Vietnam veteran Terry Grasse will open the Harlow Gallery's Maine
Veterans Speak evening, to be followed by open mic for veterans
starting at 7 p.m. Friday, Oct. 12, at the Harlow Gallery, 100 Water St.,
Hallowell, Maine. For more information, contact firstname.lastname@example.org.
The 14th annual Belfast Poetry Festival will be held Friday and Saturday,
Oct. 12 and 13, 2018, in downtown Belfast, Maine. For more information
Leonore Hildebrandt and Brian Stewart will be performing poetry and
music starting at 7 p.m. Wednesday, Oct. 17, at the H. D. Moore Library in
Mary Snell and Kevin Sweeney will be reading their poetry in the Lowry's
Lodge poetry series starting at 7 p.m. Saturday, Oct. 27, at the
Continuum for Creativity, 863 Main St., Westbrook, Maine. $4 donation
U.S. Poet Laureate Tracy K. Smith will be appearing in Maine at the
Norway Memorial Library at 1 p.m. and the Lewiston Public Library at 7
p.m. Thursday, Nov. 1, as part of her American Conversations:
Celebrating Poems in Rural Communities tour. Seating capacity is limited.
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.
How Doctors Use Poetry
Nautilus: Researchers have demonstrated with functional magnetic
resonance imaging that reciting poetry engages the primary reward
circuitry in the brain. So does music, but poetry elicited a unique
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
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
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.
Events overheard of & etc.
Poetry and books tracked in outback Maine
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
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
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
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
Poor Man's Fertilizer
By Rick Doyle
Everyone stamping and shaking it off
at the diner door kept calling that filthy day
for what it was, letting damp chill whoosh
through bacon laden haze. No toast today,
bread truck never made it, she told us,
clattering plates that ran down her arms
before us. Her rumpled Steelers sweater
smelled like cigarettes, and she was a far cry
lost to time from the chirpy tarts in the Greek’s
aluminum fake dining car on the highway,
making their saucy eyes at the construction guys
brought in from Texas to throw together
the new chicken abattoir for a Chinese outfit.
It was what it was, and we were what we were,
and fluorescent tubes over us had no choice
but to affix their own monotonous flickers.
Someone always had to haul along a grandkid,
but they beetled away at their phone gizmos
and barely existed except to get their hair
tousled coming and going. Slugs of rain began
pounding the big window and ran like glue
down the pane. No use complaining,
a latecomer replied at the gusty door, no one
listens anyways. Then came a loud snapping bang
and the yellow light went, leaving us sitting
in brown light. Time for you old coots
to go home and see if you’ve got any power
there, she told us. And since she owned the place
and was the queen of our morning, we did
William Hathaway recently moved back to Maine after several
years fighting battles in Gettysburg, Pa. His recent book is
By William Hathaway
Beside the stone pilings of a bridge
only wind can cross, on the bank
of the tidal St. Croix, named
by the French explorer, Champlain,
near a path that not long ago
was the bed of a busy railroad line
before its rails were sold for scrap,
a wild apple tree, native to its roots,
heavy with small yellow fruit, cikonesis,
to the Passamaquoddy, apples so bright
and numerous they form a constellation
on the water when the light is slant.
I watch until they fade like blossoms,
then possesomuwihke, the stars, appear.
Tom Sexton is a former poet laureate of Alaska and keeps a
house in Eastport, Maine. His new collection of poems is Li
Bai Rides a Celestial Dolphin Home.
A Wild Yellow Crab
By Tom Sexton