Events overheard of & etc.
Working Waterfront: Agnes Bushell: Maine's best novelist you may
never have heard of.
Working Waterfront: Tom Sexton: a poet on the edges.
Working Waterfront: Tom Moore and the Midcoast school of
Working Waterfront: Homing in on Dave Morrison.
Steve Luttrell and Bruce Holsapple will be reading their poetry, 6-7:30
p.m. Friday, July 5, in the garden of the Longfellow House, 489 Congress
St., Portland, Maine.
Portland Press Herald: Café Review marks 30 years of curating poetry
from around the world. The Portland City Council recognizes founder
Steve Luttrell with a proclamation honoring the 30th anniversary of the
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.
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
Poems from Here with Maine Poet Laureate Stuart Kestenbaum, Fridays
on Maine Public Radio.
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
Beloit Poetry Journal
P.O. Box 1450, Windham, Maine, 04062.
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.
Reviews, essays, and features on poetry, literature, and the arts.
An interdisciplinary magazine of letters and art. Edited by Susann Cokal.
Poetry and books tracked in outback Maine
bobs / dunks
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. Quarry: The Collected Poems of
Peter Kilgore is available from North
Country Press in Unity, Maine.
untitled (from "Island Poems")
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
One Man's Maine
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
Ned Balbo - 3 Nights of the Perseids
Jeff Shula - Fireside Chats
Mark Melnicove, Abby Shahn - Ghosts
John Rosenwald - The Feast of Steven
Jonathan Ward - Swallows in Late September
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
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
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
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.
(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.
(from Fifty Portland Sonnets, 1994)
By Annie Seikonia
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's latest collection is Li Bai Rides a Celestial
By Tom Sexton
Mud’s breedy fragrance
rises through the thinning snow.
Brown engenders green.
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.
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.
By Dave Morrison
Quotidian busyness growled below my bower
where I perched in the crook of a huge willow
that cozily concealed me in its dolorous droop
and muffled the traffic’s erratic swooshing
that easy sleepers compare to the ocean’s
rhythmic hushing. My lofty niche enclosed me
as snugly as the Spartan crate that Thoreau
preached was all the room we need to be alone
in with our love. And, indeed, I did hide out
in my sylvan sanctorum to read the books
that teachers said if overdone could make me
go blind and crazy, the same dire symptoms
as masturbating but without warts. Skipping
baseball practice where my assigned role,
according to the Darwinian order of the times
and the town, was to fumble fungos, throw short,
chase grounders across right field, fan the air
with the unwieldly bat, and cheer my betters
from the sidelines as duties of a good sport loser
necessary for there to be winners, I, instead,
let amniotic swelter ooze my Kiwanis t-shirt
to my skin in place of healthy exercise,
and squirmed in Steppenwolf’s exquisite misery.
Perhaps you, dear readers, reading Ayn Rand
by flashlight under furtive blankets to fool
your moocher parents, were transported
in a gloat of kindred genius with John Galt’s
righteous resentments, but I was your Other,
burning to die like Michael Furey in the full glory
of priapic passions by catching pneumonia
in a storm beneath the window of whatever
delicious girl was being my distant Beatrice.
Thus, in mind-made Nepenthe, surround-
sounded by mantric chanting of unseen cicadas,
whose crescendo rose to ecstatic chatter
only to fade in a dying fall of murmuring mystery,
did I prepare for this winless, wasted life.
William Hathaway recently moved back to Maine after several years
fighting battles in Gettysburg, Pa. His recent book is Dawn Chorus.
By William Hathaway