Friday, November 18
7:00pm – 9:00pm

Location

Harlow Gallery
160 Water Street
Hallowell, ME

Created By

Harlow Gallery

More Info

Ted Bookey, Herb Coursen and Dave Morrison will read from their poetry. Suggested donation $3:00. Light refreshments served. For further information please call 685–3636. Read on for a word from the poets:

October Saturday: 1949

When I was seventeen,
the quarterback gave me the ball, and
the hole opened
up, right where it said it would be
on the blackboard.
And I kept on going,

and going. I was an
x attached to an arrow. It was
like making love
to a woman, although I must
admit, I did
not know that at the time.

—Herb Coursen

The Power of It

Ruth woke sad today. “Life,” she says,
“has been behaving itself & hopeful
expectations continue, so why now
nameless dread & mope at sunrise?
What is it? What can it be?”
I do not know but I will try.
To help her against it
—whatever it is

I put my arms around her,
Tell her, “What it is, is
there come moments
When it is simply it.”

I say this for myself
As much as for her—
That it is just it.
& it helps.

—Ted Bookey

Best Poem

The poet stepped to the
microphone and cleared
his throat. It was his
best poem, he thought;
painstakingly crafted using
an ancient and complicated
Italian form, it laid his
heart open to the listener.

This poem was the distillation
of every poem he had ever written,
an epic that would at last
illuminate his quiet pain, his
soul-ache.

He read the poem boldly,
Simply, the words asking flight
Out of his mouth like swallows
out of a barn; he held nothing back.

When the lovely woman with the
kind eyes approached him, it was
clear that the poem had done its
work; she, the sympathetic listener

now knew his poet’s heart.

They spoke little – there was no need.
After a few glasses of wine she drove
them to her bungalow. Once inside, she
took him onto her lap and rocked him,
cooing and kissing the top of his head.

She led him into a small room, undressed him.
And tucked him into a little bed. She turned on
a bedside lamp shaped like a hot-air balloon that
filled the room with a soft pink glow.

Smoothing his hair, she asked him if he wanted her
to leave the light on…
…tomorrow, he knew, he would have to take a
good hard look at the poem, and make some
changes.

—Dave Morrison

Date

Free and open to the public

Pondtown Poets to read at the Harlow in June

Join the Pondtown Poets on Friday, June 24, 2011 at 7 p.m. for a poetry reading.  The Pondtown poets will read selected poems from their recently-published chapbook, Pondtown Poetry II, as well as other poems.  The Pondtown Poets are Judy Feinstein of Hallowell, Alice Gifford of Augusta, Sally R. Joy of Augusta, Susan J. Parks of Winthrop, and Gaylord D. Weston  of Belgrade.

This event is free and open to the public.

The Pondtown Poets group was established in 2003.  The group meets monthly in members’ homes and workshops members’ poems.  The group has published two chapbooks and has presented many readings in Central Maine.

Refreshments will be served.

As three-term U.S. Poet Laureate, Robert Pinsky is a public ambassador for poetry, dedicating himself to identifying and invigorating poetry’s place in the world. Founding the Favorite Poem Project, he sought to document that presence, giving voice to the American audience for poetry. Elegant and tough, vividly imaginative, Pinsky’s own poems have earned praise for their wild musical energy and ambitious range. For his most recent volume of poetry, Gulf Music (2007), The New York Times Book Review stated, “Pinsky is our finest living specimen of this sadly rare breed, and the poems of Gulf Music are among the best examples we have of poetry’s ability to illuminate not only who we are as humans, but who we are—and can be—as a nation.”

The poetry editor for the online magazine Slate, Pinsky appeared regularly on The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer for seven years. Pinsky’s poems appear in magazines such as The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, The Threepenny Review, American Poetry Review, and frequently in The Best American Poetry anthologies. His Tanner Lectures at Princeton University were published as Democracy, Culture and the Voice of Poetry (Princeton University Press, 2002), and he currently teaches in the graduate writing program at Boston University. Pinsky is winner of the PEN/Voelcker Award, the William Carlos Williams Prize, the Lenore Marshall Prize, the National Foundation for Jewish Culture’s 2006 Jewish Cultural Achievement Award in Literary Arts, and the 2008 Theodore M. Roethke Memorial Poetry Award. He is one of the few members of the American Academy of Arts and Letters to have appeared on The Simpsons (Season 13, Episode 20) and The Colbert Report (April 19, 2007).

The title of his lecture, Is Vision The Twin of Speech? is based on these lines in Leaves of Grass, section 25:
My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach.
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.
Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself.
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt you contain enough, why don’t you let it out then?

This program is made possible by The Bernard A. Osher Lecture Fund at the Portland Museum of Art.

MUSEUM INFORMATION

The Portland Museum of Art, Maine’s largest art museum, showcases fine and decorative arts from the 18th century to the present. From Winslow Homer and Andrew Wyeth to Pablo Picasso and Claude Monet, the Museum features three centuries of art and architecture. The Museum is located at Seven Congress Square in downtown Portland. Hours are: 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday, and 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. on Friday. Memorial Day through Columbus Day, the Museum is open on Monday from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Museum admission is $10 for adults, $8 for seniors and students with I.D., $4 for youth ages 6 to 17, and children under 6 are free. The Museum is free on Friday evenings from 5 p.m. to 9 p.m., made possible through the generous support of L.L. Bean. No admission is required to visit the Museum Café and Store. For more information, call (207) 775-6148 or visit portlandmuseum.org.

I’d be grateful if you’d forward this email to any eligible writer whom you think might be interested in the contest. If you are eligible yourself, I hope you’ll consider entering, even if you’ve previously submitted to Persea’s open reading period. (Selecting a contest winner is a very different process from adding a poet conventionally, and the results can be very different, too.)

Sending warm wishes for the holiday season,

Gabriel Fried, Poetry Editor
Persea Books
853 Broadway, Suite 601
New York, NY 10003
(212) 260-9256 ph
(212) 260-1902 fax

Judy Tierney

The second program in Lithgow Public Library’s poetry and music series will feature Martin Steingesser and Judy Tierney on Thursday, May 27 at 6:30 p.m.  The series, sponsored by Bay Wrap of Augusta, is free and open to the public, and will take place in the Reading Room.

The series concludes on Thursday, June 24 at 6:30 p.m. with poet Ellen Taylor and acoustic musicians Dave and Anna Patterson. Steingesser and Tierney’s program will include poems from Steingesser’s poetry book, Brothers of Morning, and a selection of poems by other poets in alternating voices, with some flute music.

Martin Steingesser

Steingesser is a poet and performer whose programs often include music (flute and recorder) and dance.  He has performed with the Arthur Hall International African Dance Company and in many arts festivals and parades.  Portland’s first Poet Laureate (2007-09), Steingesser received the Maine Alliance for Art Education’s Bill Bonyun Award in 2006, and teaches 50-100 workshop days a year in the Maine Arts Commission’s Artist in Residence Program. He has participated in the Touring Artist program of the Maine Arts Commission for the past 25 years.

Tierney has been presenting poems in Maine for several years.  She was creator and host of a weekly radio program, “Walking in the Air,” celebrating poetry and its voices, on WRFR, Rockland’s community radio station.

Lithgow Library is located at 45 Winthrop Street in Augusta.  For more information, call the library at 626-2415 or visit the library’s website atwww.lithgow.lib.me.us.

Maine Allagash Log Drivers

Stand still along the Allagash and in the sighing of the pines,
you still hear the ghostly whispers from another time.

Some might say it’s just the winds sifting through the trees,
but the sounds and voices from the past are oh so clear to me.

I hear the double bitted axe, the crash when timber falls.
Used to build the King’s own fleet. For masts so straight and tall.

I hear the tramway rattle moving logs to Chamberlain.
The chugging of the Lombard hauler as sparks fly in the wind.

I close my eyes and listen as on the shore I stand.
I hear a river driver swearing at a jam.

I watch the rushing water and in my mind I see,
a million spruce, all hell turned loose as the log drive goes by me.

In spiked caulk boots a deadly dance across the swollen flow.
With peavey and pole, God bless the souls the river takes below.

Still yet another eerie sound falls upon my ear.
The mournful whistle of a a train seems lost in the north woods here.

Yet thru the forest track was laid, a feat that tempted fate.
Fifteen miles of winding steel, down from Eagle Lake.

A lumber camp is a busy place and many sounds are there.
I hear them all so clearly it seems they are quite near.

The choppers in the dingle as the grindstone hones the axe.
The horses in the hovel, the cookie in the shack.

I can smell the beans and bacon, the smoke from the bunk house stove,
where tired men are snoring as off to sleep they go.

So listen now as I have to the sighing of the pines and
you will hear the ghostly whispers of another time.

By Gary A. Lovely
November 26, 2007

Arielle Greenberg

Fourteen poets, ten visual artists, four performing artists, and more will participate in the 6th Annual Belfast Poetry Festival October 15 and 16, 2010 in downtown Belfast, Maine.

One of the only community-based, non-academic poetry festivals in the country, the event features established, professionally recognized poets and artists from throughout Maine along with emerging poets to create a lively mix.

A unique feature of the Festival all five years has been the Gallery Walk, in which the audience moves among seven downtown galleries to view the collaborative exhibits by artist/poet teams and hear the accompanying poetry.

Maine–Wide Poetry Contest Announced

The 2nd Annual Maine Postmark Poetry Contest, will be launched this year in conjunction with the 6th annual Belfast Poetry Festival, to be held October 15 & 16, 2010. Maine residents are invited to submit entries of up to two pages and no more than two poems, accompanied by a cover letter with contact information and a check for $5 (reading fee). Proceeds will be used to support the contest and festival. Maine residents may submit more than one entry, but each additional entry is an additional $5.

Submissions are welcome from now until July 1, 2010; only submissions received with a Maine postmark dated July 1 or earlier will be accepted and read. Poems should be sent without the poet’s name on the poem and accompanied by a cover letter listing the poet’s name, contact information (address, email and phone) and the title of the poem(s) submitted so that poems can be read anonymously. Cover letters need not include biographical information. Poems sent without a cover letter will be disqualified. All poems must be original and previously unpublished. Poems will not be returned, so please do not send originals or an SASE.
Download full details »

Make checks out to: City of Belfast
Send to: Linda Buckmaster, Belfast Poet Laureate
Attn: Maine Postmark Poetry Contest
12 Huntress Ave, Belfast, ME 04915

“Can I call you ‘Mom?’”
He asked again, French toast dripping.
How many times will he ask?

With playful witch’s voice
And monster hands
I’ve tickled him to the floor
So many times, saying,
“I’m not your mom –
“I’m your wicked stepmother!”
with a monstery “Baahhh haaa haaa.”

But not today… “Why do you ask?”
“Because you love me
And do stuff with me
And take care of me –
You’re not like my mom…” a pause…
“Please can I call you Mom?”

I turned to him from the griddle.
His eyes were pleading — rejected.
I thought it would get easier
And he would understand.
I knew his mother never would.
We’ve protected her heart
Because she’s fragile.
But don’t protect his
Because… he’s strong?

“She said I can never call you Mom,
Because I was in her belly…”
Eyes turned upward in thought.
“Yes, you were in her belly
And she’s loved you ever since.”

I sit on the couch and nest him in my lap
Not knowing what to say.
“I love you higher than the universe,” he says,
Nestling his nose into my neck.
“And I can love you even higher than that,
Even if I’m not your Mom.”

He wiggles
And kneels on my lap
Nose to nose
Framing my face
In his two little hands,
Eyes wide, with voice soft, he says,
“I wish I was in your belly.”
I kiss his forehead, nose and chin
And reply… gently poking his chest,
“At least you’re in my heart…”

Paula Brochu Coombs 2005

Why did it have to be
Bombs?
And hacked-up bodies?
And women raising children
With dead fathers?

Why did it have to be flies
Laying eggs
In the open wounds
Of soldiers?

Why did it have to be
Good men
Sleeping with whores
And doing drugs
Just to make it through…
And becoming callous?

Why did it have to be
Men shooting at the sounds
Of cars backfiring in the alley
With the night sweats
Tossing and turning
In their soft beds – stateside,
Forever
After being a part of IT.

It’s a simpler world
For a third-grader.
At least with the Olympics
There is a sure winner.

The mighty river awakens, slowly
gathering speed as the sun grows stronger.
The ice groans, as if the melting were painful.

Imagine the black water beneath, never freezing.
Large fish swimming deep under the thick, snowy ice.
What does it feel like, the cold black water?
What else lurks beneath, in the dark channel below?

Death comes quickly now for the ice, and
The river grows with each melting drop.
The water swirls, carrying bits and pieces of the places it’s been.

Imagine the muddy water bursting fiercely, newly awakened.
The spring river rushes on, caught up in the moment.
No time for idle contemplation, such is the curse of youth.
Swelling, absorbing, consuming all that she touches.

Faster now, rising by the hour, she becomes a giant.
Raging through the land, demanding respect from all
who are drawn to her presence, all who cannot draw themselves
away.

Imagine a need to be close to her, to live in her presence.
Her cycle is constant. Take comfort here my child,
She whispers, in the rustling brush on the waters edge.
Stand here , feel my spirit and I will touch yours.

Here, he sacrificed his ivory girl
On sweaty, lust-drenched stone
Behind strongly barricaded door,
“We take care of problems here, no worry…”
The fat man said, “Nothing leaves here.”

Dim-lit exchange of greenbacks –
She thought: He’s buying drugs,
And looked away to be safe;
Focusing on the dance floor
Where they circled and salivated.

Truckers and whores and cheaters
Pulled their chattel into the square
To rate her worth; to offer quiet bids.
A scuffle ensued as she was lead away
For the tour.

“Take me home,” she begged her knight, in whispers,
Clutching his arm, trembling with realization.
Ravenous wolves awaited their next course…
“I will, I will… I just want to look….” He looked.
“They wouldn’t let me in without a partner.”

Large black blocks fill the spaces between
What she remembers and what she still feels,
But she remembers asking with eye’s edge spilling, “Is it worth it?”
“Will you sacrifice me – for this?” – locked and pleading.
His silent, empty stare said, “Yes,” as he led her to the altar.

Three to manage, with iron…
Four, five, six? To watch and fill…
Three to defile with seed; above, below, behind…
One to stand aloof with glass of wine in hand;
That villainous, treasonous knight!
Swirling lights on ghetto-street
Where weeds and grass don’t grow;
Flattened McDonald’s cups
Making scratching sounds on broken tar
Was all she could think of as the chalice filled.