Some literary history from Maine
Books received
mostly from Maine
Ellen Taylor and Dave Morrison will be reading starting at 7 p.m. Friday, May 27, as part of The Bookey Readings at the Harlow Gallery,
160 Water St., Hallowell, Maine.

Maine's WERU 89.9 FM Writers Forum with host Ellie O'Leary airs at 11 a.m. the second Thursday of each month. Streaming archives.

The 12th annual Belfast Poetry Festival, Oct. 14-15, 2016, seeks teams of poets, performers, and artists for the annual juried presentation of original collaborative work featuring poetry combined with visual and performance arts. Address submissions to Jacob Fricke by March 15, 2016.

Maine Poetry Express

The Cafe Review

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."

Three Poems by Osip Mandelstam, translated by Alistair Noon.

Events overheard of & etc.
More reviews
Donald F. Mortland: Homage to a Modern Man of Letters
Robert Creeley: A Mainer at heart
C.F. Terrell: The most important figure in Maine letters you've never heard of.
Leo Connellan and Sandy Phippen talk on MPBN
Detritus No. 2
Marilynne Robinson: On Edgar Allan Poe
Off Radar
On Radar
Edward Hopper on
More reviews
More reviews
Detritus #3
Alistair Noon in English
Stephen King and Sandy Phippen talk on MPBN
Professor Mark Bruhn
reading from Wordsworth's Prelude
Carolyn Locke:
More on the Words:
An Interview with Poet Carolyn Locke
A Parallel Uni-Verse
Poetry from Maine, and worlds elsewhere
"It seems to be"
By X.Z. Shao
It seems to be
a quarry of broken concrete
crooked steel beards
pointing out in disorder
you will live in time
in it, a mansion
echoing your soft whisper
and your gait
in every mirror.

X.Z. Shao is a poet, philosopher and teacher of English language and creative writing at Xiamen University in Xiamen, China. His blog is A Poetic Voice from China.
"Apologize over soup,"
she said.
But this soup is a disappointment
Beef and Barley
in a can
With a label that it makes it look more appealing.

What happened to homemade soup?
No time to waste.
No time for simmering smells and aprons.

This country was founded on hopes and dreams.
Now it's founded on dollars
from a single street in America.
A wall of barriers
and injustice for all.

And it isn't climate change melting the ice caps.
It is a hot cloud of greed
Making its way across this spinning ball
about to lose control.

Teresa Lagrange of Portland, Maine, is a graphic artist.
"Apologize over soup"
By Teresa Lagrange
poems by and/or reviews of:
Murray Carpenter
Cafe Review
Richard Grossinger
Tess Gerritsen
Steve Luttrell
Beatrix Gates
Peter Welch
Robert Chute
Stephen King
Bruce Holsapple
Sanford Phippen
Kenneth Frost
Carolyn Gelland
Lee Sharkey
Richard Sewell
Wesley McNair
Bruce Wallace
Kathie Fiveash
Carolyn Locke
Dave Morrison
Arthur Rimbaud
Glenn Cooper
Leonore Hildebrandt
Raymond Fowler
Larry Thomas
Thomas Lequin
Maureen Walsh
Teresa Lagrange
John Holt Willey
Edward Lorusso
Wesley McNair
George Danby
Lindy Hough
Gordon Theisen Nighthawks
Alfred DePew
Robert Stevens
Dirk Dunbar
Chris Peary
David Cappella
james lowe
Eleanor Mayo
Richard Foerster
Stuart Kestenbaum
Megan Grumbling
Alex Irvine
Take Heart

When I was five, believed
He lived up there, and saw
Benevolence surrounded
By baby angels
Waiting to be born.
I told my mother:
"Before I was born I was an angel."

Mother asked, "Well, where are your wings?"
I said: "Stored in the attic."

Ted Bookey lives in Readfield, Maine, and is an organizer of the poetry series at the Hallowell Gallery in Hallowell. His books include Lostalgia and Language as a Second Language.
By Ted Bookey
Fighting South of the Wall
By Li Bai Translation by Taylor Stoehr
Last year we fought where the Sang-kan flows,
this year it was Onion River Road.

We’ve washed our swords in the Eastern Sea,
grazed our horses on T’ien Shan’s snowy side.

A thousand miles are not enough for this war,
our armies grow old in their armor.

Husbandmen of slaughter, the Huns
have sown the yellow desert with our bones.

Long ago the Ch’in built the Great Wall,
now it’s the Han who light the signal-beacon.

All night long the flames flicker,
year in year out, the war goes on.

Bright swords flash, brave men fall and die,
riderless horses whinny at the sky.

Kites and crows pluck out the guts,
hang them high on the withered trees.

Soldiers smear their blood on the dry grass
while generals map the next campaign.

Wise men know winning a war
is no better than losing one.

Li Bai (701-762) was one of China's most revered poets of all time.
My friend Sam, a Vietnam veteran,
said he knew the exact time in combat
that his soul left and walked away from him.
For his image to work, one must believe

in souls: What is a soul? How does it feel
when one leaves? Should I conceive of a soul
as a separate entity from me
that steals away, like a ghost in a film?

I tried to imagine Sam’s core moment:
Hey, Soul. Where are you going? Please don’t leave.
I’m sorry I killed people in combat,
but that’s why we were at war, wasn’t it?

He said his soul dumped him, never looked back,
leaving him desolate and spiritless
in a crisscross of bullets and shrapnel
that rained directly, like storm after storm.

Sam’s parents had told him ghosts don’t exist.
Science said they were not real. Still, when
scientists said some phenomena could
not be explained by science, which was right?

Some said soul is conscience to keep one in touch
with a god. Others said the only way
to find one’s soul is by looking for it.
Sam said he continues to seek his out.

As a believer, I’ve become humble.
Sometimes, I’ve been given a guiding hand,
such as, when I won a race as a youth,
when I wrote a poem with inspired words,

or when I lost myself praising nature.
In our economics-centered world, we
use terms like bottom line to define truth.
My bottom line helps me to trust my faith.

George Chappell of Rockland, Maine, holds an MFA from Goddard College. This is the title poem from his new collection When Souls Walk Away.

When Souls Walk Away
By George Chappell
Half human, and half machine.
Oils running dry in this smoky scene.

Jackson Wilde is a short order cook, occasional thrash drummer and near-dormant poet living in Maine.
By Jackson Wilde
A.H. McLean
Fighting South of the Wall.
Listen to the Chinese.
The Szechwan Road (Hard Roads in Shu)
By Li Bai Translation by Arthur Waley
Eheu! How dangerous, how high! It would be easier to climb to Heaven than to walk the Szechwan Road.

Since Ts’an Ts’ung and Yü Fu ruled the land, forty-eight thousand years had gone by; and still no human foot had passed from Shu to the frontiers of Ch’in. To the west across T’ai-po Shan there was a bird-track, by which one could cross to the ridge of O-mi. But the earth of the hill crumbled and heroes[20] perished.

So afterwards they made sky ladders and hanging bridges. Above, high beacons of rock that turn back the chariot of the sun. Below, whirling eddies that meet the waves of the current and drive them away. Even the wings of the[14] yellow cranes cannot carry them across, and the monkeys grow weary of such climbing.

How the road curls in the pass of Green Mud!

With nine turns in a hundred steps it twists up the hills.

Clutching at Orion, passing the Well Star, I look up and gasp. Then beating my breast sit and groan aloud.

I fear I shall never return from my westward wandering; the way is steep and the rocks cannot be climbed.

Sometimes the voice of a bird calls among the ancient trees -- a male calling to its wife, up and down through the woods. Sometimes a nightingale sings to the moon, weary of empty hills.

It would be easier to climb to Heaven than to walk the Szechwan Road; and those who hear the tale of it turn pale with fear.

Between the hill-tops and the sky there is not a cubit’s space. Withered pine-trees hang leaning over precipitous walls.

Flying waterfalls and rolling torrents mingle their din. Beating the cliffs and circling the rocks, they thunder in a thousand valleys.

Alas! O traveller, why did you come to so fearful a place? The Sword Gate is high and jagged. If one man stood in the Pass, he could hold it against ten thousand.

The guardian of the Pass leaps like a wolf on all who are not his kinsmen.

In the daytime one hides from ravening tigers and in the night from long serpents, that sharpen their fangs and lick blood, slaying men like grass.

They say the Embroidered City is a pleasant place, but I had rather be safe at home.

For it would be easier to climb to Heaven than to walk the Szechwan Road.

I turn my body and gaze longingly toward the West.

Li Bai (701-762) was one of China's most revered poets of all time.
Hard Roads in Shu.
Listen to the Chinese.
All that’s amiss, stiff clutch, broken ankle,
inherent brain deficit, no cash to speak of
The truck bouncing down a muddy road
field mustard, raggedy yellow
nasty swerve to the left
I mean the absolute catastrophe

you are, the way rainwater drains
thru that field, pours into the road
cutting a graveled wedge
such that the road drops, clunk
ditch & tunnel bypassed

& where the road’s washed out
the sandy twist of your steering wheel
that squishy feeling
like you’re draining away, bereft,
without compensation—

or as it gathers in ditches, those ditches
cut in, puddle, wash out
altering how—no, make the road
disappear into the landscape
without trace, save
for crumpled beer cans

the story of your life ha

but the force of the rain—
where water sluices thru the road
becomes the road unloosens washes out
(actually it’s an arroyo—
the path water takes
become the most gradual)

can spread a brown foamy wave
down this canyon
bumpity bump
eating the jagged berm
that’s what you need guard against
threat of lightning

I Ching trigram K’an, passion & danger
& the hexagram doubled K’an, the Abysmal
misfortune at the bottom
misfortune at the top
danger within danger

I mean, this froth you pursue
thoughts bouncing about
without scope, no dimension
the sense of unfolding
the truth of who you are
the balance of forces
split sense of yourself as other
as the person watching
the person watching

on the defensive, okay
the way you slur & slide
splash your way home

specific recognitions locating what else
but when & where this instance of “you” is
establishing here & there
points of insight, boundaries
that’s what you reflect from
cross examine, reflect on
a system of reference
that is self-consciousness
bodily awareness
that’s what constitutes
in a fundamental way
who you are

distinguishes thinker from thought
knows the inside as out
puts you behind the wheel
(rather than under it)

you need to keep the show
going forward, get down the road
the needle bouncing back & forth
relate road truck & mud

negotiate your own difficult terrain
not simply opposed to
you need slow, know different

What you take & what you create
make happen, a murky swirl

I mean, odd isn’t it the dichotomy
between what you perceive & what “you” wants
insinuating itself
inside all your thoughts

consequently dealing with garbage all day!
sexual fantasies, fatigue, skewed reactions
nothing of particular interest
even to you—the level of triviality
almost monstrous at times!

as if whatever motivated you
a paycheck, pain, pretty new friend
there’s no distinguishing—
water outside, water within

as if there were some corrective
& you could attain higher ground
as if desire could determine a life
as if desire weren’t already
determining your life!

you can’t get what you’re not open to give
those are intimately related
& when you start to let go
participate, however poorly
push yourself aside somehow
no point or purpose
the opposite of what motivates you
declare, nothing to declare
& it’s that conflict
you pushing you aside

Bruce Holsapple grew up in Dexter, Maine, and now lives in Magdalena, N.M. His recent book of poems is Wayward Shadow.
Muddy Road
By Bruce Holsapple
Plumb the depth of time
Sitting by shore of moving water
Deep in the crowded forest of memories
Dredging up the glorious past
That’s now soggy and devoid of life
Like the drowned beaver pulled from trap
Dead animal sell the pelt
Waste the meat, pocket the money
Honor the totem animal?
They snicker and laugh
Grandfather worked the wood camps
Other grandfather worked the mill
Three generations cut wood
Families worked the mills
The mills were our families
Always beside the rivers
Small towns surrounded by forest
Part Mic-Mac we’re born to water and trees
Worked twenty four hours sometimes
Keep the machines running, they got a sound
Then a sound came from New York and Boston
From Men wearing gray suits
Heard them snicker and laugh
It echoed up the eastern seaboard
Way up the rivers in Maine
Close the mills, Smokestacks crashed
Like trees we used to fell
Defaulted scam loans fill gray suits with cash
Broken contracts shattered lives
Bulls of Wall Street in the china shop called Maine
Hundred million dollar paper machines, sold for scrap
Politicians say service economy, tourism, retraining
They snicker and laugh
Send us to hamburger school, can’t wait
In season serve a hamburger to tourists, smile, Minimum Wage
Funny thing happened on the way to poverty
They increased our taxes
Saw some suicides too
Gray suits, fancy dresses at parties
Dancing to the wisdom of greed, didn’t save one mill
What got saved?
We live in the woods, cut firewood
Can’t afford to burn oil, heat with wood
Neighbors and friends buy the extra that’s cut
Sometime I see hard times in their eyes
Read between unspoken lines give them an extra half cord
They helped me plenty when I needed
Forty five year old tractor breaks down, Henry fixes it
We give him raspberries when they come in season
Bill visited gave me five fresh caught trout
When I raised pigs we shared the meat
Snowstorm, not even light yet
Kenney’s plowing my lower driveway
Must be five people give us deer meat, moose, wild turkey
Years ago I cut meat up for them, they remember
Let a neighbor graze his sheep my field
My bush hog broke down can’t afford to fix it
He bush hogs my other field, I’m thankful every gift
My wife sews beautiful quilts, gives them away, family
We make our own Christmas cards, send them
Give them away, she worked the mill once
Don’t have much money
All this giving made us all rich in the soul
We’re sewn together like my wife’s quilts
Not a writer but I know what’s real
It ain’t torn down mills or greed

John "Bubba" Campbell of Dedham, Maine, submitted this poem for Patricia Ranzoni's anthology of writings recalling the paper mill in Bucksport, which was recently closed for reasons not clear to those who worked there.

Maine Real
By John Campbell
More --->
My snow blower drive wheel
Found tasty by summer mice,
I shovel the front steps,
Then settle in the sun porch,
Bright and warm, next
To the dog dozing, read Heaney,
Just laureled, and listen
To my heart, waiting
For the plow.

(December 1995)

John Holt Willey lives in Waterville, Maine. This poem
is from his recent collection, Observed from a Skin Boat.

By John Holt Willey
“Red, come help me with my girdle,”
called my stepmother Rita,
a great person in every way,
and the last woman I knew who wore a girdle.

My father got up and said, “Come with me.”
So I went. Rita was in the bedroom.
Her girdle was the old-fashioned kind
you stepped into and pulled up.
The two of us, one on each side, with Rita helping,
pushed and pulled.

The girdle put up a valiant fight.
We wrestled it on,
laughing so hard we fell on the bed.

That girdle brought us all together,
more than Playtex ever dreamed.

Thomas Lequin lives in Starks, Maine. .
My Stepmother's Girdle
By Thomas Lequin
Looking At Him
By Carolyn Gelland
She saw her own
image in his eyes

looking at him

not simply herself
but herself in him


dazzled out
by her star.

Carolyn Gelland lives in Wilton, Maine. Her most recent book is Dream-Shuttle.
From the dock, squinting in August’s last shine,
loons, kayaks, and problems are the same size.
All floating as if to slow summer’s leave.

Along the cove, car doors bang behind 5 generations.
Elders who used to walk here to swim as children,
returning with theirs, theirs, and theirs in arms or running
to the water with tubes for one more carefree chance.

Around the point New Yorkers play.

But the new owners of the next camp over are back
in Kansas, leaving echoes of painting and tossing logs
on the fire spraying sparks, splashing off the rocks
and laughing. How they’ll come earlier next year,
stay longer, maybe through fall. Out in Salina,
their neighbors hear the same through the shrubs.

But the turtles, with luck, are sure to be where they’re
expected to be, when. Summer after summer, freeze
after freeze, thaw by thaw. They are larger than life,
even the hand size they are, to those adoring them
slipping off the boggy log sensing human invaders
appearing huge through watery eyes and depths,
loud and dangerous even if not, so many are.

The last of the pond lilies for all the world Mexicano
hair flowers, Tristan’s vision, for this year’s American
Folk Fest from upriver over WERU, “cheering
our immigrant brothers and sisters” under sky-high jets
and their trails leaving Bangor International, tinier than
our shore dragonflies going nowhere but where they’ll die

Patricia Ranzoni lives in Bucksport, Maine. Her collections include Hibernaculum, Settling, From Here, and Only Human: Poems from the Atlantic Flyway, among others.
from a mountain pond
By Patricia Ranzoni
By Gus Peterson
for Leonard Nimoy

In a way, we all are.
Rising from the orbit of dreams,
we shower and warp
into the workday --
those stoic, calculated courses
we've gone before,
running the diagnostics
and procedure keeping
the vessel of us propelled,
one mission at a time,
through the space
of another week where
for an hour at least
we are entirely human --
fascinating in our love,
our rage, our sorrow
with its tears that fall
like shooting stars
across the lens
of night.

Gus Peterson lives in Randolph, Maine. His recent collection is When the Poetry's Gone.
Phil Poirier / Sunlight in the Celestory - Cathedral woods, Monhegan
A glossy photograph
of two men bent
over working clam flats
as the caption reads
which a friend
questions &

sends from Portland, Maine
The city's gray, high structures
behind them, layered 'twixt
a blue sky above

& a retouched area below
called “Back Bay”
which they are
knee deep in

digging bait/
& that has in fact
been polluted
many years --

but as any politician
knows, you don't send postcards
of people

raking mud for sandworms
& especially not
in a diseased place

so they sell us what we
would --
the impression

as any tourist learns

“Two men working
the clam flats”

Not untrue

Bruce Holsapple grew up in Dexter, Maine, and now lives in Magdalena, N.M. His recent book of poems is Wayward Shadow.
Sense of the Picturesque
By Bruce Holsapple
The air felt like sullen grief and the earth
ideal for grave digging. No birds whistled
or chattered in the autumn fields grown brown
and slimy under sunless skies. No, no song
cheered from heaven’s gate. We went down
to stream invisibly into our flat screen
some inane violence our entertainment
authorities had prepared for us. Alas,
we couldn’t escape feeling like the world
was weeping inconsolably, and all
we could think to say was sorry for your loss.

Or absent-mindedly, have a nice day.

The birds not only stayed silent, but failed
to flit in and out of our cedar tree,
so we couldn’t count them in admiration
of life’s daily differences. Instead, we stared
at a cluster of crinkled leaves, dreading
wordlessly that some gray and brutal thing
was coming. Or that nothing ever meant
to come at all, despite the constant promises
of leading experts. O that night would fall
to just be finally night all night long.

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.
It Was Evening All Afternoon
By William Hathaway
I always liked you the best
coming and going as you
fervently tease.
Everyone anticipating
your full arrival.
The bell of the ball magically
turning brown into color
and making the peepers
sing your praises at dust.

Teresa Lagrange of Portland, Maine, is a graphic artist.
By Teresa Lagrange