Holder to his readers: "Take a walk."

The famed poet, Rock musician and memoirist Patti Smith told a graduating class at Pace University in New York City that if she had to tell students one thing about the creative life it would be to get good dental care. She said in her day ( She is 64), artists were pretty poor and they let their teeth go. She went on to say that you want to pace back and forth in your garret because you are in close contact with your muse, not because you need a root canal.

One thing I would add that is a necessity for a poet or writer is walking. I've written about it before. You know the old slogan " I 'd walk a mile for a Camel." Well, I'd walk 10 miles for the hell of it. In a recent article in the American Poetry Journal poet Ed Hirsch explains very nicely why walking is the right stimulant to get the creative juices flowing:

" Poetry is a vocation. It is not a career but a vocation. I have associated that calling with my life's work, with walking. I love the leisurely pace amplitude, the spaciousness of taking a walk, of heading anywhere, somewhere on foot. You cross a threshold, and you're on your way....Poetry is written from the body and mind, and the rhythm and the pace of a walk gets you going and grounded. It's kind of a light meditation.. Day dreaming is one of the key sources of poetry--a poem often starts as a daydream that finds it way into language--and walking seems to bring a different sort of alertness, an associative kind of thinking, a drifting state of mind."

If you have one book to read I would try Alfred Kazin's "A Walker in the City." Kazin remembered the walks he took as a child, and captures his neighborhood of Brownsville, Brooklyn--the dark and dank tenements where immigrant Jews from Russia and Poland lived lives of cramped desperation in the Depression Era. His walks lead him past the mysterious Irish and Italian neighborhoods, and even the enigmatic horizon of Manhattan, a veritable Emerald City for this provincial boy. By reading this book, and walking Kazin's walk, you will learn what it takes to be a writer--a close observer. You will the read streets like you are reading a text--with a discerning eye for details, and for what's behind the surface of things--a critical reader, indeed.


Walking through Boston and Somerville is like walking through different phases of my life. And with each walk I take I am flooded with images and memories that enter my writing. Walking down Bay State Rd. through Boston University I can recall stumbling home to my Brownstone dorm from some keg party at Shelton Hall across the street. I was told F. Scott Fitzgerald had a room in Shelton when it was a hotel. I could imagine the great writer sleeping off yet another bender in a room that was now occupied by some kid pulling an all-nighter. Walking further down into the campus and hitting the Nickerson Field football stadium I suddenly remember the streakers who traversed the field in their birthday suits on a chilly fall day. I never had the body for that.

I might find myself walking on the streets of Chinatown, looking for the drooping, fat-sweating ducks in the window of my favorite long defunct haunt the "Ying-Ying. All those pungent smells, the chattering Cantonese of the customers, the mass produced wisdom of the fortune cookie--all those ghosts that walk by me on my walk.

And if I find myself in Somerville, and I am walking up Ibbetson Street;I might come across that orange colored Victorian that first housed my independent press Ibbetson Street. This was the first apartment my wife and I lived in when we were married. I remember the day we took a photograph of 30 poets sitting on our front porch, old hippies, Hip-Hoppers, graybearded leftists from the New York City East Village scene , young women with peasent skirts and long flowing hair blowing in the fragrant spring breeze. I remember the bemused gaze of the neighbors when we posed for that shot.

So if you have writer's block, grab your coat, grab your hat, leave your troubles at the doorstep, just relax your feet on the sunnyside or even the darkside of the street, and that pensive pen will hit the blank sheet yet again.

REVIEW OF GUY R. BEINING'S CHAPBOOK: Nozzle 1-36

REVIEW OF GUY R. BEINING'S CHAPBOOK: Nozzle 1-36 (Presa Press http://presapress.com)

By L. E. Bryan

After reading, Guy R. Beining's, latest chapbook, Nozzle 1-36, and never having read any of his work before, I wasn't quite sure, at first, whether or in what way his conceptual poems appealed to me, a poet from the school of the concrete. So I sought out and read more of Beining's work, discovering in the process that he often creates arresting artwork to both accompany his poetry and as art on its own. So I read his current chapbook again, and began to see a fascinating correlation and relationship between poet and visual artist, the way his poems create quick, contrasting images in rapid succession, generating with words collagist images reminiscent of such artist as Max Ernst, Anna Hoch, Romare Bearden, et al.

The first five lines of the poem Nozzle 17. read,

who is the ringer now,
in this bellhop urgency of things?
The intruder wondered about
the difference between a
bellhop & doorman.

In those lines we see and feel, equally, Beining's words as opposed to our understanding of a conventional path to meaning. Beining brings to his chapbook, Nozzle 1-36, a in past poetry, a dynamic and iconoclastic vision. In doing so, he chooses then paints his words upon a personal canvas consisting of a blank page. He draws abstract imagery from its original sources, in particular, Cubism, Dadaism, and Surrealism, transforming them into a matrix of words emphasizing conceptual value. Referring to a previous chapbook, Botola (Trapdoor), Beining reveals wit and a sense of play he brings to his poetry when he says about the book, it's a collage lover's delight: smutty, eccentric, and profound like 'neon on nylon.'”

What I also find interesting about Beining is a certain mystery about the man himself. I've yet to find a picture of him. Biographical information is sparse and illuminates very little about his life as poet and visual artists. I found the following information: Born, Guy Robin Nicholas Beining, in London on September 26,1938. Mother a Russian aristocrat. Norwegian father. Confined to his house with rheumatic fever from 1951-54. Schooled at home. Attended University of Indiana from 1955, University of Florida 1958-1960. Discharged from the Army in 1963. That same year he moved to New York City. Relocated to Connecticut in 2000, where he continues to live.

French-American artist, Marcel Duchamp seemed to have defined the poetry of, Guy R. Beining, when he made this observation: The creative act is not performed by the artists alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications and thus adds his contribution to the creative act.



***** Louis Edward Bryan is a New Jersey native, a published poet, journalist, and fiction writer. His work has appeared in the Hayden's Ferry Review, The Wisconsin Review, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, and in various other literary and commercial publications. Awards include those from the Seattle Arts Commission, Jerome Foundation, and the Anna & Perry Lee Long Prize for Poetry. He lived and attended schools in the U. S. and overseas as a former Army dependent, a background that has given impetus to Bryan's extensive travels as an adult, more recently, residing in Paris from 2002 to 2004. Having lived in Massachusetts during his youth, Bryan returned to the Boston area in 2009.

Wrestling Angels: Poetic Monologues by Freddy Frankel

Wrestling Angels: Poetic Monologues by Freddy Frankel

Wrestling Angels
Poetic Monologues
Freddy Frankel
Ibbetson Street Press
ISBN 978-0-9795313-7-8
2011 $14.00

“Abraham takes my hands unschooled
in love to brush them with his lips.
Passion wrinkled and approximate...”

Frankel's poems; each vertebrae connects the verses, the reader is then
invited to join the monologues; “you made me in your image, without cunning,”
making a complete body of poetic work:

“...He admires Esau, loud, rebellious;
leans toward him, craves his brash
assertiveness. I lean toward
the gentler Jacob, he shows me
love, the only one who does”

Wrestling Angels, speaks from, as well as, biblical histrionics, foist characters
shape shift like shamans cruising through the blood each page generates
in gentle reprimand:

“Victory accumulates throughout the night
on sweat – stained grass.
I hold Jacob in a headlock, stare

into his leopard eyes, the slits don't flinch-
we grasp and grip the bulging sinews,
naked shoulders, naked waist

wet and smooth as oil – slick. We press against
each other's flesh we both resist.
Fingers sweep the texture

of our body skin smooth as glass. Who are you
he gasps, clinging – sharp as a blade I
twist his hip, flee into the dawn.”

While reading the poems I think about Joseph Cambell's delve into myth.
Frankle demystifies the messengers by latching onto the surface reality
of the man – made intentions, taking on larger messages and then perhaps
missing the mark, using the message:

“Conflict in the open at Mohammed's
death, a Shiite in the Prophet's house
wanting to succeed him. That dream
was blown away like desert dust.

Who should succeed the Prophet.
Neither branch of Islam yields. Will we
forever bow, some with foreheads
to the ground, on opposite sides

of Mohammed's mountain. Silent
violent ambush after ambush spills our
blood. For whom, Allah?”

The book florets, pierces motivations, culture, the cut foreskin. The poems
wrestle with illusions of control – cotton threads history sews together, belies
the under current themes, starting from page one. Freddy ties a knot, making a bunch
of flowers we can smell, scent our minds, he also present us with, the politics
of religions, like stink weed repels and pricks our touch:

“Inform this morning's heavy
fall of snow;
the earth that breathes
out murder in its layers;

inform its twisted cartilage;
the pollen blown
to white indifference.

Tell them this: in that sealed chamber
our lips shrank,
shrank to utter loneliness.
Where was God!”

Readers will become acquainted with who we have become because we
were and will be:

“...Your praise
is like bone china chipped to sentiment alone.”

Clearly the poems frame educated thought, present day musing,
prophetic learning into lessons. We may partake and we maynever
implement, or so it seems to me, the poems clarity. what has become
pruned wild bushes planted on roof top gardens, Frankel weaves
dry grass, he engages pluralism, he redefines purpose:

“Lord here in this place one thousand
miles from anywhere that cares,
there is no church, no shrine
to Mary, no cross. It seems
no one forgives the last crusade.
The Caliph makes demands: step
aside, Muslims have the right of way.

I sew our robes in darkest green,
they must reach the ankles.
We wear our skull caps inside out;
our houses must be small and stand
on sand; butchers sell us only lungs
and liver wrapped ion leaves of palm,
Dhimmi meat.”

Washing away certain directions or even tiny paths that characters
forge through books, holy books, big books, small books, is a big
endeavor that Frankel takes on and takes apart in well mannered
strophes. His astute observation to form and word juxtaposition lends
to the wonder of poetry:

“...How often since eternity has such ecstasy,
silent and celestial, slowed down
the human pulse, as men and women

stand and stare from water's edge...”


Irene Koronas

Why Is My Lemon Tea Red Jeff Fleming

(Jeff Fleming)






Why is my Lemon Tea Red
Jeff Fleming
Nibble Press 2011
nibblepoems@gmail.com

"a delicate
skein
clasping rice
paper wings..."

Love poems and all the different aspects of love; exploring spectacular views, emotions, "tell me, help me
because I can't stop trembling..;" even the lower case used for the poems and larger case for the title, lends
to the purity of what is being emparted:

"Every year on my birthday
mother would dress me
in my church clothes:
little wool suit, dark grey,
black shoes, leather belt,
starched
white shirt and somber
tie, she would lead
me into the living
room, through the kitchen
and down
into the basement.

We would stand
for a moment
beside her hope
chest, emptied out,
she would lift
the lid and usher
me in, "lay down,
hands together
on your chest,
close your eyes."

I would hear
a tiny chirp
as the lid closed,
she would whisper
into the darkness
"this is death,
never forget."

Then she would let me out
take me in a strong hug
and say, "Happy Birthday, son."

Any words i use in reference to these poems seems small in comparison to Fleming's writing,
"from small speakers, filling the room." I'm giving the reader more poems to read because
they say what needs to be said in this profound plain talk poems:

"The ocean had finished
with us, tossing
our alien bodies
back on land
with a last great
swell

we retreated inside
helping each other
out of wet suits
our hidden bodies
gone pink
nipples at attention
in the cool
conditioned air
of our bungalow

I took you
by the waist,
fingers splayed
across goose-flesh,
guided you beneath
borrowed sheets

and warmed
your shivering body
oh so slowly"

Love poems without all the frosting words, phrases I can nibble on; sometimes i laugh
sometimes i cry or feel quiet while the poems pull me in and hug me close. This chap book
is a gift, is humble and scrutizes the love of others as well as self, put succintly.

contact the poet to buy this chapbook a must have.

"laying in bed tonight,
reading Frost by the light
from a small lamp,
I look over and see
your breath and for a moment
I think you have died
and this is your soul
escaping, but no,
it's just December
a recession, and there is no
money to pay the heating
bill or even buy
a little bundle of firewood"

(another sample)

"Stumbling out
of the bar
you see a woman
leaning
against your Ford

Taurus, her ass
bumps the grill,
her right hand
flat on the hood.
In her left hand

a cigarette, or
a joint. She
seems pretty
but the overhead
street lights

throw deep
pools of shadow,
your eyes are
beered up.

Need a ride?
you ask, trying
to sound sincere
and suggestive.
Sober.

She breathes out
a ghost
of smoke,
definitely a joint,
and nods.
Your pulse quickens.
You reach for

your keys and
some clever retort

but the moment
is already over.

My boyfriend,
fucker's
late again.

You nod, your pulse
finds its regular
gear, your key
finds the doorlock.

Driving home you wonder
iof there was anything
you could have said

to get her back
to your bed, fucking
and somking weed
until dawn's early light."


Irene Koronas
poetry editor:
Wilderness House Literary Review
www.whlreview.com

Reviewer:

Ibbetson Street Press

For Enid with Love-- edited by Barry Wallenstein

For Enid with Love
Barry Wallenstein, Editor
The New York Quarterly Foundation, Inc.
$16.95

Review by Rene Schwiesow

Enid Dame was a woman dedicated to the art of the written word. She was a poet, scholar, teacher, mentor, and a political activist. When Enid died in 2003 she had touched the lives of many. The 2004, #50 edition of “Home Planet News,” the journal founded by Enid and her husband Donald Lev, was sweetened with poems, memories and tributes to the prolific writer. In 2007 Donald Lev and the poet, D. H. Melhem, began work on “For Enid with Love,” edited by Barry Wallenstein. This collection by friends and colleagues and, indeed, some who only knew her profound impact through Rene Schwiesow
her work, is a “festschrift,” a festival of writinFor Enid with Love Barry Wallenstein, Editorgs.

In Dame’s essay, “Art as Midrash: Some Notes on the Way to a Discussion,” she opens with: “I’m a poet: many of my poems are dramatic monologues, in which characters from Jewish mythology (particularly women) explain or reinterpret their experiences, often from a modern sensibility. In the past, I’ve called these poems ‘confessions,’ but they are in fact midrashim.”

Her friend Alice Ostriker, called her a Midrashic Prophet and writes: “Her midrashic writing is a tree of life sprouting through disasters.” Midrashic literature refers to writing that interprets a Biblical text. The Midrashic writer focuses on, among other things, diving into the deep meaning of a text in order to bring life to the surface and fill in the gaps. For example, Enid’s poem “Lot’s Wife,” follows her thoughts post pillar of salt:

I’m not surprised
this happened in some ways
I
was always numb

But she may be best known for her midrashic writings on Lilith, Adam’s first wife. Enid wrote “Lilith” after ending a marriage and processing the fact that she could never return:

kicked myself out of paradise
left a hole in the morning
no note no goodbye. . .

sometimes
I cry in the bathroom
remembering Eden
and the man and the god
I couldn’t live with.

As a festshrift, “For Enid with Love,” is a wonderful success. The many contributors have shared their love, respect and admiration for Enid as person and writer with open abandon. That Enid Dame lived her life as a Mensch is clear.

Rene Schwiesow is a South Shore Writer and co-host of the popular monthly Plymouth venue, The Mike Amado Memorial Series: The Art of Words.

Endicott College / Ibbetson Street Press: Visiting Author Series: April 14, 2011: Noted Baseball Writer Luke Salisbury

Endicott College / Ibbetson Street Press
Visiting Author Series
Thursday, April 14, 2011—4 P.M.
Noted Baseball Writer/Novelist/Educator
Luke Salisbury—“The Answer is Baseball”
Halle Library--Endicott College
http://endicott.edu




* The series is directed by Doug Holder






Luke Salisbury is a professor of English at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston. Salisbury, 64, is a man with a gift for gab, and the well-turned phrase. Eclectic in his tastes, Salisbury, with his signature rapid - fire cadence and disarming laugh, regales you with his anecdotes, his impressive knowledge of baseball, and his “alternative” universe of film, books and political intrigue he has spent many years pondering and writing about. He is the author of a number of fiction titles including: “The Answer is Baseball.” (Time Books, 1989), “The Cleveland Indian” (Smith, 1992), and his novel about the great filmmaker D.W. Griffith “Hollywood and Sunset” (2007). His writing has appeared in such publications as “The Boston Globe,” “Ploughshares,” “Cooperstown Review,” "Pulp- smith,” and others. Salisbury received his M.A. in Creative Writing from Boston University and lives in Chelsea, Mass. with his wife Barbara.

ENDICOTT COLLEGE

376 Hale St. Beverly, Mass. 01915

Information: Doug Holder 617-628-2313

dougholder@endicott.edu

THE BOSTON NATIONAL POETRY MONTH FESTIVAL 2011

(Left--Harris Gardner--founder of the Festival. Right- Boston Poet Laureate--Sam Cornish)




2011 PRESS RELEASE & LISTING



THE BOSTON NATIONAL POETRY MONTH FESTIVAL



Now In Its Successful ELEVENTH!!! Year



CO-SPONSORS: Tapestry of Voices & Kaji Aso Studio in partnership with the Boston Public Library, SAVE the DATES: Saturday, April 9th 10:00 A.M.- 4:40 P.M. OPEN MIKE: 1:30 to 3:00P.M.; & Sunday, April 10th, 1:10 to 4:30P.M. The Festival will be held at the library’s main branch in Copley Square. FREE ADMISSION



56 Major and Emerging poets will each do a ten minute reading; ALSO



Featuring 6 extraordinarily talented prize winning high school students: from Boston Latin High School; Boston Arts Academy. These student stars will open the Festival at 10:00 A.M. SAM CORNISH, Boston’s current and first Poet Laureate will open the formal part of the Festival at 11:00 A.M. 55 additional major and emerging poets will follow with a



POETRY MARATHON



Some of the many luminaries include SAM CORNISH, Diana Der Hovanessian, Rhina P. Espaillat, , Richard Wollman, Jennifer Barber, , Alfred Nicol, , Doug Holder, Elizabeth Doran, Charles Coe, Kathleen Spivack, Ryk McIntyre, January O’Neil , Regie O’Gibson, Kate Finnegan (Kaji Aso Studio), Victor Howes, Susan Donnelly, Jack Scully, Rene Schwiesow, Chad Parenteau, Sandee Story, Tomas O’Leary, CD Collins, Marc Goldfinger, Gloria Mindock, Tim Gager, Diana Saenz, Stuart Peterfreund, Valerie Lawson, Michael Brown, Mignon Ariel King, Tom Daley, Molly Lynn Watt, Ifeanyi Menkiti, Mark Pawlak, Lainie Senechal, Harris Gardner, Joanna Nealon, Walter Howard, Susan Donnelly, Robert J. Clawson, Irene Koronas, Fred Marchant, Danielle Legros Georges, Robert K. Johnson, and a Plethora of other prize winning poets.



This Festival has it all: Professional published poets, celebrities, numerous prize winners, student participation, OPEN MIKE.

Even more, it is about community, neighborhoods, diversity, Boston, and Massachusetts. This popular tradition is one of the largest events in Boston’s Contribution to National Poetry Month. FREE ADMISSION !!!

FOR INFORMATION: Tapestry of Voices: 617-306-9484

Library: 617-536-5400



Wheelchair accessible. Assistive listening devices available. To request a sign language interpreter, or for other special needs, call 617-536-7855(TTY) at least two weeks before the program date.

Harris Gardner
____________

Canticle III, Poems by Marine Robert Warden

Review, Canticle III, Poems by Marine Robert Warden, Bellowing Ark Press,
PO Box 55564, Shoreline, WA 98155, 71 pages, 2007, $12, (review, 2011)

By Barbara Bialick

This will be the third book I have reviewed by Dr. Warden, who was born in 1927, and is an accomplished poet, army veteran, and retired medical doctor, who began writing poetry in 1977. This book is very much involved with traveling in America from one
scenic spot to another, with his wife Lois. It also delves into his personal philosophy by way of odes to poets, composers, painters, dancers, sometimes medicine, and oh so importantly, nature. His work is lyrical, imagistic and smooth, and is done in lower case with no punctuation but for the poetic lines themselves.

The title “Canticle III” refers to a musical composition by Benjamin Britten from 1954, that itself refers to a poem, “Still falls the rain” (1941) by Edith Sitwell. A canticle is a non-metrical song, chant or a hymn that uses words from the Bible, not including the Book of Psalms.

The book then begins with a “Manifesto”: “poetry is music/language as instrument/you can bury the dead dogs/the rotting cities/stink of freeway oil/two hundred years from now/I’ll still love you/wife America life you taught me/when I write my poetry/I should unveil dreams”

In the travelogue sections, he describes scenery with images that are distinctive—such as in “Riverside #7” where “the sun sets into a bathtub on fire/just above the green cypress” or in “Driving North on the Mojave at Night” with “distant vanilla peaks of sierra/rising sheer out of a dark lava sea”

Readers will enjoy the current or flow of the book, which, in philosophical sections, leads to mature conclusions such as in “A Time of Wonder” where he writes, “there are two times when the world/is full of wonder and beauty/when you are young and when you get older/…when older you are learning how much/you didn’t learn/still the idea of the Universe now is larger/the birth of stars more beautiful/…”

Warden has written books including “Finding Beauty” (Bellowing Ark Press, 2009) and “Beyond the Straits” (reprinted by Presa :S: Press, 2010). His poems have appeared in journals that include “California Quarterly”, “Hiram Poetry Review” and “Bellowing Ark.”

The Mojave Road And Other Journeys by Bruce Williams

The Mojave Road And Other Journeys by Bruce Williams

Tebot Bach, Huntington Beach CA
Copyright © 2010 by Bruce Williams
Softbound, 67 pgs, $15
ISBN13: 978-1-893670-50-1


Review by Zvi A. Sesling

On my recent trip to San Diego I found myself in the chapel of
a Lutheran church in Pebble Beach where they hold a poetry reading
the second Sunday of each month.

On this particular day Bruce Williams was the featured reader. Standing
in front of a mosaic window of Jesus clad in elegant robes, Williams was
dressed in boots, baggy jeans, a T-shirt that had some printed writing, the
last word of which was evil and over that a brown leather vest.

Williams is probably in his 60s, short, bald with some gray hair and a gray beard and moustache. When he reads he rhythmically bend forward like an Orthodox Jew and recites what is on the printed page in a strong clear voice. It is the voice that you will also find in his book: clear and strong. It is also personal, reflecting on his prostate cancer, his wife’s illness and death, and nature.

In Williams’ poetry, nature is intertwined with life and death and his beloved jeep is the vehicle for his journey through life and nature. The mountains, the desert are metaphors for the rocky road of his experiences – and for his spiritual reawakening.

After his wife is cremated Williams poem AFTER HE BRINGS HER ASHES HOME
gathers his frail emotions in seven lines:

Ellen sits
on the mantle,
seared inside
her cedar box.
There and
not there
like him


In another poem he recalls his childhood and how the simple became complicated:

PERSPECTIVE

I loved Kit Carson
when I was a boy
because he was small
and brave

before I knew
the scent
of burning fruit
heard of Canyon de Chelly-

when the Navajo were the rugs
on Grandfather’s floor,
the silver on his hand.

All in all I was fascinated by Williams’ journeys, his metaphors,
his sensitivity, his self-insight and most of all his confrontation
with the death of others and his own mortality.

Williams is close to nature as he was (and still is) to his wife, and
growing up in Colorado has given him a perspective of nature not
unlike other poets, yet with more human meaning.

Having said all this, this book is Willliams’ first full length book of
poetry, following four chapbooks.

The owner of two jeeps he tries to explore the desert at every opportunity
and readers should explore his 42 poems (and the end notes) at every chance.
They confront optimism, fear, love (and what comes after love). Highly recommended.

Whacked Out Characters Rule in ALT.PUNK by Lavina Ludlow

Whacked Out Characters Rule in ALT.PUNK


Review by Timothy Gager

ALT.PUNK
by Lavinia Ludlow
Casperian Books
978-1-934081-29-7
$15.00

If I were to review this book in one sentence it would be the following: Author Lavinia Ludlow covers her characters and sets the book in such heavy slime that even her protagonist, Hazel, an OCD germ freak cannot wash it off.

When the book opens, Hazel is stuck in her own personal jail. She is a writer that aimlessly manages a Safeway, sterilizes her home nightly in bleach, has food hang-ups and dates Kree, a wannabe actor who loses copious amounts of pubic hair around the house. You get the feeling, dealing through the eyes of Hazel that anything physical involving the world or Kree should be dealt with wearing Hazmat suit.

Hazel makes enough money to support both of them while worrying most of the time about the danger of fluids and germs floating in her impossible to keep perfect environment. How does a woman get into this mental state? I would guess that there is definitely mother issues and here Ludlow does not let us down by creating a neurosis producing monster; a nit picking, nagging, negative, perfectionist who is sprinkled with a large dose of mean straight up.

This is just the tip of the iceberg which sends Hazel off to a new boyfriend, Otis who fronts the band Riot Venom. Otis makes the grungy Kree feel squeaky clean in comparison. In nearly every scene involving Otis, the reader often feels like they’re living in the dirtiest of public restrooms complete with the Loch Ness turd poking over the water line. This creates an opportunity for Hazel to leaves her job and her life to go on tour with Riot Venom and in essense to take care of her new love, Otis, on the road. Without spoiling the outcome, Hazel’s life spirals out of control with drugs and germs, piss and puke, as well as sarcasm and suicidal ideologies. What creates a brilliant counter jab in this punch in the face novel is the ability of Ludlow to produce poignant sardonic humor within Hazel, often involving Landon (Otis’s anarchist and loyal brother). The constant banter and one-liners made this a very enjoyable reading experience.

Also of note, for a book that focuses and is mostly set within a band, Ludlow’s experience as a musician really pays off. There are no descriptions of “crisp drum openings” or the “boom-boom-booms” of the bass. This pre-school style musical terms are often found in books where the author has no idea what they are musically talking about or are just bad writers. Ludlow’s novel is about the characters whom happen to play music. This people are believable and real even at their most self-destructive times. In life, we’ve all had friends that have made decisions that lead them down dark roads and if you’ve lived long enough know there is nothing you can do about it. In alt.punk when you recognize this you can make a decision to stop reading but in my case I was glad that I didn’t. I was completely rewarded and entertained by this fun and often tongue in cheek novel. Recommended.


Timothy Gager is the author of eight books of fiction and poetry. He lives on www.timothygager.com

The Voting Booth After Dark by Vanessa Libertad Garcia

The Voting Booth After Dark
Vanessa Libertad Garcia
Fiat Libertad CO.
Huntington Park, CA
$10.95 list price

Vanessa Garcia is a Cuban-American writer and filmmaker living in LA who is committed to relating the Latina culture and its subcultures to a cross-cultural audience. She focuses on people that may not typically be represented in film or print and has no fear of utilizing language that will drive her point home. Beware; this collection of narratives in prose and poetics is not PG-13.

“The Voting Booth After Dark,” is subtitled: “Despicable, Embarrassing, Repulsive.” The subtitle aptly describes the way her characters may label themselves. Some readers may also feel that the subtitle is an appropriate label for the actions and words of the characters. This can be a disturbing read. Garcia’s work tells the tale of young, California Latina gay and lesbian individuals struggling to pull their lives together during the 2008 elections. Habitually drunk, on the prowl for sexual exploit and seeking highs that allow repression, Garcia’s characters have their political moments.

The book opens around July of 2008 and ends in November with the election of Barack Obama and the passing of California’s Proposition 8. Considering Garcia’s characters are gay and lesbian, there is little discussion in the narratives about Proposition 8. Her characters, drowning in their own traumas, seem to be more interested in evening hook-ups and one night stands than marriage.

In “Lament,” a suicidal young person connects with a homeless Viet Nam vet suffering from PTSD. Just having finished a second forty of malt liquor, Garcia’s character calls the homeless man over and conversation ensues:

“We’re both liberal. Eugene is a lot more hopeful than I. I ask him why he’s homeless, of course. He responds and then I reply with a monologue about why I want to die.”

The piece poignantly addresses the longing for relationship yet the inability to sustain relationship. “Suicidal drunks, even if they aren’t homeless, don’t make for very good or stable friends.”

You can watch a trailer for “The Voting Booth After Dark” on You Tube. In the trailer Garcia intro’s the book with a short explanation of the parallel to the 2008 election. Those who buy the book off the shelf without the video introduction or the benefit of having read a review, may find themselves confused for a few pages as even the back of the book is an excerpt and not an intro or overview.

The language is candid, the characters developed to show their need for love, understanding and, perhaps, intervention or counseling, but through the compilation of narratives there appears to be a sliver of growth, maybe.
“Try your best at peace.
Try your best at truth.

Forgive your crumbling selves
and try
just try
if you can
not to take the world down

with you.”

Rene Schwiesow is a South Shore writer. She is co-host of the popular monthly venue in Plymouth – The Mike Amado Memorial Series: Poetry the Art of Words.

Insane in the quatrain by Bradley Lastname

Insane in the quatrain

bradley Lastname

the press of the 3rd mind

Chicago, Illinois

2011 $10.00



Bradley Lastname enjoys defication words:



"I said to shy Nola

don't I know you from somewhere?



when she told me I don't know shit from shinola,

shy nola wasn't so shy any more.

she asked me where the rest room was,

and I pointed it out to her.

I may not know shit from shy nola,

but i know where shy nola shits"



In saying the above, i'm reminded of the surrealists; especially Salvatore Dali

who thought defication was the ultimate symbol of surrealism: the surrealist

banned him from their circle, society or from their water closet. the title of this book

is aptly named, an ambiguous refrain:



"I went out last saturday night,

and placed a bet on a cock fight.

on the left was hackle,

on the right was jackle,

now they're both in need of poultry spackle."



The 189 pages of this book, jammed full of play, satire, poetry, prose and latrines:



"i can't say i ever caught his name,

but i don't give a fuck, so it's all the same

i just scratch my head as he runs his game,

he's the dude who tapes everything,

but he never taped me..."



One might be inclined to think of bukowski but let me reasure you these are not

bukowski lines but maybe considered surreal in tyhat he juctaposes different

elements, quatrains? if you want to dispute my review, I suggest you buy the

book and read for yourself


　

　



irene koronas
poetry editor:
Wilderness House Literary Review
www.whlreview.com

Reviewer:

Ibbetson Street Press

Poets Mike Ansara and January O’Neil Bring on the Massachusetts Poetry Festival This May.

Poets Mike Ansara and January O’Neil Bring on the Massachusetts Poetry Festival This May.

Interview with Doug Holder


Come May 13th and 14th, 2011 the Mass. Poetry Festival will arrive at its new home in Salem, Mass. This should be of great interest to Somerville poets, and all others, as there will be a plethora of readings, workshops, musical events, book fairs, etc… to satiate the hungriest Somerville Bard. I talked with the founder of the festival Mike Ansara, and his right hand woman, the accomplished poet and organizer January O’Neil on my Somerville Community Access TV show “Poet to Poet Writer to Writer.”


Doug Holder: So where did the germ of the idea for the poetry festival come from?


Mike Ansara: About six years ago I wanted to see if I could write decent poetry. Along the way I went to these readings of these incredibly talented poets. As you know Doug—a great turn out is 30, and everybody says “Wow!” I began to say to myself: “This is a shame.” I was having lunch with a good friend of mine former congressman Chet Atkins. He just retired and got off the board of the Mass. Humanities Council. I was talking to him about the state of poetry. He reminded me that I was once an organizer, and that I really needed to do something about it. With a little bit of support from Charles Coe and the Mass. Cultural Council, we had a series of roundtables around the state with poets. We had about 7 meetings. We ran a bunch of ideas by poets about what they would like to see happen to help provide more opportunies, and to create new audiences. And out of that came a series of projects that we were implementing now. The poetry festival is just one of them. We are also going to the schools. We have a poetry program in the Citizen Schools. These schools are after school programs that work with low performing Middle Schools. We have poets in Roxbury, and Revere. We hope to improve literacy skills.


DH: January—You say you want to connect “Poetry” with the mainstream. Where is it connected with now?


January O’Neil: Well… I think that poetry is an art that has not been widely publicized. It used to be before the internet, and TV. But now it has taken a back seat to other things. People use poetry for weddings and funerals—they find it for big and small moments. We are out now having conversations in the community—and the interest in the art is out there. I think RAP music has played a role in reviving it.



DH: You guys are going to have a Small Press Book Fair as part of the Festival. What is the importance of the small press to the poetry community?


MA: We know how important the small press is in the life of a poet. Small presses struggle, go under—yet, they have enormous creativity. They are responsible for most of the poetry that is published today. And they don’t get the recognition or support that they should get. Even people who are writing poetry don’t understand the world of the small press. Our attempt will be to create a venue on Saturday ( The festival is held Friday May 13—and Saturday—May 14)—where 30 or 40 small presses from Mass. and elsewhere can come meet each other—and sell their books and broadsides. We are going to have presses like “Off the Grid” from Somerville, Mass., Tupelo Press, to everything in between.



DH: There is a lot of collaboration with other groups in your efforts to bring the fruit to your labors?



MA: The festival itself is going to be a grand experiment. We have 60 organizations that are poetry partners. And most of our ideas come from them. We hope they spread. We don’t have a big budget. We are always looking for donations, however large or small.




JO: A portion of the money that we raise goes to pay the poets. Usually no one thinks twice about asking poets to read for free. This is our core principle. Their creativity should be valued. Unless you teach there is no way for a poet to make a living in any way connected to poetry.



DH: What will be happening on Friday at the Festival?

MA: Friday, during the day, 700 high school students from around the state will read in our program. Friday evening we are going to have some amazing poets and music. Brian Turner, a soldier poet will be reading, on Saturday there will be panels, a small book fair, celebrities—things for kids.


DH: So it is going to be fun?

MA: FUN. FUN. FUN.

JO: May is a tricky month for weather. But if it goes as we hope there will be events inside as well as outside. We will have panel discussions forums about Anne Bradstreet to Hip Hop.


DH: Any big name poets?


MA: Steve Almond will be running a Bad Poetry Contest—bring your own worst poem. Steve does this because it is funny—he demystifies writing— you have to have bad poems to get good poems. Other poets like Richard Hoffman, and hopefully Major Jackson will read. We have established and emerging poets. We are also going to have a reading for poets 35 and under.

We are also going to have a Somerville Bagel Bards reading organized by Poet Lawrence Kessenich, as well as readings by Boston’s Carpenter Poets, the African-American poets of Cave Canem; we have an Asian American poetry organization that are going to write poems about the history of and the objects in the Peabody/Essex Museum.



DH: The question I pose to both to you—when do you sleep?

MA: Thank God we have this collective of volunteers: retired people, students, teachers, etc… who help.

JO: And you couldn’t have a better ring leader than Mike Ansara.


DH: Does all this work detract from your own?

JO: This is a labor of love. My writing will take a back seat. And that’s OK. It’s giving back. In order to get the word out about my work, I have to keep telling what’s going on in the poetry world at large.


** For more information about the Mass. Poetry Festival go to http://masspoetry.org

Review of TOPLESS, poems by Eileen McClusky, Deborah Mead, and Kara Provost

Review of TOPLESS, poems by Eileen McClusky, Deborah Mead, and Kara Provost, Main Street Rag’s Editor’s Choice Chapbook Series, Main Street Rag Publishing Company, PO Box 690100, Charlotte, North Carolina 28227, www.mainstreetrag.com, 47 pages, March 2011, $10

Review by Barbara Bialick

The chapbook TOPLESS has a bottom-less selection of well-written, somewhat erotic poems for and by three women who love their men and children. While they use a
number of sexy allusions, the book isn’t so much about sex, but how their sexuality is couched in the workings of Mother Nature. Since there are three distinct poets
represented, I kept thinking this one or that one is the better writer. By the last page, I realized that each of them turned out to be the best. So I got a good impression of Main Street Rag’s Editor’s Choice Chapbook Series. Main Street Rag is a popular
small-press journal.

In “Transformations,” Kara Provost fantasizes about “what it would have been like to have a boy-child/…but we gave birth to girls like ripe poppies, pearlized bulbs opening into brilliant black-eyed scarlet…”

“Before Loving” by Deborah Mead reads, “First I would want to know/the salt of
things;/the sweat of palm/or the air when it comes/off the flat of the sea…”

In “Your Pink Bra,” Eileen McCluskey speaks of her daughter: “Your pink bra
brings me/back to my own girlhood;/the way those wings/opened my wonderment,/cradled promise…”

The poem “Nipple” by Deborah Mead is a funny if not surrealistic description of a woman breast-feeding her baby in front of a subway car full of 5 p.m. rush hour commuters: “…We are turned on/and hosed down like a riotous mob/flushed to the far end of the car./The warm thin milk washes over us, carrying away our coffee cups, our market analyses,/our MP3s and Oprah novels…/”

Eileen McCluskey is a poet and freelance writer who has had work in MIT News, WPI Transformations, Main Street Rag, Ibbetson Street, and others.

Deborah Mead is a freelance writer and poet, and has published articles and essays in
The Boston Globe, Christian Science Monitor, Main Street Rag, Iodine Poetry Journal and Haz Mat Review.

Kara Provost’s chapbook Nests was published by Finishing Line Press in 2006 and recently, a micro-chapbook, Figures of Speech, with the Origami Poems project. She has published poetry in Main Street Rag, Hurricane Alice, The Newport News, Tar Wolf Review, The Aurorean, and others.

Somerville Poets Appear in new anthology On the River: The Cambridge Community Poem

Somerville Poets Go to Cambridge in new anthology “ On the River: The Cambridge Community Poem.”



By Doug Holder

“On the River”: The Cambridge Community Poem.” By the People of Cambridge. Edited by Peter Payack.



Well, I guess since Somerville doesn’t have a Poet Laureate, Somerville poets have to go elsewhere, and indeed a number of them have been included in the innovative new poetry anthology “On the River..” edited by the first Poet Populist of Cambridge Peter Payack. Since Somerville and Cambridge adjoin each other,there are exchanges of vital poetry fluids between the two promiscuous citizen bodies. In his introduction to the collection Payack writes:

“As Cambridge’s first Populist Poet, one of my first initiatives was to create a poem, by the people of Cambridge. Instead of me writing about Cambridge, my idea was to let the many voices of Cambridge write a poem about their city. The result is in your hand.”

This is an unique anthology in that all the contributors here are not just poets. Yes--there is former U.S. Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky, and Blacksmith House Poetry Series founder Gail Mazur, but there are also school children, comedians, nurses, pharmacists, carpenters and others all contributing their lyricism. And also: the book is Print on Demand and can be printed out by the famed book machine at the Harvard Book Store in Harvard Square. Ah! Brave New World!

Ifeany Menkiti, a longtime resident of Somerville and the owner of the Grolier Poetry Book Shop, has a spartan line in the said collection about his Cambridge experience:

" I found my first grey hair. So What?" So What indeed! By now Menkiti has a whole host of the white buggers all over his dignified face.

Lloyd Schwartz, a poet, Somerville resident and Pulitzer Prize winner writes: "It's like a dream, you get up it's forgotten. Then it all comes back." What does he mean... ? Ah! sweet mystery of life!

Now even though Jimmy Tingle is a Cambridge native and a current resident he ran the Jimmy Tingle Theater in Davis Square for a number of years. Tingle writes a short anecdote about his first experience with stand up comedy on the streets of Harvard Square. A woman who witnessed his seminal and decidedly offbeat performance told him in a haughty manner that his performance (Some shtick about a nude beach) was interesting but did not think "... everyone should be subject to it." Now you know why Tingle had his theater in Somerville...we appreciate a good joke!

And of course yours truly, Doug Holder, a resident of Union Square has to put his two cents in, with my brilliant piece " Like Life" ( I am not above self-promotion-surprised?)

" I dove into a swimming pool
and I came out dry.
What else can I do,
I will give it another try"

Of course a project like this would be perfect for a Poet Laureate of Somerville...well, if we had one. Until then our rich mother lode of poets will have to look to other cities for those proverbial greener pastures.

Purling Sonnets by Richard Kostelanetz

Purling Sonnets

Richard Kostelanetz

Pressa :S: Press

2011 $6.00




"crummy

mummy

mumps

chumps

chummy

slummy

slumber

number

numbness

dumbness

dumbbell

cowbell

cowardice

genesis"




Kostelanetz shakes the numbness out of the reader; he creates

meaning by listing, beating the rythm to a 'genesis'. The above

illustration of his sonnet, XVI, calls for explanation and we the reader

are often given silence between meaning and implication: each

word implicates its meaning: each word sways into the next: every

time the list is read, the reader may associate with experience;

experiences from their own perspective as well as linguistic experience.

For instance: crummy begine the sonnet above; the word, genesis,

completes the song...crummy means distastful. The crumbs have

fallen from the scone and one must wet their fingers to pick-up

what has fallen. May i suggest, this action may offend the upper

crust (my definition of crummy). Genesis:='s the first book in the

bible: beginnings. Kostelanetz choses to juctapose words that have

some derogatory meanings in this particular poem. He suggests;

yet if genesis were capitilized it would have a different implication

...genesis, noun / je-na-sas/: the origin. From the greek gignesthai,

to be born. Genesis circles back to/or with the first words in the

sonnet; crummy, mummy. Crummy:= 2. Very poor...first used in 1567.




One need not deconstruct the meaning of a poem to appreciate its

image. This chap book speaks; its simplicity defines the original intent

of the word's worth, the worth of each word is determined by knowledge

and by conversation. With dialog, the poems clarify and reveal without

having to explain (as i have done):




“person

worsen

workaday

everyday

everything

something

summary

mammory

mammon

salon

saliva

diver

diurnal

maternal”




These are some of the best minimal poems i've read, the poems relate

in mature, succinct, often ironic tones amuse and open the summary

of 'wiseacre', reminding us to clap as we read .




Irene Koronas

Poetry Editor:

Wilderness House Literary Review

Reviewer:

Ibbetson Street Press

Mississippi Poems by Linda Larson

Mississippi Poems
Linda Larson
ISCS Press
ISBN 9827115-2-1
$12.00 2011


"...She had loved him, in high school,
he with the great, consoling hands.
She had loved him and his hands,
before she understood that to him
she was the land.
And the tornado came for her
and at the last it seemed
to her that he was kind.
But the storm was too great
and it, too, took her
without asking."

This book is what it means to be a writer, poet, 'Mississippi Poems,' selects
the best verse, they are self contained, each poem depicts the character, the
place, or the situation with clear eyed realism, even if it is a lie. Picasso said,
all art is a lie. Larson's poems speak directly and ask to be believed, to hear
the metaphors' bloom, to participate in the maturity of a seasoned poet:

"She planted Tango geraniums
in the bed flanking the driveway
she had always wished was grander.
Still it circled the house, the house
she wished had pillars..."

The poems are crafted with the precise eye of someone who knows it takes
more than talent to render images, verse, or tense. Larson give us her
experiences crossing the years, the pages, we follow her casual gait,
which enables the reader to slow down our readiness to plunge forward
at all costs; the words gather into a bouquet, “which is what lovers do”.
Not all the poems suggest bloom, some look at the underbelly of loss
and what it means to live with the buds that never open:

"I didn't buy a used car from him.
Still he offered to take me out to lunch.
The first thing I noticed was his bright pink rubber hand.
It was especially jarring as it didn't fit with the rest of him.
Neat as a pin. Flaming red hair cut short. Bright blue eyes,
congenial nature. Suit and tie. Lunch led to drinks.
Makers Mark, Glenliver. Bacardi 151-top shelf all the way.

We ended up on my screened-in back porch,
limp as laundry. He wooed me with woe, wooed me till
I was woozy with his tales of being a battlefield medic,
a maestro of morphine, a bringer of comfort
for the snowballs, those triaged in Viet Nam
medivaced last, who didn't have a chance in hell.
It wasn't the screaming he told me, it was the whispers,
the scribbled, penciled promises, that went with the numbers
on the dog tags he had to scramble to keep track of:

If it is a girl, please name her Marie
After Mother, I know you two don't get along...

When I get home I'll make it up to you.
We'll get married, I promise you. A big wedding
Just like you want...

Please tell her I didn't mean to hit her.
I'd rather die than ever hurt her...
...”

From beginning to end these creative works hold my attention and
turn me back to the starting page. I recommend this book, strongly.
Linda Larson is one of our finest poets.


Irene Koronas
Poetry Editor:
Wilderness House Literary Review
Reviewer:
Ibbetson Street Press

What’s So Funny by Joseph Torra.

What’s So Funny by Joseph Torra. ( Pressed Wafer Press. 9 Columbus Square. Boston, Mass. 02116) $12.

Review by Doug Holder



Joe Torra, a neighbor of mine in my neck of the woods in Somerviile,Mass. is a poet, and novelist who I have admired for years. A while ago I read his memoir “Call Me Waiter” that recounts his years as a struggling writer who worked as a waiter to support his art. It was a wonderful portrait of an artist as a working stiff. A straight-no-chaser account, it was funny, sad, and ultimately uplifting.



Like any good poet Joe Torra can express in words what we want to say but can’t quite spit out. In his new novel “ What’s So Funny” his protagonist is a down-at-the heels, 54 year old comedian, living in what he calls the New Jersey of Boston: Everett, Mass.



On the surface this novel is hilarious. Being the same age as Torra and his main character, I can identify with many of the gripes and perceptions of this sad sack of a comedian. And there is a rich trove of observations in this book. I must admit I finished the novel in a few hours on a Megabus heading to NYC, and like the comedian I was visiting my mother who was caught in the depressing confines of a nursing home. To do justice to this book I have to excerpt the various takes on the world of this Medford bred, Italian-American comedian. Take his view on funerals:



“ There’s nothing worse than attending a family wedding or funeral. All my cousins are fat and old like me…At the wakes my cousins ask things like-- do I remember the time we did that? As if something we did 45 years ago still has meaning. I have a cousin... who always asks do I remember the time he had to take a shit when we were hanging out behind the school yard...At a recent wedding he brought this up as we sat around the table eating prime rib.."





Or how about a New Age woman he used to date?



" Jill was one of those New Age women. She let her hair go gray at eleven. She didn't wear makeup... She burned incense and practiced a synthesis of paganism, Buddhism and consumerism. She had the most amazing hemp wardrobe imaginable, and a different meditation pillow for each day of the week."





And of course his take on his humble Medford, Mass. roots:



" I grew up in Medford, Massachusetts. People from Medford are known to pronounce it Meffa. But I went to college, and live one mile away, so I only say Meffa when I'm drunk, because when you are drunk you let your guard down and its back to basics."





In essence the comedian views his life as a joke--literally. The man is like a poet, the writer, the artist, who uses his whole life as fodder for his work. Even at this low point in his greatly diminished career he continues to plan his next sketch, practicing his next bit for hours in front of his bathroom mirror.



What I am thankful for is Torra doesn't fall into the trap of being maudlin-- or plays for cheap sentiment. The comedian, a single man, has a chance to date an attractive woman who has an interest in him. And no--the love of a good woman doesn't save our hero in this novel. In fact his short and superficial alliance gives him more material for his art. In this passage he takes a full account of his sorry self before going out on another date:



" She was smart and independent. But what could we do? How could I could I possibly undress in front of her with my sagging flesh, and the skin-growth in my upper thigh near my scrotum. What if I couldn't preform?"



This fine novel can be read on two levels. As an astute comedian's view on an absurd world, or a meditation on the all consuming passion of an artist. Take your choice--or choose both-- a must read.

Silk Egg by Eileen R. Tabios

Silk Egg
by Eileen R. Tabios
Shearsman Books
Exeter Books
Copyright © Eileen R. Tabios, 2011
ISBN: 978-1-84861-143-1
Softbound, 131 pages, $17

Review by Zvi A. Sesling

Some poets just slap you across the face and say, “Here is something new, find it exciting or not, conventional or not, I have written for those who understand and those who do not will come to understand.” There have been more than a few American poets who slapped faces with their “new” poetry. Walt Whitman, was certainly one. The Imagists, Objectivists and the Beats were among the more notable. There are other poets as well who have changed the way we read and write poetry, who have gone one step beyond.

Now along comes Eileen R. Tabios – actually she is not just coming along – she has been
around for a while having “released 18 print, 4 electronic and 1 CD poetry collections, an art-essay collection, a poetry essay/interview anthology, a short story book and a collection of novels.”* For these efforts she has received numerous awards and grants and is well known on the west coast, if not the entire country. She also founded Meritage House, a multi-disciplinary literary and arts press based in San Francisco and St. Helena CA.

Ms. Tabios’ “slap” didn’t start with the title, it began when I opened the book of “novels.” Each chapter is a self contained novel and novels making up what I would call the total novel. In other words the sum is as great as the parts, the parts necessary for the sum. I personally had not seen this before, though Rainer Maria Rilke’s The Lay of the Love and Death of Cornet Christoph Rilke employs a similar concept, though not as creative or unique as Ms. Tabios.

As I read through Silk Egg different thoughts flashed across my mind: art deco, a punch of noir, of corrupted romance novels or sharp detective stories – in other words the writing of the 1930s or 1940s. However, while the writing has a retro appearance, it is thoroughly modern, maybe ahead of its time. Definitely captivating and ground breaking.

Ms. Tabios writes images that make wish I had thought of them, lines that make think and stories that leave me wondering (or in wonder):

Pg. 15: Look where the window finally stops.
“Sky is better than aspirin.”

Pg. 41: Red velvet petals. On one a wet diamond.
Her shears also sliced the sun.
Six roses fell. All revealed red cracking into mother-of-
pearl.
London seemed even more distant that day.

Pg. 81 Whenever surf broke and water pock-marked air, she
recalled Helen – the much-maligned Helen.
Surf broke to reveal pale ankles bound by thin strips of
gold-painted leather.

These are just three examples. You may find others far more mysterious, elusive or exciting. Ms. Tabios is a writer who is in control, knows her trade is whether its is
Silk Egg or one of her others volumes, she is a writer who is worth a long, slow read and then a re-read.

Hello: Snow Emergency Remains In Effect

I wrote this poem for Jackie Rossetti and the City of Somerville:



















Hello: Snow Emergency Remains In Effect






***** For Jackie Rossetti

Like an anxious lover
I wait for her call
her passionless voice
at the break of dawn:

"This is Jackie Rossetti from the City of Somerville...
we are still on..."

Well...
Until Feb. 2
at the very least,
as the snow outside
my window
shows no intent
to cease.

In the winter of my discontent,
I want to see her--
my raging heart
into the raging storm
but she is a rebel
she is on the
other side of the tracks
on the odd-side of the street...
How I wish
we can meet.

I will try to save her
a seat
perhaps a lawn chair
on that
freshly minted white carpet
but she'll treat
me like thrash
and throw it all way
after all...
it's a snow day.

I will pine for her
I will salt
I will sand
I won't
let what we have
slip from my frostbitten hand.

I would never dare
to shovel
what we share--
our pristine New England snow--
our frigid love,
the cold storage secrets we keep
onto the unforgiving
mean streets.


But in the end
I will break
a city ordinance
our ticket
to meet.

She will be unforgiving
subject me to fines
but Jackie Rossetti
I can read
between the lines.

---Doug Holder