“Recluse at a Hanging”
Sanchez licked butter from the rough stick,
Time slowed as the bark scratched his tongue.
A fly in the mind of a catapulted lover,
And you have been found guilty -- doomed.
Basking Sanchez watched the swinging corpse;
A being stilling time into a meal.
Round-run dog, tail of attention!
Annoying yip! ...distracted hooded man.
Yellow stabbing lofted orb; butter melting on a stick.
Sanchez licking butter as a dead-man swings.
Masai Adumu at Keekorok
Their voices lift
like gazelle in fright,
swell your insides
to heights that burst
and bleed in rivers red.
hit that place inside,
cracks it into pieces,
that place you did not know,
you did not dream you carried.
Their dance beckons,
screams your name
and you are left in tatters,
feeling loss of life,
your old life slips away,
you lift with every jump and neon yelp,
to stretch yourself complete.
Their red shúkàs sway,
entice ancient longing,
scream to all who are present,
we are, we are,
we are Masai.
Webbed lines frame perma-etched bluish-black bags
under her baby blues,
Every waking hour a nod,
neck snaps -
Rage at the moonlight
that seeps through the delicate lace.
She draws the curtains.
She sleeps on her side, back straight, knees drawn -
eyes blink open, shut, in rhythm to the
of the grandfather clock standing sentinel
outside her bedroom door.
Shadows play tag across the ceiling, ghosts on high
draw imaginary boundaries in waking dreams.
She lays her head gently on the pillow, sinking further
into its luxurious down,
praying for sheep to jump before her.
In early March
an indolent sun
persists in tossing
volunteer rays of
soft flickering sun silk
through dark desolate
willow tree branches-
of snow diamond crystals
from weathered wooden planks
on my balcony.
I’m starting to think life
is an adjective exaggerated
by the sway of seasons.
It’s normal feeding time.
Below two floors
wild Canadian geese
for the tossing of morning feed;
the silent sound they hear-
no dropping of the seed.
Coastal warm breeze
off Santa Monica, California
the sun turns salt
shaker upside down
and it rains white smog, humid mist.
No thunder, no lightening,
nothing else to do
forward into liquid
into eternal days
Michael Lee Johnson
Hedge with a Hole
Stretched on the couch
by the living room window,
too tired to rise,
verify locks and the stove,
officially retire, he hears outside
blasts of a curse, fists, and feet
running. In the morning,
before he leaves for the train,
crisp in his seersucker suit,
he walks around to the window,
finds creeping bent torn,
the hedge with a hole
the girth of a man.
He will be too upset
to read his paper
on the train.
Quick as Piranha
Tucked in a booth in back,
the last customer of the day
cracks a fortune cookie,
sips Oolong as Mr. Hong
locks up. It’s time for his supper.
Two tall sons bear
from the kitchen dishes
his wife won’t allow
on the menu.
Platters of meat
red, green, brown
huddle and steam
in the middle of the table.
When the Hongs
drop in their seats
like beaks. So many bright teeth,
quick as piranha.
Midnight here has been mauled and murdered.
It’s 3 a.m. and I can hear the two of them fucking
in the room next door to mine.
He talks more during than she does:
Oh, baby. Oh, Momma. Oh, baby. Oh, Momma.
He can’t decide whether to care for her
or be cared for by her.
God, but I wish he’d choose one.
It’s Friday. Another moonless night, another try.
My dress is green and brown, my legs exposed.
He is staring.
I cross the room
and in the mirror I watch her touch his face.
I apply my lip gloss carefully;
look at my sparkly smile.
It’s the final dark sleep hour when I feel her.
She leads me to the room in silence.
He has wedged himself between the bed and the wall.
Scalded by the moonlight,
laughing and crying,
with his hands in his hair.
It’s raining. The air is green and smells of summer
He and I are sitting on the back steps. We listen.
What are you both doing?
Her smile is a wind chime.
He does not look back, but silently asks for closeness.
We anchor him like two strong stones,
an arm around each shoulder.
His skin is fever; and she like a candle
in the gray storm light.
It’s a gamble really, this love,
it’s a bet placed, a fuse lit.
It’s a car wreck at night.
And I am the passerby who cannot look away;
my eyes too drawn to the colored lights and the siren song.
And the hope.
One night, you will land in San Francisco. All the city lights will be tiny moons around the bay. You won’t be able to see the red bridge, but you will see how even from far away, the massive plane makes ripples in the water. You will see the dim cabin & the people around you, the man with his goodnight book, the child with her thumb. As you descend together, you will hit the button. The stewardess will come, & you will want to tell her something about the loneliness of vast bodies, the beauty of a cow’s eyes, how much you love to land in this city at night. When she is standing beside you, you’ll apologize for calling her. You will tell her it was an accident. But you won’t be able to ignore how her cleavage is a little off centered, as if one day she was born sideways, her arm, a white arc, raised quietly over her head.
The Whole World
So many little legs over the fence.
A pond with a tin boat sunk deep in its lungs.
Four old cows with loose skin,
pelvises shuddering with each plod.
A sycamore peels, sucks air from low clouds.
At the other end of this state, jellyfish rise on shore.
This only happens at low tide,
although you can catch a current full of them.
You should know that they still sting after they’re dead.
You have to rub sand into the wound.
In Minnesota, my great grandfather builds chairs.
Ice fishing happens first with fire.
You can take the fire & burn the beginning of a hole.
You have to drink heavily to stay warm.
The same is true in Russia.
The sun is closer in Pacifica.
Ice must be made in machines.
You can buy red silk, opium.
You can see poppies in the hills.
Sometimes a whale will slip through the night.
If you listen with your body,
you can hear it traveling,
hear it when it sends out a low cry through the water,
On some mountain ranges, goats travel over rocks.
Shepherds pray to the east & live in elements.
There are rocks older than stars
& there are stars older than us.
There are mountains that explode & rain fire.
There are mountains big enough to block out stars.
Some places are full of trees
so tall that they must bend
to hear us talking under the magnet of sun.
Things live in & on trees.
Sometimes moss will grow up the bark
& there are plants that kill trees,
much like we kill each other,
only it happens more slowly & makes no sound.
In the seas of earth, blind things are alive.
They send out their own waves
& other blind things send waves back,
invisible to our radars,
but felt by watery slug & translucent crab.
There are submarines in every ocean.
My brother makes his home in one.
He has seen Atlas sleeping on the edge on an abyss.
He has seen him forget to hold up the whole world.
What happens to us if we all know
that Atlas is asleep at the wheel?
Do we climb over the fence?
Do we bury ourselves in sand?
Is there a mountain big enough to block out despair?
Is there an ocean deep enough to buoy chaos?
Let’s not think about the end now.
Things are in motion
& if we listen with our bodies,
we can hear each other grow.
Erin J Mullikin
The Prisoner of Windows
Window writes cloud stems
black bloom chants stretching
thunders varicose on dreams.
Skies youngest flesh awakens
the hourglass child,
dawn sands her stamen kiss.
I swear the rain brought her lips
pressed them on the robins breast
it’s neck broke kissing my window.
The long cold hours embossed her
raindrops blemished her bed
death freckles comforted her.
The teeth of smashed windows
chewed up the moon
storm closed its insomniac eye.
Robins leave a bruised song
swept across the clearing
hung ghosts are bed-sheets.
She never leaves me.
Twigs of blackbird trails
thawed to thistle.
A kneel of hills sang
from wolf throat snow,
their yawning Yorkshire moon
in smoky beards
spooled towards a cog of sun
rising with horn foxes.
Hounds scoffed at black jelly
From a vixen spilt like dusk
hat for a redcoats son.
His blooding carved a gentlemen
and a heart pounded with hooves
to a pint of real man’s bitter,
its head foaming down the glass
reflecting a coming of age -
thirteen years old,
with a fox stamped in his retina.
In a steaming pile
on the tire-treaded, pink snow,
drooping, rusted chain-link fence,
boarded up, condemned, crumbling brick.
That kid from down the way
pumping bike pedals
wrapped in a flannel shirt
around his sister’s hand me down
cigarette-burned pink parka,
huffing the ice-crystalled air.
He dipped his finger in the purple pool,
ran the finger across the saw-like teeth,
then stomped the muzzle,
mushy, wet thuds on the pavement,
the canine loosened
and he tore it out.
Put it in his pocket and pedaled away,
feeling the pant leg
to ensure his prize remained.
His part was at the base of his skull, his hair combed forward
Over his bald scalp, brought to a greasy widow's peak,
Enormous diamond earring in both ears, a pinkie finger extended,
A gold ring impeded by the knuckle,
Leaning against his '77 Pontiac Parisienne, Rhode Island Red Oxide,
Patting the trunk, careful to avoid the jagged holes,
He said he was a travelling salesman—sold cheese
From his car. We heard differently.
"I've come across some fine Alma Cheddar Cheese curds—
It's the raw stuff," he told us, safe in our own car.
"So do you sell by the ounce?" we asked.
"Oh, I think we can come to some sort of arrangement," he answered.
I don't like going to restaurants
alone. I don't want the waitress'
pity, they're cocked heads
and sympathetic smiles.
I wish I wore my ring more often,
the symbol for these people
that I am well-adjusted
Their: "Is it just you tonight?"
makes me uneasy and nervous,
like maybe they are saying:
"It's just you every night, isn't it?"
POEM IN A BOTTLE
Squatting on rocks
edging the river
we pass paper and pen
along the loose curved row
each adding a line
sinuous as the river.
“If you find this poem,
add a line and send it back.”
I roll it up and stick it
in the bottle,
toss it into the current.
An eddy brings it back.
I try again, again,
until the current catches it.
We wait, fishermen,
waiting for a nibble.
under the bo tree
waiting for the answer
to float back.
DEREK'S LEFT SHOE PROBLEM
"I complained to Derek's parents how he keeps stealing my left
shoe'' -- Jordan Rome
Dear Mr. Jordan Rome,
Getting back to you about the left shoe problem,
believe me, we've been around the block with this left shoe thing.
You have our majoro sympathy, but think what it's been for us,
trying to get the little monster into rehab
from age three to this very day.
Other children would suck a mother's nipple or pacifier.
Derek? -- nothing but some old left shoe.
Maybe it's because, you know,
like the tailors say, he "dresses" to the left?
Or that his first important girl friend was, in fact,
a lefty Trotskyite?
Maybe because he was left behind in 2nd grade?
Who knows? Here's what we suggest:
give him your right shoe,
because that's what he needs,
he needs a role model on the right, and this
should at the same time stabilize you.
Maybe get yourself a pair of heavy socks?
Otherwise, beyond his little peccadillo
our Derek is a normal boy, or young man
(if he only didn't insist on eating left (ha) overs!)
(maybe it runs in the family: have you noticed how the lines
in this letter are all justified
TO THE LEFT?)
If only we could be left in peace till the day coming so soon when
we'll have nothing left!
Yours for more balance stance,
The boy said, "I know you think that lipstick makes you look pretty,
but it doesn't" and when I said a boy from Uzbekistan was coming
he said, "Why is it always us?" A clutch of demons enters his huge
svelte body and convulses him, propelling him across the pitch
and he burns the ball into the upper right corner like a 500 pound bomb
on a house, in the manner in which he once said he would fight
his aunt's breast cancer, carrying a five gallon jug of water, a bedroll,
batteries, plastic explosives, clothes, night vision goggles, and MREs
and when he wrote about the ballot in Iraq, for a moment I thought
I was going to be reading about the Iraqi ballet. C'est gaga,
he reproved, with all the poise of a scout leader in the mall to his
fractious cub, "We're not going to do that" while handing out hand-balls
printed with "Serving Runaways and Homeless Youth" for us
to bounce against the facticity of being, the throwness of endurance.
The man who wanted to be true to himself
Evidently, he said, he wanted to be true
to himself, had tried all the various ways:
hummed the acceptance-of- self
song, looked up and called all past lovers,
returning energy to its accustomed place.
And now he graduated to a tougher stance,
started to dig in, lining the Gloves of Appearance
With static electricity, began answering
inner conversations as Mediator,
only to fall down miserably,
burning the edges of his earlier success.
And while traveling to work one day, was privy
to a change in air impedance as a truck bore down
on him, encompassing the determination of his metal,
the structure of himself considerably damaged.
Later,out of the hospital, rules for a wheelchair
to the curb are square; he shook off a celestial sign
wound up and threw his gear in Julie's
rag top got up and in: resolved to let Truth
find him, perhaps someday as himself.
The ticking from the wall
is the inner hue of the present,
its regular, reverberating glow.
The space of a waiting room
with light coughs and small talk
and an engine humming somewhere outside,
a counterpoint to the rhythm in the room,
the horizon’s unveiled voice.
And a sunbeam carrying inside
the rustling from the street,
a dusty golden stripe on the floor tiles.
The ticking reminds you
of prayer and forbearance
and the air’s stare, its quiet omnipresence.
A light brown rhythm spangled
with earth’s breath and shadows
and the instants’ nakedness
whose stare scares like the mirror’s.
The hands moving imperceptibly
make you think of their absence
like the white of the empty dial
in the blinding sunlight on the tower.
So you stick to the ticking
with slight anxiety.
Now you shift you leg
just too suddenly
and the dog, your friend,
raises his ears
and stares straight at you
It must not be too small,
they might swallow it and choke on it, you never know,
and it mustn’t be too long, too hard to throw,
it must be thick and full, not just
a scrap of bark that would only float like a leaf
because it has to rotate in an arc and plunge deep
in the air down the slope into the mountain dry grass
so that they can run straight along the line
growling towards, feet in bright turmoil, teeth ready.
It’s a rite, down the path we always check for the right one
among roots, dusty oak leaves, we eye it and pick it up
and find a long clearing going down and throw
what can be a boomerang even if its way back
won’t be by itself alone.
The two of them rush for it, the two sisters of the glen,
and grab it in the bushes’ swish and swarm,
grab it often together and pull, pull,
pull for dear life, then the bigger sister leaves it
and runs up in a sudden lightheartedness of sky,
the other trots up behind carrying the large beacon
three times at least her mouth’s size.
Just a rite
during our descent,
the comet of a shuffling pantomime,
and it’s like the centre of everything,
matters that happen and keep close
with an ongoing will,
matters we want, no matter what, at our side, still.
This Home on the Lea River
When I fill buckets with brambles
and stamp on trembling twigs till they snap,
I rotate logic and invent new ethics
but nothing really solves this feeling,
this is the ditch full of leaves, the flat earth's edge
This mooring, an island
where potatoes cook in the keep
and river birds are tender,
I poured some fish out overboard
their dead eyes sank like silver rings
Hard like stone I yield like wax
but do not sink or burn;
could be some other matter
wrapped in wool and not forgiven.
The rain pulls at the soft shore
The breaking voice of the river
at the window wet with breath
tries a forgetting spell,
the fire sets off a flare
The boat holds onto the soft shore:
Sirius, Knarp, Venetian Queen
wine, cider or whisky
This is the limit of what I can hold
and I surface empty-handed,
the River and it’s forgetting spell, rocking
Home on The Non-Tidal Thames
The boats quietly strain at their ropes
a small disarray
in the dormitory rows
where the well-chastened lie
still life, suspended
My winter habits
like pairs of slippers inside each other
like the tin foil cast of potato
held for now in silver
The footsteps passing by
but sense a trap
the chimney smoke, the old door
they hurry on to rattle the chains
of the muscular riverside palaces
Further upstream in Chelsea
lights, under the bridge
trolls stay awake
for persecution or petition
carousing guests -
a raven on the shoulders of a
fox on the shoulders of a donkey
Between this feast and the dark Weir we lie
and some others who do not stay
You told me your password: Virginia
you were drunk and we had just met.
Mine is: il0veyou with a 0 -
a new world, an erotic continent
we explored, mid-story,
because I had leapt
two squares forward,
and in consequence
almost tipped over the board.
A failing star,
(a mad woman in a bar)
orbits, exposes, flashes, adores;
Arrested scene, with no retreat
who are you/what do you do,
I can only move like this,
forwards one step
by one step
Clear recent history and show mercy
Now that we're here, you are ill
sweet sick eyes and a feverish dew
heavy as a fox I held
once, still and stunned,
you take ravening bites of fruit
and use a shiny knife as a light,
to see what lies under the bed
Driving over the Berwyns
you shattered into scratching scree
the borrowed booster seat sat
empty, nicely beside me
Garibaldis, eggs, mushroom soup,
munchausen by proxy,
but which dwarvish syndrome is whose;
all of us are mining by knife-light
digging ourselves in or out of the rock
The child of approximately five displays
an animal attack of the spoon,
and Grandma strikes at her grey gloop
reflex sharpened by frailty
honed on the mountain's edge
Sharing a Shell
A bedtime rhyme clings to me:
a long-lashed crab
an anemone with
glued-on glitter, and some
thing called a bristle worm
languid, ambigously hairy
hybrid arms and heads in the bed
delicate tentacles self-sporing
and the pulsing crustacean's fontanel softness
Here come the worry dolls
little stick arms outstretched
and badly made clothes unravelling
like mummies advancing towards us
they carry a paper standard
an amulet in the adult alphabet
transcribed from a bedside interview
in a firm clear hand:
"I want my daddy to be my friend"
the poor stick man spells o what to do
sits on the pillow and swallows
the paper in pills
There is an equation to describe:
wanting daddy can only be solved
by adding daddy
which makes you want daddy
too long to be taught in school
with its problems that only school can solve
like why a protractor and compass sharp fear
the primate stands with the tin-opener hands
infected with mumps and mercury
tapping, helloing at our shell
our home for three
Your locker across from mine
Awkward eye contact
I think we should make gingerbread houses
When you give me that smile
I imagine you
Biting into purple gumdrops
Anticipating fruity grape
Then spitting them out ungracefully
Because they’re licorice
I know, you’re Jewish
But gingerbread houses don’t signify Santa
We could make something more Hebrew
Like a Sukkah
If you wanted
But if I told you that
By your red, peeling locker
Work in Suburbia, 1950’s
There were rules about work. Life started
and ended with a black & white
television test pattern. Predictable
hedges clipped on the same date. The driveway
knew where to begin and the end of the story.
Mail was bringing news people wanted to get.
A man carried a briefcase of schedules,
leaving his garage open to inspection,
a tricycle tilted waiting for a chain tightened,
a quick punctual kiss on the kid’s foreheads
as a reminder why he did what he did
like religion. His face was an advertisement.
The wife had the children ready as toasters,
a firm grasp on the Formica counter ,
appreciating the irony of iron starched shirts,
wondering when it all would unravel.
Life was dangerous as Chicken Pox.
She was already biting her lip, resisting screaming.
Arpeggios of Color
“In the air I see color” --- Claude Monet
In the desperation of hours, shadow reclaim what is theirs,
the ominous clouds hunker down over the city
making ashen faces on the buildings, tepidness languishes
in slumped shoulder hills, vertical sunspots of orange
in the lake where blue sailboats rock in restless waters.
There is a impulsive shifting of moments, pink-yellow haze
in the lateness of the day.
If we shut ourselves in, we will miss it. After so much effort
It will be painful to see the anguish of the air, the prospect
of recovery, the quintessence of things.
What we discover in the end
is not possible in the beginning.
It is not found in nature, transcending it, assembling more
than we can see: changing color, light,
variations of hues like arpeggios on a piano
in the gossamer light,
almost lyrical, almost without boundaries
in the moments between moments.
James Celestino is originally from the L.A. California area, where he grew up in Glendale/Burbank. He has traveled Europe (Germany/Holland/France/Spain), and currently resides in Salt Lake City, Utah. He teaches English, Creative Writing Fiction, and Compositional Writing at Salt Lake Community College, where he is employed full-time. James holds an English B.A. from the University of Utah and an MFA in Creative Writing Fiction from Antioch University L.A.
James has had the following pieces published:
Celestino, James. “Sant Jordi.” Chicksaw Plum: Literary Journal April 2010. Simi Valley 2010
Celestino, James. “Comfort.” Uptown Books”: Chapbook 2007. Chicago: Three Elephants Publishing, 2007
Celestino, James. “Bob Kaufman.” Encyclopedia of African American Writers. New York: Facts on File, 2007. 295-296.
Celestino, James. “William Demby.” Encyclopedia of African American Writers. New York: Facts on File, 2007. 135-136.
--- Bottle Hollow: A novel about secrets, friendships, personal explorations, expectations and boundaries. The novel is finished and he is presently sending out query letters to agents and publishers.
Kevin Craig’s poetry has appeared in Quills, Regina Weese, Inscribed Magazine, Anything Goes Journal, Poetry Canada Magazine, Author Scoop, Toronto Quarterly and Ditch...to name a few. As well, he has 3 poems published in the upcoming edition of Newfoundland's Memorial University's Paragon Journal. He has twice won the Muskoka Novel Marathon’s Best Adult Novel Award. Kevin recently received Honorable Mention in the WCDR Wicked Words Prose Competition. His entry, Rabacheeko, will appear in the upcoming Wicked Words Anthology. His memoir has aired on CBC Radio and has also appeared in the Globe & Mail. Kevin's play, Panic in the Basement, was produced at Driftwood Theatre’s 2009 Trafalgar24 event. This was recently followed with the production of his play, Maid of Honour, at the 2010 Trafalgar24 event. Kevin recently returned from the SLS writing program in Kenya, where he spent the month of December collecting new grist for his poetic mill.
Aileen Lebofsky, born and raised in Montreal, attended Wagar High School, Dawson College and Concordia Universityin the 1970’s and 1980’s.As yet unpublished, she has been writing poetry since the age of 14.She works as an Executive Administrator at the Montreal Children’s Hospital Research Institute.She is a member of the Quebec Writers’ Federation, the Canadian Authors Association and the Invisible Cities Network.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavy influenced by: Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa. The original version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, can be found at: http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. He also has 2 previous chapbooks available at: http://stores.lulu.com/poetryboy.Michael has been published in over 23 countries. He is also editor/publisher of four poetry sites, all open for submission, which can be found at his Web site: http://poetryman.mysite.com. All of his books are now available on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_b?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=michael+lee+johnson. Borders: http://www.borders.com.au/book/lost-american-from-exile-to-freedom/1566571/. Now on You-Tube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ih5WJrjqQ18. E-mail: email@example.com. Audio Mp3 poems available; open to interviews.
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Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. A Pushcart nominee, he has had poems published in The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Poetry Super Highway, Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Pirene's Fountain (Australia) and other publications.
Olivia Mammome is an undergraduate studying creative writing at Hofstra University. Previously her poetry has appeared in Long Island Expressions and WordGathering. She is also the 2009 winner of the Jefferey Weinper Poetry Award.
Erin J. Mullikin attends Clemson University, where she studies literature and poetry. Recent works of hers have appeared in Gently Read Literature, The Country Dog Review, Gloom Cupboard, and Counterexample Poetics. She was the 2009 recipient of The Clemson English Department's Creative Writing Award for Poetry, and has a forthcoming chapbook, After Milk & Song, due out in Fall 2010 through the South Carolina Poetry Initiative.
Antony Owen is from Coventry, England, his first collection of poetry ‘My Father’s Eyes Were Blue’ was published in May 2009 by Heaventree Press to rave reviews from award winning poets.
In July 2010 Owen has been selected again to represent Heaventree Press as part of a twin city project between Heaventree Press Coventry and O’Bheal Cork.
Owen is currently working on his second collection of poetry titled ‘The Dreaded Boy’ and has also been published in Avocado Magazine, Sherb: An Anthology Of River Poems, Ava Gardner: Touches of Venus by Gilbert Gigliotti (Entasis Press).
Eric Ramseier earned a Master’s Degree from the English program at Kansas State University. He is currently in the MFA program at Old Dominion University. Eric has had short stories published in the Huron River Review and Stone's Throw Magazine.
Helen Ruggieri lives in Olean,
Barry Spacks earns his keep teaching writing and literature at UC Santa Barbara, California, after many years doing the same at M.I.T. He’s published poems widely in journals paper and pixel, plus stories, two novels, ten poetry collections, and three CDs of selected work.
Judy Swann's work has been published in Lilliput, Thema, Apparatus, Tilt Poetry Magazine, and other venues, both print and online. She is an Iowan living in upstate New York, a tap dancer, a soccer team manager, etc.
Fred Tarr lives and works in Northern Kentucky, studied at Westminster College, New Wilmington, PA, 1958, under Elizabeth Keene, a war correspondent who covered China after, during Rape of Nanking, who later went to Tuskeegee Institute in 1962 to teach English. She awarded my efforts at writing while at Westminster with several books by Donald Justice. Studied writing at the Iowa workshop, Alex Kuo, Charles Wright, and John Weiners were mentors in passing, Marvin Bell as well, sorry about the rhyme, graduated U. of Iowa with MA in art, MA equiv. in poetry. 1966 (literary criticism from Freidman) fiction from Nick Crome. taught in Normal, Ill. at Illinois State, under the care, naughtiness, and concern of Ruth and Bill Wantling. In 1968, held teach-ins at Illinois State, faced off against administration, taught drawing in studio art.
Post riot America: taught at Rutgers/ Douglass College in Art Studio for a year, got an MFA in studio art, 1972 and wrote a lot of work. Taught at Rutgers the following year, 1973 with Livingston open enrollment English entry level instruction. Gerald Stern was around and gave readings, looked at work. In NJ till 1976.
Lived in a farmhouse in Cherrytree near my home town Oil City in Western Pennsylvania from 1977- 1982, wrote and painted, made art. Bob Roberts found me in 1979 and gave me a large exhibition in Bloomsburg central Pa. college, exhibited at Penn State Art School gallery around this time and dropped off work at Westminster for an exhibition in Art gallery during homecoming. Came back at behest of Neal Osterrich and gave gallery talk.
Came to Cincinnati for whatever reason in 1982, still don't know why.
Involved in street ministries from 1994- 2009 in river towns, Northern Kentucky, helped run feeding programs, found homeless writers, artists or they find me. I participate in three writing workshops in Cincinnati area that have sprung up in last year or so. Currently looking for paid position regarding interface logical positivism approach to blending community with academic bastions and vice (no pun tended) versa.
Martin Willitts Jnr recent poems appeared in Blue Fifth, Parting Gifts, Storm at Galesburg and other stories (anthology), The Centrifugal Eye, Quiddity, and others. He was nominated for four Pushcart Awards. His second full length book of poetry is “The Hummingbird” (March Street Press, 2009). His eleventh chapbook is “Baskets of Tomorrow” (Flutter Press, 2009), and he has two forthcoming chapbooks “True Simplicity” (Poets Wear Prada Press, 2010) and “The Girl Who Sang Forth Horses” (Pudding House Publications, 2010).