is where you go when you are gone (2008)." The collection is indeed narrative, and the poet rarely jumps through linguistic hoops to display metaphoric magic. Yet, the emotion is raw and unapologetic, much like the Blues. There is no introduction to this distinctively masculine tale-like delivery. Instead, in the first poem "Moving Boxes" simply "sit like office furniture/like martyrs,/[...]full of contained memories"(11). Ouch.

Be prepared for the narrator to just barely contain himself as he observes and records the details of his "once great relationship"(11) as if merely talking to himself. He pretty much is talking to himself--walking, sitting, standing, drinking, drinking, and drinking some more--in a daze in an empty room. There is an overabundant supply of bitter break-up poetry to be had, so much so that this narrator is actually a refreshing change. What rescues the brokenhearted voice from boring the reader is his consistent questioning and lack of focus on himself. His longing is enticing. There is no disembodied "she" plaguing him. There is always only "you."

Oddly, poems in the collection that are not about the dissolution of a marriage have greater literary complexity, are darker, and can be harsh. When the narrator discovers that a baseball bat from his grandfather's barn belonged to "no silver slugger/he never hit a lick"(13) he sounds pretty ticked off about it. He even chastises his younger self for asking a stupid question after his uncle loses a limb in the war. He seems furious with everyone except "you" and booze. Halfway through the collection, a sarcastic and annoyed voice is at full volume. "I've Drunk the Holidays" sums up major avoidance and complete self-awareness rolled into one. The narrator drinks everything he encounters in twelve stanzas: "the sea...the limestone of Mount Rushmore...the sun always rising...the last slice of apple pie...the car payments...."(18-19).

Gager's "reply to someone who said my poems are all sad" is hilarious. The first line is "fluffy white cotton tail bunnies"(29). You'll have to go read the rest. Certainly, "sad" does not do the poet justice. A narrator who makes gritty references to Tom Waits, carries cash and no cell phone, so must "[drive] miles in dust/to find this pay phone/to whisper in your ear/i love you baby" is much deeper than "sad." He is pure melancholy, and in these poems, melancholy is a beautiful thing.

To truly appreciate the collection: turn off the overheads, skip the tea, and read like a man, dammit, for Gager is best in a dimly-lit room accompanied by an ice-cold beer. This poetry might break your heart, but you will survive, and learn, and ultimately want more...

FALLING THROUGH THE EARTH: A Memoir by Danielle Trussoni


FALLING THROUGH THE EARTH
A Memoir by Danielle Trussoni
Henry Holt and Company, LLC
New York, NY 10010
Copyright 2006
Pages = 240


“Memoir is, for better and often for worse, the genre of our times…..there is no faster way to smother the core meaning of a life, its elusive threads and connections, than with the heavy blanket of narrated event…..”
Sven Birkits
The Art of Time in Memoir
Then, Again


Birkits is only suggesting that we now have a compulsion to write about the events of our own lives, seemingly like never before, and that a straight linear narrative of these events is rather bland and pointless. I happen to agree, drawn myself to memoir as a way of trying to expiate, redeem and capture something about what I’ve moved through and what’s moved through me. So it was that I encountered this extraordinary memoir by a young Italian-American woman from Wisconsin called, “Falling through the Earth.” Relieved that it wasn’t a story about drug rehab, or serial killing or a shop-a-holic chick, I was eager to dive into a memoir about a father-daughter bond overshadowed, or even pre-determined in this case, by his participation in the Vietnam War. In one sense it is a “coming of age” story, but unusual because it’s the father-daughter, not the mother-daughter alliance/wound reckoned with.

Danielle Trussoni is practically my contemporary, growing up in the 1970’s, after her father has returned from active duty in Vietnam. After an incredibly tough childhood, spent mostly with her Dad in a dive bar in the boonies of the mid-west called Roscoe’s, she manages to graduate from the University of Wisconsin and then to attend the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. Through it all, her father’s ghost haunts her – his toughness, his broken heart, his humor and his mad denial of what the war actually did to him and his family. Danielle, who her father Dan calls, “Danielle-my-belle” as they find bar stools next to each other, remains under his spell through a divorce, through many abusive and neglectful emotional episodes, and finally through an adolescent stint living with him in a shack-like house on the shady South Side of her town, La Crosse. She hones her brilliant mind, which remains a bedrock of sanity and observation, toward flashing light on the wreckage through which she grew, like the Japanese root Kudzu, up through rock to sweeten the earth with her wisdom and generosity and story-telling.

Rather than give us the David Copperfield version of life, the, And then, and then that Birkits rather dislikes, she refracts our attention, leaping from turning point to turning point, with a parallel story of herself visiting Vietnam to understand her father’s journey for perspective on “the other side” and the present there. We have the young Danielle’s growing up in a quickly disintegrating childhood nuclear family where once a stalwart and loving father planted three trees on a place called, “Trussoni Court” for his three children, two girls and a boy. The mother is loving, practical and seemingly capable of dealing with all her husband’s bravado and alcohol abuse. One day Danielle finds a notebook in which her mother has marked, like a bar graph, how much she feels she’s loved by her husband and three children. While her son Matt and daughter Kelly score high marks, Danielle is chagrined to find that she and her father share a mediocre 4 on the scale. Gradually, her father’s womanizing and temper drive her mother to simply edge away from the family and seek autonomy by getting a job and a college degree. The house falls into disrepair and disorganization as Dad is incapable of much but working as a laborer and then hiding away at his local bar. Danielle’s mother divorces him and marries another man-- safer, more prosperous and more “normal.”

Danielle is the daughter who serves as her father’s protective shield, his charm. She is also his main confidante about what happened in Vietnam, where he was drafted after an angry ex-girlfriend turned his name into the draft-board. One day Danielle finds a skull that her father has brought home as a talisman or prize for his own dubious valor in carrying out the bloody agenda of the U.S. government. A stocky and hard-headed Italian from a big family of boys, with a handsome face and devil-may-care attitude, Trussoni falls in with a platoon whose main soldier-leader chooses to be what’s known as a tunnel rat. This gig involves braving the Viet Cong constructed underworld of tunnels and rooms where they go ingeniously to escape U.S. bombing raids and Agent Orange. Obviously, there’s not much to cover your back when you’re many feet under the earth. As it happens, Trussoni’s best buddy and partner in this undertaking is a man named Goodman, who ultimately, takes an AK-40 bullet explosion to his head, instead of Trussoni whose turn it was to flash a light and go down himself. He will later pay a visit to Goodman’s family and explain what happened. They are grateful. He begins to see what the brutality of the war meant. It is almost too late, as he has cancer of the esophagus and his daughter has finally told him what he did by his denial to the family.
For this, she is granted no mercy but her own realization is worth her father’s punishing silence.

The book never falls to melodrama and it moves with an unusually humane love-bond which takes Danielle through many changes but keeps her a fair and honest witness to the family’s and her own story.

In one comically black humor scene, Danielle, finds herself alone with her traumatized, lonely father, even though custody after the divorce was given to the mother. Danielle still feels she’s the outsider with Dad. He stocks the pantry with his cold-cuts and beer. She takes to wearing fishnets and an old trench coat, finally finding a lover in another Italian high schooler who likes high-speed sledding and seems super-cool. When caught in the love-making act, her father is with his new girlfriend Debbie, an alcoholic ditz who winds up pouring tequila shots for the four of them, while Danielle offers biting responses to her father’s intrusive questions. He’s been balling every trashy middle-aged woman from Roscoe’s since the divorce and Danielle’s been left alone most of the time to fend for herself. The dialogue goes something like this:

“Dad sized up Tony. He said, ‘You sit down too, Romeo.”

Tony said, “I really have to get going.”

“What?” Dad said, pretending to be offended. Can’t have a drink with your girlfriends’ old man?”

In the end, the two lovers are separated, not by this busting, but because Danielle’s father puts her to work under-age at as dishwasher/ busboy, which eventually leads to her economic independence. It is, in fact, her mother’s Deus ex machine like return to teach Danielle to drive at 16, that finally makes her realize the real value of her mother and the love they share. It actually gives her back a lost piece of her own feminine sanity.

While visiting Vietnam, in her mid-20s, Danielle falls in with a married couple from the same hotel. She is strangely shadowed by an American in dark sunglasses who seems to know who she is, or who her father was, but this is never clearly resolved – a small weakness in the book. Though the tunnels have become museum pieces, Danielle still goes down into one, kissing the earth and insects of her father’s captivity. She tries to dig up some earth and the tour guide stops her. In another turning point, after her hotel room is almost broken into by the mysterious stalker, Danielle walks out of her zone into another part of Saigon where she finds a Buddhist temple and winds up praying for the spirits of the dead. It is the one time that she seems to find a sanctuary for reconciliation and forgiveness in a country still showcasing their victory over America, but also still impoverished and strangely based on a tourist principle of luring Americans back to see the war-sites.

This is an engrossing and masterfully composed account of a young woman’s tough love for a half-mad Dad whose fate has been irrevocably twisted by the Vietnam War and his own stalwart and addictive bent. It manages to jump-cut in time while etching vivid details in dialogue and description of what really happened, how it unravels, and then sort of ravels back together in a new way.

As Shawn Colvin sings on “Steady On:” “China gets broken, and it will never be the same. Boats on the ocean, find a way back again.”

So it is with Danielle Trussoni, who like Marguerite Duras, escapes a collapsed family to become a brilliant writer, using old ghosts to meet her own destiny with light and hope.

Lo Galluccio’s prose-poem memoir “Sarasota VII” will be released on Cervena Barva Press in the fall of 2008. She is also a vocal artist and poet.

Friday, August 01, 2008

Poetry Workshop with Doug Holder--September (2008)






Call to register 617- 559-6999









Course ID: W1022

Course Name: Demystifying Poetry Writing & Publishing (Writing & Speaking)
Description: Doug Holder is a widely published poet and founder of the Ibbetson Street Press of Somerville, which has produced books of poetry and journals since 1998. Join Doug as he demystifies the poetry writing and publishing process. We'll develop our poems in a supportive atmosphere, and provide tips for getting your work published. Many students in this class have gone on to publish their poetry in small literary magazines, and some have even started their own magazines. This course is perfect for the novice poet or the poet who has been away from the "scene" for a while. Please bring three poems to the first session (six copies of each). There will be a field trip to the Newton Free Library Poetry series where students will have a chance to read from their work.



Instructor: Douglas Holder
Time: 6:45pm to 8:45pm on Tuesday
Location: Newton SOUTH HS in Room 2105
Tuition: $116
No Class Dates: (No class Sept 30)
Classes are from 9/23/2008 to 11/4/2008. There will be 6 sessions.














About Doug Holder:





Doug Holder was born in Manhattan, N.Y. on July 5, 1955. A small press activist, he founded the Ibbetson Street Press in the winter of 1998 in Somerville, Mass. He has published over 40 books of poetry of local and national poets and over 20 issues of the literary journal Ibbetson Street. Holder is the arts/editor for The Somerville News, a co-founder of "The Somerville News Writers Festival," and is the curator of the "Newton Free Library Poetry Series" in Newton, Mass. His interviews with contemporary poets are archived at the Harvard and Buffalo University libraries, as well as Poet's House in NYC. Holder's own articles and poetry have appeared in several anthologies including: Inside the Outside: An Anthology of Avant-Garde American Poets (Presa Press) Greatest Hits: twelve years of Compost Magazine (Zephyr Press) and America's Favorite Poems edited by Robert Pinsky. His work has also appeared in such magazines as: Rattle, Doubletake, Hazmat, The Boston Globe Magazine, Caesura, Sahara, Linden Lane, Poesy, Small Press Review, Artword Quarterly, Manifold (U.K.), The Café Review, the new renaissance and many others. His two most recent poetry collections are: "Of All The Meals I Had Before..." ( Cervena Barva- 2007)) and "No One Dies at the Au Bon Pain" ( sunyoutside-2007). He expects his collection "THE MAN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MIDTOWN TUNNEL" to be out in 2008. ( Cervena Barva Press) He holds an M.A. in Literature from Harvard UniversityDoug Holder was born in Manhattan, N.Y. on July 5, 1955. A small press activist, he founded the Ibbetson Street Press in the winter of 1998 in Somerville, Mass. He has published over 40 books of poetry of local and national poets and over 20 issues of the literary journal Ibbetson Street. Holder is the arts/editor for The Somerville News, a co-founder of "The Somerville News Writers Festival," and is the curator of the "Newton Free Library Poetry Series" in Newton, Mass. His interviews with contemporary poets are archived at the Harvard and Buffalo University libraries, as well as Poet's House in NYC. Holder's own articles and poetry have appeared in several anthologies including: Inside the Outside: An Anthology of Avant-Garde American Poets (Presa Press) Greatest Hits: twelve years of Compost Magazine (Zephyr Press) and America's Favorite Poems edited by Robert Pinsky. His work has also appeared in such magazines as: Rattle, Doubletake, Hazmat, The Boston Globe Magazine, Caesura, Sahara, Linden Lane, Poesy, Small Press Review, Artword Quarterly, Manifold (U.K.), The Café Review, the new renaissance and many others. His two most recent poetry collections are: "Of All The Meals I Had Before..." ( Cervena Barva- 2007)) and "No One Dies at the Au Bon Pain" ( sunyoutside-2007). He expects his collection "THE MAN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MIDTOWN TUNNEL" to be out in 2008. ( Cervena Barva Press) He holds an M.A. in Literature from Harvard University.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Jacob Wirth: Boston, Mass.



Jacob Wirth is a historic old tavern in Boston that I have been eating and drinking in since I was a snot-nosed Boston University undergrad. I have an old poster from Wirth's in which they quote a waiter Fredrick Fritz Furth (1875-1951):

" Yesterday it was the fathers who were my friends. Today, it is the sons. Yesterday, a man came in and brought his boy. Today, that boy's son came in and calls me Fritz...

I look at the young man and see the father, and my memory goes back to many things when I should be thinking of frankfurters and pumpernickel bread.."

JACOB WIRTH ( Boston, Mass. 1868 to? )



The sawdust

on the floor

has gone the way

of all dust.



But it is the hard slap

of the house dark

on the dark, mahogany bar

that sustains me.



Yes ,

they have made

concessions

to a high

definition TV

but the ancient

beaten ivories

of the piano

still hold its torch songs

on Friday nights.





It seems

there is still a wholesome, yellow statement

of cornbread,

and a saucer of

baked beans.



The long dining room

has stretched over 100 years

and in the rear

there is a pay phone

in its battered booth

before you hit the head.



And that din of laughter--

(and I admit

I miss the cigar smoke)

and the bright red--

sheaves of corned beef

sprouting from dark bread.





What was once alive in this city

is still

not quite

dead.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Poet Elizabeth Quinlan revisits a troubled childhood with her poetry collection “Promise Supermarket.”




Poet Elizabeth Quinlan revisits a troubled childhood with her poetry collection “Promise Supermarket.”




"We climbed the fence,
picked through the garbage from the high rise.
Among the vegetable peelings,
rotting chicken, we found
parts of broken toys and pieces
of jewelry, gems and chains.”

(“Treeless Yard”—“Promise Supermarket”)

Elizabeth Quinlan has been a member of the Writers Workshop at the William Joiner Center at UMass Boston for the past ten years. She was an honor student in the Creative Writing Program at UMass and is a graduate of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, where she specialized in Book Art. She is the author of the poetry collection “Promise Supermarket” from Somerville’s Ibbetson Street Press. It deals with hardscrabble childhood in Chelsea, Mass, a city on the outskirts of Boston.


Doug Holder: Elizabeth you told me the writer, poet and political activist, Grace Paley made you realize that a woman can write about even the everyday occurrences in her life. It was all right for you to write about being a single mother, your kids, and even your period.

Elizabeth Quinlan: I was first exposed to Grace Paley at UMass Boston. I believe it was in the late Ron Schreiber’s class. He was a wonderful teacher. I think it was ENGLISH 101 in the early 70’s. We read her stories, and at the same time we read Tillie Olsen. Two amazing writers that wrote a lot about mothering, bathing children, all the things that I thought wouldn’t make for good poetry. I was at the time a young mother.

DH: You have been a student at the William Joiner Workshop for the last 10 years at the U/Mass Harbor Campus in Boston. Tell us about the program, your involvement, and how it has helped your development as a writer?

EQ: It’s remarkable. People come from all over the world to study at the Joiner. The have had a playwright from Rwanda, women from Bosnia, filmmakers, incredible. They have poetry, nonfiction, fiction and memoir. Grace Paley was there every year. She was a very down to earth woman. She focused on stories that were hard to write.

When I came to the Joiner I had already been writing poetry. The workshops were always high quality. Teachers were very open. I had a memorable workshop with Michael Casey in publishing, as well as others.

DH: You have studied Book Art. What does that entail?

EQ: At the Fine Arts School I studied drawing, printmaking, and techniques like mono printing which I use in my Book Art. I do special books for people. I recently did one for a woman who was dying of cancer. I have been making books for kids for a while. I learned papermaking and marbling techniques. I have developed my own techniques for kids that are non-toxic that I can use with children starting around age 3.

DH: The acclaimed poet Martha Collins, the author of “Blue Front,” wrote the forward to your collection “ Promise Supermarket.” Could you talk about your relationship with her?

EQ: When I cam back to UMass in the 80’s I worked with Collins in the Honors Program. Later I worked one on one with her. She has always been such a great friend. I came to the workshop with a early version of the manuscript of “Promise Supermarket.” It is nothing like I have now. She helped me edit the manuscript. It is cleaner and stronger as a result. I never felt she changed my voice. She pointed out the poems that were weaker and they were taken out.

DH: “Promise Supermarket” is a hard book to read. It deals with a very troubled childhood, and a very troubled and abusive father. Why did you choose to relive this painful time through poetry?

EQ: When I was in art school in 1975 I started painting images of violence and abuse. I kept journals. Images were coming out in my dreams. I was recording these images. I was in denial about this shadow that was following me around. It was a great source of shame and fear. I started to write bits of things over the years. I wanted to figure out where I came from—how did I get to this place?

DH: Why did you use the Promise Supermarket as your focal point?

EQ: There is a promise in food. There is a lot of hunger in this world. Food is evocative and sensual. Whether it is the smell of it, the taste, the touch, the memory of it. The promise is one of hope. I think there is a sense of hope in this collection. There is the child’s spirit throughout.


Doug Holder/Ibbetson Street Press/ July, 2008

Doug Holder/ Ibbetson Update/ July 2008/ Somerville, Mass.

Friday, July 25, 2008

Break Time. Edited by Joseph Bergin. www.carpenterpoets.org







Break Time. Edited by Joseph Bergin. http://carpenterpoets.org


In the Boston area, like many other enlightened urban areas, we have poets of all stripes living and reading in close proximity. Off hand I can think of the SLAM poets at the Cantab Lounge in Cambridge, the STONE SOUP POETS at the Out of the Blue Art Gallery in the same city, the Bagel Bards who bake in the summer sun at the Au Bon Pain in the Davis Square section of Somerville, the high-toned, and rarefied academic crowd who congregate at the Blacksmith House in Harvard Square, and the list goes on… Well, a few years back, a group of carpenters was working on a mansion on Fisher Hill in Brookline, Mass, when they came across some poems from “Hammer,” by poet and carpenter Mark Turpin. Basically these blue-collar bards were up to the challenge and they started to write poems about carpentry. They had a poetry night and nineteen men and women read their work, and so the “ Carpenter Poets” of Jamaica Plain were born. In the introduction to this volume it is written:

“There’s much to be said about parallels between writing and carpentry. There’s the act of creating something out of common supplies, fitting board-to-board, word-to-word, the beauty of the product and pride in the craft. The house we live in, the poem that lives in us.”


Many of the poems in this collection marry many of the varied props of the carpentry life to the life- at- large, and the life of the poem. The poems are fleshed with the unexpectedly beautiful objects and moments that these men and women encounter in their day’s work.

In the poem “Machine,” by Noah H. Gordon an old carpenter and bard evokes his carnal younger life inspired by a dusty lumber room:

“With Honey flow through lumber room dust
as my mind harkens back to that younger time
I wish a miscut was my only crime
Lord, let me at long last be free lust…

Now as I pass my hands along the wood
It is as though your warm flesh I caress
We merged for a moment in the darkness
And then we were swept along in life’s flood

I’ve learned to drill out love in the machine
Drifting in the world like I’m in a dream.”


Recommended.

Doug Holder/ Ibbetson Update

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

A Short Film"Bagel Bards" produced by Chad Parenteau

THE BAGEL BARDS

A group of poets and writers that meet every Saturday morning at the Au Bon Pain in Davis Sq, Somerville at 9AM



Adam's Ribs by Terry Adams




Adam’s Ribs
Poems by Terry Adams
Off the Grid Press
P.O. Box 84
Weld, Maine 04285
www.offthegridpress.net
ISBN: 978-0-9778429-2-6
Copyright © 2008 Terry Adams


At first take, I tried to shape a thought-link between the book title and the author’s name.
An assumption that “Adam’s Ribs” was a word-play alluding to the author himself,
(the author, of course named Terry Adams, with an “s”). Or that this collection poses
poetical claim to the fated “first man”, also known in the Kabala as the “Primal Man”.
The title poem could be read as an allegory for the poetic process where the actual ribs of Adam are ornaments of earthly understanding:

“The toil of all my days will live me again.” . . .
My children will crawl upon the earth
and nest on the earth; will increase themselves
out of their skins and give their old masks to the earth,”

Not a rejoicing in death, but a theme of returning and conclusion gives spine to Adams’ work.
“Adam’s Ribs” examines and exhumes the realm of mortality as it diffuses its chalky hand through the mundane-everyday.Terry Adams’ images are colorful, his subject matter is often risky,(the poem “Balls” for instance), and his style is anecdotal. The poems flux between short and long,the latter being at-odds with the current literary climate.

A high level of searching and reflection prods the speaker’s voice throughout.
A literal holding up of details, to both reveal and revel in.
The poem, “After the Laying-On of Hands” holds a sad tone. The act of laying-on-of-handsretains its metaphysical nature and purpose while at the same time, the poem takes on a Tibetan “Book of the Dead”- ish feel:

“He is an embryo feeling the vague drama
of his mother’s life though
a scrim of stretched flesh,
before the forces beyond itself deliver it out against any will.
I dream I would heal him by touching him,
because I contain an excess of the battles with many deaths.
I would rest my hand on his tumor,
make it glow hot and golden
in the shape of his diaphragm,
dissolve the cancer cells into
a little Eucharist of waste, an abortion
of the fore life, but he will not finish
as a living man.”



In “Forgiveness”, Adams arrives through a round-about way to acknowledging an undisclosed person who committed a crime that almost escaped going unnoticed. Or is the speaker forgiving himself forfinding what he found? The speaker finds a mother dog and six puppies all shot through the head in a clearing by the interstate,“skeletons lined up neatly / like bodybags in the news from a minor nation.”

The speaker announces, to either themself, the reader of the killer of the
dogs that this poem is a wish poem and that:

. . . “I wished for / the impossible. I wished
something other than insanity or cruelty
did the killing, and my wish
is a crime against understanding.”
Finally resolving:
“I can’t stop thinking
of all the possible excuses
for the killer, all the kinds os desperation
living out there with a gun
and no face.”

In the final poem, “I Want to See”, Adams wants to see every thought he ever thought
written down; a bold statement, a tough task and totally scarey for anyone to dare see.
He intends:
“I want worded the echoing caves where I first understood,
and each sensation of singular time expanded to a phrase.”

“The Dump” is a catalogue of the old remnants of life that get “plowed under”
for real in the dump after serving their purpose. The speaker “lofts” and throws these
“components of every whole / thing no longer a whole” while ruminating:
“The Apache have a word Alaya, that means
‘Changes while flying through air’.”

“Adam’s Ribs” brings an amalgam of worldly details to the surface and leaves them
unsheathed in celebration.

Mike Amado is a reviewer for the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scense
and the author of "stunted Inner Child Shot the TV" ( Cervena Barva Press).

From the Paris of New England: Interviews with Poets and Writers





I am currently working on a collection of my interviews that for the most part appeared in The Somerville News. Caitlin Jackson, an intern from the Connectitut College, is currently editing the collection. This book hopefully will be out in the fall through my own press the "Ibbetson Street Press." Mike Basinski, curator the Poetry and Rare Book Collection at the University of Buffalo has agreed to write the introduction. This will be volume 1 ... I plan to to do a second volume in late 2009...if the god lord is willing and the creek don't rise...



--Doug Holder





Below is the title and the list of interviews....













From the Paris of New England: Interviews with Poets and Writers








With Doug Holder











Author’s Note



Publications where these interviews have appeared:



The Somerville News

Hunger Magazine

Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene (online)

Middlesex Beat

Poesy

Spare Change News

Some Other Magazine (online)















Special Thanks To:



Donald and Jamie Norton, Biil Tauro (The Somerville News) Wendy Blom (Somerville Community Access TV), Steve Gilnes (ISCS Press), Caitlin Jackson, Mike Basinki (Buffalo University Libraries).







Table of Contents
Eva Salzman…………………………………………………………………7

Mike Basinski………………………………………………………………...10

Errol Uys…………………………………………………………………….13

Lan Samantha Chang………………………………………………………..16

Louisa Solano………………………………………………………………..18

Miriam Levine……………………………………………………………….20

Mark Doty…………………………………………………………………...23

Claire Messud………………………………………………………………..28

Lisa Beatman…………………………………………………………………30

Martha Collins………………………………………………………………..32

Dick Lourie…………………………………………………………………35

Robert Creeley…………………………………………………………………38

Afaa Michael Weaver…………………………………………………………40

Jack Powers………………………………………………………………...42

Ed Sanders…………………………………………………………………..45

Tom Perrotta…………………………………………………………………48

Diana Der-Hovanessian………………………………………………………50

Luke Salisbury…………………………………………………………………52

Sarah Hannah…………………………………………………………………55

Hugh Fox……………………………………………………………………...57



Lo Galluccio…………………………………………………………………60



Timothy Gager……………………………………………………………….63



Gloria Mindock…………………………………………………………66



Marc Widershien…………………………………………………………67



Deborah M. Priestly………………………………………………………71



Steve Almond…………………………………………………………….73



Pagan Kennedy


Robert K.Johnson

Harris Gardner

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Ibbetson Street Press Author Susie Davidson Brings “In Gratitude and Hope” to the German-Jewish communities.



( Vorwerk -- Right)


Ibbetson Street Press Author Susie Davidson Brings “In Gratitude and Hope” to the German-Jewish communities.

By Doug Holder

The Ibbetson Street Press of Somerville has released a collection of remarks titled: “In Gratitude and Hope,” made to the Boston-area Jewish community by former German Consul to Boston Wolfgang K. Vorwerk. Vorwerk who was Consul from 2004 to June 2008 was asked to speak at the annual Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Memorial Day) services at Faneuil Hall in Boston in 2005. During his tenure Vorwerk has reached out to the Jewish community. Vorwerk made presentations at Temple Israel in Boston, Temple Shalom in Newton, Mass, House of Representatives, State House, Boston, Mass., and other forums. He facilitated German/Jewish dialogue; spoke to Holocaust survivors, Nazi resistors, and the general community-at-large. Vorwerk has also helped with the funding of several Holocaust-related initiatives.

In response to requests Jewish Advocate journalist and editor of the Holocaust anthology “I Refused to Die…,” ( Ibbetson Street) Susie Davidson has edited and annotated a collection of the former Consul’s remarks. This 93 page book includes photos, a foreword by Vorwerk, and a speech by German Chancellor Angela Merkel before the Knesset in Israel, among other highlights.

Vorwerk has displayed much sensitivity to the Jewish community. The Consul is well aware that some segments of the Jewish community harbor anger towards Germans and Germany. Vorwerk emphasizes past issues do not have to render all parties mute. In his own remarks he recalls his own struggle with the past, and the responsibility left to all Germans today.

The book was given out to Holocaust survivor community members at a June 22, 2008 luncheon at Temple Emeth in Chestnut Hill. Vorwerk, Davidson are convinced that that the book will leave behind a deep and lasting historic impression for the community, and many generations to come.

Copies can be purchased through the Ibbetson Street Press: http://www.ibbetsonpress.com contact 617-628-2313

And:

German Consulate pr-ioo@bost.diplo.de 617-369-4917

Monday, July 21, 2008

Small Press Fair at Lowell+ Mass. Poetry Festival

( click on title for more info. about festival)


The Small Press Fair: When we were first asked to be a part of this festival, we expressed our idea that in order for this to really "work" that we should highlight small press publishing and show its importance to the craft of poetry—without a small press culture, there is no sustainable poetics.



The goal is to reach out and draw in a sizable crowd--one which will hopefully support poetry by buying books. We'd like to think that Lowell could become a Columbus Day destination every year--you come and sell books and hang out in Kerouac's city in the middle of a New England autumn. The city will also be covered with poetry as public art and should be a visual treat.



But this can't happen without some help from you—to add some legitimacy to this event.



If you are interested?



Please contact us as soon as possible. The Book Fair and related panels will take place all day on Saturday, October 11th.



We will also keep you in contact of events as they arise and are booked--and can help with suggestions if you choose to stay in downtown Lowell for one or two of the nights--The Doubletree is a great hotel, very affordable, right at the heart of all the events in downtown--only a stones throw away from Kerouac Park--has nice views of the city, canals, the Merrimack River (immortalized by both Kerouac and Thoreau) and the New Hampshire hills. Drive about an hour in any direction from Lowell and you could end up in Boston, Providence, the beginning of Cape Cod, Salem MA, Gloucester MA, The New Hampshire and Maine Coasts, the Appalachian trail in New Hampshire (great hiking), the Berkshires, Walden Pond--the list goes on....



More… about Lowell & the Mass Poetry Festival:



Lowell already has a strong literary tradition to build from, and since Lowell received status as a Historic National Park over 25 years ago, the city has focused effort and funding to promote itself as a historic and cultural destination. As part of the milieu of a revitalized downtown, the largest and (we would argue) most successful free music and ethnic Folk Festival in the country, as well as the rich cultural history represented with its population—Lowell will begin hosting what we hope will be a successful and energetic Poetry Festival every year.



Members of the planning committee are drawing off of prior experience as well as contacts and institutional organizations that have made Lowell a great place to hold Festivals: i.e. The Lowell Folk Festival, Cultural Organization of Lowell (COOL), The Revolving Museum, and UMass Lowell are just a few of the organizations involved in planning and (just as importantly) in securing funding.


--
Derek Fenner and Ryan Gallagher
Bootstrap Productions
www.bootstrapproductions.org
bootstrapproductions@gmail.com

Friday, July 18, 2008

Review of Home: Anthology Edited by Anne Brudevold






Eden Waters Press 2008

Edited by Anne Brudevold

http://edenwaterspress.com





If the fragrance of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies wafting out of an eight-room suburban colonial conjures home to you, then reading “Home: Antholgy” (Eden Waters Press 2008) will bring you back. If the rat-a-tat of gunfire on the mean streets of the inner city pockmarked your childhood neighborhood, ditto.



Editor Anne Brudevold has deftly woven together the work of forty-one writers to compile an anthology that spans the range of contemporary human habitat. Many fresh, unexpected images of home pop out at the reader, in the poems themselves, and in the stirring photographs liberally scattered throughout. In “House over the World”, Paul Hotovsky’s daughter dreams of long division, and “the dream turns into the nightmare/ of our house divided by the world.” The poem is as elegantly concise as an equation. An Armenian massacre of poets in 1915 is chronicled in “Coming Home” by Daniel Varoujan, translated by Diana Der-Hovanessian: “Let the oven’s smoke rise/ to mix with the blue smoke of the roofs.”



Oddly, a poem about homelessness asserts one of the most striking statements about making a home where you can. Pam Rosenblatt’s “By the Highway” voices the fundamental need for “what’s rightfully ours” in childlike repetitions: “we live here we live here we live here” – here being by an off-ramp of Massachusetts Interstate 93.



I was reminded of Jack London’s vast, crushing wilderness in Holly Anderson’s “Bovina, 4 PM.” “A motherless mob of ridges” tears through a “Braille of ridges”. The language in these poems runs the gamut from austere to ambrosial.



“Love Song for Roxbury”, Bernadette Davidson’s ode to a multi-cultural pocket of Boston, features an overflowing laundromat and “salsa erupting”, bringing to mind Octavio Paz’s classic “Mexican silence”, punctuated by cock crow and babies crying.



For all of us, no matter where we came from, the visceral punch of home informs who we are, who we have become. Turning each page of “Home” opens a window into the life of someone else on the planet we are thankful to get to know. We walk home with Tom Sheehan, in “Compensation”, to greet his wife who is emptying the trash: “Thread me into your labors/weave me onto the high day.” “Home” will make a conversation-starting coffee-table book in any studio apartment, mansion, or yurt.



Reviewed by Lisa Beatman, author of Manufacturing America: Poems from the Factory Floor (Ibbetson Street Press 2008).

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Reviews of Don Winter's No Way Out But In/ Soul Noir by Mike Kriesel

( Mike Kriesel)

(Don Winter)


No Way Out But In, Don Winter, 2008, 25p. Working Stiff Press, P.O. Box 1274, Niles, Michigan 49120, $10, workingstiffpress@hotmail.com.

Todd Moore



Some books appear like comets. They get the newspaper spread, the National Public Radio talk show buzz. It’s red carpet all the way, the Billy Collins treatment on Garrison Keillor, the Barnes and Noble book signings. Some books make less auspicious appearances, like a grenade with the pin pulled rolling out on the sidewalk or a Molotov cocktail with the fuse lit, all ready to throw. These are the kinds of books I like because they are all about content and have no hint of glitz or hype whatsoever.



Don Winter’s No Way Out But In is this kind of book. Published by Working Stiff Press and selling for ten bucks, this book is a steal. This book contains some of the best poetry I’ve seen in a while. These poems remind me of the best work of Phillip Levine. And, here’s another guess. Maybe Winter knows the work of Raymond Carver as well.



One of the blurbs on the back of No Way Out mentions Hemingway and Bukowski, and while these writers are almost everyone’s influences, I think Winter’s poetry has an originality and power that is uniquely his own. As Gary Goude states in his masterly introduction, Don Winter is a working class poet, whose poetry comes out of the Midwest rust belt. Detroit, working class bars and diners, factories, the street wise, and the street poor. Some of these poems have layers of angst so thick you need a broken bottle to cut into and then through them.



2 a.m. The moon rises

above Birmingham Steel.

At 20th and Tuscaloosa

men keep warm by a fire

made from fence posts

and garage doors….

(from “Unions”)



Winter’s poetry takes place in a visceral world where French fries and broken glass are frozen to the pavement, where “faces float/ like torn pages/ across the diner windows.” The best thing about Don Winter’s poetry is that there is no whining. Instead what you find is a kind of tough guy stoicism. The poet narrator is going through a bad divorce. His world is sliding sideways away from him but somehow he manages to keep going, even though that going is taking him nowhere:



Two hundred for the night, two bones

from her dealer later, we jumped

into a Checker cab.

Back in my room,

the dope dropped my head

like a tulip.

She cleaned me out.

(from “Lonesome Town”)



There are resonances in Winter’s poetry which echo and remind me of something out of Raymond Chandler’s Red Wind, Charles Bukowski’s Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame, Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me, or maybe something out of one of my books. Maybe Point Blank or Burn Like a Shadow. In my opinion, Don Winter’s poetry has all the right stuff. It’s hard, it’s edgy, it makes no excuses, and it knows where it lives. The next best thing to breaking out of a dead end life is to live in it with enormous honesty and intensity.



The note at the end of “Late Shift Waitress at Wanda’s Grill” reads “this found poem cost me blood.” What Winter seems to have learned is that all poems cost you blood. Blood mixed with nightmare chills and fever dreams.







No Way Out But In, Don Winter, Working Stiff Press, P.O. Box 1274, Niles, Michigan 49120, $10, workingstiffpress@hotmail.com.



Soul Noir, Michael Kriesel, Platonic 3Way Press, P.O. Box 184, Warsaw, Indiana, 46581, $5,

evilgenius@platonic3waypress.com.

By Troy Schoultz



Don Winter and Michael Kriesel are not only two of the most generous poets I’ve come across as far as offering advice and encouragement, but I hungrily take in any new poetic statements they offer up, be it a collection or the stray poem in any of the more quality literary mags on the market. Both gentlemen have new chapbooks out, and we the readers reap the benefits.



No Way Out But In reads like a continuation of Winters’ previous chapbooks, Things About To Disappear and On The Line. That is no disparagement. His latest comes across as the third part of a trilogy. If anything, these poems take the urgency and desperation up a few notches. These are poems of volatile hell-raising youth (“Raw”), stabbing loneliness and doubt (“Do You Think We Should”), and the casualties of capitalism and an American dream, gone haywire (“Going On” and “Unions”).



These are poems in which Winter offers up heaping helpings of a vision set in the tepid, bleaker shade of the stars and stripes that shows our home country is not always the land of milk and honey, but also too often a Darwinian boxing ring where dreams are in danger of falling like mirrors to pavement.



Unlike other poets working with the same subject matter, Winter does not come across as annoyingly self-righteous, preachy, or too “born to lose” to hold relevance. If anything, there is a pugnacious stoicism, toughness and endurance. Many poets chronicling these darker themes of realism made their work seem simplistic and effortless (the big two, Carver and Bukowski, come to mind), but the wonder of Winter is that his lines and images unfurl like flags saturated in colors that make the reader give pause with the realization of being in the presence of a serious artist.



Consider these closing lines from “The Hamtramck Hotel”: “And you sleep between the station breaks/ and a rolling curtain of freight cars block out the river. / And the moon climbs/ as the stars drip steadily into the streets.”



Michael Kriesel doesn’t so much jot down poems as offer up landscapes. His latest chapbook, Soul Noir, takes the reader on visits both interactive and internal. From the opening poem, we huddle up in a small tavern under the glow of a neon beer sign and listen to a story of a UFO buzzing above haystacks. Whether or not Kriesel planned it, he has managed to create an authentic Wisconsin Poetry: conversational, to the point, anchored in the flavors of region, nostalgic, proud, melancholy, seeped in ritual, dream-like and authentic all in the same dance.



Kriesel’s world is a heady mix of rural roadside taverns, cemeteries, farmland and distant urban mental pictures. In fact, reading many of Kriesel’s poems is akin to running across old Polaroid snapshots in a thrift store, overripe with color, an eye fastened on to a past with all senses plugged into the here and now. Kriesel’s imagery is lucid and sensory. In “Bakelite Victrola Horn” he describes an early record player apparatus as “Yellow morning glory, clear and cloudy/ as orange marmalade, stem a metal comma, / black.” The sense of ritual runs deep in “Limbo” where the poet replaces the accidentally destroyed grave marker of an infant with a poem, “Let this be that baby’s marker. Let/ this let me move on.”



Don Winter and Michael Kriesel both accomplish a necessary and forgotten function with their poetry—the nourishment and healing of the human soul. It is an important component of the craft that MFA workshop participants would do well to acquaint themselves with.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Rare Book Alert: close to flat by Irene Koronas



Rare Book Alert: close to flat by Irene Koronas


by Michael Todd Steffen



Get interested if you find an 11 x 4 brown card cover booklet in an attractive purple band, with the simple title close to flat on the front. It is a handmade booklet by Irene Koronas,
of 11 poems that so gracefully associate their assorted thoughts and images that the reader can not extinguish them with simple readings. The poems are cryptic and curious, like riddles or puzzles. We have announcements of culprits that have set up this plan of fugitive defense in the poet’s responses: It’s “laura riding” (“we all creep before her”). It’s the poet’s aging mother

handing out hand outs
handy around the house
handmade patterns
hand sewn outfits
washing by hand…

It’s the “june 1, 2008 dream” of a men’s room and a blackened bombed out car.
Reminiscent of Gertrude Stein, Koronas exposes the structures of language—

that is this then
this then that
that brings within
that which that is…

—in an intriguing poem called “is this then that” consisting of only 10 different words over 15 lines. The poem echoes a wholly embraced distraction found in the first poem “temptation” in which the poet shirks typical intellectual pursuits, watching “a robin run”—
or has Koronas dissolved reading the newspaper and the memorial day parade to this image of the orange-breasted bandit-masked bird?
Characteristically feisty, contrary, Koronas likes to surprise us with gentler depths,

and when I die
I’ll miss the color orange (“grounded”)…

her humor,

her ninety three large years
close to within an inch
of being swept up…
gamblers predict her demise (“little book”)…

as well as her acceptance,
wind lifts, carries away
small poems
the blossom of each word
breaking down (“haiku 2”).

I was lucky enough to catch Irene with a copy to purchase for $10.00. The book is hand-cut and sewn. If the community at large is lucky Irene will have placed copies of close to flat at some of the local bookshops for the serendipity of curious browsers.

The Old Witch Winks





The Old Witch Winks Don Moyer (Beatitude Press, Berkeley California) No Price.

We’ve got a book of poems here that walks us through the wardrobe or the looking glass to a new world—odd and familiar. I can imagine reading only one of these poems and getting a sense of the dense atmosphere, but reading them collected in Don Moyer’s The Old Witch Winks is a thorough exploration of a crowded shop full of strange, evocative antiques.

Moyer’s verse refers frequently to the hairy angry early books of the Bible—the Lilith or Enoch times—he brings the concepts to a seedy present day America with its morally troubling politics and culture. The religious references are paired with icons of popular piety, Doris Day and little girls, family restaurants and the Presidency, perverting all of them with the language of foulness and death.

from Weedy Words & Curling Page: Prologue for a New Bible

Enoch walked with God for 365 years,
then rose to Heaven and saw the angels
plunge to earth and mate:
trim, winged bastards
astride
buckin’ Doris Days:
trippy cowgirls,
big blue
rippling eyes,
pink panties a-rippin’

The memory of World War Two and the importance of resisting Nazis provides another recurrent contrast, often subverted by profanity: farting, fucking. Nothing can be holy in our fallen bodies or our descending empire.

“Golem Bush” is a character in these poems, when he’s mentioned and when he’s not—the collection visits and revisits the idea of sacrifice made in good faith only to be squandered. The poem “Abraham considers God’s order to sacrifice his son, Isaac” begins with a moving image of a crushed model plane:

cousin Bobby built it,
balsa, paper, paint
a big fragile beauty
gift into accident.

There’s a lingering flavor of anger over the war in Iraq and the use of soldiers’ and civilian lives for petty ends. Moyer has given us a collection of powerful, timely poems.

--Catherine Nichols/Ibbetson Update/July, 2008/Somerville, Mass.

Monday, July 14, 2008

The Domestic Exotica of the Midwest in the poems of Peter Neil Carroll





The Domestic Exotica of the Midwest in the poems of Peter Neil Carroll
By Michael Todd Steffen

Riverbourne: A Mississippi Requiem by Peter Neil Carroll is a collection of 53 poems recording in verse the poet’s meanderings with friend “Jim” along the Mississippi River, starting north in Minneapolis and finishing south in Natchez, Mississippi. Years have elapsed between the first and second poems, between two similar trips taken by the companions who amuse themselves at observing religious billboards and who’s playing who on the baseball diamonds of the towns they pass through (Prescott, Wisconsin…Guttenberg, Iowa…Quincy, Illinois… St. Louis…Tiptonville, Tennessee…Benoit, Mississippi). Along with the silent parallel of T.S. Eliot’s Dry Salvages and its descriptive/symbolic use of the Mississippi River, frequent quotes from the writings of Mark Twain give the poems a literary resonance, with reference notes at the back of the collection. This second voyage takes place in 2005, building—toward the end with forecasts of rain to the announcement of Hurricane Katrina—to a sense of recent historical drama.
There is an interesting anachronism which occurs at the outset of the book: in the second poem the “two men, 29, divorced” have returned this time 33 years later (!), which would have made one of them, the one who speaks of standing on a bridge joining his thought to the river in the first poem, “I’d Stood On That Cold Bridge, 1972,” -4 years old, which gave me a fleeting glimpse of Dante and Virgil…
That first poem speaks with a lyrical intensity that will not be carried forth. Instead, mature, disillusioned, wry, Carroll’s language like the big river gathers “no white water or rapid falls” maintaining a “monotonous, steady flow”. In doing so, Carroll manages here and there surprising metaphors:

The big river pours south
as gravity wraps around the moon
(“Gravity and the River”).

Patience with the sequence of poems will yield the reader sensations of the domestic exotica which the Midwest and Delta South have to offer readers from other regions. Landscape has a prominent generalizing voice in the vast terrain—
Late sun leans against the Minnesota bluff
across the river, orange streaks skim
the current, snagged islands float offshore…
(“What They Talk About On Saturday Afternoon”)

—and the book is so rife with these vivid descriptive passages, readers are left with a sense of having taken that easy-paced voyage by the slow great river themselves.

Riverbourne by Peter Neil Carroll is available for $12.95 from Higganum Hill Books/ P.O. Box 666/ Higganum, CT 06441/ 800-888-4741/ www.ipgbook.com/www.calliope.org/hhh/>

Books of Hope: Brings the Writer Out in Somerville Youth








Books of Hope: Brings the Writer Out in Somerville Youth

Being a small press publisher I have always been impressed with the “Books of Hope,” project. I interviewed the former director Anika Nailah and her young charges on my Somerville Community Access TV “Poet to Poet: Writer to Writer” I was impressed how Nailah instilled a love for the “word” in these kids, many from the Mystic Housing Development in our city. For nine years the program has trained kids from the projects and elsewhere in four key areas: writing, publishing, performing, marketing and outreach. The youth are involved in many aspects of producing a book, and their development is advanced through a writer-in-residence, guest artists and mentors, as well as field trips. “Books of Hope” would be the envy of many presses producing high quality and beautifully illustrated chapbooks of poetry and fiction. Soul Brown, the new director, has sent me a slew of titles from this ambitious small press. Included are: 'A Cup of Truth With No Sugar Please,” by Tanisha D., “Broken Home & Other Tales From The Hood,” by Jessica Jean-Louis, “In Between The Lines Was A Story,” by Jessica Masse, 'Superwoman' by Tanisha D., “Simple Words Hide Amazing Secrets,” by Farah Jean-Baptiste, “What Time Will Only Show,” by Tanya Lovely Joseph, “Lightning Strikes Twice,” by Maisha B. Antoine “Changes,” by Reynalle Miranda Santanna, “The Many Voices In Me,” by Farah Jean Baptiste, and “Double Dutch,” by Bendhjy Wazaire and Onyx Thorton. I decided to use a few poems from this fine stash of verse.

TAKE A TRIP

Take a trip though my world where gold tooth boot
leg rappers walk around carryin STD’s picking
up chicks on the street then havin sex with
Them in front of the cable TV

Yo take a trip through my world where people
get shot for havin something valuable
Like a Playstation 3 or Bape Ape Fashion or
Maybe not something valuable, just because
They feel like it’s the season

Really take a trip through my world and
you would see gang violence like crazy
like blood fighting crips and MS13
fighting brave hearts.

Yo, if you took a trip through my world
love would be nothing but a dream
and hate would rule the world.

Shoot take a trip through my world and
you would get shot. Not even I would
take a trip through that world.

------Farah Jean-Baptiste









IN THE MIRROR

In the mirror in front of me
I see the real me…
The me that’s afraid to walk out
of the shadows and into the light
The me that you don’t know
but would like to know
The me that has felt the troubles
and sorrows of life
The me that’s crying on the inside
trying to find his way out of this world
that he came in
But too much stress going through his head
it just feels like he’s caving in.

In the mirror in front of me
I see a person who has mastered
the skill of illusions
A person who mastered the art


of hiding his true colors
A person who has mastered the skill
of shadowing his emotions
But knowing all that he still doesn’t know
happiness.

---Bendhjy Nazaire






9 MONTHS I'LL NEVER SEE

This feeling is forever
A feeling I’ll never treasure
It brings tears and makes my legs quiver
It burns inside when I think of the 9 months
I’ll never see
How I had something growing inside me
A baby
My heart shatters when I think of the face

I’ll never see
How I knew someone that never got the chance
To know me
But my dream of holding you is gone
It will never be
But your spirit will continue to play on inside me
Like a never ending melody
While my tears become a river
And the river an ocean
An ocean of what could have been
But can never be.

Tanya Lovely Joseph