June 3, 2010 -- Hygienic Gallery New London

I'll be reading at the Hygienic Gallery on Bank Street in New London on June 3 at 7 p.m. If you're in the mood....that's where I'll be....

Thank you.

this morning….four sounds –
peepers,
the rumble of rails on track,
the train’s deep whistle,
and the clang-clang of the crossing-bell
in the distant dark--
and it reminded me
of the endless train of blessings
I received yesterday
from so many dear friends.

I was so grateful
that I could not sleep
for the joy.

Thank you all so much.

__

April 26, 2010
4:34 a.m.

Ruth Daigon -- A Memorial

I ask humbly that you take a few minutes and read, please, about my old and dear friend, Ruth Daigon. Ruth has passed away, but her legacy never will.

Ruth was my friend of many, many years. She was a supporter, a gentle critic, a believer in me.

Let me tell you about her. She grew up in Winnipeg, Canada, and received a BA from the University of Winnipeg and a full scholarship to the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto, Canada . Yes, it’s true. One of my fondest memories of Ruth’s readings was the incredible surprise, right in the middle of her reciting a poem, when she would begin to sing the lines instead of recite; it was amazing!

After college, Ruth moved to Vancouver where she spent two years singing at weddings, funerals, bar mitzahs. She also had her own weekly radio show, and sang with the various Canadian Symphony Orchestras and touring Canada with an opera quartet.

When she left Canada she moved to New York City where she lived in Greenwich Village and was a soloist with the New York Pro Music. While in New York she did concerts and appearances, was a guest artist on CBS's Camera Three and did "anything that would make it possible to pay for lessons and the rent." She and Artie met in New York. Artie is Ruth’s husband and my friend. He was a professor at UCONN for many years.

Ruth’s recording career included a contract with Columbia Records. And she had the unspeakable honor of being a soloist at Dylan Thomas' funeral; yes. Ruth also collaborated with WH. Auden to record Renaissance poetry and music.

Ruth and Artie had two children and eventually they came to Connecticut. In Connecticut, Ruth sang with the Hartford Symphony and organized some recitals, but there wasn't much work for a concert soprano in Hartford . It was Artie’s suggestion that she write poetry in the late 1960s. And, oh my, did she write poetry!

Ruth started to get some attention from publishers in 1982. She also began editing and publishing Poet's On:, a print poetry magazine, which continued for 20 years. Many years ago, when I doubted that I would ever write a decent poem or gain the attention of any publishers, Ruth believed in me. She supported my work, published my poems, and worked tirelessly with me to help me become a better writer. She also became one of my dearest and best friends.

Around 1990 (and this still makes me very sad), Ruth and Artie moved to the Bay Area in California. I NEVER stopped missing them. Of course, we kept in touch, and when I finally found a publisher, the first person I asked to review my book was Ruth. In fact, you can find her words on the back jacket of Ecstasy Among Ghosts, which would never have existed if it weren’t for Ruth.

Besides her hundreds of public readings, Ruth has read for the Greenwich Library Series, The Poets Voice, which has been in existence for over 30 years, and has her poetry included in the U.S. State Department's literary exchange with Thailand and in the first book of Modern American poets printed in English and Thai.

Her poetry has also been featured by Garrison Keilor on The Writers' Almanac, produced by Minnesota Public Radio.

Ruth always continued to write, do readings, and organize readings for others. Most recently, she cut a CD of her poetry for James Alsop Productions and appeared in The Mississippi Review's issue on War and its Aftermath in February, 2007.

Ruth’s best advice -- "write to please yourself not to impress others."

Ruth’s poetry has appeared in over 900 major poetry journals, as well as many anthologies over the years. She has toured throughout the United States, Canada, England and Israel in readings and workshops. She organized Pub Poetry, a television series of monthly reading featuring Connecticut poets and she had her own monthly series- Poetry A La Mode. She was the Poet-In-Residence at Wavertree Arts Colony, Ossabaw Arts Colony (Georgia), and Fellow at ant the Virginia Center For Creative Arts She was also one of ten poets whose work was broadcast on the BBC, Radio Europe and in the US in an international poetry competition sponsored by the BBC.

Here is just a sample of her many awards --

The Eve of St. Agnes Award (Negative Capability), 1993

Ann Stanford Poetry Award, University of Southern California , 1997.

Greensboro Poetry Award, Greensboro Arts Council, 2000.

…and her books include…

Handfuls of Time, Small Poetry Press, Select Poets Series, 2002

Payday at the Triangle, Small Poetry Press, 2001

The Moon Inside, Gravity/Newton's Baby Press, 1999

Between One Future and the Next, Paper-Macae Press, 1995

Contemporary Authors: Autobiography Series, Volume 25, Thomson Gale Publishing, November 1996, includes Ruth Dagon's autobiography

"Ruth Dagon's Greatest Hits" from Pudding House Publications as part of their Gold chapbook series.

About a Year – a chapbook

A Portable Past – Realities Library of Contemporary Poets Series – 1986

…and her poems appeared in…among others…

Alaska Quarterly, Atlanta Review, Connecticut Review, Calliope, De Kalb Literary Art Journal Anthology, Greensboro Review, Kansas Quarterly, Negative Capability, Poet and Critic, Poet Lore, Poetry Now, Shenandoah, Sycamore Review, The Southern Review, Tikkun, Zone 3

….and on the internet…

Ariga, Crania, Cross Connect, Mudlark, Recursive Angel, Switched On Gutenberg, Zuzu's Petals,

El autor de la semana (11 al 17 de agosto de 1997), in Spanish and English, Oscar Aguilera, The University Chile in Santiago .

ForPoetry, Kota's Poetry Anthology, PoetryMagazine, The Alsop Review, Three Candle Review, Web Del Sol

Special Collections…

Ruth’s poems, articles, reviews and papers are in Special Collections in the main library at the University of Connecticut at Storrs.


Here is part of an interview with Ruth, featured on LILY: a monthly online interview.

Lily: Having first been a musician, tell me how your transition from music to poetry came about.

RD: The transition from music to poetry came out of necessity. We had been living in New York and the New York area where contacts and jobs were plentiful: tours, TV, recordings, etc. When we moved to the wilds of eastern Connecticut because my husband was going to teach at UCONN, the possibility of quick access to performance possibilities slowed down plus I now had two children and couldn't just dump them somewhere and take off. Although the University and the Hartford area (recitals, guest artist with the Hartford Symphony and several concert series and guest artist appearances) were still available to me.... It was nowhere like living and following a New York career. I felt the necessity to use my surplus energy and since I had always enjoyed writing whether it was diaries, descriptive accounts, letters to family and friends, I was always comfortable with a pen between my fingers. Also, every song is based on a poem and since I had covered three or four centuries of vocal music and sang in six languages, I was very much aware of the importance and appeal of poetry. It was almost natural to supplement my involvement with music with my growing interest in poetry. And when I started performing my poetry, it was rather a heady feeling not to rely on Mozart and Schubert et al. but on my own compositions (at whatever stage they were ). A rather exciting transition.

Lily: What was it like to work with W.H. Auden?

RD: Auden was very much the professional, even though he came to rehearsals in an unraveled sweater and old carpet slippers (something of a costume). It took a little while to overcome my awe of him, since the last time I saw him was in my college text book but his interest in the music and the performance quickly made me more comfortable, and he was always most polite if a little formal. But that was to be expected.

Lily: Who has been the main influence of your writing career?

RD: The main influence of my writing career was, of course, my lasting involvement with music. The sound and flow of my poetry, the rhythm, the cadence, lyric quality was given direction by my allegiance to music. There was no other way to express myself honestly and with conviction.

Lily: What led you to begin Poets On:?

RD: Since musical performances always depended on instrumental accompaniments (piano, chamber groups, orchestras ...) it became rather lonely sitting at my desk, once a piano now a computer and I needed the stimulation of others. When it was suggested I make contact by publishing a little mag (Poets On:), I thought, "Why not. It may be an adventure." And it was!

Lily: Were there any important lessons learned from your years as an editor that helped you with your own poetry?

RD: Yes. The most important lesson was that if I turn down a poet or find his/her work not quite satisfactory, I must apply the same principles to my own work. I would subject my own poetry to the same critical eye that was used in examining others. I learned to reject so much that stood in the way of an honest poem. I learned to be more disciplined in my approach, less accepting of something that was "almost " good enough, and I learned how to say "no". I also learned to recognize lack of conviction or lazy solutions, and to use the RED PEN ruthlessly, even though it was painful.

Lily: What has been your proudest achievement in regards to your poetry?

RD: The book Payday at the Triangle, based on the terrible fire that broke out at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in NYC in 1911, resulting in the tragic death of so many young people - primarily young immigrant women - was a work of such dedication and almost obsession that it comes close to being the kind of work that gave me more satisfaction than any of my other books. It incorporates all my beliefs, disciplines, ablility to translate the story of others and bring them back to life.

Lily: How do you think poetry itself has evolved over the years? How has your poetry evolved?

RD: That's a very difficult question. I think poetry has broken so many rules....so many of the "DO'S" AND "DONT'S" dictated to us by the academics and what I consider to be old-fashioned and rather superior attitudes. But I still steer away from the Language poets that play with words and turn everything into a game of nonsense and numbers. There is a lot of that around masquerading as serious poetry. A pity! I'm not prepared to comment on how my poetry has evolved because it is still evolving, becoming more open to experimentation, honing down to the essentials, finding new ways of looking at things but never abandoning the music.

Lily: What do you think every good poem should do?

RD: Again, that's a difficult question, but words like "honesty", "conviction", "fearless yet controlled", "alive", "unselfconscious" rise to the surface and WRITE TO PLEASE YOURSELF NOT TO IMPRESS OTHERS.

Lily: Do you write every day? What is a common inspiration for you?

RD: Yes, I DO write every day. Just as I went to the piano to practice every morning, I go to the computer and "practice". Whether what emerges is successful or not, I make my fingers move along the keys. I don't think in terms of "inspiration" but if I dry up I listen to poets reading their own works on recordings or in performance or just steep myself in the poetry of others until something in me responds.

Lily: What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

RD: My advice is to set aside a certain amount of time each day. Start moving your fingers on the keyboard. Read the work of those you admire and those you don't. Go and listen to the poets in bookstores or other venues. Find a group of people who are on your own level and listen to their criticism - even in you disagree you will learn something... something will rub off. Read your work aloud. Listen to your voice. Get your friends and relatives responses, no matter how negative they may be, and for God's sake enjoy what you're doing. And when that's all done, forget about it. Go for a walk. Go to a concert or movie or party. Do something different to feed your interest whether it is politics or a smashing time with friends, but cut away from the slavery of the page and then come back refreshed.

--

Here is part of a letter I wrote to Artie the other day…

Dear Artie...

It's hard to know what to say. Carol and I have missed you terribly ever since you left Connecticut. I never really came to terms with it; I missed you too much.

Ruth was, of course, a GREAT friend and supporter. Thirty-five years ago, when I was a young writer, what I wanted (like so many young writers, I'm sure) was acceptance, validation. And I could not find it anywhere. And then Clem (our darling, darling Clem) introduced me to Ruth. Well, from then on she supported my poems by always taking my best work for Poets On: and helping me to make my weaker poems better. The Manchester Community College Poetry Workshop was, for years, a safe haven for so many aspiring poets. Sometimes there were as many as 20 young kids (all "poets") at Clem's house, ready to read and learn. And when Ruth was there, if one really listened, one could learn amazing things. And Ruth's poems always seemed to come so naturally and with so much ease, though I knew that simply could not be the case. But the fact that she seemed to write with such assurance and ease only added to the wonder of her poems. And I do mean wonder -- could her poems be any more straightforward, clear, precisely wrought, wise, and poignant?

I must say, the best years for me at the MCCPW, as we called the "workshop," were those couple of years when membership had declined to three -- Clem, Ruth, and me (in hindsight, I think Clem made that happen). We moved the meeting place from the living room to a tiny "office" upstairs -- there was a small desk, two chairs, and a small bed. There was no room for anything else. I had a chair. Ruth had a chair. And Clemmy, relaxed as always, took the bed. There I was with two great poets, two great teachers; how could I have been so fortunate. Oh how fondly I recall those days.

I'll never forget, one night at a workshop, arriving with a new poem -- Gratitude it was called. I had brought it to work on it. Well, I read it, and Ruth leaned across to me, took the poem from my hands, and said, "I'll take that!" I knew immediately what she meant, of course. She liked it so much that she was snatching it up for Poets On: I don't think she ever knew how wonderful a moment that was, how validated I felt. I had brought the poem to work on, and in the blink of an eye, it would soon appear in the prestigious Poets On:.

And of course, I recall with a heavy melancholy, dinners at your house with Clem and Bob, dinners and parties and Clemmy's...parties at Carol's before we were married...heaps of chicken on the grill, good wine, music, dancing, laughter, POETRY (always poetry!) The six of us -- you and Ruth, Clem and Bob, Carol and me, and me ALWAYS feeling so incredibly blessed to be in your company.

And when, after years and years, I finally found a publisher for my first book, the first person I contacted was, of course, Ruth. I will always remember how delighted she was. I wonder if she ever really realized how responsible she was. In her comment on the book jacket she wrote -- “John Stanizzi is a poet of courage and passion who manages to be achingly sensual without a scrap of sentimentality. His work is brought to life by the transformation of nature, its eroticism and beauty. There is no separation between his personal world and the world at large, both of which he creates with intelligence, musicality and precision. His work moves between the old Italian family traditions of mysticism and spontaneity and his own new venues of passion & tenderness, a wonderful balancing act.” Did she know that, if it were true, she was the one who taught me to embrace the sensual all around me, to avoid sentimentality always, to marvel at nature and be proud of heritage. It's true. And here she was, years and years later, telling me (on the back of my book -- a dream realized in large part BECAUSE of Ruth) that she thought I had learned my lessons well.

First Clemmy moved on. I miss her every moment of every day. I want to tell her things. Read new poems to her. Show her that I was paying attention.

And now Ruth has moved on, and though I'm sure she knew it, if she were here now I would tell her again, with deepest gratitude, that whatever I know about being a poet I learned in great measure from her lessons, her poetry, and her precious, undying friendship.

Bless you, Artie.

We miss you. We have always missed you.

Love....

John and Carol Stanizzi

__

And a few poems…

ABSOLUTES

Let there be days soft and deceptive
the taste of water absolute
the inner sun absolute
and our awakening absolute
Let our life fly over fields
filled with radiance we almost touch
air we almost embrace
and moments of near fullness

We are one with the legendary shadows
smiling with apricot lips and vanilla voices
singing the sea's high sound
in a rush of joy before dark

When the last feather of light floats down
on the ripening hours
the breath grows visible
dividing and dividing stillness

We recall fine tunings of sun
the moon's ancestral silver
fugitive years and moments
nudging enchantment when we wore

the loose limbs of childhood
and watched endless springs and summers
steeped in the music

COMPLAINTS

The dead complain we lack
the skill to keep them buried.
But that's the grave's job
and there's no safe burial ground.
They'll shine up through the earth
spreading their affection.

They're offered refuge
under markers and memorials
but they refuse and wait
for us in unlit places
tapping their white canes
with the terrible patience
of those possessing time.

In the slow caress of years,
our weight is doubled by
the burden of others
we cultivate and carry,
and deep in the future
our children keep us alive.

SLEEPING WITH THE INVISIBLE

She dreads the thought leaving
empty-handed as her life leaks out
and words beat against each other
into alphabets of silence.

She fears the wind
with its invisible rope and scaffold,
the sea with a thousand eyes
and rain like a dance of knives.

Held fast in amber of memory
are breathy remainders of those
with a past of ashes
and ash their only future.

But in her secret world
she sleeps with the invisible
in the long and late afterward,
safe in the warm and yeasty dark.

She hears once more
summer harps, choirs of insects,
cinch pods mating
and dandelions snuffing the air.

Night spans out in a slow glide
as a voice deep in her heart's hollow
whispers,

Look long and longer
before the drum rolls of morning
herald the naked earth
no bud time no seed time
and the sun like a dead heart
unfaithful
at last.
__

Bless, my dear, dear friend. Bless. Godspeed. I love you.

BARRED OWLS

They were back again this morning, telling me to work more on what I had to say about them last time. Here is a rough draft.




BARRED OWLS



Nearly out of earshot
two barred owls
bark in the darkness,
chimpanzee language,
and all of us other animals
stop and listen,
dumbfounded and afraid.

Pulled by the chaff
of their monkey chant
through crepuscular mist,
they land,
all echoes and yak,
in the maple
right outside my window.
My mouth is open.

Their voices,
the next moment,
in the far field
on the other side
of the house,
nearly out of earshot.

And I hear myself
whispering their fearful syllables
into the dimness
of the computer screen,
deflecting my desire
to see them less wild.

The Mighty Diamonds

On yet another opening day for the "legendary" Mighty Diamonds softball team, I bring you the ORIGINAL MIGHTY DIAMONDS....because.....THE RIGHT TIME COME!!

One More From Gil Scott Heron....Just Because

THE BOTTLE...indeed.

___

April 19, 2010
6:24 a.m.

SPONTANEOUS POETRY AND MUSIC

SPONTANEOUS POETRY AND MUSIC
APRIL 15, 2010-04-19
BACON ACADEMY
COLCHESTER, CT

Seven voices –
Jason’s trap draped in the colors patiently…
Jimmy’s guitar poised to tick, buzz, cry…
Abu’s “cone-gah,” spring rain encouraging new growth…
Jonathan’s words chiseled from granite and made to shine…
Josh’s words carved from oak and polished…
My words…my words…
And Summer’s words born from “His-story” and “Her-story”…

Abu evoking the Creator and instructing the youths gently. They listened. I saw them listening.

Me? The “Elder?” How? And do I give my permission? My permission??

I didn’t do it then, but I do it now. I kneel before Abu Alvin Carter – and everyone who was in the room that night – I kneel, grant permission...ask permission.

And the words? They’re in my bloodstream now. They won’t leave. Ever.

Thank you.

___

April 19. 2010
5:33 a.m.

THE WEATHER BEFORE DAWN

sighting up
Joseph Hill on youtube
Jah Jah see dem a come
and coming to terms
with his absence
with his immeasurable legacy
and the blessing I received
the night I kissed
Mrs. Hill on the cheek
and whispered
Thank you
while she sat knitting
listening to Kenyatta
oh how far short that fell
though it had to be enough
and was more than
I ever imagined

__

April 11, 2010

4:43 a.m.

PEEPERS

the pinkletinks trinkle
the tinkletoes tink
the peepers are here
with a sound too quiet
for winter

April 7, 2010

4:43 a.m.

two barred owls
bark in the darkness
hoot and holler
in their chimpanzee language
and all of us other animals
stop and listen
dumbfounded and afraid

April 6, 2010

4:54 a.m.

The "Academy"

BACK TO SCHOOL TODAY!

YEAH!

SPONTANEOUS POETRY AND MUSIC

PLEASE JOIN US ON STAGE AT BACON ACADEMY ON APRIL 15 AT 7 P.M.

$5 COVER TO BENEFIT DIFFERENT DRUMMER DRAMA GUILD (DDDG)

MARCH 28, 2010 -- 5:29 A.M.

Raelle

for the first time
I saw my grand daughter’s eyes
beautiful soft
full of peaceful astonishment
looking around
at the light over the sink
at the blue of my shirt
at her grandma’s face
at everything she could take in
for the first time

__

March 28, 2010

5:29 a.m.

MARCH 26, 2010

as always
the rain draws me to the window
its fingers playing the roof
the wind snapping its tail
the blessed hiss of wet
on spring buds

I never know quite what to say
beyond the fact
that I must say something

___

4:39 a.m.

MARCH 23, 2010

before the first shaving of light
there is only
rain in what I know are the trees
in the dark
and the light is turning slowly
and the birds keep their beaks
folded beneath their wings
and the rain sighs in the branches
sigh of relief
as slowly colors bloom
lifting their faces
to the wet dark

___

March 23, 2010

4:44 a.m.

March 22, 2010

oh how the planet whirls!
and we whirl with it…
-a father is being erased
-a grandchild is born
-a daughter is ill
-a grandson sits before me
smiling brightly
as I read some lines
I wrote for him…
all in a day
all in a day
how unimaginable
the truth

March 22, 2010
4:53 a.m.

Welcome to Bohemia -- March 20, 2010

Thanks to Heather Groenstein, Greg Garcia, and everyone involved in this evening of art, music, dance, and poetry. The studio at Billings Forge, over on Broad Street in Hartford, is a beautiful room and last evening it was filled to the ceiling with joy.

Keep an eye on the Libertine Collective's Facebook page for future "Welcome to Bohemia" nights; you will not be disappointed.

Last night's artists included The Kelvins, Hannah’s Field, Kate Callahan & special guest appearances. There were spectacular original paintings by Gary Jacobs, Corey Pane, and H.L. Groen. And I had the honor of sharing poetry responsibilities with Nancy Otter and Summer Tate. Sugati not only danced for those in attendance, but at one point, she had most of those in attendance belly dancing with her! On turntables, bringing the heavy thunder wrapped in consciousness, DJ Krypt (my old friend Bryan Tosun).

Thanks to all who attended, and special thanks to Heather, Greg, and everyone else involved in coordinating this spectacular evening. Can't wait for the next one!

MARCH 15, 2010

the rain stops
the wind dries the land
the dark fades nearly silently
thin ribbons of wind
spiral shyly
we mend for a while

___

5:35 a.m.

MARCH 15, 2010

ebb and flow

of wind
its heavy tide
its single bent note pet snake hissing whistle chilled hiss
branches crack

in the exalted squall

and in here

head cold vice grip

cement in the sinuses

sneezing wheezer

mouth breather

tearful hacker

half-staff eyes

threadbare back bones

maybe the wind

can bluster my head open

March 15, 2010 -- 5:46 a.m.

March 14, 2010

Wherever I am

I am what is missing.

Mark Strand

if one's perception is that

beng present

actually feels like

being absent from

your presence

then being put upon to

be present

is really

only an interruption from actually

being present

so that you can

remain absent

struggling to

pretend to

be present

distracted the entire time

by thoughts of leaving

the chaos of

the present

you entered absent

and returning to

the absence

of the present

you left behind

_____

March 14, 2010

5:44 a.m.

MARCH 13, 2010

THE WEATHER BEFORE DAWN -- March 13, 2010

inside vestiges of deep night

the wind has something to say
branches shed rain

the sound of the wind chime

is the sound of my voice

asking quietly

in the dark

in the rain

for a song

___

March 13, 2010 -- 5:33 a.m.

MARCH 10, 2010

single light

in the distance

and the low rumble

of a plane

moving slowly away

in the blackness

I can hear it forever

MARCH 9, 2010

black stillness absolute

the rubbery hum

of trucks in the far dark

implications of spring

everywhere

subtley

___

March 9, 2010

4:53 a.m.

MARCH 5, 2010

stumbled home after

sleep study

at the hospital

wires

on my head

neck

face

chin

chest

legs

wire

10 feet long

wrapping around me

belts

around my waist

plastic case hung

from my neck

mask

strapped to my head

and covering my

nose

mouth

me

plugged into the wall

above the bed

a camera

a microphone

a disembodied voice

sleep well

_____

March 5, 2010

5:01 a.m.

MARCH 4, 2010

THE WEATHER BEFORE DAWN

they're out there--

high-pitched wisps of wind

one darts here and there in the dark

snakes through the wind chime

as it should

flys through the screen

and onto me

wrapping me in its coolness

as in the trees

another is wrapping up branches

March 4, 2010

4:57 a.m.

MARCH 3, 2010

I opened the window

to hear the birds

the breeze

and instead

all I heard

was the silence of night

quietly gathering

its dark clothes

and moving silently away

___

March 3, 2010

4:44 a.m.

MARCH 2, 2010

the brightest thing out the black window

this predawn

is the reflection of my hands

out there in the cold

resting in the dark



4:57 a.m.

3/2/2010

A LIBERTINE COLLECTIVE EVENT - MARCH 20

Heather Groenstein and the "Libertine Collective" are promoting vital, urgent, necessary gatherings of artists. Please join us on March 20, 2010 at Billings Forge on Broad Street in Hartford. It is going to be a joyous evening of music, dance, art, spoken word. Things roll at 6. There's $5 cover. And I am really looking forward to being part of it! The poster drawing is by H.L. Groen; to see more of her amazing work check her out on Facebook. And join us on the 20th. Peace.

POETRY OUT LOUD

After a full day of workshops at St. Joseph's College I feel inspired and encouraged.

David Williams and I accompanied Serena Briggs and Robinson Perez to St. Joseph's today and we met lots of wonderful and talented kids, exceptional teachers, and tireless and brilliant organizers.

I am really looking forward to the State Championship which will be held at St. Joseph's College on March 16 at 4 p.m. The goal of the organizers is to fill the theater, so I'm hoping that lots of Bacon faculty and kids will come to support Robbie and Serena. They were both just terrific today.

Ecstasy Among Ghosts and Sleepwalking...

Please check out http://www.antrimhousebooks.com/ to take a look at my books and the books of many wonderful Antrim House poets.

The thing is is that....

...we sometimes don't tell the truth.

______

IS IS

The thing, the way we look directly at
each other, the alibi, the qualifier,
stumble-john of a funky lame excuse
improvised with hardly any thought
beyond the fact that you’re not going to play,
flimsy line as solid as a stone
yet transparent, a feeble little tale,
emergency exit lie of necessity
that we’ve all used in love or otherwise
to squirm away from something genuine
because, well, the thing is is that
there is a fiction that we must attend,
a fabrication we simply cannot miss.

WHERE IS EVERYONE?

Where is everyone?