Wordsmiths

Billy Collins

2012-02-22T11:54:00.000-08:00

The following is a press release from Boston College:

Boston College’s Lowell Humanities Series—one of the University's most celebrated forums for intellectual, artistic and literary discourse—hosts a number of appearances by renowned writers and others during the academic year. The events are open to the public, free of charge.

Billy Collins

The upcoming slate of literary luminaries includes US Poet Laureate emeritus Billy Collins, who will be at Boston College on Thursday, March 1, from 7 to 8:30 p.m. at Gasson Hall.

Collins is “an American phenomenon” according to event organizers, who note that no poet since Robert Frost has managed to combine high critical acclaim with such broad popular appeal. Collins is a Guggenheim fellow and a New York Public Library “Literary Lion” whose work has appeared in periodicals including The New Yorker, The Paris Review and The American Scholar. In 2001, he was appointed United States Poet Laureate for 2001-2003. In 2004, he was named New York State Poet Laureate for 2004-06. A distinguished professor of English at Lehman College of the City University of New York, Collins also is a senior distinguished fellow of the Winter Park Institute at Rollins College.

Collins has published eight collections of poetry, the three most recent collections breaking sales records for poetry. He began writing poems over 30 years ago, publishing his first collection in 1977. By 2001, he had produced the best-selling collections “The Art of Drowning” (1995) and “Picnic, Lighting” (1998), earning him high critical acclaim and rendering his poetry readings “standing room only.”

Unique in the field of poetry, Collins garnishes popular as well as critical praise. In the words of John Updike, “Billy Collins writes lovely poems…Limpid, gently and consistently startling, more serious than they seem, they describe all the worlds that are and were and some others besides.”

In 2002, he recited his 9/11 poem, “The Names,” at a joint session of the United States Congress commemorating victims of the terrorist attacks. He also launched and supports Poetry 180, a mission to bring poetry to high school students. The program is designed to provide a poem each day of the 180-day school year to be recited in American classrooms.

“Hearing a poem every day, especially well-written, contemporary poems that students do not have to analyze, might convince students that poetry can be an understandable, painless and even eye-opening part of their everyday experience,” Collins says.

He has published two anthologies of poems, “Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry” and “180 More Extraordinary Poems for Everyday.” Collins has also edited multiple anthologies and poetry collections, and received numerous awards.

Collins’ BC appearance is presented by the University’s Lowell Humanities Series and BC Poetry Days.

Later this month, on March 28, the Lowell Humanities Series hosts an appearance by celebrated young fiction writer Téa Obreht, author of the New York Times bestseller The Tiger's Wife.

For information and details on the Lowell Humanities Series—including other speakers, directions and parking information—visit www.bc.edu/lowellhs. Events take place on Boston College’s Chestnut Hill campus located at 140 Commonwealth Avenue. The series is sponsored by the Lowell Institute, BC's Institute for the Liberal Arts and the Provost's Office.

Open Mic in Stamford, CT

2012-02-22T07:16:00.000-08:00

The first meeting of this group will be on Thursday, 23 Feb 2012.

Away Redux

2012-02-10T06:43:00.001-08:00

So I have been away for a while. Mostly busy with my school work for an MFA in Creative Writing; poetry of course! Well Since it hs been some time I need to post a few announcements the first is:

Present

A SEPARATION

THE BEST REVIEWED FILM OF THE YEAR OPENS AT THE AVON ON FEBRUARY 17TH

2012 Academy Award Nominee – Best Foreign Language Film, Best Original Screenplay
2012 Golden Globe Winner – Best Foreign Language Film
Named Best Foreign Language Film by the NY Film Critics Circle, National Society of Film Critics,
National Board of Review & the London Critics Circle

Special post-film Q&A/panel discussion with
Ardeshir & Eleanor Ommani,
co-founders of the American Iranian Friendship Committee

Saturday, February 18 at 7:00 p.m.

Away Part II Redux

2012-02-10T06:41:00.001-08:00

Announcement number two:

FYI all of these events are open to the public.

"Justice for Palestine and the Growing Movement to Boycott Israel"

Poetry, Talks and Discussion

Remi Kanazi and J. Kēhaulani Kauanui

Stanley Heller, moderatorUnitarian Universalist Society (Social Room)Sunday, February 19

20 Forest Street, Stamford, CT 06901

At: 2 p.m.

Away Part III

2012-02-08T06:09:00.000-08:00

Here are some things that are quite important. If it is possible you might come to any of these events I promise you'll enjoy it!

Monday, February 13, 2012 at 7:00 p.m.
Join us at the Stamford Town Center for an open mic and a featured reader. This event is ongoing and takes place the second Tuesday of every month.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012 at 7 p.m.

Lisa See (to be introduced by Da Chen)

Dreams of Joy

The long awaited sequel to Shanghai Girls is finally here. The Los Angeles Times calls it "One of those hard-to-put down-until-four in-the-morning books ... With each new novel, Lisa See gets better and better."

Barone Campus Center Oak Room

Community Partner: Fairfield Public Library

This event is free - please reserve your seats by calling Laura at (203) 254-4110

Tuesday, March 7, 2012 at 7:00 p.m.

Baron Wormser will be reading at Fairfield University in the dining room of the School of Business at Fairfield University: 1073 North Benson Road, Fairfield, CT.

Thursday, October 18th and 19th, 2012
The Dalai Lama will speak at public forums to be held from 1:30 to 3 p.m. on Oct. 18, AND from 9:30 to 11:30 a.m. on Oct. 19. Both appearances will be in the Feldman Arena in the O’Neill Center on the WCSU Westside campus, 43 Lake Ave. Extension, Danbury. The events will be open to the public, and tickets will go on sale at a future date.

New & Noteworthy:

The first edition for 2012 of Mason’s Road online literary journal has arrived! Please check it out: http://www.masonsroad.com/

Mason’s Road is put together by Fairfield University MFA Students and Alumni and is a national publication culling only the best from fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. See here for submission guidelines: http://www.masonsroad.com/about-2/

I hope to see some of you there and if not, well, just keep writing!

Happiness

2011-12-14T03:27:00.000-08:00

Happiness

I am ravaged and darkness pleads silently

for bed's edges tempting me to slumber.

From above, a sultry light spills

out over our flushed faces-

chestnut tresses now lay at peace

against your cheeks. Dripping with delight

your eyes compel another dance

daring me to fancy's flight;

There are but so many times

a man can gain the sky!

Pondering your slicked form I groan

then quickly ask you to read me a bedtime story.

Your lips press my neck in a flash

as with a sly grin you giggle, traipsing

toward the dresser for one of my tees

and a book. Leaping lightly to the covers

you lay your head upon my chest...

slower come your words and soon your

lashes flutter closed in a delicate crescendo.

I tuck you in kissing softly your brow

before turning out the lights.

NVM Jan 2011

Announcement

2011-12-10T06:57:00.000-08:00

An enthusiastic conversationalist, Jim Janke is often the first to draw newcomers into PoemAlley's Tuesday night proceedings. A font of voluminous, often anecdotal knowledge encompassing pop culture, 20th century history and, in particular, his beloved hometown of Stamford, CT, Jim's writing infuses major events with a richly-observed personal touch.

1938 Hurricane

Ladybird Johnson comes to town, 1968

Poetry Event

2011-12-01T05:51:00.000-08:00

Sunday December 11th from 2 pm to 4pm at Butterworth Hall, University of Hartford the Connecticut Poetry Society will be having their annual Holiday Reading/Celebration. You are invited, bring a guest. Bring some poems to read, they need not be holiday poems. We also will have a folio of winter and holiday poems from which to choose if you wish. Bring something you like to drink, some snack items to share. We will provide wine, water, cheese, crackers and chips. Come and socialize. Come have fun and meet fellow poetry lovers. Location: Butterworth Hall 1265 Asylum Ave. Hartford, CT 06105.

If you wish to attend, please send a response to: connpoetry@comcast.net

The MFA Poetry Showcase

2011-11-30T13:25:00.000-08:00

The MFA Poetry Showcase
Friday December 9 @ 7:30PM
Admission: $5

The Hudson Valley Writers' Center

There are so many great MFA programs in the area and so much budding talent in those programs that it would be great to gather some of these students for an opportunity to get a preview of the future of poetry. This year we invited students from Columbia, NYU, and Sarah Lawrence College - the evening will feature nine readers in all.
List of performers:

Columbia

Marina Blitshteyn

Jay Deshpande

Julie Kantor

NYU

Ted Meyer

Jeannie Vanasco

Morgan Parker

Sarah Lawrence

Mya Green

Adam Chambers

Jamie Agnello

300 Riverside Drive

Sleepy Hollow, NY 10591

International Poetry Swap

2011-11-28T09:50:00.000-08:00

As a member of Curley's Poets here in Stamford, CT, I have the privilage of being part of a poetry exchange with a group led by Kaaren Whitney in Suffolk County, UK. Here are the latest batch of poems I was asked to comment on.

Poems:

COSTUME JEWELLERY

I have kept that brooch for years.

The imitation bunch of flowers

in pink and blue and gold

sparkled to the child I was then,

reward for keeping quiet

while Mum listened to the woman’s history

two hours once on a train.

A good listener, my mother.

The owner was a nurse - had heard

enough of other people’s secrets.

Strangers spill out troubles now

across a glittering screen

where stories do not soften with time.

Her glass gems will only shine

when I admit the light.

Elizabeth Bracken

7/2011

Comments: This piece makes me feel a great sense of loss; especially where you use the word Mum, as if she were once as bright as a ‘mum’ herself. The flowers of the brooch pale in comparison to her. As a

whole I am left wondering about the train ride, was it a significant event? What happened to the mother? At the end you mention ‘her glass gems’ whose? The nurse’s brooch or the mother’s? I don’t understand why the story would soften with time, or do you mean that we forget the details? What light are you referring to at the end? Is the speaker the light for the mother? I like this piece but I think it would benefit from some “show and tell”

FROM AN IKEN BARN

Beyond the willow-weave lies

a stillness of wet, flat grey wet

on wet behind a screen of pines.

The curves of a wet-through back and rump

loom into view, then a head,

which dips to graze on wettest green.

Worn stone forms pools, gathers wetness

on a saturated terrace.

At ebb-tide, sky and estuary

empty imperceptibly of wet.

Left is the silver of slippery mud.

We hear a curlew's call

as night draws near out there,

where Saxon heaved on oar

and monster fought,

beyond the willow-weave.

© Janni Ellmoos

Comments: Take a look at the placement of the comma in the second line…placing it after stillness has great effect if you lose the first ‘wet.’ For myself the ‘wet-through’ in the 4^th line does not work, too many uses of the word and then again in the 6^th and 7^th and 10^th lines. I would try and find another way to convey the mist, so to speak. How is mud silver? The expression ‘out there’ makes it feel like the speaker is unmoved by the scene and in no way a part of it, meanwhile the speaker acknowledges how his world came into being and how he is inextricably linked to the history of the land.

OLD MUNDIWINDI TELEGRAPH STATION

An uncle emigrated to Western Australia in 1912 and worked as a telegraph lineman, mainly in the Pilbara area in the north of WA. I went out to find his old telegraph station in the outback. The Singing Line is the aboriginal name for the telegraph line..

No track leads to it, none passes by,

just visible through the stunted bushes -
ramshackle building
half the planet I have crossed to find.

Over all, the blue – intense and clear,
at my feet the thin red soil,
the dust of which becomes a second skin;
a soil which, parched and dry,

yet grows the clumps of spinifex
bleached pale beneath the unrelenting sun
and bristling with their thin barbed leaves
to needle-prick and draw the blood
from unprotected flesh.

This was your country, desert land,

far from other worlds
where feet tread pavements,

eyes close at night between four walls.

For you the rusty Pilbara soil,
the canvas shelter camping in the bush
when out to check the Singing Line

that hummed with words,
linked other people far across the land.

Some echo of yourself you’ve left behind

in these old rooms,

the building raised, stone pillars hold
the termites’ work at bay.

I bend to see the tailbone of a roo
that lies beneath,
I lean against the balcony -

the planks adrift, unsafe to tread -

and look into the rooms, doors swinging wide
or long since gone.

I lean and listen,

do not fill it with the scenes

of men at work.
I do not see their ghosts,

I do not hear their talk, the tread of feet,
the pumping of the bore.
The stillness that enshrouds me

lets through the essence of this land
that held you here.

And that I’ve found.

Your letters home, the ink long dry,
spelt out your life

this far side of the world.
You penned them here.

When first I read, I wondered…..
now I know …..
it holds me, too.

IVY COLLINS

September, 2009

Comments: 5^th line perhaps an ‘us’ after the word ‘over?’ I might substitute ‘though’ for ‘which’ in the line about parched and dry and then lose the word ‘yet’ in the following line. Does ‘spinifex’ need a footnote? I understand by the following lines that it is some sort of flower or bush. I like the way it fits with the broken building, such things always hide barbs for the unwary. I am a little thrown by the part that expresses the desert as having pavement. Perhaps too you might change the order where you talk about the 4 walls first then mention the canvas shelter as the flow would be a bit easier to grasp. In the next stanza you go back to the building. As the reader I am left to assume that the building was once the canvas shelter spoken of in the previous lines, is this correct? ‘Planks adrift’ makes me think of a wreckage at sea; do you mean to imply that the echo of the sea if there in the desert, that all things rise and fall and the wheel continues to turn?

Summer

Summer’s hot breath

Hangs, sultry, over the land,

Damp, strong smells of grass and soil

Fill my early morning nostrils, I stand

Gasping gulps of gorgeous gorze,

Exuding its golden green-needled scent,

Brambles begin to bake and bracken cracks,

I walk on, with renewed intent.

The familiar way seems steeper, in the heat,

As if warped and tilted, under scorching sun,

Hot arms, hot legs, hot hands, hot feet,

Grown heavier, since I’d begun.

A beetle crawls, slow-limbed, across the panting earth,

A flash of feathered wings darts between shrubby shade,

All is hazy, lazy, quiet, a dearth

Of life, submitting, weakly, to relentless blaze.

I flop down, onto the ground,

The dry grass springs, to receive me,

I cling, close, the only sound

Is breathing, my heart beating,

The distant insect engines whirring,

Turning the world, unbelievably.

Wendy Alford

July 2007

Comments: Why the capitals in the first word for every line? Not sure you need the sultry in the 2^nd line. The word order in the 3^rd line is a bit cumbersome for me. I lean toward, ‘the strong smells of damp soil and grass…’ I understand you mean that the speaker just got up or at least that it is early but ‘early morning nostrils’ does not work for me. Comma in the last line might be superfluous. I really like the 2^nd stanza, the feeling of heat is nearly infused into the images of arms, legs, and feet. I see them sort of wiggling/waving as the heat rises in waves…makes the land seem even more vertiginous. Not sure you need the commas after ‘submitting’ or after ‘weakly.’ In the last stanza you could probably eliminate the comma after ‘down.’ Don’t be afraid to use the word “and,” e.g. “…onto the ground, AND the dry grass springs to receive me.” Note I ditched the comma after ‘springs.’ Again in the following line I would lose the comma after ‘cling.’ Might use “and” again when beginning the line, “…AND the insect engines whirring…”

THAT SORT OF THING

Visiting our village shop after a year away I find it has changed hands, but Vera, who’s worked in the shop since she left school, is still there. We greet each other -then

‘Black elastic

Black elastic please,

one inch wide’.

Vera looks glum.

‘Afraid you’ll have to go

to Ipswich for

that sort of thing’.

‘Well, what about safety pins ?’

‘Nope’….’ Um knitting wool

Something to mend

this ? Show her the holes

in my old green jumper

‘No sorry’. I peer

hopefully over the counter

‘They were always there

in that drawer ‘

She’s all apologetic

‘It’s these new people’

leaning towards me

half whispering

‘they’re from Stockport’

‘Oh dear ,’ I hear myself say

as if coming from

Stockport is reason enough

to empty that drawer

of everything useful.

‘They say nobody knits

nobody sews.

so we just don’t stock

that sort of thing any more’

That’s why my trousers

Are held up with string

And my jumper’s still

Full of holes.

Nicola Hughes

Comments: Just a thought but you might want to extend the line length so it flows more like a real conversation. Is the speaker thinking aloud to herself in the last line of the first stanza? I like this piece but it may benefit from a bit of restructuring for better flow, e.g. “leaning towards me half whispering Vera relates, ‘It’s these new people’…” or something to that effect. I really love this piece but as I said I think a bit of rework on the line length and word order might be good for the overall flow of the piece.

BALANCE

He sashays up the ladder, angle-braced

between moat and thatch, as if

he is an acrobat or perhaps

a dancer, balances the bundle of reed

which earlier graced a Suffolk church.

He bends across to butt the once green stalks,

matching them to the adjacent curve,

then shores up the ends with his hands

finishing the tilt with the leggett's thump-thump

advancing each layer of the coat.

Begun at the base and worked upwards

nine hundred bundles, dried and tied, shape

the circular undulating roof,

its central smoke vent above,

fire pit, dirt-pounded floor below.

The thatcher sets up a steady rhythm

between land and sky. Reed, once soil bound

now hoisted, protects the small Crannog,

a snug retreat for meditation

on fire, water, earth, air and spirit.

Kaaren Whitney

Comments: It seems a simple enough piece about balance in life and with nature. I like the opening image of the Thatcher sashaying up the ladder as we see later on he had begun at the base and worked upwards…sashay is sort of playful, makes me feel like the Thatcher really enjoys his work because it balances him. I am left wondering at the end if after all that work he will get to meditate; you sort of suggest that his work is his meditation ‘sets up a steady rhythm..’ so I wonder who pounds the dirt floor…this kind of place is very much at odds with the Church in so far as places of worship go. Makes me think of the Native Americans whom we raped and murdered for their land precisely because the worshiped in dirt huts and were “different” from the the white folk fleeing England for reasons of religious persecution. Poignant considering we just had Thanksgiving….how fast we forget what really happened.

Something I've been working on

2011-11-23T11:09:00.000-08:00

Of an Age

The cloying tug of our unseen selves

is a universal tick tock across an age that breaks—

romantic notions are splintered against the rocks

of reality, left behind in a mad swim for shore

as we chase the sunset like shadows afraid of the dark.

We amble along unearthing the fragments

of our function, increasingly intrigued

at what we might be, and the clock ticks.

My aimless feet beating the path were unaware the snare

of passion; I uprooted myself from the latest tangle—

she neither smiled nor scowled as I darted off,

the seeds of “what if” blooming in my head.

I will exhaust the possibilities.

I always have, because I need

to know: Do I have time for this?

At twenty and five I had arrived at Uncle Sam’s,

began Basic Training, dated during that time

and got engaged, but not so brave was I when it ran

aground of fruitless winter and I found myself frozen

in contemplation— homecoming: Dad died,

never met my Love, never saw me graduate

Basic, ‘shake it off!’ I kept telling myself,

the clock is ticking.

My Aries feet twitched unhappy at the gathering frost

and I gnashed my teeth until chewing up the earth,

my soles became another hardship; then smack! bang! boom!

a boon was bestowed – I met a muse who’s pretty.

I must exhaust the possibilities.

I must, because I need

to know: Do I have time for this?

She blinked at me and scuttled light with her smile;

Soul-punched by feminine wile clad in kindness

I realized, she belongs to everyone. Oh how sweet

the spice of tragedy! Dear Gods I thought,

here is someone to walk with me, for a reason

or a season, I couldn’t tell and didn’t care,

the wear on these feet from running, begged me,

stay awhile–but the clock is ticking.

Stabbed by a frigid gloom worse than rejection

all my unexplored feelings, unanswered questions,

understanding, and all the rest, I left in a heap

at her feet, for mine itched again to be gone.

I must exhaust the possibilities.

I must, because I need

to know: Do I have time for this?

The path behind became indistinct as I paused

to worry the path ahead—love scoured the boughs

of my ambition, rooting me in place, thirsting

for answers— in the burning memory of my muse

weariness was waylaid; the path was greener now,

reaching toward a distant heaven as the sun stared

in anticipation. Had it been my own merriment?

Had I made a mistake? Should I second guess?

I must exhaust the possibilities.

I must, because I need

to know: Do I have time for this?

The impossibilities of ‘what if’ grew with the

shadows that now lay jagged across my path

looking spiteful as they pushed the sun over the edge…

Was she was still there?

Nicholas V. Miele

April 2011

Poetry Reading

2011-11-09T08:04:00.000-08:00

THE POETRY INSTITUTE – NEW HAVEN

Third Thursday Open Mic

Featuring Mary Elizabeth Lang

November 17, 2011

Mary Elizabeth Lang earned her MFA in Poetry from Bennington Writing Seminars and formerly taught English at Southern Connecticut State University. Her poetry has appeared in such journals as Ekphrasis; The Prose Poem, an International Journal; Connecticut Review; Connecticut River Review; War, Literature and the Arts; Caduceus; Underwood Review; and Naugatuck River Review. Her first book of poetry, Under Red Cedars, was published by Little Red Tree Publishing in 2008. She also has written and co-authored a number of articles and a book on childcare.

On the third Thursday of each month, The Poetry Institute Poetry Series celebrates an eclectic mix of poetic voices. Free. Refreshments. Open mic. Outstanding featured readers. In a casual setting. Open to all (even poets).

The Institute Library
847 Chapel Street
New Haven, CT

Doors Open at 6:30. Reading starts at 7:00.

Please arrive a few minutes early to sign up for the reading.

Great Poetry!

In a Warm, Friendly Environment

http://thepoetryinstitute.com

poetryinstitute@gmail.com

Announcement

2011-11-07T12:06:00.000-08:00

Bill Buschel

Reads
MONDAY
November 14, 20117:15 pm
Barnes & Noble, Stamford Town Center,
100 Greyrock Place, Stamford, CT
Open Mic Follows

Long time host of Hellenic Public Radio's program, GRAFFITI, and head of PoemAlley is the featured poet at the Barnes & Noble located in the Stamford Town Center on Monday, November 14, @ 7:15 pm.
____________________________________

And now
here I stand
looking down
into
hell.

Across the way
the steel fingers
of what is left of the World Trade Center
reach up out of the chaos.
from "Ground Zero"

___________________________________________

Halloween Haiku

2011-10-31T05:56:00.000-07:00

Five-Ku: Halloween Horror-Flick Haikus

By ADAM STERNBERGH

First rule: When in a
Slasher film, teens, don’t sign up
For camp called Camp Blood.

Also: Don’t explore
Dark woods one by one. Instead
Just kill selves. Faster.

First door you open:
Just the cat inside. Second
Door hides the psycho.

All zombies crave brains
So safest place to hide is
Jersey Shore. (Rimshot!)

Double-feature: watch
Both Human Centipedes, end
To end. So to speak.

Meet the Author

2011-10-26T07:16:00.000-07:00

Marina
Neary

Saturday, November 5 at 2 p.m.
Marina Neary talks about her new book,
Martyrs and Traitors
the discredited Irish patriot, Bulmer Hobson.
Book sale and signing.
Call 203 351-8221 for more information.

, an historical novel about
The Ferguson Library
Third Floor Auditorium
Bedford and Broad Streets, Stamford

fergusonlibrary.org
generously supported by the Friends of The Ferguson Librar
yMAIN LIBRARY

Save The Dates: Fairfield University MFA Students

2011-10-18T05:59:00.000-07:00

Here are a few dates to mark on your calendars – all book related – hope you to see some of you.

Sunday, October 30th – Michael White – Hartford Public Library – CT Book Award celebration

Friday, November 4th at 7:00 p.m. Michael White reading – Grand Opening of Fairfield University Bookstore in downtown Fairfield (old Borders location)

Wednesday, November 9th at 8:00 p.m. – Ron Hansen – dining room of School of Business on campus. http://www.fairfield.edu/press/pr_index.html?id=3217

Wednesday, November 30th at 7:30 p.m. – Rachel Basch and Pete Nelson – Fairfield University Bookstore downtown Fairfield

Wednesday, December 7th at 7:00 p.m. Looking for 12 MFA volunteers (students and alums) to read for 5 minutes each in the downtown Fairfield University Bookstore – first come, first served – please let me know ASAP. I will keep a list of names and those not making it for the December date will be scheduled to read at the next event in the new year – we hope to do these regularly.

A Good Time

2011-10-13T07:37:00.000-07:00

323 Sixth Avenue at West Third Street | (212) 924-7771 | E-mail Us | Map & Directions

TO BE HEARD

Filmmakers in person tonight at 7:50 & 9:50!

“One of the best documentaries of the year!” – The New York Times
Three teens from the South Bronx struggle to change their lives when they start to write poetry. As writing and reciting become vehicles for their expressions of love, friendship, frustration and hope, they emerge as accomplished, self-aware artists who use their creativity to alter their circumstances. An intimate, vérité portrait, TO BE HEARD follows the three friends over four years as they build a bond based on language, respect and the need to survive.

· Thu, Oct 13 at: 10:50 AM, 1:00 PM, 3:55 PM, 5:50 PM,7:50 PM, 9:50 PM

· Fri, Oct 14 at: 10:50 AM, 1:00 PM, 3:55 PM, 5:50 PM,7:50 PM, 9:50 PM

· Sat, Oct 15 at: 10:50 AM, 1:00 PM, 3:55 PM, 5:50 PM,7:50 PM, 9:50 PM

· Sun, Oct 16 at: 10:50 AM, 1:00 PM, 3:55 PM, 5:50 PM, 7:50 PM, 9:50 PM

· Mon, Oct 17 at: 10:50 AM, 1:00 PM, 3:55 PM, 5:50 PM, 7:50 PM, 9:50 PM

· Tue, Oct 18 at: 10:50 AM, 1:00 PM, 3:55 PM, 5:50 PM,7:50 PM, 9:50 PM

Filmmakers in person (tonight) Thu at 7:50 & 9:50!
Metropolis Winner, DOC NYC 2010

87 Minutes
USA
Official Website: tobeheard.org
Directed by: Roland Legiardi-Laura, Edwin Martinez, Deborah Shaffer and Amy Sultan

Our Nobel Prize Winner

2011-10-06T07:46:00.000-07:00

Eight poems by Tomas Tranströmer

National Insecurity

The Under Secretary leans forward and draws an X

and her ear-drops dangle like swords of Damocles.

As a mottled butterfly is invisible against the ground

so the demon merges with the opened newspaper.

A helmet worn by no one has taken power.

The mother-turtle flees flying under the water.

Allegro

After a black day, I play Haydn,

and feel a little warmth in my hands.

The keys are ready. Kind hammers fall.

The sound is spirited, green, and full of silence.

The sound says that freedom exists

and someone pays no tax to Caesar.

I shove my hands in my haydnpockets

and act like a man who is calm about it all.

I raise my haydnflag. The signal is:

“We do not surrender. But want peace.”

The music is a house of glass standing on a slope;

rocks are flying, rocks are rolling.

The rocks roll straight through the house

but every pane of glass is still whole.

The Couple

They switch off the light and its white shade

glimmers for a moment before dissolving

like a tablet in a glass of darkness. Then up.

The hotel walls rise into the black sky.

The movements of love have settled, and they sleep

but their most secret thoughts meet as when

two colours meet and flow into each other

on the wet paper of a schoolboy’s painting.

It is dark and silent. But the town has pulled closer

tonight. With quenched windows. The houses have approached.

They stand close up in a throng, waiting,

a crowd whose faces have no expressions.

After a Death

Once there was a shock

that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.

It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.

It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun

through brush where a few leaves hang on.

They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.

Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat

but often the shadow seems more real than the body.

The samurai looks insignificant

beside his armor of black dragon scales.

Track

2 A.M. moonlight. The train has stopped

out in a field. Far off sparks of light from a town,

flickering coldly on the horizon.

As when a man goes so deep into his dream

he will never remember he was there

when he returns again to his view.

Or when a person goes so deep into a sickness

that his days all become some flickering sparks, a swarm,

feeble and cold on the horizon

The train is entirely motionless.

2 o’clock: strong moonlight, few stars.

Under Pressure

The blue sky’s engine-drone is deafening.

We’re living here on a shuddering work-site

where the ocean depths can suddenly open up

shells and telephones hiss.

You can see beauty only from the side, hastily.

The dense grain on the field, many colours in a yellow stream.

The restless shadows in my head are drawn there.

They want to creep into the grain and turn to gold.

Darkness falls. At midnight I go to bed.

The smaller boat puts out from the larger boat.

You are alone on the water.

Society’s dark hull drifts further and further away.

Schubertiana

Outside New York, a high place where with one glance you take in the houses where eight million human beings live. The giant city over there is a long flimmery drift, a spiral galaxy seen from the side. Inside the galaxy, coffee cups are being pushed across the desk, department store windows beg, a whirl of shoes that leave no trace behind. Fire escapes climbing up, elevator doors that silently close, behind triple locked doors a steady swell of voices. Slumped-over bodies doze in subway cars, catacombs in motion. I know also–statistics to the side–that at this instant in some room down there Schubert is being played, and for that person the notes are more real than all the rest.

“A long flimmery drift” indeed. I think “a spiral galazy seen from the side” is one of the most apt and evocative metaphors I have encountered, perhaps simply because I know the several candidate locations he might have written from — know them and share his perception, if not his brilliant artistry.

The Blue House

It is a night of radiant sun. I stand in the dense forest and look away toward my house with its hazy-blue walls. As if I had just dies and was seeing the house from a new angle. It has stood for more than eighty summers. Its wood is impregnated with four times joy and three times sorrow. When someone who lived in the house dies, it is repainted. The dead person himself is painting, without a brush, from inside.

Beyond the house, open ground. Once a garden, now grown over. Stationary breakers of weed, pagodas of weed, welling text, Upanishads of weed, a viking fleet of weed, dragons heads of weed, lances, a weed empire! Across the overgrown garden flutters the shadow of a boomerang that is thrown and thrown again. It has something to do with a person who lived in the house long before my time. Almost a child. An impulse comes from him, a thought, a thought like an act of will: “make… draw….” To reach out of his fate.

The house is like a child’s drawing. A deputizing childishness that grew because someone—much too soon— gave up his mission to be a child. Open the door, step in! In here there’s unrest in the ceiling and peace in the walls. Above the bed hangs a painting of a ship with seventeen sails, hissing wave crests, and a wind that the gilt frame can’t contain.

It’s always so early in here, before the crossroads, before the irrevocable choices. Thank you for this life! Still I miss the alternatives. The sketches, all of them, want to become real. A ship’s engine far away on the water expands the summer-night horizon. Both joy and sorrow swell in the dew’s magnifying glass. Without really knowing, we diving; our life has a sister ship, following quietly another route. While the sun blazes behind the islands.

A Good Laugh

2011-09-23T05:30:00.001-07:00

Thinking about Change

2011-09-19T05:18:00.000-07:00

In front of the town hall in New Canaan yesterday, I had the chance to surround myself with some like minded folks who understand that socioeconomic and political change are on the horizon because the working men and women of our country are tired of the wage slavery. I was asked to give a speech, it went well, suffice to say. I did not however have the opportunity to read a few of my poems that I thought were pieces of the same puzzle...there were just so many great speakers at the rally I did not have the time. Well I will rectify that here and hope folks might read it.
_______________________________

American Trash

As I sip my sake four hens cackle

at the table nearest mine.

Their grounds for discomfort?

“My husband drove me nuts”

“My house is too darn big”

“I do it all for the kids.”

Oh how you make me sick

How can you expect respect?

You glitter from head to toe

bedecked in diamonds

bitching that it was tough

to pack the kids like luggage

and move to…what was it,

your Westport “McMansion?”

Chunky bile sloughs off my tongue

as I swallow this symphony of detachment,

yet truthfully I’m enjoying my sushi while

pondering mango moshi;

the wait staff are courteous and kind

maybe it’s their upbringing

maybe it’s this healthy food

but rude, they are not.

As they stand quietly at ease

my eyes are lowered

but how sweet the ice cream!

Nicholas V Miele

May 2011

__________________________________________

Audit of the Federal Reserve Bank 2011

The dissolution of sixteen trillion secrets

that assisted financial institutions inimical

to humanity, were exposed by another

society, our Federal Government,

equally corruptible.

The mouths of both demons suppurate

and we the squawking children are fed

the worm of an apple to quell our ephemeral hunger

for legitimacy. Who will bail the working man

from out this sinking ship? Resolution of our

degradation is the emergency but our vote

is of no interest to them, for by rote

we waive our humanity to appease

that fickle beast, Individuality,

whose only reserve is for greed,

setting aside only a pittance, paid

in lip service, for the common community

of mankind.

Why aren’t we motivated by our misfortune?

Why do we just sit watching the idiot tube,

stuffing our faces with revolting, microwaveable food,

and awake each day to stretch our necks

for worthless checks again and again so they

may have us as they like: fattened on ignorance,

indolent, and carrying the weight

of sixteen trillion secrets?

Nicholas V. Miele

Aug 2011

___________________________________________

III.

Crafted bliss in a mason jar

bubbles to the surface where its essence

dissolves into the sanguinity of the scene

before me at the pizza place:

The patrons are pole-axed

by Budweiser and trivia, by the amber menace

of the oven yawning as the timer ticks to zero

because nobody knows where lies Laos.

One girl shouts:

“Is that even a real place?”

Cheeriness flees me, replaced by the bitter of burnt garlic.

We fire our teachers and praise the wisdom of pizza

called “kicker”, and the Dream dies slowly.

Nicholas V Miele

Jun 2011

My Speech's Final Draft

2011-09-16T07:04:00.001-07:00

Income Disparity Rally

New Canaan

18 Sep 2011

Nicholas V. Miele

Hello my name is Nicholas. I am here today because we all share a like mind and have gathered here, to show our fire and our passion for keeping our Nation as it was meant to be: for the people and by the people, and certainly not for any single individual. Greed is what brings us here this afternoon, greed and the false indignation of those fortunate 2% who control our Nation’s wealth and with it the freedom to preen and posture, aloof to the imbalance they create, luxuriating while the greater good, our common community of mankind, toils in the trenches day after day, night after night to keep this sinking ship afloat. As a fledgling poet I am often with my nose in a book, and if there is anything I have learned in my readings, it is that history repeats itself. Invariably, we the people must accept responsibility for previous inaction, but understand that today, as we woke up and got ready to be here, that we have admitted that we are nauseated by the chugging train of injustices en route to a dollar that make a mockery of truth, a mockery of our government, and ultimately, make of the common man and woman, targets for a graft.

I would like to remind all of us, of our duty, our obligation, our Power and Authority, with an excerpt from the preamble to our Declaration of Independence:

“…all experience hath shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security…”

There are many reasons why I enjoy poetry but none engulf me with the blaze of emotion quite the way my own humanity does. Looking out at this crowd I see generations of fathers, mothers and children trampled underfoot and forgotten. I am ashamed because we have chosen to suffer the status quo; look around you and bear witness, history is marked by war and enslavement across all peoples and all places for all time. Here in America Liberty’s tome and torch have effectively been replaced by the quill and contract familiar to anyone who has ever been in debt; I would go so far as to say that each and every person living in this country are nothing more than indentured servants, slaves to our minted liberty.

No matter where we go the story always remains the same: excessive control over the people through the creation of a system of debt whereby none can escape and none save the wealthy, have any future security. Individuality thus becomes godlike and the ideals of unity are effectively shattered; reality… is “every man for himself.” What sickens me most about this reality is my own daily contribution to the demise of my fellow man. I too have accepted servitude and with my own hands aided those who would safeguard their own security with the physical, emotional, and spiritual sacrifice of others who represent only a number on a payroll because the language used to define the greater good, our Community, has long since been paved over and re-shaped to serve a single class of human beings the world over.

The problem is global. We as Americans should be proud to lead the way in the acknowledgement of the damage done by our collective passivity in accepting the crumbling of our lives and liberties as the powerful continue their pursuit of happiness without regard for God, Country, or the rest of humanity.

There are as many reasons a person would choose poetry as a means of self expression as there are life experiences, but when asked to pin down one more important to me than any other, I believe a poet should write because deep down he or she is twisted with the pain of unnecessary suffering and because who better than a poet to find the perfect words and put them in the perfect order to create an expression that is understood by all because it communicates life as it should be, as each and every child who has ever been born first views the world, with an unquenchable thirst for beauty born of a curiosity and kindness that exist without the taint of our sad and cyclic reality. Our attendance here today is a step forward in owning the atrocities of war, and by war I mean any action that perpetuates an overwhelming disparity in wealth and by extension geopolitical power, that our species has committed in pursuit of that wealth. Perhaps when there are too few of us left to kill, we will be lucky enough to collapse into the only hope left to us… Love.

My Name’s Nicholas and I thank you for the privilege of your time.

Further evidence that our country is due for an overhaul

2011-09-15T06:12:00.000-07:00

Alan Simpson, Senator from Wyoming, Co-Chair of Obama's deficit commission, calls senior citizens the Greediest Generation as he compared "Social Security" to a Milk Cow with 310 million teats.

August, 2010.

Here's a response in a letter from PATTY MYERS in Montana and we might just want to listen up:

"Hey Alan, let's get a few things straight...

1. As a career politician, you have been on the public dole for FIFTY YEARS.

2. I have been paying Social Security taxes for 48 YEARS (since I was 15 years old. I am now 63).

3 My Social Security payments, and those of millions of other Americans, were safely tucked away in an interest bearing account for decades until you political pukes decided to raid the account and give OUR money to a bunch of zero ambition losers in return for votes, thus bankrupting the system and turning Social Security into a Ponzi scheme that would have made Bernie Madoff proud..

4. Recently, just like Lucy & Charlie Brown, you and your ilk pulled the proverbial football away from millions of American seniors nearing retirement and moved the goalposts for full retirement from age 65 to age 67. NOW, you and your shill commission are proposing to move the goalposts YET AGAIN.

5. I, and millions of other Americans, have been paying into Medicare from Day One, and now you morons propose to change the rules of the game. Why? Because you idiots mismanaged other parts of the economy to such an extent that you need to steal money from Medicare to pay the bills.

6. I, and millions of other Americans, have been paying income taxes our entire lives, and now you propose to increase our taxes yet again. Why? Because you incompetent bastards spent our money so profligately that you just kept on spending even after you ran out of money. Now, you come to the American taxpayers and say you need more to pay off YOUR debt.

To add insult to injury, you label us "greedy" for calling "bullshit" on your incompetence. Well, Captain Bullshit, I have a few questions for YOU.

1. How much money have you earned from the American taxpayers during your pathetic 50-year political career?

2. At what age did you retire from your pathetic political career, and how much are you receiving in annual retirement benefits from the American taxpayers?

3. How much do you pay for YOUR government provided health insurance?

4. What cuts in YOUR retirement and healthcare benefits are you proposing in your disgusting deficit reduction proposal, or, as usual, have you exempted yourself and your political cronies?

It is you, Captain Bullshit, and your political co-conspirators called Congress who are the "greedy" ones. It is you and your fellow nutcases who have bankrupted America and stolen the American dream from millions of loyal, patriotic taxpayers. And for what? Votes. That's right, sir. You and yours have bankrupted America for the sole purpose of advancing your pathetic political careers... You know it, we know it, and you know that we know it.

And you can take that to the bank, you miserable son of a bitch.

Inequality

2011-09-13T13:11:00.000-07:00

I thought I might include a post having to do a bit with the upcoming rally in New Canaan. Politics is something I have shunned in the past but now I find myself more and more interested in the goings on. Here is a little weekly to which you might wish to subscribe. Take it with a grain of salt as with everything else, i.e. read it and form your own opinion.

Income Disparity Speech

2011-09-12T09:15:00.000-07:00

I have been asked to speak at a rally in New Canaan on the 18th regarding income disparity. It will be my first rally of any kind besides the dreaded high school pep-rally. Here is the speech I wish to make. I am still looking for some critique of the speech from several friends but as it is, I think it works.

Income Disparity Rally

New Canaan

18 Sep 2011

Hello my name is Nicholas. I guess you could call me a fledgling poet, having recently been accepted to the Master of Fine Arts Program for Creative Writing at Fairfield University. As it happens, I was asked to answer the question of why I write in a personal statement for the University, and I feel that my expression in that statement is an appropriate one for the group we have gathered here today. The poem you heard me read earlier was my way of putting into poetry, the ideas subsequently expressed here, and I wrote it as a tribute to John Keats whose piece “To Hope”, paints the familiar scene of an aristocracy using its wealth to elevate themselves above the common working man and woman. By mimicking Keats’ style and some of his language I was trying to show that history has repeated itself. Thus here we are some 190 years after Keats death while the problem persists; well we the people have had enough. Let me remind you all of our duty, our obligation, our power and authority, with an excerpt from the preamble to our Declaration of Independence:

There are many reasons why I enjoy poetry but none fill with me with the range of emotion quite the way my own humanity does. Looking out at this crowd I see generations of fathers, mothers and children trampled underfoot and forgotten. I am ashamed because we have chosen to suffer the status quo; look around you and bear witness, history is marked by war and enslavement across all peoples and all places for all time. Here in America Liberty’s tome and torch have effectively been replaced by the quill and contract familiar to anyone who has ever been in debt; I would go so far as to say that each and every person living in this country are nothing more than indentured servants, slaves to our minted liberty.

No matter where we go the story always remains the same: excessive control over the people through the creation of a system of debt whereby none can escape and none save the wealthy, have any future security. Individuality thus becomes godlike and the ideals of unity are effectively shattered; reality, is “every man for himself.” What sickens me most about this reality is my own daily contribution to the demise of my fellow man. I too have accepted servitude and with my own hands aided those who would safeguard their own security with the physical, emotional, and spiritual sacrifice of others who represent only a number on a payroll because the language used to define the greater good, our Community, has long since been paved over and re-shaped to serve a single class of human beings the world over.

We must acknowledge the damage done by our passivity in accepting the crumbling of our lives and liberties less we continue to allow the powerful the pursuit of their own happiness without regard for God, Country, or the rest of humanity.

There are as many reasons a person would choose poetry as a means of self expression as there are life experiences, but when asked to pin down one more important to me than any other, I believe a poet should write because deep down he or she is twisted with the pain of unnecessary suffering and because who better than a poet to find the perfect words and put them in the perfect order to create an expression that is understood by all because it communicates life as it should be, as each and every child who has ever been born first views the world, with an unquenchable thirst for beauty born of a curiosity and kindness that exists without the taint of our sad and cyclic reality. Our attendance here today is a step forward in owning the atrocities of war, and by war I mean any action that perpetuates an overwhelming disparity in wealth and by extension geopolitical power, that our species has committed in pursuit of wealth. Perhaps when there are too few of us left to kill, we will be lucky enough to collapse into the only hope left to us… Love.

My Name’s Nicholas and I Thank You for Letting Me Speak!

Thoughts on reading poetry

2011-09-08T08:00:00.000-07:00

A Poetry Reading

Another line stresses my eyes, blurred

by the air twisting all shape and sound

between the deep black ink,

and snowy white fibers of page

until poetry no longer mattered;

my mind returned flatly to the instant

where the poet’s earlier words

had flayed the naivety from my guts

exposing my hopes as the words somersaulted

out into madness

by way of my allegorical ignorance;

thus I am humiliated.

Speckled in the spittle of my disgrace

my quivering fists raised a vengeful right index finger

to lance behind the corner and flick…

The stillness of bitter winter seeps through

the page pouring hoarfrost between

the faults of my thought fracturing my will

to act, and stealing the heat of my previous anticipation.

From the ashes of my former destinies

I disengage, screaming at the abstraction

until the spewing page burns from me

my persistence.

Nicholas V. Miele

Jun 2011

Rich or Poor

2011-09-07T09:01:00.000-07:00

Dear Person who is also FED UP with plutocracy--

     Here are two flyers for the Sept. 18 rally in New Canaan. The Income Disparity pdf flyer is the best for posting or handing out to the general public because its two pictures speak 2037 words. The Sep 18th raly RR flyer is for people who want more information and are willing to read to get it.

     We are planning a potluck picnic afterwards in Mead Park, a 15 minute walk away--but people can drive the distance if necessary--tomorrow we believe we will be getting the town's permission to have more than 25 people in the park. We'll have some chairs for people who can't stand for long and two tents in case it rains.

     If you have any questions or want to help, please contact me at this email address or at the phone address below. Or call Bennett Weiss at 845-569-8662, David Bedell at 203-391-4184, Rolf Maurer at 203-327-6464, Hector Lopez at 203-246-1569, or Paula Gabriele at 203-767-0676.

Announcement

2011-09-07T06:32:00.000-07:00

New Endevours

2011-09-06T11:40:00.000-07:00

A quick summery of the programs outlined at Curley’s on August 23, 2011

First, we have a reading scheduled for Friday, January 20 @ 4pm at the Edgehill Senior Community, only 45 minutes so sign up is reading time is limited. Also anyone who signs up must have their poem in to Eva-Maria by Wednesday January 4. Those who sign up will be expected to help Eva-Maria if she asks for it.

We talked about working with home bound seniors--getting them involved in a writing program and having PoemAlley volunteers call them to “record” their work whether it be new or something re-worked. The volunteer with then transcribe the work. The transcripts will then be posted to a blog where it can be read and discussed by a broader community. It’s also important to have a hard copy made available for the participants who may not have use of a computer.

A similar idea that discussed is work with Alzheimer’s Groups. The idea here is to work with the recently diagnosed and, again, offering an outlet (blog) for them to express their thoughts, fears, hopes and anguish.

Also please check out the PoemAlley blog. (Check out the newest entry--Great work done on this by all.

http://poemalley.blogspot.com/ )

We will also have signup sheets for working with the “At risk” community at the Dubois Center.

There will also be a signup sheet for folks interested in working on our major event to take place in the Spring of 2012...stay tuned for more information

Waiting for Irene...

2011-08-29T05:57:00.000-07:00

So here is what my friend Bill Buschel had to say about our experience with Hurricane Irene; somehow the excitement of the storm passed me by and I wrote not a shred myself. Perhaps I will rectify this today :P

I just took a long walk through town.

When I left the house everything was as still and silent as a cobweb. A light rain, no breeze. The quiet followed me. Preceded me. Town was shut down except for two pizza parlors and two Chinese and a Japanese restaurant. There were two guys in the dollar store: one counting the cash the other sweeping the floor. Both preparing for a quick getaway.

I passed few people. What few are out seemed to be in clustered in small groups: Three here. Two there. One group of five. All speaking in hushed tones. Everyone was waiting. Quiet anticipation. By the time I got home the wind had picked up. Everyone's still waiting.

Here is something I have been working on...

2011-08-24T13:26:00.000-07:00

Audit of the Federal Reserve Bank 2011

The dissolution of sixteen trillion secrets

that assisted financial institutions inimical

to humanity, were exposed by another

society, our Federal Government,

equally corruptible.

The mouths of both demons suppurate

and we the squawking children are fed

the worm of an apple to quell our ephemeral hunger

for legitimacy. Who will bail the working man

from out this sinking ship? Resolution of our

degradation is the emergency but our vote

is of no interest to them, for by rote

we waive our humanity to appease

that fickle beast, Individuality,

whose only reserve is for greed,

setting aside only a pittance, paid

in lip service, for the common community

of mankind.

Why aren’t we motivated by our misfortune?

Why do we just sit watching the idiot tube,

stuffing our faces with revolting, microwaveable food,

and awake each day to stretch our necks

for worthless checks again and again so they

may have us as they like: fattened on ignorance,

indolent, and carrying the weight

of sixteen trillion secrets?

Nicholas V. Miele

Aug 2011