Off Radar
You can order this book directly from University of Maine Press by clicking this sentence.
Events overheard of & etc.
Day with notations / Matt Blackwell
Off Radar more
Backyard Naturalist
takwaskwayi´-kisohs
Moon of crusts of ice on the snow
Night Train at Wiscasset Station / Kosti Ruohomaa
Abbott Meader
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 manuscript recently found among his papers.

untitled (from "Island Poems")
By Peter Kilgore
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
Elevation
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 - Leaves Surface Like Skin
Karie Friedman - Add Water, Add Fire
Alan Lightman - Searching for Stars on an Island in Maine
Christopher Fahy - Winterhill
Jefferson Navicky - Paper Coast
- The Book of Transparencies
Mike Bove - Big Little City
Tom Sexton - Li Bai Rides a Celestial Dolphin Home
Christopher Fahy - My Life in Water
Adam Tavel - Catafalque
Peter Kilgore - Quarry: The Collected Poems

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
The first harbor seal I’ve seen since
my return to Eastport takes my measure
then slips beneath the placid water.
It’s the golden hour suffused with light.
I watch an urchin dragger move away.
Picturesque, but its days grow longer.
Its iron maiden drag holding only air.

When the moon’s full, the tide high
I hear Arnold’s eternal note of sadness
in the waves. Yesterday, a friend asked,
“Why do we read poetry at all today?”
I had no answer, I have no answer now.
St. Brendan thought the Right Whale’s
song, soft as a harp through mist, a hymn.


Tom Sexton, a former poet laureate of Alaska, spends every other winter in Eastport, Maine. His latest collection is Li Bai Rides a Celestial Dolphin Home.
Sea Street
Eastport, Maine

By
Tom Sexton
Mud

Mud’s breedy fragrance
rises through the thinning snow.
Brown engenders green.

Sustaining

It’s fall, not summer,
that brings us through the winter --
autumn’s last blossoms,
gold and purple complements,
humming in our memories.


Farnham Blair lives in Blue Hill, Maine.
Haiku, tanka
By Farnham Blair
Fire is fire: fuel
and air, heat and light,
yet when you touch the
match to the kindling you
are creating a unique
event in all of history.


Dave Morrison lives in Camden, Maine. His most recent collection is Refuge.
Psalm 127
By Dave Morrison
So often is said, lately and soon, phrases
like snow is snow or whatever is whatever,
and a scrunched neck shrug that pulls arms up
with open palms completes the tautology,
a gesture of resignation meant to mean
acceptance, surrender to ineluctable rerum
naturam. Let's move on, go forward, quit whining
and bare our necks with dignity to the sword
of Achilles, who himself must succumb someday
to a fate already written out somewhere.

Even in counterclockwise carnival whirl
wisdom always known yet rarely understood
can realize itself, even while your whole life,
as if it was a workshop novel, goes jerking by
in a series of random regrets like a runaway
slide show on a possessed projector,
all in mere seconds that, despite a well-known
cinematic sensation of slowed motion,
cannot in strict grammar of things be split.

Ice disguised as pavement. This is the rare moment
when what is really is what is. We can only hunch
our Gallic shrug and wait for what will be, will be.
O gods, if only your whimsy still made mortal destiny!


William Hathaway recently moved back to Maine after several years fighting battles in Gettysburg, Pa. His recent book is Dawn Chorus.
Black Ice
By William Hathaway