Tuesday, July 28, 2015

The Truth About Ed Meek’s Spy Pond By Teisha Dawn Twomey






The Truth About Ed Meek’s Spy Pond
By Teisha Dawn Twomey

In his book “The Triggering Town,” Richard Hugo advises those seeking advice on writing, “you owe reality nothing and the truth about your feeling everything.” What Ed Meek accomplishes in his skillfully  crafted and well-seasoned collection “Spy Pond” is to connect his reader to intellectual and emotional matters in an honest, candid manner that engages us in their universality. In this way, he provides his reader with an unbounded versatility of mind that becomes the doorway into the more collective conscience. Meek preoccupies our mind with both the supernatural and natural, personal, national, and worldwide disasters, matters of our mortality, it’s heaviness but also it’s fragility, the revenge exacted by a forsaken ecosystem, the justice system, science and technology, and the lingering sense that we will feel comforted, if not by understanding, then through ascribing meaning to the issues that most trouble us.
At times, Meek’s poems express feelings of modern day ennui and a dissatisfied posture regarding the experience of the self in an indifferent world. “Spy Pond” has a willingness to ask the difficult questions and to point out the indifferent and the dishonorable, as if to shake the bored suburbanite out of his or her self-indulgent languor. This poet blows the lid off the suffering and pain of his fellow man, unafraid to strike the bone of contention in this nation. He makes it impossible to ignore or dehumanize the victim. The guilt and lingering sense that life is far more unfair to some, is an issue the reader must cope with, at least while reading. How we each begin to reconcile with this realization (or perhaps the powerful reminder) in the aftermath, is our business, but the author lays all of his own cards on the table and calls a spade a spade. 
 
Ed Meek’s “Spy Pond” speak it’s own truth, candidly and with determination. It has great compassion, limiting judgement or pretense by, instead, asking empathetic questions and allowing the reader space to come to their own conclusions. The author’s willingness, or rather determination, to take risks is beautifully captured in this brave and contemplative collection of poems. The fact that the aha-moments of Meek’s disclosures allow us to feel as if we have arrived at these crisp and concise moments of sudden epiphany naturally, is not a mistake. It is due to Meeks perceptively unpretentious and candid voice, that he is so successful embracing the reader and that as the collection develops or rather unfolds, the hidden truths we uncover feel like our own. 
 
“Spy Pond” is full of sharp wit and the words clearly demonstrate a profound understanding about what it is that we all care about, what compels each of us. Meek's poems never bite off more than they can chew, nor do they hit the reader over the head with a point too many times. Instead, a newcomer to the knowledge Meek presents, is extended with a manner of discerning foresight, that leaves the reader with the sense that the poet is not overly concerned with whether or what the reader does or does not know. Instead, Meek’s collection creates the impression that the writer has trusted the reader, assuming that he or she has enough good sense and to fill in any gaps and/or read between the lines to reach their own thoughtful conclusions. The failing to leave well enough alone and to instead go overboard overexplaining, as if trying to persuade the readers of some allusion, is an ailment many novice writers suffer from. If left unidagnosed and untreated, what would otherwise be successful work is destroyed by it’s very own lack of faith. In contrast, Meek has a distict gift for appearing to cinch the right words the first time through and leaving an impression that delivers his reader towards their significance and the consequences thereof. This, of course, is done by virtue of our own lens of perception, which is at all times at the mercy of context. Invariably our frame of reference will effect how each of us interprets Meek’s poetry. This inner-toolbox, that defines everything we think we know, will vary, as will our ability to expand our perceptions and elevate our understanding towards more meaning and purpose. It is this, in the end, that makes “Spy Pond” or any other successful work of literary art great; it’s ability to give birth to new or reawakened truths.


**********************************************************************************   
Teisha Dawn Twomey is the poetry editor at Night Train, as well as an associate fiction editor for Wilderness House Literary Press. She received her MFA in Poetry at Lesley University. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous print and online poetry reviews and journals. By day, she is the Resource Specialist at Springfield College's Boston campus and by night she wishes she was a superhero.
Teisha Dawn Twomey is the poetry editor at Night Train, as well as an associate fiction editor for Wilderness House Literary Press. She received her MFA in Poetry at Lesley University. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous print and online poetry reviews and journals. By day, she is the Resource Specialist at Springfield College's Boston campus and by night she wishes she was a superhero.

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Laughing Wild by Christopher Durang/ Hub Theatre Company of Boston






Laughing Wild by Christopher Durang
Hub Theatre Company of Boston
Directed by Margaret Ann Brady
http://www.hubtheatreboston.org/

Review by Doug Holder

Have you ever had a significant encounter with someone at Market Basket-- in-- say, the frozen food section? I can't say that I have...but while fondling a yam—I had an idea for a poem, but I digress. In playwright Christopher Durang's play “ Laughing Wild,”presented by the Hub Theatre Company of Boston, at the Club Cafe in the South End of the city, something significant happens between two conflicted characters in the tuna fish aisle at Gristede's in New York City. The play ( set in the 1980s)  directed by former Somerville resident Margaret Ann Brady, uses this encounter between an unnamed man and woman as a conduit for an exploration of ontological questions like: why can't I find love? a job? meaningful work? spiritual fulfillment? etc... 

Lauren Elias who plays the unstable woman (the character has had several stints at the state mental hospital) assaults a neurotic male New Yorker as he ponders the existential question: “ What brand of tuna should I buy?” Elias has a set of pipes like Ethel Merman, and the comic flair of the manic Toti Fields. Her eyes are wide-open pools of angst, and fear-- as if some spectral presence revealed itself to her. I also focused on her mouth, a wide, nattering orifice, that chattered incessantly, as if we were viewing a Beckett play. There was a yin/yang thing going on in her performance-- a raging Prince Hamlet throwing barbs at a hypocritical society, the thinning of the ozone layer, Ronald Reagan, even Mother Teresa and her dreadful love of children. On the other side is a women seeking connection, and realizes her search for the silver lining is lost in the dark cloud banks.

Robert Orzalli, the object of the woman's attention, has a wonderful doughy and rubbery face, and shock of Harpo Marx curly hair, all of which help convey his zany embrace of New Age philosophy and the obligatory platitudes—while at the same time letting out burst of contempt about the search for beauty, relationships, a meaningless job, his life as a Gay man, and the list goes on.

Brady, who told me she once lived on Ibbetson Street in Somerville ( Where my Ibbetson Street Press was founded), and was part of the Mrs. Potato Head comedy/musical troupe with my next door neighbor on School St., Berklee professor Lucy Holstedt, has long been a fan of Durang—a master of satire, dark comedy, and all kinds of absurd drama. This is evident in the energy the players bring to the stage, and the audience “laughing wild” in their seats.

Friday, July 24, 2015

Interview with Heather Aveson: New News Director of Somerville Community Access TV






Interview with Heather Aveson: New News Director of Somerville Community Access TV

By Doug Holder

Heather Aveson joined me at the Bloc 11 Cafe in Union Square to talk about her new role as the News Director of Somerville Community Access TV's program,  Somerville Neighborhood News. Aveson is an energetic woman with an infectious smile, and is as accessible as any of the staff at the station, who I have worked with over the years. From my chat with her I came away with the distinct impression that she abhors the obvious story, and always digs deep into its soft underbelly.

Aveson is no stranger to Somerville. She has lived on Willow Ave., and bought her first house on Lowell St. with her husband, before defecting to the 'burbs. I asked Aveson what she thought about the gentrification of Somerville.  As chance will have it she told me she was working on a story about this very subject. She has already learned that much of the investment in real estate in our community is coming from Russian and Chinese interests.She said, “I am asking, 'Where are we going from here?' I wonder if people who are born and raised in Somerville will be able to continue to live here. I am afraid Somerville may be on the road to becoming a sterile environment -- like say Kendall Square in Cambridge.”

Aveson took over the directorship of Somerville Neighborhood News when the founding director Jane Regan moved on to new horizons. Aveson was a former news producer at WGBH on the 10:00 News with Christopher Lydon. She told me," Chris set the bar very high. He always encouraged me to dig deep.”

Aveson reflected, “ I want to continue Jane's mission of giving a voice to people who don't have a voice.” And some of these people she gave a voice to were the Nepalese community in our city, as well as the janitors at Tufts University who were being laid off, etc... Aveson said he wants to report on stories that are interesting, controversial, and important to the community.

Although SCAT has a a lot of new innovations and cutting-edge technology, it of course can't compare to WGBH where Aveson once worked. Aveson opined, “ Telling a story, is telling a story. It is what you bring into it. I want to be a hands on person with a close relationship with the community.”

When I asked Aveson to talk about her time with Lydon on WGBH her eyes' lit up. She said “ Chris brought a curiosity and passion to his work. We did a diverse group of stories from a local piano builder in Woburn,  to a piece on  Stan Grossfield' (The Boston Globe) war photography concerning the Beirut conflict, and other fascinating stories.”

Aveson told me she also works as a programming coordinator for Wilson Farms in Lexington. She created the famed “ Spooky Hayride” event that has run for the past ten years. She is a strong advocate of urban farming—creating plots to grow veggies amidst the hot asphalt of the city.

Aveson tries to instill in her staff and interns the need to research a story—and to have a sense of history. For instance, instead of  simply writing a story that a new business opening in Somerville, the reporter should ask questions like, "Why did they chose a place to do business where things can change drastically in just a few years, etc... Aveson said, “ You have to be open to the fact that a story unfolds one way,  but it may go in a totally different direction. You have to be flexible"'
.
I am looking forward to the ongoing changes Aveson will bring---  here... in the Paris of New England.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

The Underwater Typewriter By Marc Zegans


Poet Marc Zegans






The Underwater Typewriter
By Marc Zegans
Pelekinesis Press

Review by Meghan Guidry

Charting the Depths – A Review of Marc Zegans’ The Underwater Typewriter

Poets who are capable of fearlessly engaging with the sting of absence are rare, and in his new collection The Underwater Typewriter, Marc Zegans’ has proven that he is in that select few. The collection is visually lush and carefully crafted, the mark of a poet who is deeply attuned to the undercurrents of the world as it is both experienced and imagined.

Stylistically, Zegans draws from the American Beat Poets and British Romanticism to shape an immersive poetic landscape simultaneously luminous and lonely. He is fearless with language, weaving luxurious description into every line of text—yet Zegans knows that compelling poetry needs more than description alone. What makes The Underwater Typewriter truly alluring is the poet’s clear vision and interlocking themes.

Human engagement and connection is a negative condition of survival in Zegans’ poetic environment. Without it, we perish. This is the axiom of Zegans’ work: The whiplash anxiety between grasping for connection and the moments of grace when it’s obtained.

Zegans’ speakers’ voices are at once wise and terrified, the latter because of the former. Understanding the importance of skin, of smile, of safe silence between self and other, Zegans’ poetic avatars turn the world for authenticity, and for meaningful connections to place, to time, and most importantly, to people.

Absence and distance are tangible beings in Zegans’ work. These are no less important, and no less real, than the speakers themselves. They are the tactile gulfs separating us from each other, whether by circumstance or design. Zegans both maps and mitigates these gulfs, charting the places where two souls press against the shared distance between them.

    Imagine two perfect absences
    separated by interval
    un-reckoned by the cycles of light.

                                                                   (from" The Reunion of Darkness")

Zegans charts these distances not through measurement, but by artifact, by what he pulls from the depths of the spaces between us, executed expertly in poems such as “Salvage” and “Hacking”

        Yet we haul and fondle worn bits, gauging
        texture and mass, function and fit, and loss
        holes and breakage, sometimes signifying.

                        (from “Salvage”)

        Air rises between me
        and the coat, stained
        orange. What does
        it say about me
        that I wear this pen
        splotched relic
        out and about?

                        (from “Hacking”)

Zegans doesn’t dwell where life dramatically ruptures; instead he rests at the jarring moments when, in the ordinariness of our everyday habits, we are suddenly and inextricably reminded of the abyss lurking just beyond the mundane.

Zegans also brings illusion to the forefront as an incarnation of the fantastic and as a condition of human existence. If illusions of self and meaning separate us from each other, then this poet strives for an inroad that is tangible and sacred in the overwhelming weight of our multitudes of masks.

    As if every part must be a sign post

    A ballyhoo for that which isn’t there
    She’d come quieter, drawing my hand

(from “drawing”)

Zegans is at his best when he, as Helene Cixous wrote, “writes by the light of the axe.” His language is vivid, colorful, and sensory, but it is the moments he speaks unadorned that truly sing, the moments in which he bravely confronts the reader and dares us to know him:

    I cannot raise the strength
    to summon the day dream
    that allowed me know
    the world without border

(from “perchance”)

The Underwater Typewriter isn’t merely a collection of poems. It is an assembly of artifacts dragged from the depths of human relationship and heart, laid bare to turn, to witness, and ultimately, to love.

The Underwater Typewriter is published by Pelekinesis Press, and is available for pre-order here: http://pelekinesis.com/catalog/marc_zegans-the_underwater_typewriter.html

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Furs Not Mine By Andrea Cohen


Andrea Cohen



Furs Not Mine
By Andrea Cohen
Four Way Books
New York, NY
ISBN: 978-1-935536-51-2
89 Pages

Review by Dennis Daly

Poems as polished as those by Andrea Cohen give up their secrets very slowly. Furs Not Mine, Cohen’s newest collection encourages her readers to enter its confines with enameled logic and diamond-edged imagery. Once inside one finds a sense of loss, a Siberian coldness, and a ghostly hunger for a way out. Escape, however, may not be in the cards. The chilliness continues even after the book’s completion and Cohen’s well-wrought lines ebb away into mnemonic limbo.

The opening poem, a really marvelous short piece entitled The Committee Weighs In sets the tone. Give and take repartee between mother and daughter exudes warmth, family closeness, and intellectual life. Then, of course, clarity enters with its uncomfortable surprises. The poet’s persona has just jokingly announced her reception of the Nobel Prize to her mother who engages playfully. The poem continues,

Again? she says. Which
discipline this time?

It’s a little game
we play: I pretend

I’m somebody, she
pretends she isn’t dead.

Notice that the startling last line all but swallows up the self-deprecating humor prefacing it. Nice touch.

Breaking and Entering, a poem of profound pessimism, leaves one locked in a world of night where homes devolve into lonely interiors. Cohen’s wit takes control here, saving the day and keeping the piece emotionally taut. Here’s the heart of the poem,

Mostly the home
invasion is an inside
job: your interiors
get ravaged and pointing

a finger, you
mean to seek

damages. I left
the window open,

told the guard
dogs to roll over.

He pinched my last
Candlestick…


Cohen’s poem Macaroons quips about the penultimate things of life, as well as the acceptance of death. Her tone is clipped. The phrase “I get it” takes on a sullen choral power not directed at her dead mother, but rather at the deal humanity gets as one by one they make their way through the brutish and duplicitous aspects of life. The poet especially pummels the concept of the Promised Land. Navigating the short lines and tight logic I felt breathless, caught in the poem, unable to slip out between the syllables. From the very first line the tone of the piece never varies. Cohen opens her strange lament with acceptance, aggressive acceptance,

I get it now
You’re dead.
You can’t do
everything
you used to.
Reruns instead
of new episodes.
I get it.
You can’t send
Macaroons this Passover…

My favorite poem in this collection Cohen entitles Bargain. The poet relates a story line as old as human kind. Well-heeled travelers are led into the desert, perhaps for quixotic reasons (Magi? tourists?). Their guide wants to renegotiate the terms of their agreement now that he has the upper hand. In the desert no deal is iron-clad. Everything can be renegotiated when circumstances change. The irony of their situation strikes a chord due to the self-satisfied arrogance that led the travelers into this trap of their own making. In fact I know a little bit about this type of negotiation, only it happened to me at 12,000 feet in the Hind Kush Mountains. My guides, who otherwise were quite honest, saw an opportunity to exercise their business acumen. We compromised. Back to the review at hand. Cohen ends this poem with a grounding eye-opening flip. She uses this technique in many of her pieces and she does it well. Actually, she does it better than anyone I can think of. The poet details a changing reality,

Such slim wages

to take us, without
complaint, all the way—
so far, without a star.

We were in the middle
of nowhere, or at its edge.
Friends, he asked, from

inside that blackness,
what will you pay me
to take you back?

The word “Friends” in this context deserves special mention for its remarkable and almost instantaneous transformation into a sinister threat par excellence, infused with surrounding darkness in case one misses the point.

Furs Not Mine, the title poem, seems almost etched onto the page. Each line exposing angular depth as it builds into the singular metaphor. The poet’s spiritual iciness speaks for itself. Consider these telling lines,

…one

need not be or speak Russian
to comprehend the sense

of furs not mine. One need only
to have known deep cold, an inmost

Siberia made more Siberian by one
who basks nearby, oblivious in her Bolivia.

Like an unindicted co-conspirator he lords over us, this God of ours, the God of Job, with arched right eye and then judges us for what we do and don’t do. Yes, we created this God not only to share our guilt, but also to commiserate with us over his so-called gift of free will. Yeah, thanks a bunch. Cohen puts it another way in her riveting poem entitled Sins of Omission. Her protagonist, stricken with regret over life choices and lost potential, tests the very reality of her dream-world and calmly arrives at its dead end. Her family dissolves as she steps back in existential dread,

…God knows
we’ve been left
out by God.
The last part I
say under my breath
so my son
won’t hear. But—
little pitchers—he
does. Mom, he
says his brow knit.
It’s the moment
I’ve dreaded. You
know I don’t
really exist, right?

Poems that confront the glacial landscapes deeply within our shared consciousness are few and far between. Cohen’s icy architectures in this stellar collection showcase her uncommon bravery in facing humanity’s common, but no less scary, demons. Engagement generates warmth. That’s one of the poet’s secrets. Now breathe.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Nina R. Alonso: A Poet with a dancer’s sensibility.

Nina R. Alonso (Left) Kathleen Spivack ( Right)




Nina Alonso is a poet, who also happens to own the Fresh Pond Ballet in Cambridge. To her poetry and dance are in step, and she brings her poet’s sensibility to her young charges at her school. Alonso’s poetry has appeared in the Southern Women’s Review, The New Boston Review, The New Yorker, Ploughshares and many other publications.  The renowned David Godine Press published her book “The Body.” She is also the founder of the literary magazine Constellations. I had the privilege to interview her on my Somerville Community Access TV show “Poet to Poet: Writer to Writer.”

Doug Holder: You have an unusual name Nina Rubenstein Alonso.

Nina R. Alonso:  My background is Jewish, Russian,  and Ukrainian. My grandparents fled Russia and the Ukraine many years ago. I got Alonso from my late husband Fernando. So I keep those two names. They identify me…they mean something.

DH: Reading your poetry I can see that you have an affinity for Spain.

NRA:  My late husband and I spent months traveling there. It was a great privilege to roam around Spain—Morocco, Tangier, Spain…it all made a deep impression on me.

DH; You had a poetry collection “This Body” published by the prestigious press, David Godine, Inc. How was your experience with them?

NRA: It was great working with this press. They were extremely cordial and helpful. It was an early book.

DH: What is the history behind the book?

NRA: I was working with two wonderful writers at Brandies University, where I was studying. They were Howard Nemerov, and Allen Grossman. Both of these writers didn’t try to make you like them. They were respectful that I was not the easiest graduate student. I was an artist first. They helped me. Instead of doing a traditional PhD thesis, I wrote a book of poetry. This was allowed back then. They put me in touch with David Godine and the rest is history.

DH You taught at U/Mass Boston, Brandeis, and you said you were eventually “saturated” with academia…. Explain.

NRA: Maybe it is different now, but it was a very high-pressured environment. At the time I was teaching poetry, short fiction and dancing. I loved to teach, but I didn’t want to write scholarly papers. I didn’t like the politics that is part of any academic community. I wasn’t on the tenure track. I didn’t fit.  I was skipping out of faculty meetings, to go to dance classes and write poetry. It was a tough environment because in the 70s male faculty had very little respect for women in the context of the literary tradition. I wanted to teach a course about women writers, and I was grilled mightily. They finally let me do it but it was with the greatest skepticism a lack of respect. They really didn’t have a formulated idea that there was a tradition of women writers. The core curriculum excluded women except for a few exceptions, Dickinson, Wharton, etc…

DH: How did the Fresh Pond Ballet School come into fruition?

NRA: I taught t Boston Ballet for 11 years. I got that gig after I left U/Mass. Eventually I left there and by chance opened up my school.

DH: Does Ballet inform your poetry?

NRA: At times I write about ballet.  The thing about ballet is you are talking French most of the time but for the most part it is nonverbal. I always wondered why I am so incredibly nonverbal in ballet and so verbal in poetry. They are two things that feel right for me.

DH: In reading your poetry in your collection “Nightingale Notes,” I find your poetry to be stripped down. Do you feel this gives it more power?

NRA:  I am very strict about what I use in my poetry. I don’t like language that is too common. I work a poem until I can’t push it anymore. I don’t use extra word, filler. I see filler in a lot of poetry. Some people are comfortable about using language that is not exactly cliché, but close. It can be done well, or it can be empty.

DH: In a section of your collection “Nightingale Notes,” tilted “Pilgrim Café,” you seem to compare the culture of Spain vs. the Hollywood clichés of the United States.

NRA:  It is more like  that’s the way places are especially in Spain in the 0s You wander around this pilgrimage site, walk the sacred paths; then you go to the café, and a cowboy flick from the states flickers on the TV there. There is no culture that is monolithic.

DH: Tell me about your literary magazine, “Constellations.”

NRA: We are in our fifth issue. I founded it with Jack Miller, a fine poet who does the entire tech work. With the magazine I wanted to create a community that feels authentic to me. I am trying to create some permanence. I look for poetry that has something to say.

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Tijuana Book of the Dead by Luis Alberto Urrea



Tijuana Book of the Dead

by Luis Alberto Urrea

Soft Skull Press/An Imprint of Counterpoint

Copyright © 2015 Luis Alberto Urrea

softbound, $15.95, 197 pages


Review by Zvi A. Sesling


There is nothing I like better than finding a book of poetry by a poet I have not previously encountered and when I mention him or her, someone in my poetry group (Bagels With The Bards) has read them.  In this case it is prize winning poet and playwright Lawrence Kessenich who has read one of Urrea’s novels and says it was one of the best he has read. It is entitled The Hummingbird’s Daughter. 


The Tijuana Book of the Dead is an exciting volume of Mexican-American poetry.  Urrea is the son of a Mexican father and American mother and most of the poems in this book are in English, with some in Spanish and others that liberally sprinkle Spanish words within the English text.  Muy bien! 


Urrea’s poetry—most of it—is hard hitting, honest and often chronicles the poor and life as they live it.  Take the open two stanzas of Typewriter:


we were poor enough

big deal

everybody

was poor

and we

them


mom

watched me scrawl

poems

on butcher paper, notebook

drawing tracing

paper

went

into the garage, dug

through boxes for her

WWII                                     

typewriter


In the rest of the poem Urrea writes about the writers he emulated:  Stephen Crane, Richard Brautigan, Jim Morrison, Bukowski and Wakoski.  His style is sadness and bitter-- sweetness.


In Valley of the Palms the first stanza depicts a brutal view of life. The reader might hope for something more low key or hopeful but the second stanza follow’s the first with its

own sledgehammer:


When people tell me their problems, I think

of Maria: wasn’t every girl named Maria

in Mexico then?  But this one lived

for a time in a high-desert rancho in Valle

de Las Palmas, a place of cattle, thin horses,

scorpions, baby owls in cages, rattlesnakes caught

by the orphan boys who slept locked in pens

so they couldn’t sneak out and raid the beds

of girls locked in their own pens ten feet

from the boys.


If a fire ever came through … but God

was merciful. Was he not?

No fires. Just orphans. Just work. Just friend pork skins

and indigenous gods washed out of the hills in floods: fat

bellied women crouching with jaguar screams on their faces

carved in local gray stone.


Urrea is not your average poet  writing pearls for academic honors or sweet choruses for popularity or lyrics for those so inclined to read that kind of poetic endeavor.  Urrea represents a certain kind of realism-- the way some painters portray a scene as if it were a photograph. He shows the underbelly of society all the while keeping his language, the scenes, the poetry on 21st century terms.


When reading Urrea be prepared for hookers, urinals, the misused, the abused, a place where nature provides a harsh landscape-- the totality of it all is rewarding.   A true must read.