Off Radar
You can order this book directly from University of Maine Press by clicking this sentence.
Alice Persons of Westbrook, Maine, and John-Michael Albert from Portsmouth, N.H., will be reading in the Bookey Poetry series starting at 7 p.m. Friday, Sept. 21, at the Harlow Gallery, 100 Water St., Hallowell, Maine.

Steve Markiewicz and Sheila Wellehan will read their poetry starting at 7 p.m. Saturday, Sept. 22, in the Lowry's Lodge poetry series & language reclamation center / Continuum for Creativity, 863 Main St., Westbrook, Maine. $4 donation suggested.

The 14th annual Belfast Poetry Festival will be held Friday and Saturday, Oct. 12 and 13, 2018, in downtown Belfast, Maine. For more information and to submit proposals contact

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.

Edgar Allen Beem: "Humble Origins — How art can create identity" . Maine Arts Journal Spring 2018. "On a moral scale of human activity from genocide at one end to sainthood at the other, all art making, whether that of children, amateurs, outsiders, fine artists or geniuses, is way up there at the divine end of the spectrum." This beautiful little essay sums up the philosophy of poetry reviewing in the Parallel Uni-Verse, too.

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.

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

Maine's WERU 89.9 FM Writers Forum with host Nancy Tancredi airs at 11 a.m. the second Thursday of each month. 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, Susann Cokal, ed.

Events overheard of & etc.
Protest Rally / Jacob Lawrence
Off Radar more
Backyard Naturalist
The cribstone bridge at Bailey Island
Casco Bay Ferry Reflection / Sarah Knock
Morning Fog, Eastern Prom / Alec Richardson
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 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
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

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
Across the field the tractor crawls,
a 1948 Farmall Cub
scoring the blank white page
of late snow known, so farmers
will tell you, as poor man’s fertilizer.
What is it these furrows bring to mind?
Calling down crows from the restless buds,
turning out worms, half-thawed, blind
and writhing naked in blackthorn winter:
these furrows remind me of poems
endowed with country sorrows.
The old country sorrows, death and birth,
there are no new ones.
These furrows remind me of verses
riddled with country words --
these rich, black utterances of earth.

Rick Doyle lives in Bucksport, Maine, where he practices family law.
Poor Man's Fertilizer
By Rick Doyle
We could blame the moon
that we poach
en papillot in our own slime,
since nothing else looks so wet
in darkness that conceals everything else.
We blame the climate
for this weather, and whose fault
is that? Last winter a sickle moon shone
like icy dew on steel, but now
it softly glints like steaming porridge.
Then could come around again,
but now always matters more.

We could blame the moon
as well for our ears’ constant buzzing,
which is why we never pause
anymore to listen past the monotony
of some bug or bird rasping
like a file on metal in hidden foliage.
Of course it’s just a dry rock;
we’ve been to it. We mussed its dust
hopping on it like slow motion
kangaroos, but it looks just the same
from here as when Jesus
and his gang took corn from the fields
by its light to be like the ravens
and worthy of their hire.

If I said you, you’d want to know who,
but you never ask about we
and assume that I means me. The moon
pulls a lot of water around down
here, so is it centripetal
or centrifugal that sucks out this ooze
to lave our skins in stinging stink?

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