Events overheard of & etc.
Poetry and books tracked in outback Maine
Sitting near the top of wind-twisted tree
covered with frozen brown apples, a triad
of silent crows, motionless, watching me
while the morning tide ebbs with a sigh
past islands almost hidden by fog?
Are they the same crows I saw yesterday?
Do they wonder what rimes with fog?
Those islands could be ships moving away.
One tilts its head, cuts the air with its beak,
looks down, caws. Does it have something
profound to say in crow, something just for me?
Perhaps how a melancholic can learn to sing.
Probably not. Crows are only crows.
One more caw, then it shits a stream as white as snow.
Tom Sexton is a former poet laureate of Alaska and intermittent
resident of Eastport, Maine.
Crows on a Winter Morning
By Tom Sexton
the wind high
fruit on pale limbs
the noon sky
bows of waves
of tide lips
Peter Kilgore was born, grew up and lived
most of his life in Portland, Maine. He died
in 1992 at the age of 52. This poem is from
a recently discovered manuscript found
among his papers.
By Peter Kilgore
poems by and/or reviews of poetry, fiction, novel, nonfiction, memoir:
Richard Grossinger - Pluto
Hearts in Suspension
Bazaar of Bad Dreams
Birth of the Imagination - William Carlos Williams
John Holt Willey
University of Maine Press
Taisen Deshimaru Roshi
Simone Paradis Hanson
Summer to Fall
Lewis Turco - Enkidu
Burton Hatlen - Elegies and Valedictions
Caught - Glen Libby - Antonia Small
3 Nations Anthology
head bent back from watching
circling raptors float above the river,
my focus gets scattered by mottled clouds
that cover the whole of the sky,
and then I find myself in prayer,
and then in poem
D.W. Brainerd lives on French Island, Old Town,
Maine. His self-made collections of poetry include
Under the Gold Sun and A Turn of the Wheel, and
his reviews of poetry have appeared in Small Press
By D.W. Brainerd
Vacant eyes that gazed timelessly
toward the Lido and past Punta Sabbioni
now shallow hollowly between sugared lumps
on erased faces. No need to journey back
to see what is said passing years have done
when we can twiddle up the tears of things
in pictures on our phones. Why is blue
glass so treasured over coke bottle green?
Like shards of memory roughened soft,
all stinging glare and slicing edges
polish to glowing lozenges, as if the sea
spat half-sucked candies upon the strand.
Blue-bottled magnesium milk chalked guts
with a powdered soup of ancient sea lime
to cure the mal-de-mer, and trash
that’s now prized so rare once littered
everywhere. No ticking tock burned off
stolid Venetian faces that had stared
impassively upon some million tides
but our new acid smaze. So don’t glibly blame
the flowing years themselves. The moon
drags oceans back and forth, like a woman
rubbing clothes over stones by its pearly glow,
but it’s ground grit itself, gently swirling
in eternal swaying wash, that grinds
smashed garbage into cherished gems.
William Hathaway in recent years moved from Surry, Maine,
to Gettysburg, Pa. His most recent collection in a long,
distinguished career is The Right No.
By William Hathaway