Events overheard of & etc.
Poetry and books tracked in outback Maine
Here, notes in Mama's hand at 56, written in red, ball point script,
found by our brother in a vintage biscuit tin from Carr's of
Carlisle Limited, England, years now since her death at 96.
Something elegant and useful catching our father's eye trading,
knowing she'd admire it. Wouldn't want him to sell it if
he brought it home so he did, and she did, so he could feel
he pleased her this time.
Fancy, the cross-stitched sampler motif -- ecru ground, green-
wreathed, with multi-colored blooms centered with sayings
for the child born each day of the week. Just right
for us five, counting the lid.
And just right for all those years of keepsakes she'd never guess
would be safe that long with him being hurt and out of work
and us claiming whatever spare things we might find around
the house for our own precious use.
Beribboned hand-made treasures from our father to his mother
all the way to ours for ours, bundled with war ration books,
tickets and programs from years of occasions making her proud
with her kids' names among the honored though she couldn't
attend everything with his condition and the stoves and little
ones needing tending.
So here's her plan on paper torn from something, some use
left to it, folded into fourths and saved in this envelope marked
“Christmas Information.” How to Enjoy Christmas Giving
by J. Smith, 1972 with another note on the back: Some traditional
concepts will have to be balanced against common sense so I am
compiling a list which I think works real well in our world of today,
and our particular situation. (Pay Central Maine Power, Dr. Gould,
1. Save own money. (Do not depend on banks & clubs)
This way it is always at your disposal.
Dimes & quarters are best.
2. Make a short list for each shopping trip.
3. Plan several months in advance and get necessary
information, second and third choices.
4. Buy wrappings & cards at beginning of season and
get plenty of them at a cut-rate store. Take your time
Sew & cook for all your worth
& satisfaction will pour forth!
Patricia Ranzoni is poet laureate of Bucksport, Maine.
By Patricia Ranzoni
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
Wormser Tom O'Vietnam
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 Universty of Southern Maine, is a professor
in the W.E.B. Du Bois Department of African-American Studies at
By Jim Smethurst
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
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