Off Radar
You can order this book directly from University of Maine Press by clicking this sentence.
Cathryn Wilson and David Surette will read their poetry starting at 7 p.m. Saturday, Nov. 17, in the Continuum for Creativity Lowry's Lodge poetry series, 863 Main St., Westbrook, Maine. $4 suggested donation.


Portland Press Herald: "The radical spirit of ’75 is alive and well with the relaunch of Littoral Books" Littoral Books began in 1975 as a women’s press, founded by self-described “radical feminists” of the gritty Portland arts scene. Forty-three years later, they’re back. Co-founders Marcia Brown and Agnes Bushell are at the helm of the press, along with Bushell’s husband, Jim.

Didn't see this one coming
The Washington Post: The share of adults reading poetry grew by an astounding 76 percent between 2012 and 2017, according to a newly released study from the National Endowment for the Arts.

How Doctors Use Poetry
Nautilus: Researchers have demonstrated with functional magnetic resonance imaging that reciting poetry engages the primary reward circuitry in the brain. So does music, but poetry elicited a unique response.

In Verse: Maine Places and People.
Poems in the Lewiston Sun Journal. Edited by Dennis Camire

Deep Water: Maine poems in the Portland Press Herald. Edited by Gibson Fay-LeBlanc.

Poems from Here with Maine Poet Laureate Stuart Kestenbaum, Fridays on Maine Public Radio.

Hancock County poet Carl Little: "Poems reveal the extraordinary in the ordinary in Ellsworth." Ellsworth American.

WERU 89.9 FM Writers Forum streaming archives.

20 Maine Poets Read and Discuss Their Work.
Recently made videos.

The Cafe Review
Maine's longest-running small magazine of poetry and reviews from Maine poets and others

The Catch
Online journal of writings from Downeast Maine.

William Hathaway's Poetry Drawer. Not for the faint of art. "Given a choice between lucky in love or with parking places, it’s startling how many choose the latter."

The Ghost Story
Paul Guernsey's website of fiction, the paranormal, and well-paying short story contests.

Rain Taxi
Reviews, essays, and features on poetry, literature, and the arts.

Broad Street
An interdisciplinary magazine of letters and art. Edited by Susann Cokal.

Events overheard of & etc.
Protest Rally / Jacob Lawrence
Off Radar more
Backyard Naturalist
“In such an ugly time the true protest is beauty.”
Liner note on Phil Ochs album
Parallel Uni-Verse
Poetry and books tracked in outback Maine
in the
bay

the bare
spines

of winter
islands

bare limbs
under
white dust

this is
the paring
down

cold bone
under
taut skin

faucets
of a
winter
wave



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.

untitled (from "Island Poems")
By Peter Kilgore
ah mclean
poems by and/or reviews of poetry, fiction, novel, nonfiction, memoir:
Cafe Review
Richard Grossinger - Pluto
Steve Luttrell
Robert Chute
Stephen King
Hearts in Suspension
Mr. Mercedes
Revival
Finders Keepers
Bazaar of Bad Dreams
The Outsider
Bruce Holsapple
Birth of the Imagination - William Carlos Williams
Kenneth Frost
Carolyn Gelland
Lee Sharkey
Wesley McNair
The Unfastening
Bruce Wallace
Carolyn Locke
Dave Morrison
Arthur Rimbaud
Glenn Cooper
Leonore Hildebrandt
Teresa Lagrange
John Holt Willey
Edward Lorusso
George Danby
Lindy Hough
Alfred DePew
Dirk Dunbar
Chris Peary
james lowe
Richard Foerster
Stuart Kestenbaum
Megan Grumbling
Alex Irvine
Take Heart
Jeanne Braham
Judith Robbins
Jennifer Wixson
Tenants Harbor
Will Lane
Trust Rust
University of Maine Press
Thomas Moore
Dana Wilde
Jeri Theriault
Philippe Coupey
Taisen Deshimaru Roshi
Alistair Noon
Simone Paradis Hanson
Dennis Camire
Joal Hetherington
Peter Pfeiffer
Bill Roorbach
Richard Russo
Patricia Ranzoni
Still Mill
Rick Doyle
Summer to Fall
Lewis Turco - Enkidu
Burton Hatlen - Elegies and Valedictions
Caught - Glen Libby - Antonia Small
3 Nations Anthology
Baron Wormser
Tom O'Vietnam
Oleson Dovecote
Jim Krosschell
One Man's Maine
Robert Chute
Kristen Lindquist
Tourists in the Known World
William Hathaway - Dawn Chorus
Michael Campagnoli - The Home Stretch
Dave Morrison Welcome Homesick
Brock Clarke - The Price of the Haircut
Paul Guernsey American Ghost
Michelle Menting
Karie Friedman, Add Water, Add Fire

Surrounded by brick music, the sonic walls are designed
to be invisible. Cumberland Avenue, now bends in a
long arc, dreamed out of unturned stone, I’m on a bike
ride that returns to the point of departure. I would have
never guessed that, of all places, I would try to pedal
back to this. So many ends in the middle distance: a
walk around a dance; promenade west or east, a bay,
islands in the background; a reason to vanish, named
in a name like the oaks of Deering Oaks and gone, like
love as it ends or begins or curves on that long arc.


Jim Smethurst, a graduate of the University of Southern Maine, is a professor in the W.E.B. Du Bois Department of African-American Studies at UMass-Amherst.

Portland Dream
By Jim Smethurst
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 Review.
River-Sky-Mind Words
By D.W. Brainerd
from my high Victorian window
I watch the snow fall
and think about the Queen Anne’s lace
primming the ancient rocks
the payphone in the old Port Hole
on which my best friend used to call me
as I sipped coffee in the briny
waterfront morning
when Lance was the grill cool
and they served wonderful food,
as the cheerful yellow and white
ferries departed blasting
Portland with their song
the walls and windows
and hundreds of miles we’ve woven
into the brick streets
the city at night its spine a string of pearls
the dead pearl diver
safely embalmed in the museum
immune from time and memory
caresses and promises
that appear and disappear
in the waves of rain
tears and snow pounding pounding pounding
the shores of my aging heart.


Annie Seikonia is a lifelong resident of Portland, Maine.
Song 3
(from "Four Songs of Portland," Cafe Review Winter 2017)
By Annie Seikonia
This city which I dreamt has become my labyrinth,
a challenge of grim streets, stolen sugar packets,
warm yellow cubicles of light, exotic prints framed in
antiquity, mannikins like pilgrims on strange and
otherworldly journeys. Drifting through oscillating
streets of whiskey and peaches beneath an obscene
painter's palette, vanishing in waterfront fog,
Portland suggests other cities, lives and destinies

glimpsed, imagined, dreamt, their fictions interwoven
with the gaily painted boats, the white nuns circling
overhead. A lone saxophone gives way to jazz from a bar
and primitive hypnotic beats from a passing car until
another lilac dusk returns just as a provocative piano tune
drifts down from a window somewhere behind the old stone church.


Annie Seikonia is a lifelong resident of Portland, Maine.
Sonnet XXXII
(from Fifty Portland Sonnets, 1994)
By Annie Seikonia
A Parallel Uni-Verse
@DWilde0129
October. Stones are sleeping underground.
What can redeem them? A snakeskin found
on land burned clean of puckerbrush and slash?
Desolate tract of wind-sifted ash
and black snags -- silken, glossed with biocide --
where the cast-off only seems to live:
shed skin, translucent, dry, and lightly blown.
But who will redeem them? Chokecherry stones
asleep in the earth and scattered like tears
with an art one’s left no choice but to believe
in, since they may lie dormant for a hundred years
before new burn suffers the life of leaves.


Rick Doyle lives in Bucksport, Maine, where he practices family law.
October
By Rick Doyle
The sodden silverfish floating supine
atop sugar water in the hummingbird feeder
did not die doing what it loved,
no matter how much fun it is to say so,
nor even what it wanted to do,
but was led, no doubt, to do what it does
by some neural current. I suppose.
Being ever in being, we can never fix
being’s momentary meanings.
A tiny black spider whose abdomen
shines like an exquisite onyx
races across a huge centipede
that curls then uncurls, opens and shuts,
looking for a chink in the armor.
Twisting in its silver bonds, this centipede
does not feel the love. Yet even there
at an end, it is there. What a curse,
this gift of it. All eight eyes, like black pearls
gleaming too small for my eyes to see,
see me and stop still in mid scurry
to watch me with all their might
watch them. While only I think for what
I think cannot think but only knows
what is there just when it’s there.


William Hathaway recently moved back to Maine after several years fighting battles in Gettysburg, Pa. His recent book is Dawn Chorus.
A Momentary Moment
By William Hathaway
So easy to get it
backwards. In the end
the worries are meaningless.
What really matters is
the breeze, the birdsong,
the diffused light on the
leaves, the spider’s
silk.


Dave Morrison lives in Camden, Maine. His most recent collection is Welcome Homesick.


Psalm 112
By Dave Morrison
Araneus saevus