Tag Archives: Spring 2012

I Revise; Critic; Happiness by Jean Sampson

I Revise   I revise because images, like moth wings, grow, hidden in secret shrouds, because the sun never stops seeking an oak in every acorn, because milkweed, beautiful in bloom offers wind-borne gifts to the earth in autumn. I revise because the sky molds and re-forms clouds the way a sculptor works wet clay. I revise because the Muse is a shape-shifter who lifts me up on eagle wings at dawn. By dusk, we crawl the ground as ants. I revise because I like surprises, poems that turn themselves inside-out like tee-shirts ready for … Continue reading I Revise; Critic; Happiness by Jean Sampson

Letterpress, Bangor; Herd, Sheepscot; Vibrations, Crystal by Kevin McFadden

Letterpress, Bangor   I, too, discern it: an impression of the impression left on leaves, the broadside’s bite, an invitation through the mail in a bygone, backhanded braille. The leaden shadows that hide there, in our words. Type lives on, thank Gutenberg, in our unsubtle century, with a pass through Whitman’s fingers— This latent mine—these unlaunch’d voices— but rarer and rarer, slipped shophand to shophand, rarer and rarer is the specimen in recto that spares the verso. We don’t look verso, indent-bent. The LED is our screen, it projects only forward, the LEAD is some … Continue reading Letterpress, Bangor; Herd, Sheepscot; Vibrations, Crystal by Kevin McFadden

A Tomato, Like Love; Balm; Answered by Michael McFee

A Tomato, Like Love,   starts small, a fuzzy flimsy seedling sneaky worms would secretly undercut. You could almost miss its yellowish blossom that becomes a fruit, hard and green at first, slowly ripening in increasing light, growing fuller and rounder and smoother. A tangy air, not altogether pleasant, and a certain prickliness surround it. One day it simply falls into your hand, that thin taut skin barely able to contain the sticky red juice that wants to burst out at the slightest pressure of the very tip of knife or fingernail or tooth or … Continue reading A Tomato, Like Love; Balm; Answered by Michael McFee

Popillia Japonica; Naivete by Angie Hogan

Popillia Japonica   For rows of sun-buttered, glistening corn, red and green trimmed vines of tomatoes wrapping themselves around silvery rusted poles, thick fields of gummy blooming tobacco, tangled thrusts of okra and lean stalks of string beans, plump pumpkins and cantaloupe, they came. Some think they rode over, camouflaged in the beautiful, murderous kudzu. Others that we brought them here purposely, despite or unaware of their hunger, like gems. Papa called them pests, bastards, Japanese—beetles no different from morning glories or Johnson grass, or me puffing the fluffy seeds of dandelions. Instead of apple … Continue reading Popillia Japonica; Naivete by Angie Hogan

Art by Rosamond Casey

  “Back in the 90’s I fabricated a painting tool, somewhat like a squeegee, that could produce an image that appeared three-dimensional. Uprising and Powers of Ten are two paintings from that series. As more narrative themes emerged in my work, this tool did its part off in the corners, no longer front and center.     The photo/paintings, Initiation and Chinese Whispers, [below] are from my recent series Men in Suits, A Day on the Hill, a visual query that tracks such men through the streets and marble halls of Capitol Hill… After collecting … Continue reading Art by Rosamond Casey

Photography by Bill Emory

    “I stumbled off the track to success in 1968, started chasing shadows that summer. Since then, in addition to farm-laborer and newspaper photographer, my occupational incarnations include dishwasher, janitor, retail photo clerk, plumber, HVAC repairman, auto mechanic, CT scan technologist, computer worker and politico (whatever it takes to buy a camera.) I am on the road to understanding black and white photography. Photos are my heart and memory. I live in Charlottesville and Slabtown Virginia (James and Rappahannock watersheds).” -Bill Emory       Visit Bill Emory’s website www.billemory.com to see more of … Continue reading Photography by Bill Emory

When the Turkeys Came by Kristin Griffin

It was November when the turkeys came to Ridge Hill Road. Before that, there was nothing remarkable about it—just a few shingled houses that squiggled through the scrub oaks like a dropped thread. All of the properties were landlocked and none particularly appealing in that quaint New England way so the summer rental business happened elsewhere. And that was the way the residents liked it. Most lived on the island year round with the exception of Jonathan and Linda Haar who summered there. Their house sat neglected in the off-season and this agitated their neighbors, … Continue reading When the Turkeys Came by Kristin Griffin

Creme Brulée by Sara Anne Donnelly

About midnight out of nowhere Pete’s best friend Eddie hauled up out of his chair like a zombie back from the grave, sprinted naked across the lawn, and hurtled himself in cannonball into the middle of the swimming pool, which was filled with about 24,000 gallons of crème brulée in honor of Pete’s engagement to Shelly who Eddie had never warmed to. The screams from the guests drowned out Pete’s completely unhostly “Fuck!” as a scene crossed his mind of his best friend drowning in egg, milk, and imitation vanilla. But the crème saved Eddie. … Continue reading Creme Brulée by Sara Anne Donnelly

Blue Coat by Dania Rajendra

The blue coat is slung over my arm, and I consider it against the long row of our walk-in closet. I do own four other coats, but this one was a gift from my once-closest friend Cue. I contemplate whether, at the landmark age of twenty-nine, I am now too old to wear fake blue fur. I hope not. I loved this coat so much that a few years ago, I paid a tailor at my neighborhood dry cleaning joint fifty bucks to reline it. Fifty bucks and he used the cheapest of polyester and … Continue reading Blue Coat by Dania Rajendra

Jemima Wilkinson, Elusive Messiah by Robert Boucheron

Jemima Wilkinson (1752-1819) was born in Cumberland, Rhode Island of Quaker parents, the eighth of twelve children. When she was about twelve years old, her mother died after giving birth. These facts might go far to explain Wilkinson’s career as a revivalist preacher, advocate of celibacy, leader of a millennial sect, and founder of a utopian community. Or they might not. Called the first American-born woman to found a religious group, Wilkinson is a rare figure in the history of faith, and one of the most elusive. Starting two years after her death, Wilkinson has … Continue reading Jemima Wilkinson, Elusive Messiah by Robert Boucheron