Off Radar
You can order this book directly from University of Maine Press by clicking this sentence.
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.

Maine Literary Awards honor the state’s top books and writers for 2017, Portland Press Herald

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."

Galatea Resurrects
Reviews and essays on poetry books and projects nationwide.

Rain Taxi
Reviews, essays and features on poetry, literature and the arts.

Events overheard of & etc.
Protest Rally / Jacob Lawrence
Off Radar more
Backyard naturalist
George Wardlaw / Cycles: Time-Light-Life: Nine PM: Twilight
Parallel Uni-Verse
Poetry and books tracked in outback Maine
Sitting near the top of wind-twisted tree
covered with frozen brown apples, a triad
of silent crows, motionless, watching me
while the morning tide ebbs with a sigh
past islands almost hidden by fog?
Are they the same crows I saw yesterday?
Do they wonder what rimes with fog?
Those islands could be ships moving away.

One tilts its head, cuts the air with its beak,
looks down, caws. Does it have something
profound to say in crow, something just for me?
Perhaps how a melancholic can learn to sing.
Probably not. Crows are only crows.
One more caw, then it shits a stream as white as snow.

Tom Sexton is a former poet laureate of Alaska and intermittent resident of Eastport, Maine.
Crows on a Winter Morning
By Tom Sexton
winter consortium
jay squawk
the wind high
in trees
velvet spikes
of staghorn
soft fur
the snow
fruit on pale limbs
wine cups
apple scrolls
the noon sky
bows of waves
soft breasts
of tide lips
of foam

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
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
Bruce Holsapple
Birth of the Imagination - William Carlos Williams
Kenneth Frost
Carolyn Gelland
Lee Sharkey
Wesley McNair
Bruce Wallace
Carolyn Locke
Dave Morrison
Arthur Rimbaud
Glenn Cooper
Leonore Hildebrandt
Teresa Lagrange
John Holt Willey
Edward Lorusso
Wesley McNair
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
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
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
for Susanne

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.
Sea Glass
By William Hathaway