My Experience At Bunker Hill Community College by Alexandria Paul

 ...... For the past five years I have taught a College Writing Seminar at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston. Bunker Hill serves an inner-city, and multiethnic  population. Many of the students are older than traditional college students; many of the students are working full and part time jobs, and many will go on to four year institutions to continue their education. The college even offers midnight classes to accommodate the needs of this student population, and provides technical, nursing, and traditional liberal arts courses. Here is an essay from one of my students describing her first weeks in college.  ---Doug Holder



My Experience At Bunker Hill Community College
By Alexandria Paul


It has been two weeks since classes started and I already love college. Just the idea of finally being independent with no one on my back about my studies excites me when I wake up every morning. Unfortunately, high school for me was like being at the bottom of a swimming pool with my ankle tied to a plug in the drain. It was  hard to undo that hold authority had over me while I was just trying to gasp for independence. It’s a big shift going from a public high school where there are disciplinarians roaming the halls, waiting for a student to step out of class to question and chastise, versus college where the staff there treats you as the adult you present yourself to be.

 On the first day of classes I was excited. “Finally, I can really focus and fully immerse myself into everything it takes to become a great chef,” I thought to myself as I stepped out of the revolving doors of Bunker Hill. In that single moment I felt the happiest, because no one could touch me. But it wasn’t just the fact that I just gained the independence. Prior to school starting I made a very big life changing decision. In the last weeks of summer, while getting things ready for school, I thought  about what I really wanted to do with my life. I went through a mental game of tug of war trying to determine what I really wanted my future to be. 

I had already chosen my classes for psychology, set up my schedule and had everything set when it dawned on me. “You’ve loved cooking since you were a little girl. You are passionate about it and there are so many career opportunities in the food industry," I told myself. Taking a deep breath I sat down and questioned myself  about taking on multiple client’s problems in my role as a counselor.  I thought,  "Is this something I’m passionate about?"  For a long time I was stuck  between wanting to be a chef and wanting to be a therapist. It took me about a week to weigh out the pros and cons of both careers and come up with a solution. 

 I had an epiphany during that week and decided to go on ahead and change my major from Psychology to Culinary Arts. And so far it was one of the best decisions I could have made in my life. My first day in the kitchen was nerve racking. My chef, Chef Kelley, gave me a task and right on the spot I forgot what he told me to do. I just walked to a part of the kitchen where he couldn’t see me and helped out my colleagues with their tasks. I also forgot my notebook in the dining room twice, each time just standing there while he was talking and others were writing down his every word. It was like my confidence was dwindling away as I kept messing up. 

At the end of the day my chef ordered me and my classmates to clean the whole entire kitchen. We all went to work scrubbing the tiles of  the greasy kitchen floor.  We shined anything that was steel in the kitchen. And almost everything in that kitchen is made of steel.  I was extremely upset about how my first day played out. But I had to take a moment to think and remember why I choose this major and how much dedication would have to be put into this kind of career. I got it together and kept going. Even though my first time in the kitchen wasn’t what I had expected it to be I was happy that I made it past my first day.

The Friday of my first week I attended my College Writing Seminar for the first time. I really enjoyed it and the classmates that I met.  I felt like it’s a good group of people to be surrounded by. I can already tell that the class would have really good and interesting debates and discussions since everyone’s inputs and opinions are different. In the beginning of class my professor, Professor Holder, asked us a question about the Market Basket incident and if we sided with the workers or the management team.  I hadn't heard  about the dilemma that the Somerville  and  the greater community were having. But after I asked Professor Holder to give me the background info I was then able to choose a side (the workers) and joined the discussion.

In high school I was a part of the debate team and participated in numerous competitions. So whenever we have a debate or a Socratic seminar it was exciting for me to be able to share my thoughts and input on different topics. After my first English class I felt like maybe my high school did prepare me for college. I kind of had a secret fear for a while that I wasn’t going to make it in college. I felt like everything my high school taught me was so easy and the fact that graduates came back and told us that they weren’t prepared scared me even more. But it wasn’t until after surviving my first week that I knew I could mentally and physically handle everything college has to offer me, hard work included.

The weeks following things gradually got better. I got more control over my knife, started studying my knife cuts, and working on my English assignments every chance I got. Bunker Hill is just my starting point. I plan to transfer to a four year college–preferably Johnson and Wales- and get my Bachelor’s Degree in Culinary Arts. Nevertheless, I’m glad that I picked Bunker Hill as my base because my experience so far has been great ever since I made the decision to change my major. 

......... 

Paul has been writing since  she was very young. On Saturday afternoons during her free time she would sit with the computer at home and write novels (Science Fiction, Non-fiction, fiction). If she wasn't on the computer she was writing  in a notebook. Reading has always been one of her hobbies. Paul loves to read for fun but hated being forced to read. It was something about reading and writing that  has always sparked her interests.

Carolee Carmello The Boston Concert The FUDGE Theatre Company

Carolee Carmello

The Boston Concert

The FUDGE Theatre Company

in association with Matt Phillips

The Mosesian Theatre

at The Arsenal Center For The Arts

Watertown, MA

Review by Zvi A. Sesling

There are few female singers who have earned the title of “Songstress”with their wonderful voices, Broadway performances and solo performances. The new addition to the list is Carolee Carmello.

Ms. Carmello is currently performing as Madame du Maurier in Finding Neverland at the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge. She brought her outstanding voice, relaxed attitude and humor to the Mosesian Theatre at the Arsenal Center For The Arts singing seventeen songs from Broadway plays including Les Miserables, Follies, Call Me Madam, Funny Girl and Mama Mia. It was a compelling concert. Between some of the songs she told personal stories, some humorous, one touching about performing after the 9/11 terrorist attacks with only 100 people in a 1,500 seat theatre, realizing, as the Broadway mantra states: The show must go on.

Listening to her sing it is easy to understand why she has numerous award nominations including the Tony, Drama Desk, Outer Critics and an Obie Award. Her talent has been seen in Europe, in America and in New York at Lincoln Center, Town Hall and Carnegie Hall. In addition she has frequently appeared in many television shows.

In a touching and emotional moment Ms. Carmello brought her father on stage for a duet.

She was most ably accompanied at the piano by Music Director Phil Reno. Ms. Carmello easily conquered a cheering audience and with justification, she is a talent who that needs to be both seen and heard and if you do not catch her in Finding Neverland at the ART, perhaps FUDGE Theatre Company and Matt Phillipps will convince her to return in concert again.

____________________________________________________

Zvi A. Sesling

Reviewer, Boston Small Press and Poetry Scene

Author, King of the Jungle and Author, Across Stones of Bad Dreams

Editor, Muddy River Poetry Review

Editor, Bagel Bards Anthology 7

Editor, Bagel Bards Anthology 8

Publisher, Muddy River Books

The Somerville Poet Laureate--It is finally here!‏

The Somerville Poet Laureate--It is finally here!

Harris Gardner (Tapestry of Voices) and myself (Doug Holder--Ibbetson Street Press) met with Gregory Jenkins,( The Director of the Somerville Arts Council), at the now defunct Sherman Cafe in Union Square this summer to discuss the prospects of getting a Somerville Poet Laureate. I have been pushing this for years, but to no avail. There were either vacant promises from local pols, the eye-rolling, the patronizing hand shake--slippery as a snake--well you know the drill. Jenkins was on board with the idea; so then we met with the mayor and he thought it was a good idea as well. Now we have an official announcement, and information  about how to apply. We are forming a selection committee, so far it is Greg Jenkins, Doug Holder, Bert Stern, Harris Gardner, Linda Conte, Charles Coe, Ifeanyi Menkiti and others. So if you are a fine poet, community-minded, have a track record of promoting poetry, and have a strong vision for your possible tenure--apply!

Somerville Poet Laureate

Application and Overview

                                                          

Statement of Purpose

The City of Somerville announces the creation of a Poet Laureate for Somerville.   The City views the position as a means to further enhance the profile of poets and poetry in the city and beyond.  The Poet Laureate is expected to bring poetry to segments of Somerville's community that have less access or exposure to poetry: senior citizens, youth, schools and communities.  The Poet Laureate will be a person of vision with the ability to enact his/her vision.

Duration

The Poet Laureate will serve for a two-year term and will be provided an honorarium of $2,000 per year.  A contract will be derived with expectations detailed as to the public benefit required of the position, which will be jointly determined with the final applicant and review committee.    The expectation is that the position will support and expand poetry in the city.  The Somerville Arts Council/City of Somerville will support the Laureate in networking within the community but actual work must be accomplished by the chosen candidate. 

How to apply
Deadline:   Postmarked by November 17, 2014

Candidates for Somerville Poet Laureate must provide the following: 

• One page contact info sheet with name, address, phone number, email, website (if applicable)  
• Proof of residence demonstrated by sending a copy of a utility bill, lease, phone bill.  (a jpg image of a current bill or statement is fine if emailing application, or a photocopy of statement if mailing application)
• Curriculum Vitae / Poetry-Related Bio  
• Up to 20 pages of original poetry
• One to three-page vision statement with details as to how you will implement the public benefit component. 

How to submit 

1. Either email PDFs of the above items to Gregory Jenkins at gjenkins@somervillema.gov     with Poet Laureate in the subject header:
2. Or mail the following documents to:   Somerville Poet Laureate, Somerville Arts Council, 50 Evergreen Ave., Somerville, MA  02145  

Selection Process for Poet Laureate of Somerville

A committee, comprised of local poets, teachers, and arts administrators, will review the applications based on the evaluation criteria and select no fewer than three and no more than six applications to be finalists.  Finalists will be interviewed in December with the expectation that they will further refine their proposed vision and public component for the position.  The interview process will also provide the selection committee the ability to inquire more of the candidate.  Based on the four criteria below, the committee will select a final candidate and alternate who will be presented to Mayor Joseph Curtatone for his approval.

 Evaluation Process for Poet Laureate Nomination

The Poet Laureate will be reviewed and chosen on the basis of the four criteria (percentage weights included):

·         Excellence in craftsmanship, as demonstrated by submitted original poems  (25%)

·         Providing a vision for the position. How will you work with the community, schools, nonprofit or municipal arts and service departments.   Please convey your vision for the position with details of outreach and collaborations.   (25%)

·         Professional achievement in the field of poetry. Merit shall be proven by publication credits either in small press or large press publications; at least one collection, full size or chapbook published by a small press or large press; also, awards or recognition such as grants, fellowships, prizes, and/or other recognition. (25%)

·         A history of actively promulgating the visibility of poetry in Somerville’s neighborhoods and literary communities through readings, publications, promotion of events, public presentations  and/or workshops and other types of teaching and literary community involvement. (25%)

City of Somerville

Mayor Joseph A. Curtatone

Trying To Help The Elephant Man Dance By Tim Suermondt

 
Trying To Help The Elephant Man Dance
By Tim Suermondt
The Backwaters Press
Omaha, Nebraska
www.thebackwaterspress.homestead.com
ISBN: 0-9785782-9-5
100 Pages
$16.00y

Review by Dennis Daly

Some people dance through life changing everything and everybody they touch for the better. They imagine goodness and a wonder-filled life that might someday be; then they try to make it happen. Unfortunately, very few poets count themselves among this happy hopeful group; most versifiers seem to prefer the harrowing reality of the coffin lid. Tim Suermondt differs greatly from those other poets—the morose ones, that is—and, besides, he sings, mimics Cary Grant and understands the religious experience of a well-made grilled cheese sandwich.

Opening his collection with a poem entitled The Days of the Dead Are Alive with Happiness Suermondt treats his readers to a rather funereal square dance. Skeletons clanking about with energy put on quite a show for Everyman who, relishing his favorite bologna and cheese sandwich, gives a nod and wink to his future state of being. The poet sets up his piece this way,

You can’t see them
although the faint but energetic crackle

gives them away, those skeletons
in their true freedom and democracy

who are plying their square dance
throughout the apartment complex,

changing partners with ghostly speed, adding
to “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”

the crucial amendment:  “Bone to Bone.”

In a multileveled poem, Flying Without the Geese or the Plane, Suermondt takes us above it all. Are his characters taking a temporary metaphysical break or are they all dead? It doesn’t seem to matter. The poet prances through the afterlife with aplomb while he contemplates the mortality of all of us. His tone breezes along with not a little hilarity. Suermondt describes the experience,

…in seconds I’m airborne.

“I never knew it was so easy,” I say

to a politician who asks for my vote—
some things don’t change, which too is a virtue.

I confess: lyricism has always escaped me
but I’m flying as well as everyone else.

There’s a lovely Asian woman in a dress
redder than Beijing, and an Elvis impersonator

pointing to his nametag, BILLY KING.

“For my sake the world was created,” a rabbi
recites, crossing in front of me, cheerfully banishing

the second part, “I am dust and ashes.”

Not many of us consider the possibility of getting even with childhood boogeymen.   Suermondt torments his boorish monster with words in a poem called The Aztec Mummy of My Childhood. His poetic taunts strike fear in this would-be nightmare maker and he returns meekly, presumably to his fellow mummies.
The poet declares his victory of words and his self-awareness,

My parting shot chasing after him
like a madman with a flame thrower—
“Don’t let the language get you.”
Should I run into him or his relatives
on the Spanish channel late at night
I’ll apologize for my lack of comity—

But I won’t let him bunk down
in the basement, even if he promises to behave—
poor pathetic Aztec Mummy,
a terror who’s long since been eclipsed,
no more dangerous than a telenovela—
God am I cruel.

The title poem, Trying to Help the Elephant Man Dance, captures in a nutshell Suermondt’s offbeat tone. Its sweetness belies any surrealistic interpretation, yet it plays out beyond any realm of realism.  He simply alters what he needs to alter. He makes his own world moment by moment. It occurs to me that Francis of Assisi, another holy fool and original poet, would understand completely. Suermondt celebrates the humanity of his borrowed partner and denies the significance of seemingly repulsive details. His choreographed piece opens with a philosophic sureness,

We do our careful steps in the alley.
“I’m so hideous, “ he says,
looking down at his jumbo feet.
I say, “In this world there are things
far more hideous”—“one, two, three…”
and clumsy as we surely must be
there’s an elegance we both can feel...

My favorite poem and easily the most lyrical in this collection, Singing for Janet Visiting Key West, 1953, also takes an unpleasant reality of the past (and quite possibly the future) and, in the face of all reason, turns the moment into an imagined place of happiness. Suermondt conjures this up by sheer will and stubborn, almost childish, music. I like it. Here’s a good bit of it:

        Oh Janet, polio girl,
        what a sight:
        The Dolphins are dancing in the moonlight.

The pink, aqua and resplendent green
    will help you believe
         the braces by the side of your bed

           can be tossed into the sea
             and you can walk, no run instead
        down to the Duval levy…

Like the weather human sadness descends on us in seasonal fashion. In Beginning and Ending with a Donald Justice Line Suermondt invokes the iconic image of Richard Nixon at the end of his cataclysmic presidency waving bitterly to his fellow citizens. He seems to say that the fault, dear Brutus, may indeed be in the stars. In some sense we all wear the same cloth coats of humanity and share the same ultimate fate. The poet puts it this way,

Time to think of Mr. Nixon
Wearing his Republican cloth coat,
walking around in sadness,
in bitterness—the ultimate display
of how we feel
now that summer itself
has waved Farewell, farewell
from the world’s helicopter.
Looking skyward,
consider the havoc
the stars and the seasons cause…

On his book’s cover Suermondt superimposes headshots of Elvis Presley, Joseph Merrick, and Richard Nixon on the bodies of his dancing partners. In a sense he comes across as an altruistic headhunter of the fallen and flawed. His pieces try to make sense of these unfortunates through a lens of poetic kindness, and Suermondt’s decency shines through each and every composition.

Rending the Garment by Willa Schneberg

                                   Rending the Garment        Willa Schneberg               New York: Box Turtle Press

Review by Pam Rosenblatt

Family has been defined as “a group of people who are closely related by birth, marriage, or adoption”; as “a group of people living together and functioning as a single household, usually consisting of parents and their children”; and as “lineage (or) all the people who are descended from a common ancestor”.[1] Most people have or had a family throughout their lives, unless a person is an orphan, a person without a mother or a father and perhaps without relatives.

                Willa Schneberg’s Rending the Garment is about family: its positives and its negatives, its ups and downs sides; its real and its imaginative sides; its life and death sides; and its religious and traditional sides. 

Schneberg writes about her parents and herself as a Jewish immigrant family adapting and not adapting to the American lifestyle. She has put together a book that many people, especially those individuals who come from Jewish backgrounds, can relate to, can understand. And Schneberg manages to achieve these common bonds through clear, articulate, descriptive writing developed from personal experiences. She develops her writings with the devices of persona and metaphor. She has compiled a 103 page book filled with poems, flash fiction, prose poems, and conjures up past ancestors and historical persons.[2]

This book is not an easy read sometimes. Often Schneberg deals with difficult issues and situations, like in the poems, “Tunnel Vision”, “Grief”, and “Teaching Poetry at the Postgraduate Center for Mental Health”. 

“Tunnel Vision” deals with Schneberg’s father’s impending death and her father’s struggle to

outsmart it:

“Tunnel Vision”

Although tunnels never end,

when the young psychologist

he loves like a son

says he’ll wait on the other side,

Ben pretends he’s a rubber ball

that rolls in by mistake:

sick to his stomach,

gulping air,

his heart pounds

like when he lost his wife

at the behemoth department store

on Herald Square.

But the tunnel doesn’t chain him to stone

or cover his eyes with its black palms.

Instead he feels sunlight on his face,

and bellows: fuck-you all,

I licked this thing!

But death eventually does come to Ben Schneberg, as read in “Grief”, which is about the mourning of Willa Schneberg’s father. In this poem, Schneberg understands her family structure has changed and imagines how an almost mystical chaos that is happening because of her father’s passing:  

“Grief”

The sorcerers are bored and frustrated

standing in their glittery robes and pointy hats

in the corner of my parents’ small kitchen

where the cupboards never close properly,

the pilot light always goes out, and

my father remains spindly and mute

as before he died.

They kill time rolling small glass balls

In their palms and conjuring

the electric can opener

to delid all the tuna cans,

but finally the incantations and

wand waving work.

My father is morphing

into his debonair self, tall if carriage

as if a picture were about to be taken

in three-quarter profile, a pipe in his mouth.

He vanishes.

Ashes burn in an ashtray,

the room thick with sweet smoke.

He reappears plumper, but still translucent

holding a bowl with a puddle

of vanilla ice cream and canned peach juice.

He floats down and sits.

The index cards are still

where he left them

waiting for names of uncracked books

and Dewey decimals.

The sorcerers do my bidding

and free him to be

who he never was in life.

Today he knows origami.

Under his hands

library index cards moonlight

as snails, whales and kangaroos.

The sorcerers are delighted with themselves.

Now, in search of my mother

they squish together for a ride

In the motorized stair chair

my father used at the end.

They find her fast asleep in the den

bent over a crossword puzzle.

When she awakens

all the empty squares are filled-in with:

                       I LOVE YOU  I

                                                L

                                          Y O U

                                           V

       I WILL ALWAYS  LOVE  YOU

Dealing with the death of a loved one is usually trying, but having to tend with people who are in emotional and/or psychological pain is sometimes just as painful. In “Teaching Poetry at the Postgraduate Center for Mental Health”, Schneberg  writes, “I fear I will end up like Anne Sexton,/ a patient in the same mental hospital/where she taught poetry to ‘Mayflower screwballs’/with names like Higginson and Bowditch.”

                In “Teaching Poetry at the Postgraduate Center for Mental Health”, she describes her “students (who) subsist in childhood bedrooms,/group homes, flophouses, efficiencies,/having earned their diplomas/from Creedmore, Pilgrim State and Bellevue.” 

Her “students” have mental health problems, as implied when Schneberg writes:

In group they write:

“I hate my finger. It is bent and ugly…”

“Is madness madness?” “…with you, neither female/

nor male, simply both…”

“… but one day I was going and I met myself coming

so I killed myself.”

Schneberg writes about the pain that she senses from her students.

Sometimes while teaching I see myself

squinched up, facing the wall;

Instead of croaking alone,

we O.D. in our poems.

“Teaching Poetry at the Postgraduate Center for Mental Health” concerns itself with mental illness – how it affecting her students and the fear of it for herself.  

                Willa Schneberg’s Rending the Garment is a book that deals with tough situations, focusing mainly on inner family issues. It’s about life. This book is a good read.

               

###

---

[1] “Family”, Encarta Dictionary: English (North America), Microsoft Word 2010.

[2] Willa Schneberg, Back cover quote, Rending the Garment, New York: Box Turtle Press, 2014

Jennifer Matthews debuts her new single ‘Oh Don’t, She Said’ with special guests

Jennifer Matthews

Jack Holland

Doug Holder

     Jennifer Matthews debuts her new single ‘Oh Don’t, She Said’

A Celebration of the Marriage of Poetry and Song

Saturday, October 18^th 7:30 pm
@ Arts at The Armory
191 Highland Ave. Somerville, MA
Come Celebrate in the Release of the song “Oh Don’t, She Said” A collaboration by Songstress

Jennifer Matthews and Poet Doug Holder. Enjoy live musical sets by Sam Franklin & his band, Jennifer Matthews with Jack Holland on electric guitar, and special guest  Jennifer Greer. Also, a poetry reading by Doug Holder and live, interactive drawing/painting with Syed Zaman.

doors 7pm

About Jennifer’s new single ‘Oh Don’t She Said’ - Jennifer wrote this song after her friend and notable Boston poet, Doug Holder, showed her his poem: “Oh don’t, she said, it’s cold.” After reading it, Jennifer felt inspired and heard a song in it. She had to change some of the words to make it work lyrically with the music, but she made sure to stay close to the original poem as much as possible. Jennifer played all the instruments on it and engineered it. It was mixed by Phil Greene at Normandy Sound, who worked with the likes of Mick Jagger, Bruce Springsteen and many, many other noted artists.
For more info, interviews, pictures or advanced copy of the new record/single please e-mail or call.
MUSIC LINKS

Oh Don’t She Said

"Jennifer Matthews, a troubadour known to swing vocally from the sweetness of Kate Bush to the sass of Janis Joplin"

"At times as individual as PJ Harvey and Kate Bush, at times as hippie-sensual as Neil Young and Joan Osborne, Matthews covers a lot of ground.  She's an appealing chameleon." -- Steve Morse , Boston Globe

"Jennifer is an artist of great versatility with the ability to play any of her songs with great emotion... and musical beauty... Her talent as an artist is not to be ignored." ---Michael Friedman, Skope Magazine

"Jennifer is the specter of Patti Smith meeting Nick Drake, Rumi whirling with Billie Holiday, the perennial Girl-with-a-Guitar, a Radiohead having "better days", a little Joni Mitchell and David Bowie, Yes, multifaceted!" -- Mike Amado, Open Bark

"Her melodies are as appealing and azure as her guitar"--  Richard Hill, BBC radio

Thundamoon Records Take a risk to be your own creative self

artist management · rose gardina · thundamoonrecords@gmail.com · 508-654-3205 · usa

Pillowman: Black Box at Arsenal Center for the Arts: Now Playing: A Play by Martin McDonagh

Pillowman

Black Box at Arsenal Center for the Arts

Now Playing

A Play by Martin McDonagh

Directed by Joey DeMita F.U.D.G.E. Theatre Company

Review by Zvi A. Sesling

There is always this question: do playgoers go to see a play or to see the actors. The FUDGE presentation of Pillowman answers the question, at least for this play: it is the

actors.

The play itself is gruesome. It is advertised as presenting murder, torture, infanticide, patricide, matricide, suicide, executions, totalitarianism, abusive police, toxic relationships, mercy killings, dysfunctional families and impossible choices. It lives up to the description which is what makes it gruesome.

It is, however, Matt Phillips and Paul Kmiec who make it an exciting evening event. Phillipps plays Katurian at first as a meek writer then as a madman and a killer. At various times he speaks in the voice of a small girl and on another occasion with an Englishman’s accent. Seemingly there is nothing he cannot do on the stage and as the star of the show he lives up to what a star is. Paul Kmiec as Katurian’s brother Michal provides an astounding performance in the highlight scene when he and Katurian confront each other.

All this praise does not take away from stellar supporting roles by J. Mark Morrison as Tupolski and Ryan MacPherson at Ariel. The two play a detective (Tupolski) and a police officer (Ariel) in a totalitarian state. At one point Tupolski tells Katurian that he

is the good cop and Ariel is the bad cop. But in reality, both cops have their secret pasts and both show cruel and tender sides.

The play itself borrows themes from a number of plays, movies, stories most prominently perhaps, Of Mice and Men. Although it won two best play awards and received three other nominations for best play, it is the acting, not the story that makes this an experience worth encountering.

And one can thank Director Joey DeMita for bringing out the best in his actors. Okay, so

forget the plot, the story, the ending. Go see this because Phillipps and Kmiec are terrific

and Morrison and MacPherson are excellent.

____________________________________________________

Zvi A. Sesling

Reviewer, Boston Small Press and Poetry Scene

Author, King of the Jungle and Author, Across Stones of Bad Dreams

Editor, Muddy River Poetry Review

Editor, Bagel Bards Anthology 7

Editor, Bagel Bards Anthology 8

Publisher, Muddy River Books

From the Desk of a “B” Student: A Review of Wesley McNair’s The Lost Child: Ozark Poems: Review by David DiSarro

From the Desk of a “B” Student: A Review of Wesley McNair’s The Lost Child: Ozark Poems

Review by David DiSarro


Consider the following paragraph a disclaimer.  When asked to review Wesley McNair’s latest book, The Lost Child: Ozark Poems, I had to pause – not because of a lack of interest (far from it), but because I had to contend with a potential dilemma, or, more accurately, a possible conflict of interest.  Specifically, I spent three and a half years as a long-haired, unshaven, and somewhat dimwitted student in the undergraduate creative writing program McNair helped to establish at the University of Maine at Farmington; a program where his reputation brought poets like Philip Levine, Lucille Clifton, Donald Hall, and Sharon Olds (just to name a few) to us enthusiastic, doe-eyed, and occasionally blubbering creative writing students; a program where I had the privilege of his mentorship, albeit for one semester in my junior year.  And now, nearly 12 years since sitting in his classroom, with considerably less hair and slightly more wisdom (well, hopefully, anyway), I find myself in the unique position to give McNair’s book a read and provide some semblance of a review, all while trying to remember one of the valuable tools he taught me in those early workshops – to separate the work from the author.  This, of course, is a tough chore, even for McNair to follow, considering the central figure in The Lost Child is his mother, Ruth, and “the homeplace that shaped her,” but I figured, why not?  I might as well give it go, if only to make myself feel a little better about that “B” I earned in his class. 

Hyperbole aside, it should be no surprise to readers of McNair’s work that the concept of “place” plays an important role in the text.  As with many of McNair’s other volumes, characters constantly attempt to reconcile the physical “places” they occupy and those internal “places” frequented in the mind.  Ruth, in poor health and moved to a nursing home in the opening poem (“When She Wouldn’t”), is a protagonist continuously under siege throughout the book, surrounded by an array of eccentric and disillusioned family members, struggling with an aging body, deteriorating mind, and the disorientation of being forced into unfamiliar surroundings.  McNair skillfully illustrates the sorrow involved when those things we remember or cherish fade, change, or are violated, and yet he also leaves room for contemplation, resolution, and even comfort amidst chaos.  Remaining true to his reputation as a storyteller, McNair preserves the places of his mother in the cadence of a southern drawl, the depiction of a dysfunctional family barbeque (“The American Flag Cake”), those quiet moments by Ruth’s deathbed (“Dancing in Tennessee”), and, finally, her journey home so that “she would never, ever again, be gone” (“Why I Carried My Mother’s Ashes).  Indeed, while numerous poets focus heavily upon image or, to borrow a phrase from William Burroughs, a “frozen moment,” and unpacking the emotional baggage of the speaker or characters therein, McNair is one of those rare poets who balances the delicacy and nuisance of image with the plot of the poem, the storylines woven between characters, and ultimately the craftsmanship involved in revealing those uniquely human emotions of love, jealousy, resentment, and compassion. 

While the story of Ruth and her family is compelling (and even wrenching at times), McNair offers some relief in poems such as “Gratitude,” which chronicles the homecoming of a veteran by the name of Elgin, a soldier recently deprogrammed upon his return from Afghanistan.  Struggling with what one ancillary character refers to as “homefront syndrome,” or when “…the people back home don’t understand the war and his sacrifice,” the poem is removed from the usual suspects of Ruth and her family, and McNair skillfully portrays the psychological complexities of returning from war – of faces familiar, yet somehow not.  While there are certainly brooding passages in the poem, one of the most poignant moments, perhaps in the entire collection, transpires when Elgin reconnects and recognizes beauty for the first time since coming home; not from some foggy memory or a rekindling romance, but in the aging face of his mother:

So none of the others were there to see Elgin’s mother,
uncomfortable with expressions of love, brush
an imaginary fleck of dust from the lapel
of his uniform and say how much she enjoyed
his speech as Elgin looked down at her, studying
her face and hair.  Then he held her in his arms

and said thank you, this time for just growing old,
which had made her beautiful, he said, a word
he had almost forgot, causing her to weep all
over again in the blinking red, white, and blue light
of the crèche, while Myla, nudged between them,
cried to hear how loud her grammy cried.

This moment, I would argue, is a metaphor for speaker in The Lost Child coming to terms with the deterioration and death of his own mother, in realizing the inherent beauty in those moments that cause us the greatest difficulty and pain, and to remember those people and places (whatever their faults), even after they have gone.

Wesley McNair’s The Lost Child: Ozark Poems is a compelling read that solidifies his reputation at the forefront of contemporary poetry and storytelling.  Not a collection for the emotionally weary or fainthearted, The Lost Child takes McNair’s mastery of language, his penchant for certain subject matter, and implants these musings in the landscape of Southern Missouri for all to see.  Whether coming to McNair’s work for the first time, or, in my case, for the first time in a long time, this collection is a must-have for any bookshelf.  And, hopefully dear reader, this was an “above average” or “B” review for what is undoubtedly a remarkable work.


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 David R. DiSarro is currently an Assistant Professor of English and the Director of the Writing Center at Endicott College in Beverly, MA. He received his Ph.D. in Rhetoric and Composition from Ball State University, his M.A. in Creative Writing from Southern Connecticut State University, where he was also a graduate research fellow, and his B.F.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Maine at Farmington. David's creative work has previously appeared in The Hawaii Pacific Review, Shot Glass Poetry Journal, The Ibbetson Street Magazine, The Orange Room Review, Breadcrumb Scabs, Third Wednesday, among others.  In addition, David's article entitled "Let's CHAT:  Cultural Historical Activity Theory Goes into the Creative Writing Classroom" will be forthcoming (Spring 2015) in New Writing:  The International Journal for the Practice and Theory of Creative Writing.

Reconsidering Hanna(h) By Deirdre Girard : Boston Playwright's Theatre

 
Reconsidering Hanna(h)
By Deirdre Girard
Directed by Bridget Kathleen O’Leary
Boston Playwright’s Theatre
September 25 to October 19
Lighting Design by Karen Perlow
BostonPlaywrights.org
617-353-5443
$30.00 Adult admission
$25.00 Seniors
$10.00 Students

Review by Dennis Daly

Hanna(h) stalks over the main stage with murder in her eyes and a hatchet in her hand. Her insane scowls drift into the full-house audience at the Boston Playwright’s Theatre demanding answers, two sets of what will become seat-squirming, unsettling answers. Each set belongs to a very different Hanna(h). First, there is the Puritan Hannah Duston, mother of eight children, whom the Abenaki Indians took hostage in 1697 during a raid on the town of Haverhill. Second, there is present day Hanna, an international career journalist recently returned from Afghanistan and now dealing with the murder of her journalist husband. This Hanna directs obscenity-laced barbs at friends and antagonists alike as she investigates her seventeenth- century namesake with intellectual stubbornness and a developing sense of intimacy.  Celeste Oliva plays both Hanna(h)s seamlessly, so seamlessly she changes clothes and personalities in front of us, her ego-altering facial expressions successfully suspending any notion of pedestrian disbelief.

At almost regular intervals throughout the play I internally projected the trajectory of the plot line. On each occasion I guessed wrong. Deirdre Girard, the playwright who authored this masterwork, has layered her production with multiple thematic motivations and deepening plot twists. That’s not to say that the play clutters itself with clever academic arguments. It doesn’t. On the contrary every movement of the plot adds to the dramatic force. Good directing makes this happen and Bridget Kathleen O’Leary nails this play with intelligence and a perfect sense of timing.

Girard deals with the universal theme of innocence in wonderfully novel ways. Hannah Duston epitomizes the innocence of victim hood. Her family has been torn apart. Many of her friends were likely killed, 27 colonists in all. Another 12 joined her as prisoners. The captives were tormented with stories of future torture they would have to endure. Hannah may have been raped. Her captors killed her newborn, Martha, by smashing her head against a tree. Hannah’s psychic injuries and depression evolve into rage and a bloodthirsty survival strategy. When the Indian band divided into smaller groups, Hannah saw her opportunity. She, her nurse, and a young boy slaughtered all ten of the group that held them captive. That’s the history of it. 

So is this the case of a woman tigress, a feminist icon, overcoming adversity and striking a blow against the savagery of her times? The townspeople erected a statue of Hannah, the oldest statue of a woman in America. And, yes, she has a hatchet in her hand. Today bobble heads of Hannah are on sale at local tourist shops. 

However there are some inconvenient facts associated with this story. The Indian group that held her captive was not made up of the same individuals who had abducted her in the first place.  This new group treated her well and shared their food with Hannah and her fellow prisoners. Only two of the ten dead Indians were warriors; the others were women and children. Before escaping into the wilderness, Hannah went back and scalped all ten. The general Court of Massachusetts paid her very well for the scalps.
Years later in her application to rejoin her church she seemed to deny that any rape had taken place.

Today’s Abenaki tribal councils have argued that Native Americans were fighting for their stolen lands and, besides, the hostages would have been ransomed by the Indians and returned to their families. In fact, many were. They also dismiss the suggestion  of  rape, contending that other woman taken in the same time frame were apparently not raped (true enough). They even argue that the killing of the infant was a mercy killing of sorts (that is bullshit, of course).

Even Nathaniel Hawthorne in his time had strong views on the Hannah Duston affair. He pretty much demonized her while lauding the heroics of her husband as he protected their remaining seven children.

Modern day Hanna mulls over these facts as she deals with another set of inconvenient facts surrounding her own life in Afghanistan (Was she raped there?) and the details of her husband’s murder. As Hanna does this, Mary, puritan Hannah’s nurse, played convincingly by Kippy Goldfarb, watches her from a side stage and across the bounds of time, transfixed by what she is seeing.

Both of modern Hanna’s colleagues, Matt, played by Barlow Adamson, and Joanna, played by Caroline Lawton, effectively draw out the hidden, thematic details of Hanna’s dark side. They become their characters so well that they append further authenticity to the merging central characterizations of Hanna(h).

One comment about the lighting: it mesmerized with its magic and brought the production together in a pseudo-time, transcending historic barriers. Congratulations, Karen Perlow

Where else can an audience view such a thoughtful dramatization of multiple contending realities, politically correct or not. Your head will buzz with ambivalence as you walk away from this refreshing production. Bravo to all involved. It closes October 19th. Don’t miss it.

(Reviewer’s note—I knew a bit about the subject before I agreed to review this play. I have a published poem entitled Rage Along the Merrimac [Wilderness House Literary Review] about Hannah Duston that I wrote many years ago. It gives me some discomfort and I excised it from two different books during the proof reading process.)