Saturday, April 02, 2016

The Sunday Poet: Zvi Sesling

Zvi Sesling

Zvi A. Sesling, a prize winning poet, has published in numerous magazines. He edits Muddy River Poetry Review and publishes “Muddy River Books.” He authored King of the Jungle (Ibbetson Street Press, 2010) and a chapbook Across Stones of Bad Dreams (Cervena Barva, 2011). His volume, Fire Tongue, is due from Cervena Barva Press. He lives in Chestnut Hill, MA with his wife Susan J. Dechter. ( Photo by Susan J. Dechter)

The Fools Are Marching

The fools are marching
in the streets carrying
symbols, waving flags
counting cadence, singing
drunken songs, marching
to victory, to defeat, to
cheers or madness, they
march over cliffs, into sewers
drowning waters, cleansing
waters, the fools march as if
ignorant, they march for love
they march for hate, they march
for the past, and for the future
while in the present
they are fools marching

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

David Blair Sounding the Whistle in his third book FRIENDS WITH DOGS

David Blair Sounding the Whistle in his third book FRIENDS WITH DOGS

article by Michael T Steffen

Reading David Blair’s poems is like lying in bed awake listening to the one who lies beside you talking in their sleep.

    There is a network
    of veins, nerves, and straw
    where there was potted nasturtium.

    Dental hygienists who misbehave
    come back as the numbers crunchers
    who remove salaried plaque,

    the 86ers going deep
    to scorch or freeze.        [“Vulcanists & Neptunists,” FWD, pp 38-9]

All of the terms are a little odd, which is difficult but also amusing. We leap, as Robert Bly would say, from potted plants, to the dentist and accounting, to sports and weather. What does “the 86ers” refer to? There is a European American Football team in Sweden called the Uppsala 86ers, which would make sense of “going deep” (throwing a long pass deep down field). General American readers will recognize the term “going deep” and have the research engines in their memories looking for an associate NFL team, say the 49ers. In this line of thought, on to Blair’s next line, you can “freeze” a linebacker by faking a run then throwing a long pass which, if successful, could be said to burn (“scorch”) a defensive back. Amid all of this talk of athletic dynamics, tactics and maneuvers, keep in mind the extremities of weather which climate change is causing our winters and summers. Poetry is at work when so much more is evoked than is actually stated. Great bargains take place between word count and reader.

FRIENDS WITH DOGS [ISBN 9781937679606/Sheep Meadow Press/P.O. Box 84/Rhinebeck, NY 12514], Blair’s third book of poems, lives up to the promise of his previous collections, in which the poet established his signature method in madness of evasive speech. “His music, his diction,” wrote A.D. Powell of Blair’s second book Ascension Days, “his refusal to use (ever) clichés, his syntax all drive his poems and their hearts forward.”

Thomas Lux amplified:

I have been reading Blair’s poems for about ten years now—struck always by his unique pitch and tone, the tensile muscularity of his syntax and vibrational accents. His diction is totally unboxed.

From this deliberate dismissal of clichés and coins and cousinages, mere gestures are made toward a grander scale, a finger on one’s cheek pointing at the sky, to refute determinism and fate, while acknowledging these mechanisms dangerously at play in our world. The poem “Festivals for Saints Lucy and Anthony” strike a plangent irony that reminds one (listen closely) of Ophelia singing over the virtues of herbs and flowers in her craze after Polonius’s death.

    The Book of Common Prayer
    gives such lovely presentation
    to the psalms, and the weird rites
    that developed for so many events
    All through the North End,
    Jimmy Roselli kept singing Torah
    and ending in Koran verses
    across the neck of water
    between here and Charlestown
    When people pin the ribbon pole
    with dollar bills with the trumpets
    annoying people until they pin more,
    bringing back indulgences is okay with me.

There is a pill (are pills) under Blair’s sugar of meanderings. To an aggressive, accusative and hypocritical world of solicitation, denying us so much in the way of authentic contact and purpose, there is adequacy in a response of denial, refusing sense made by the powers that be, returning everything originally to depict the oddness of how this feels rather than how it should seem okay. Satire, the theatre of the absurd, deigning to no obvious purpose or sense, happens upon a critical “usefulness” in its powerful disrespect and will to shock the censors and oppression crouching even in a free society.

The festivals evoked in the poem’s title are feast days or celebrations in honor of saints. Saint Lucy is petitioned for restoration of sight or vision. Saint Anthony is prayed to for help in recovering losses. The title of Blair’s second book, Ascension Days, with vocabulary in his earlier poems, have raised the notion of religion, an old world religion, in his poetry. His language can behave hermetically. Like Haley Joel Osment, the child in The Sixth Sense, Blair sees dead people: he sees Rabelais’ ghost in the erudite contemporary poet Tom Yuill—

    the poet from Old Dominion.
    “Yoo hoo,” he says, “Read more Wyatt. Read
    Sir Philip Sidney.”
    “Yoo hoo,” he says, “Buttermilk biscuits.
    Gravy. Monday Night Football.”
    [FWD, p. 60].

The fragmentary presentation of his poetry allows for vast silences and omissions. Whether Blair is devoted to religion we may not know by his poetry. That atrocities are being committed throughout the world in the name of Religion should weigh on every informed human being. This is a fact that reflects howsoever in the mirror of Blair’s presented discourse.

The conclusion of “Festivals for Saint Lucy & Saint Anthony” startlingly compresses the world confused in these gestures to the naïve sweet tooth of a child at such a festival, bound for the biochemical disaster of a blackout caused by a sugar rush:

    A kid won a box of Lemon Heads
    and a box of Alexander the Grape,
    and all the flavors of taffy,
    a watermelon Now & Later candy,
    a coconut oil smooth banana flavor
    that never leaves my mouth,
    that takes the wooden floor out
    from underneath our feet,
    that brings me to another level
    of unpeopled Wampanoag hill
    sadness first state park north of the city,
    where there is one chipmunk
    and about four pigeons left
    and a lot of woods,
    a sugar rush, then crash,
    graceful deficit
    in the distant Fells.

In the “rational world,” radical fundamentalism motivating violence is seen as the choice that justifies intervention. It is not Saint Lucy or Saint Anthony, any more than the 86ers going deep. It is a butterfly somewhere causing a hurricane elsewhere. The, say, Venus de Milo as an objective is not mentioned. Nor the fact that the world is consuming sources of energy on a daily basis like a kid loading himself with candy to the point of having a seizure at a religious festival.  As elsewhere in Blair’s poetry, just enough is said in this poem to make so much come tumbling out.

To a great extent, the day-to-day world we live in “makes sense” because it is what we have learned to live with, ways accumulated and assimilated with progress in time. It is the world we frequent daily. One necessary step for the artist and poet, in order to get a good look at things around, in order to begin to speak relevantly about it, is somehow to get outside of that world, get somehow to a vantage point, on a hill, for a good while, to be able to see it for himself or herself. To varying degrees, poets bring this cultivated alienation to readers, with their purpose of showing us something we cannot normally see yet that is true, so probable to how we imagine life, that we say “this really speaks to me.”

Defying logic and expected sequences, Blair, while “restless,” often achieves an a-temporal or out-of-ordinary-time feel, the around-going-nowhere motion of a river mill wheel, a simultaneity of collages, a moving stillness.

David Rivard in Boston Review isolated a line of Blair’s, “Nothing can remain horizontal or vertical for long,” calling this the poet’s “mini ars poetica.” The riverhead of the statement may be Heraclitus’ The only constant is change. It comes by way of one of David’s tamer or more focused meditations, from Ascension Days, on inspiration, in the figure and under the title of “AMELIA EARHART”, who like the Virgin Mary did not suffer a witnessed death. The famous American “aviatrix,” as David designates her (with a wink that is both bawdry and submissive to the suffix, evoking the Dominatrix of erotica) serves stunningly as a displacement of the Virgin Mother who according to certain traditions is said not to have suffered death but to have been assumed into heaven, lost up in the air in flight, off the radar and our maps, entering into the needful and copious domains of our speculation and wonder.

A little beyond midstream in the poem, Blair embellishes Earhart with suggestions of another great woman from American history, Eleanor Roosevelt, with a marvelous double entendre on the word “dam”, in one sense for the construction with a reservoir that harnesses energy from a river (recalling the era of the New Deal), and “dam” in the sense of a grand lady, the diminutive of “Madam” or “Madame”.
     The lines go,

    It’s possible that she was always bundled
    muscle, nerve and horse sense.
    Standing rigidly against rivers like a dam
    named after a president is a dubious way to be,
    but I can imagine Amelia fascinated by toasters
    and Christmas lights, the large blue bulbs,
    and the terrifying orange coils
    and the way the toaster cord feels like the root
    of a plant when attracted to earthen recesses,
    and I can imagine a blue bathrobe for her
    in the endless morning before anything.

There is merely a suggestive allusion to Mary in the poem. We might remember that blue is Mary’s color, blue of the serene sky. And that Amelia’s bathrobe imagined in David’s poem is blue. A verbal association is possible with the Day of the Assumption, which is commonly confused with Christ’s Ascension, offering an explanation as to the plural in the title of this wonderful book, Ascension Days, published in 2007 by Del Sol Press.

The poetry of David Blair, for all of its oddity and difficulty, strikes us as something we cannot put down or turn away from. It’s likely we are not terribly sure about what it is he is saying to us on a first or maybe not even a second reading, yet we get a keen sense that it is undeniable and essential.
David Blair will be reading at the Cervena Barva Press studio on Thursday March 31st at  7 pm with Lloyd Schwartz and Joseph Torra.

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Ibbetson Street Press Poetry Reading at the Whittier House

Ibbetson St. Poetry Reading

Ibbetson St. Poetry Reading

On April 13th at 7:00PM the Whittier Home Association hosts an evening of poetry presented by the Ibbetson Street poets at the Whittier Home, 86 Friend St. Amesbury, MA. There is no charge but donations will be gratefully accepted.
The Ibbetson Street Press was founded in 1998 in Somerville, MA by Doug Holder, Richard Wilhelm and Dianne Robitaille. The Press publishes collections of poetry, and the literary journal Ibbetson Street. Ibbetson Street is now affiliated with Endicott College in Beverly, MA.
Doug Holder of Ibbetson House said, “We are pleased to be able to have our poets read at the historic Whittier Home & Museum in Amesbury, MA onApril 13th, 2016 at 7:00pm. We would like to thank Lainie Senechal, the Poet Laureate of Amesbury, the Whittier Home Association, and the Amesbury Cultural Council for making this happen.”
The following poets will read at the event: Lainie Senechal, Amesbury’s Poet Laureate; Harris Gardner, founder of the Boston National Poetry Festival, and Poetry Editor of Ibbetson;  Steve Glines, the Design Editor for Ibbetson Street and the publisher of the Wilderness House Press; Gloria Mindock, a celebrated poet as well as the publisher of the Cervena Barva Press; Michael Todd Steffen, Director of the Hastings Room Reading Series in Cambridge, MA; Michael Goodwin,  a creative writing student from Endicott College in Beverly, MA; Denis Daly, author of the poetry collection The Custom House; and Doug Holder, publisher of Ibbetson Street.
Please call the Whittier Home at 978-388-1337 for reservations.

The Sunday Poet: Carla Schwartz

Carla Schwartz is a poet, filmmaker, photographer, and lyricist. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fulcrum, Common Ground Review, Cactus Heart, First-Literary Journal East, Switched-on Gutenberg, Wordgathering, Naugatuck River Review, Stone Highway Review, Boston Poetry Magazine, Literary Juice, Solstice Magazine, Ibbetson Street Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, Enizagam, Equinox, and 05401, among others. Her book, Mother, One More Thing is available through WordTech  and Turning Point Books (2014). Her poem, In Defense of Peaches, was a Massachusetts Poetry Foundation Poem of the Moment. Her poem, Late for Dinner, was a semi-finalist for the Naugatuck River Review Narrative Poetry Contest. Her video work incorporates poetry, documentary,  and instructional videos. Her youtube videos have had hundreds of thousands of views. She has performed and read her work in the U.S., Canada, and Australia. Carla is also a professional writer with a doctoral degree from Princeton University. Learn more at her website at

Comment se Faire

The theatre was near the Grand Place,
convenient for moules et frites
and a short walk to the train, afterward.

This cinema revealed its beauty on entering —
balconies, red carpet,
moldings on the ceiling.

Ushers and restroom attendants expected tips.
My first day in Brussels,
I held my bags tight.

I took my place in the middle of the middle,
an empty row, where I could spread my bags
on the seat to my right.

Comment Faire l’Amour avec un Negre sans se Fatiguer,
a Canadian film, sparsely attended —
the unemployed, the retired, and me, a tourist.

I focused on the tongue I was not native to,
and the Montreal neighborhoods I knew —
Carré St. Louis, Rue St. Denis,

when, of all the open seats,
a man selected the one next to my stuff.
I bristled and swung them over to my left.

Another man moved in then,
on that side, and I was sandwiched,
my bags between my legs,

while Man Number 1 moved to the seat next to mine,
and Number 2 closed in on my left.
I stayed put, rather than get up and move.

When my row mates began to pant and rub,
and I tensed my grip on my camera, my purse,
my neck craned like a stargazer.
Before intermission, the men left.
I remained fixed until the end,
when I walked away from my small death.