Off Radar
You can order this book directly from University of Maine Press by clicking this sentence.
Events overheard of & etc.
Animal in Studio / Matt Blackwell
Off Radar more
Backyard Naturalist
“In such an ugly time the true protest is beauty.”
Liner note on Phil Ochs album
Night Train at Wiscasset Station / Kosti Ruohomaa
Parallel Uni-Verse
Poetry and books tracked in outback Maine
in the

the bare

of winter

bare limbs
white dust

this is
the paring

cold bone
taut skin

of a

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
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
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 - 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
Mike Bove - Big Little City

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
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.
By Rick Doyle
I listen to the weather,
hoping for the cold front to stay
for a month
with slight breaks
like a deep breath disguised
as a held breath.

The mind memorizes
a warm dry room.

What intersection of light
and cerebral energy
the afterglow
of a dream,
the traces of a face,
the timbre of a voice
and not the voice?

Radio-crystal images
of another life
stick to the window.

Kenneth Frost lived in Wilton, Maine. His poems are collected in Coring the Moon.
Weather Report
By Kenneth Frost
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 Welcome Homesick.
Psalm 127
By Dave Morrison
The dead, it's often said, died doing what they love,
a choice in life since dying, after all, is still a life activity,
and thus those of us who do so choose otherwise
can feel gratefully relieved from excessive concern.
Our thoughts and prayers suffice. For what's true
is what choosing makes it so, so says the bard
though we could say the Bible to put the best face
on choice and who'd care? We stopped once
on a walk up to Taughannock Falls to watch firemen
dangle ropes down to a man clinging halfway
up or down ( optimist/pessimist, you choose)
to the soft shale cliff face, gently crumbling
dust and shards in a small stream from his perch.
Would his fingers hold out? If the sling reached
him in time, could he engage? Had he climbed
from the top or bottom? Had a cosmic peace
filled his soul like Prince Andrei dying in Tolstoy's
War and Peace, or was he just pooping in terror?
We discussed these possibilities, some choices,
others beyond human will to change,
yet we took time to question if huge centipedes
that were scurrying across the cement path
from the talus rocks were called millipedes.
Above the thunder of the famous falls cascading
like a gray, eternal pillar into its misty pool
someone said, Well, at least ... And on the way
back we discussed love as an intransitive verb.

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