Mad Poet of the Year - Lisa DeVuono

The Mad Poet of the Year blog posts share the poetry of a long-time Mad Poet. This year-long appointment provides readers with a deep dive of the writer’s work and thoughts on poetry. We are thrilled to have Lisa DeVuono serve as the Mad Poet of the Year for 2024.


 
 

Ten Lies We Told Ourselves Out Loud and One We Didn’t

The planet is not on fire
That was a lie

He’s harmless
That was a lie

He’ll never get elected
That was a lie

It will be fine
That was a lie

They started it
That was a lie

I’m not a racist
That was a lie

They’re all murderers
That was a lie

It’s a hoax
That was a lie

I’m not afraid
That was a lie

Your vote won’t matter
That was a lie

It can’t happen here


Well… it happened.  Again.

Like others who didn’t vote for Trump, I woke up on November 6th with a sinking feeling in my gut, telling myself several of the lies in this poem, “I’m not afraid. It will be fine.” 

I wrote this poem several years ago thinking that the threat of a second Trump presidency was behind us and that somehow this poem would remain just a rant. Sadly, I feel like it’s become an anthem for his biggest fans who allow their feelings of frustration, fear and anxiety to be usurped. They choose to be un-informed. They follow a con man and a bully who uses the language of promise to tap into their feelings of hopelessness. They believe his lies to be truth.  They want something easy; to relish in the story of blame and misery buying into simple slogans for complex problems.  

Listening to some analyses of this past election, pundits argue that the reason voters turned out for Trump was they felt they hadn’t been heard, that he spoke for them.  Really?  When did lying, cheating, breaking the law and inciting violence and hatred become the mouthpiece that many think they want and need? How did basic decency and care for others get replaced with selfishness?

Trump has too often portrayed himself as the Messiah, a savior for these broken times. In our darkest days, it makes sense to look for a bright light but selling my soul to a real devil in the real world is not my idea of salvation.

As for the print above, it’s aptly called “Blood on Our Hands.”


Lisa DeVuono is the 2024 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. She was one of the founders of It Ain’t Pretty, a women’s writing collective that performed locally. She produced multi-media shows incorporating song, music, poetry, and dance, including Rumi in Song at the Sedgwick Theater; and Whole Heart Home, and Breaking Open Breaking Free, part of the IceHouse Tonight series in Bethlehem.   

She led creativity and poetry workshops and has worked with teens in recovery and cancer patients. She wrote a peer-based curriculum Poetry as a Tool for Recovery: An Easy-to-Use Guide in Eight Sessions for facilitators working with persons living with mental health challenges.

In addition to the full-length manuscript This Time Roots, Next Time Wings, her poetry has appeared in the Mad Poets Review, Paterson Literary Review and the anthology Grit Gravity & Grace: New Poems about Medicine and Healthcare. She is the author of the chapbook Poems from the Playground of Risk published by Pudding House Press and was the recipient of an honorable mention in Passaic County Community College’s annual Allen Ginsberg Contest.

Recently retired, she has worked as an administrator, librarian, and lay chaplain.

Local Lyrics - Featuring Courtney Bambrick

…from World Without 
by Courtney Bambrick

In the world without numbers,  
our height and weight are determined 
in relation to other things:  
as tall as an upended bicycle 
as short as an average daffodil stem 
as heavy as an empty bookcase 
as light as a dry kitchen sponge. 
We paint our houses elaborately.  
The wealthy commission portraits  
of themselves on their front doors. 
"Early" and "late" are charges  
that are brought before judges.  
Money becomes fuel. 
Sports teams no longer 
win or lose.  

*** 

In the world without paper, mail carriers  
take much longer on their routes. Some days  
they just sit on our porches, waiting  
until we get home to deliver messages.  

*** 

In the world without ink, we use pencils  
and remember how fragile our words become after handling. We return our hands to chisels  
and our minds strengthen, snatching and 
gripping facts and details. Pieces not caught 
are lost. Numbers and names for people  
and things hover until we cut or burn them  
into wood or stone that is hewn or quarried just to bear our memories. 

 

What is your poetic aesthetic? What calls you to write poetry?
I am not sure exactly how to answer this -- I feel like I am the last person able to identify an aesthetic in my own work! But I aim for some feeling of complicating strangeness and familiarity. Awkwardly timed humor.

Ever walk into a dark room and swear that you see an intruder or a ghost or demon, but then your eyes adjust and it is just a vacuum cleaner or a jacket thrown over the couch? And you laugh out loud with relief, but also maybe a little bit of disappointment? Relief, because you don’t have the immediately accessible power to fight a demon or an intruder. Maybe bliss because you survived an imagined threat and your emotions don’t know it isn’t really real. But you also feel a sense of disappointment because there was briefly something mysterious and dangerous happening in this otherwise predictable space.

I am “called to write” because a phrase or an idea sticks in my brain for long enough that it gets in the way of other work or other ideas. Like, I sit down to grade papers or write an email and this other idea for a poem just inserts itself and I struggle to focus on anything else until it is safely dumped in a notebook. I might ignore it for a while, but it is somewhere outside my skull and I will get to it when I get to it!

What is your process like? Do you have any strategies for getting from all possible blank page to polished poem?
I don’t know a blank page. I will blabber or doodle without shame. A piece of advice that I have taken and give is to get into it before you have a chance to back out. John, we were in a workshop at Murphy Writers a year or two ago with poet Nancy Reddy who had us mark a big X on a notepage before starting to write -- to “mess up” or mark up the page so that it was no longer blank! That we wouldn’t be so precious about what we put on the page -- it already had a big X on it! I like that idea a lot. I am also a “fake it till you make it” writer -- I will discuss ideas or plans for projects before they are fully realized so that I build in some accountability for myself!

I love notebook writing which feels malleable and open -- drafty! Once I type a thing up, it feels more settled. Revisiting and revising typed up work demands an extra boldness! I rely a lot on readers to help me see what the printed words hide!

Achieving “polish” is hard! I am not great at knowing when a thing is “finished” and I do love to tinker with older work as I consider sending it out for consideration. Polish feels a bit suspicious to me. When a poem feel “finished” to me, I might rough it up or change something small to switch up the energy. This trick may be just the spark to turn the engine over, and it may not survive further revision, but it starts the process up again.

I send out submissions all the time that are not quite finished because I feel like I can never reach 100% doneness on a poem! If it feels like its parts mostly fit together, I am pretty happy! And I will revise it after a round of rejections and see what that does. A poem is a site of experimentation for me. I know how it feels to write, but I have no idea how something will land with an audience until I read or share it!

You were the longtime poetry editor for Philadelphia Stories. Has being a poetry editor influenced your work? What was your favorite part of being in this role? Anything particularly difficult?

The most difficult thing usually was convincing the managing editor to give me enough pages for all the work I wanted to include! I learned that not everything that goes into the journal had to be my favorite poem of all time -- that there is a big wide range of work that I think belongs in our pages. I had the privilege of working with a really dependable and helpful board of poets who offered their opinions on the work and shaped the decisions I made.

My relationship with editors as a poet has been affected by my relationship with poets as an editor! I take less of the administrative stuff less personally. I have declined very beautiful, accomplished poems because they were too similar in tone or style or content to other work we were considering, so I know that those decisions can be difficult! And I have praised poems that I have declined in language that might have come across as patronizing! And I have neglected to praise poems that I loved because I was pressed for time and unable to cobble together the email I wanted to write that threaded the needle between “I love this poem” and “I won’t publish this poem.”

Relationships are the reason I love poets and poetry. I have had opportunities to meet many writers through this role! When we ran contests or conferences, I was able to reach out to area writers who we might fold into the Philadelphia Stories tapestry -- and I might add as friends on social media!

I know you also have a passion for theater! Tell us a little about it! Do you find overlap between these two artistic mediums?
As a middle school and high school kid, and even into college, I felt that these worlds of writing and performing had to be separate and distinct. I would go through “writing seasons” and “acting seasons.” I felt like my creativity was finite and I could only use it for one thing at a time. I think energy is finite, but creativity or inspiration really doesn’t have to be. In college, we read Aristotle’s Poetics and I realized that both theater and writing are modes of storytelling that rely on specific unities -- the rules that the creators set out for the audiences. All of the events of this play relate to this central plot! The images in this poem reflect a central question!

Also, poetry to me, is about the pleasure derived from speech. There are words that feel good in the mouth! I refer to Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” when I talk about this in classes! “A little old lady got mutilated late last night” is pure joy in the mouth! I ask students about the parts of songs that they memorize first and why it is fun to sing along to some songs and not others. At the community theater where I am a member, Old Academy Players in East Falls, I have performed in a one act play by George Bernard Shaw which was verbally exhausting! It required incredible stamina and extensive warmups! In the end, when the language worked, the jokes worked, so then the ideas worked.

I also like to read my poems in front of audiences because I can hear where they land and where the language knots up. I like to try them out a few times before I send them out.

You have a chapbook coming out with Bottlecap Press. Tell us a little about World Without!
World Without is a long poem or a sequence of poems that each offer new worlds marked by specific absences:  a world without mirrors or a world without water, etc. They started as light musings, but as the collection developed, some of the concepts that occurred to me felt heavier.

I saw the Canadian movie Last Night when it came out in the late 1990s when I was in college. It was an apocalypse movie that focused really tightly on how individuals prepared for the end of the world. It tells a gigantic story in this fine, fine personal detail. It really stuck with me, clearly.

Now, several years after many of us lived for a year or more in isolation, some of these ideas feel more present.  But I like the idea of these small questions or seemingly small questions of what might we do if none of us had hands! I don’t think scientifically, but more about the smaller ways I use hands: greetings would have to change. Funny now to think of the move away from a handshake during early Covid. I imagined that shoulders and chins would be more expressive.

I wrote “In a world without sisters” during a time when I saw very little of my sister and was seriously thinking that I could lose her. She is now much healthier and I see her pretty regularly, thank goodness. In thinking of a world without sisters, I considered where I would be without my two brothers -- who are sarcastic and funny and goofy and who seem to occasionally surprise themselves with their own emotions. So, what started as a sort of general “what if” developed into something much more personal and surprising to me.

Where can readers read more of your work? Keep up with you on social media? Buy your book?
My poems appear or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Mom Egg Review, Landlocked, Clockhouse, Pinhole, Thimble, SWWIM Everyday, New York Quarterly, Invisible City, and more. My poem “Flesh & Fat & the Universe” was on Healing Verse: Philly Poetry Line, a really special project of former Philadelphia poet laureate Trapeta Mayson. My chapbook Rape Baby, a runner up in the 2013 Pavement Saw competition, was published as “Caring for Your Rape” at The Fanzine. My chapbook Gargoyle was a semifinalist in Iron Horse Literary Review’s competition. World Without is now available from Bottlecap Press.

I use @courtneybamboo or @courtneykbamboo on most social media platforms -- but I am pretty inconsistent. I try to highlight Philadelphia artists and events as I become aware of them! There are oodles of worthwhile events going on all the time. Philadelphia area poetry is an embarrassment of riches. I am so grateful to all the writers who share their work and their enthusiasm in this area. And right now, I am particularly grateful to you for these questions, John!


Courtney Bambrick teaches writing at Thomas Jefferson University’s East Falls campus in Philadelphia. She was poetry editor at Philadelphia Stories until 2024.  Her poems appear or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Spotlong, Mom Egg Review, Landlocked, Clockhouse, Pinhole, Thimble, SWWIM Everyday, New York Quarterly, Invisible City, and more. Her poem "Flesh & Fat & the Universe" was on Healing Verse: Philly Poetry Line. Her chapbook Rape Baby, a runner up in the 2013 Pavement Saw competition, was published as “Caring for Your Rape” at The Fanzine. Her chapbook Gargoyle  was a semifinalist in Iron Horse Literary Review’s competition. Her chapbook World Without is now available from Bottlecap Press.


John Wojtowicz grew up working on his family’s azalea and rhododendron nursery in the backwoods of what Ginsberg dubbed “nowhere Zen New Jersey.” Currently, he works as a licensed clinical social worker and adjunct professor. He has been featured on Rowan University’s Writer’s Roundtable on 89.7 WGLS-FM and several of his poems were chosen to be exhibited in Princeton University's 2021 Unique Minds: Creative Voices art show at the Lewis Center for the Arts. He has been nominated 3x for a Pushcart Prize and serves as the Local Lyrics contributor for The Mad Poets Society Blog. His debut chapbook Roadside Oddities: A Poetic Guide to American Oddities was released in early 2022 and can be purchased at www.johnwojtowicz.com. John lives with his wife and two children in Upper Deerfield, NJ.

Review of The Cabin at the End Of The World by Douglas Cole

The Cabin at the End of the World

Unsolicited Press

$16.95

You can purchase a copy here.

Reviewed by Jennifer Schneider


The Cabin at the End Of the World, poems by Douglas Cole is a collection worthy of multiple walks through woods and worlds and even more readings. It’s both camera and image, working tool and work product, storm and rainbow. It’s all those things, in their precision as well as their ambiguity, and more.

Opening with a distinctly fitting epigraph –

“A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm…”
- Wallace Stevens

the collection is both song and shelter ensconced in words that embrace the unknowns of flight amidst surreal imagery as well as the satisfying familiarity of clear and direct prose. Cole masterfully weaves rich, evocative imagery alongside simple wants, needs, and longings. Emerging themes embrace and cross the natural world, origins, gritty realities, and unknown tomorrows.

The collection offers an experience layered atop experiences. The poems are crisp, visual, and memorable. Cole relies heavily on imagery that evokes a universe of emotions. Both relatable and deeply responsive to life in its many mountains, hills, and valleys, the poems in The Cabin at the End Of the World offer both shelter and sustenance. The collection curates memories while evoking memorable experiences. It’s a work in which one can disappear and stay for extended periods. It is, indeed, reminiscent of a walk around the lake –

 “Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.”
- Wallace Stevens

― Wallace Stevens

Perhaps. Perhaps as well, truths are found in walks through books and collections like The Cabin at the End of the World

The collection is divided into four sections: Block 23, American Dharma, The Talking Stone, and The Windows of the Sea with fifteen poems in each of the first three sections and two poems in the final section. This is a cabin fully stocked– of soul-nourishing prose poetry in a variety of themes, sizes, flavors, and takes on the intersection of moments where the present meets the future. Themes, which extend across coming of age, exploratory travels, lands unknown, and bonds of childhood, morph like limbs that grow as they crystallize on the page and form threads that grow stronger throughout the collection.

 From trains in “A Game of Chicken”, dirt roads in “Revisiting Erskine Way”, city streets in “Mind Blank as a Room”, and “pigeons huddled in an alcove off Broadway” (“Pigeon Man”), Cole builds Block 23 and the collection’s extended building blocks with prose that is simultaneously surreal, lyrical, and unforgettable in its eclectic blend of imaginative imagery and relatable realities. From open to close, Cole never ceases to delight with language and layers of meaning. Reading the world (and fresh words) as expressed in the collection is as much a journey across physical landscapes as it is an emotional arc and trasformative reading experience.

Work and the work of actors in all phases and spaces of life come to life in Cole’s pages. Highway patrolmen (“Patrolman” ), shredder trucks (“Tuesday’s Purge” ), butchers (“Boethius Said” ), and people in “smocks and masks” (“Into the Zone” ) share pages with secret doors (“Dear Reader”), abandoned weather stations (“The Desert Motel”), and “old tomes stacked high and rare collectibles in the back rooms I haven’t the lives to explore” (“Dark Carnival”). The work of the day meets the work of the mind in extraordinary writing that captures the layered complexity of daily life.

Cole never shies away from experimenting and tackling tough topics with poignant prose that is, page after page in this 89-page collection published by Unsolicited Press, delightfully surprising.  The collection is fitting for anyone seeking truths, solace wrapped in evocative vignettes and lived experiences, and satisfying walks through gorgeous language amidst the ever-changing complexity of present-day society. Whether seeking comfort while “walking home from Charlie and Yumi’s house after one” (“Getting Yourself Home”) or contemplating the brightness of the end of a dream (“The End of the World”), I encourage all readers to explore Cole’s work. You won’t be disappointed by all that welcomes you in the cabin and the world– both beginnings and endings, in which the work lingers.


Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She loves words, experimental poetry, and the change of seasons. She’s also a fan of late nights, crossword puzzles, and compelling underdogs. She has authored several chapbooks and full-length poetry collections, with stories, poems, and essays published in a variety of literary and scholarly journals. Sample works include Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility, A Collection of Recollections, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups. She is currently working on her first series, which (not surprisingly) includes a novel in verse. She is the 2022-2023 Montgomery County PA Poet Laureate.

Mad Poet of the Year - Lisa DeVuono

The Mad Poet of the Year blog posts share the poetry of a long-time Mad Poet. This year-long appointment provides readers with a deep dive of the writer’s work and thoughts on poetry. We are thrilled to have Lisa DeVuono serve as the Mad Poet of the Year for 2024.


 
 

Season’s End

This is not a poem about baseball.
How the game has been cliched as America’s favorite pastime
or played as elegance - a choreography of grace.

It’s not about how the team won the World Series in the last moment
crack of a bat like thunder splitting the stadium’s sky.
Nor is it about overzealous fans fair-weathering their hometown players.

It’s not even about the eight-year-old who collects cards and stats
who mugs for the camera after reaching for the foul ball
that pirouetted into his grandfather’s glove.

It is a poem about hot summer nights
when just about everyone in Northeast Philly
was listening to the game,

some on tiny transistor radios,
others while fidgeting with the dial in Dad’s old Dodge Dart
on the way to picking up pizza and beer on Saturday night.

It’s about the time we hung out in your bedroom on St. Vincent’s Street
with a window fan blowing over our hot bodies
your dog Beethoven lying down between us like an old chaperone

howling whenever your dad shouted “oh jeez” or “c’mon” at the tv
or your mom calling up to ask if we wanted the last slice of pie
before you had to drive me home.

It’s not really a poem about baseball
but about everything happening around it.
How we fell in love and dropped the ball that summer

when both of us took off our mitts as we collided yelling “Bail out.”
Like any seasoned player, we did our very best
knowing we weren’t going to win the game this time around.


This poem came to me via a simple prompt “write a poem using the word baseball.”  

I must confess I am one of those fair-weather fans who tunes into the local teams just at the end of the season.  The only exception was when I was a teenager and a rabid fan ofhockey, especially the Philadelphia Flyers.  I used to cut articles out of three newspapers; wrote songs or traded player cards; begged my father to drive me to team appearances. And if I was lucky enough, attended a live game.  Otherwise, I was glued to the television wearing my handmade tie-dyed t-shirt with a black Flyers emblem sewn on the front. (see the fuzzy photo above)

I have since hung up my fanaticism, so when this prompt was suggested, I wasn’t sure I could write a poem about baseball.  I had only been to a handful of games but I had strong memories of hanging out with my college boyfriend and his family and their exuberance about the home team. This poem emerged through recounting those youthful details and focusing on everything but the game specifics.

I remembered that isn’t really about baseball or hockey at all but the feelings we have, and the stories and connections we make around cheering for the home team.

Sometimes we make it to the Super Bowl or the World Series but like all good aphorisms, it’s not about winning or losing but about how we play the game.


Lisa DeVuono is the 2024 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. She was one of the founders of It Ain’t Pretty, a women’s writing collective that performed locally. She produced multi-media shows incorporating song, music, poetry, and dance, including Rumi in Song at the Sedgwick Theater; and Whole Heart Home, and Breaking Open Breaking Free, part of the IceHouse Tonight series in Bethlehem.   

She led creativity and poetry workshops and has worked with teens in recovery and cancer patients. She wrote a peer-based curriculum Poetry as a Tool for Recovery: An Easy-to-Use Guide in Eight Sessions for facilitators working with persons living with mental health challenges.

In addition to the full-length manuscript This Time Roots, Next Time Wings, her poetry has appeared in the Mad Poets Review, Paterson Literary Review and the anthology Grit Gravity & Grace: New Poems about Medicine and Healthcare. She is the author of the chapbook Poems from the Playground of Risk published by Pudding House Press and was the recipient of an honorable mention in Passaic County Community College’s annual Allen Ginsberg Contest.

Recently retired, she has worked as an administrator, librarian, and lay chaplain.

Review of Built by Storms by Miriam Kramer

Built by Storms

Write Bloody Publishing

$18.00

You can purchase your copy here.

Reviewed by Sean Hanrahan

In the local poetry circle of Philadelphia, I have never heard a debut collection garner as much buzz as Miriam Kramer’s Built by Storms. I am here to tell you that the buzz for this hard-hitting, pull-no-punches, devastatingly beautiful collection is richly merited. This book is not for the faint of heart, but it will tug at the heartstrings. This book will go further—it will gift you a new and awakened heart.

One of the many standout poems in Built by Storms is “A Poem in Which He Is Alive Because You Sent Him to Prison.” The narrator in this book is candid and confessional about her battle with drug addiction and the people she met and lost in the struggle, including Phill. “Your Honor, did you see his skin was grey?/ I didn’t. I don’t know if I ever saw Phill/as he was.” She later describes him as “my best friend/and he is the worst thing to ever happen to me.” With the pulsating power of a strict, exacting pentameter, Kramer aims a well-directed arrow to the heart. In particular these near final lines are gutting, heart-wrenching, and expertly controlled:

Your honor,
you don’t know this, and I don’t know this,
but I will dream about his death six months before
it happens and I will miss him
the way I miss drugs, in a way that aches
like nothing else aches.

Phill and other friends who lost their lives are memorialized in the haunting poem, “To the God of Gas Station Bathrooms.” The tercets along with the title create a holiness that you see in LGBTQ poets who wrote odes to their friends lost to AIDS. The narrator refers directly to her survivor’s guilt in the lines:

There are days my body is heavy
with shovelfuls of guilt. It’s called Survivor’s Guilt
for a reason. Why not Phill, who taught me
to be a sneakerhead, why not Diane, why not Sean?
Why not Debbie, who told me my hair
looked like cotton candy, why not Mike,
why not Matthew? Or Sam, or Joe, or Angela?

Each name in this incantatory poem becomes memorialized, spiritualized. This poem exemplifies the act of remembrance as holy rite. This is a sacred wellspring Kramer is drawing from, and it is an extremely powerful catharsis for the poet as well as the reader.

The narrator also directly and powerfully refers to her addiction in the poem in which the title of the collection is taken “Upon Learning Jupiter, Along With Its Great Red Spot, Is Made of Hurricanes.” The poem begins, “I think, same. If I am built by anything,/surely, it’s storms.” The poem takes shape as a destructive hurricane, a swirling wind of recriminations:

I think of how many times I tore
my parents to shreds, seeking my own
Devastation. My father’s question mark voice
gets lost in the wind as he repeats,
possession of heroin, when I call him for a ride home
from the police station. My mother’s weather-worn
hands clench the courtroom bench
as I stand before a judge, call myself an addict,
watch her foundation crumble.

Through expanding the weather metaphor through the course of this poem, Kramer vivifies the devastating aftermath addiction can cause. She ends the poem with a potentially hopeful realization:

That I could get clean is miraculous,
like a solar system exploding into existence.
My fingernails slice valleys into my palms,
my knuckles are storm white, as I realize I, too,
have fought to be here, fought to take up space.

The poem, “Reason 47 to Live Through the Apocalypse,” reaffirms the narrator’s commitment to surviving the storm and whatever else the world throws at her, including the apocalypse: “To see what regrows from the rubble/because I have regrown from the rubble.” Through her experiences, the narrator has blossomed into a profoundly empathetic being. Kramer concludes this book, this journey (perhaps an overused word but certainly relevant here) with the shimmering lines:

After the end, when the grass starts
its resurgence, I want to offer the sprouts
and shoots tenderness after
a feat of resilience, whisper to them
as they grow, thank you,
you are here. Thank you, you made it.
You didn’t have to make it.

To say this book is a transforming experience, or a growth experience, is highly accurate. The perfect word to sum up Built by Storms is gratitude. Thank you for being here, Miriam, thank you for your wisdom, thank you for your words. I am grateful for this collection and this poet.

Sean Hanrahan is a Philadelphian poet originally hailing from Dale City, Virginia. He is the author of the full-length collection Safer Behind Popcorn (2019 Cajun Mutt Press) and the chapbooks Hardened Eyes on the Scan (2018 Moonstone Press) and Gay Cake (2020 Toho). His work has also been included in several anthologies, including Moonstone Featured Poets, Queer Around the World, and Stonewall’s Legacy, and several journals, including Impossible Archetype, Mobius, Peculiar, Poetica Review, and Voicemail Poems. He has taught classes titled A Chapbook in 49 Days and Ekphrastic Poetry and hosted poetry events throughout Philadelphia.

Mad Poet of the Year - Lisa DeVuono

The Mad Poet of the Year blog posts share the poetry of a long-time Mad Poet. This year-long appointment provides readers with a deep dive of the writer’s work and thoughts on poetry. We are thrilled to have Lisa DeVuono serve as the Mad Poet of the Year for 2024.


 
 

September 11: A Transubstantiation

Today I cut myself on a tin can.
I was distracted.
Had this wound been one inch over,
one more deep, I would have lost the ability

to live life with my hands,
to get around by crawling,
claw-like through this life.
It would have left me depending

on my least dominant hand,
writing from the brain less loud.
Instead I am saved by six stitches
and the laughing doctor on-call

who pronounces me lucky,
not to worry, nothing damaged.
Ten days later Suzanne clips
the tied thin shrouded filaments

that keep me from spilling out
and other things from getting in.
I am told this is a good thing
no scar tissue, should heal nicely.

Daily I touch the pink skin and the twelve-holed stigmata.
This new geography changes
minute by minute, separate holes blend together.
From the sky, an airplane view,

it looks like a table set for twelve.
The heads of my apostles
sitting down to supper
watching Jesus transubstantiate before them.


There are certain personal dates in our lives that are unforgettable.  Anniversaries, births, deaths, awards, retirement.  But there are also historical dates seared into our collective consciousness where each of us recalls where we were and what we were doing on that day.  And often they overlap. For me, the roll call of dates goes like this:  1963 (assassination of JFK), 1969 (landing on the moon), 1974 (Nixon resigns) , 1989 (Berlin Wall collapses), 1999 (Columbine shooting), 2001 (9/11 terrorist attacks), and many more.

This poem recounts where I was on September 11.  Like so many people, I had been watching the news in between phone calls to loved ones. To distract myself, I decided to clean the house and tossed our household recycling into an outside bin, pushing it down with my hand to make room for more. A few minutes later, I noticed a cut in my palm, cleaned it off, and gauzed it tightly.  Quickly, it was drenched. Wrapping my hand in a bloodied towel, I went to a neighbor and in a stupor asked if she thought I should go to the emergency room. She calmly said in her best motherly voice, “maybe that’s a good idea, let me take you.”

What I wouldn’t imagine then is that this date and all it memorializes, would come to signify two other dates way into the future:  the death of my cousin John in 2014, and a few hours after his passing, the birth of Theo, my great-nephew.

Dates that seemed to be reserved for one kind of marking morph into something else, more complex.  

For me, life is always about holding birth and death in the same palm. I have lived with the scar at the base of my index finger for nearly twenty-three years. And while it has healed, I often find myself rubbing it like some sort of talisman and still look down at it imagining what this poem suggests…that something miraculous might happen. 


Lisa DeVuono is the 2024 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. She was one of the founders of It Ain’t Pretty, a women’s writing collective that performed locally. She produced multi-media shows incorporating song, music, poetry, and dance, including Rumi in Song at the Sedgwick Theater; and Whole Heart Home, and Breaking Open Breaking Free, part of the IceHouse Tonight series in Bethlehem.   

She led creativity and poetry workshops and has worked with teens in recovery and cancer patients. She wrote a peer-based curriculum Poetry as a Tool for Recovery: An Easy-to-Use Guide in Eight Sessions for facilitators working with persons living with mental health challenges.

In addition to the full-length manuscript This Time Roots, Next Time Wings, her poetry has appeared in the Mad Poets Review, Paterson Literary Review and the anthology Grit Gravity & Grace: New Poems about Medicine and Healthcare. She is the author of the chapbook Poems from the Playground of Risk published by Pudding House Press and was the recipient of an honorable mention in Passaic County Community College’s annual Allen Ginsberg Contest.

Recently retired, she has worked as an administrator, librarian, and lay chaplain.

Review of It Skips a Generation by Alison Lubar

It Skips a Generation

Stanchion Books

$13.00

You can purchase your copy here.

Reviewed by Sean Hanrahan

It Skips a Generation, the latest powerful chapbook from prolific poet, Alison Lubar, explores the legacy of intergenerational trauma. The trauma being caused in large part by their ancestors being interred at Tule Lake Relocation Center during World War II. As defined by the website, https://www.verywellhealth.com/, intergenerational trauma is a theory that posits trauma can be inherited due to epigenetic changes in an individual’s DNA. Epigenetic changes refer to how a body decodes a DNA sequence. Lubar, as narrator, takes their reader on a journey spanning nearly a century (1930-2022) to get at the root of their own DNA sequencing. While reading this profound work, my proverbial jaw often dropped to the pressurized wood floor. I hope to relay a few of those poetic sequences for you.

The title poem lays bare the throughline of this book as the narrator sifts through photographs of their grandfather (“Oji” named “Jack”.)

I still want to call him Oji but showing
that I know he’s in me and in my own cruelty
is a cruelty I can’t show to my mother, who
suffered the most under him.

Lubar hears from their relatives that Oji was handsome, although “Handsome is never harmless.” It is only towards the bottom of the photograph stack that an intergenerational epiphany arises: “And then I see, second to last, my mother’s four-year-old face/ frozen in terror in her backward glance at Jack. I shouldn’t want/ anyone to look at me like that. But I know I inherit it all.”

It Skips a Generation confronts the obscene inequity of the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II in “For the No-Nos.”   The brief lines and rapid-fire staccato precision fully illustrate the losses of their family and all citizens wrongfully interned at Tule Lake. “Sterno/ distributed monthly, each inferno/ rekindles what’s lost: grannie’s kimono,/ the house, a hundred pounds.” In this poem, Lubar sustains an assonant “o” that is an aural echo of loss, for merciless fate, trauma, the void, the body as site of political attack, and, finally, the hydrogen bombs dropped in 1945:

Each body is a composite of amino
acids, chemicals. Atomic eternity. No-
thing else persists. No-
minal freedom. No
destiny manifest. No-
where. Hydrogen. No
body. Bomb. No
more.

An antidote to both intimate and large-scale cruelty is love. With a generous poetic spirit, Lubar includes “Love can look like” that lists the objects that have meant love to them and their family:

painted irises
on a silk scarf
from the museum
giftshop, Irish wool
berets, three cards
on my birthday, the other two
from the grandmothers
when they couldn’t write anymore.

This poem concludes the chapbook on a note of hope and a way to push past the trauma.

William Faulkner famously once said, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” This quote is applicable to “Nothing Skips a Generation,” the poetic counterpoint to “It Skips a Generation.” This poem that Lubar refers to as a temporal-diptych has one part with its metrical feet planted in 1945, and the other in 2015. Bracketed lines offer poetic, nay theatrical, asides and commentary. In part 1,

When the war was over,
[on paper] it wasn’t over.
There, we [became dust.
Here, we] returned to dust—
America was [a home
that held no home]
left.

The return home is contrasted to how Lubar feels about California and America as home

This still
isn’t the place for me. [Neither is the town
where I went to school.] When I say,
""I’m going home.” I mean to a person
 We return to Auntie’s…

Lubar’s Auntie was interred with their grandfather and is a guiding light presence throughout. I mentioned the bracketed asides were theatrical earlier and that was quite deliberate. This assertive, aware, and stand tall poem ends with the lines:

when Auntie says, “You look like Jack,”
I don’t take it as an insult. I respond
[with the Scottish play], “What’s done
cannot be undone.”

Lubar’s chapbook can be compared to a river, or indeed a strand of DNA. It twists and winds its way though your eyes, your mouth (if you read poetry aloud), your mind, and your soul. Lubar’s ever present and ever-increasing talent will stun and surprise you with startling metaphors, sterling diction, and, quite simply, large heart. I cannot recommend It Skips a Generation highly enough. You will not forget it.

Sean Hanrahan is a Philadelphian poet originally hailing from Dale City, Virginia. He is the author of the full-length collection Safer Behind Popcorn (2019 Cajun Mutt Press) and the chapbooks Hardened Eyes on the Scan (2018 Moonstone Press) and Gay Cake (2020 Toho). His work has also been included in several anthologies, including Moonstone Featured Poets, Queer Around the World, and Stonewall’s Legacy, and several journals, including Impossible Archetype, Mobius, Peculiar, Poetica Review, and Voicemail Poems. He has taught classes titled A Chapbook in 49 Days and Ekphrastic Poetry and hosted poetry events throughout Philadelphia.

Ekphrasis: Poems and Art

Ekphrasis: Poems and Art

Image Credit: Cathleen Cohen

Welcome to a new Mad Poets blog, to be offered quarterly.  

It’s a pleasure to write about the relationship between poetry and other art forms, to examine ways that a various creative arts relate to each other.

The term ekphrasis can be defined narrowly as writing that describes a work of art in another medium-- paintings, music, photography sculpture and the like.  It can also refer more broadly to the alchemy that happens when one medium tries to define and relate to another. This could refer to poems inspired by the visual arts or music -- and also the reverse! To my mind, ekphrasis can also encompass hybrid works, like artists’ books, author/illustrator collaborations and graphic poems.

Many scholars have written about ekphrasis and there are great resources online. Though not scholar of the topic, I have had a practice of writing poetry and painting for many years. Both are essential to my creative life. These art forms interact, challenge each other and open up many questions and tensions.

My aim in this blog is to feature the work of various poets and artists, to let you know of interesting viewing opportunities and to provide some angles that might prompt your own writing.


Songs of Winter; Songs of Summer: John Sevcik and Lynne Campbell


Last spring Cerulean Arts Gallery presented Songs of Winter; Songs of Summer, an exquisite series of paintings by Lynne Campbell and John Sevcik. These landscapes offer a sense of intimacy and stillness. Narratives vibrate beneath. This beautiful exhibition was particularly poignant since John died near the time of its opening.

A brilliant writer, painter and teacher, John was a beloved and important presence in the Philadelphia art community. To learn more about his achievements: https://fleisher.org/celebrating-the-life-of-john-sevcik/.

Lynne and John met as students at The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (PAFA). Mutual devotion nurtured this talented couple through their marriage and creative partnership. Both painter and writers, Lynne composed prose poems and John focused on plays, essays and free verse. Lynne has graciously shared memories with me of being in John’s historic barn studio in Valley Forge, reading to each other from Dickinson, Wordsworth and Frost.

Lynne Campbell, In the Meadow, acrylic on paper


Lynne said, “For John, poetry and painting was about meaning. He was devoted to art and felt it one of the most potent forces we had as human beings. It held us to the humane, to our intrinsic value as human beings. This was something we both felt — it was an important part of our great bond.”

Lynne’s work is exhibited in many public and private collections, including the Woodmere Art Museum. She has been awarded several prizes and travel scholarships, studying archaic and classical sculpture in Greece. Author of four books of poetry, Lynne is an artist with deep ties to myth and to the natural world.

John has exhibited widely in the U.S. and in South Korea. He was a published poet, and his plays were produced by The Philadelphia Theatre Company, and other companies. A popular lecturer, he taught at The Fleisher Art Memorial, the Delaware Art Museum, the Delaware College of Art and Design, the Cheltenham Center for the Arts, and Immaculata University. 

Delving into John’s writings, I found myself highlighting numerous aphorisms: If time stops in a picture, is that moment infinite?... Why does it stun us to see certain paintings? Why have we woken up? Why were we sleeping before?

About Henry Ossawa Tanner’s works in a 2012 PAFA exhibition, John wrote, “Paintings like these make us feel the truth for which sermons are written. There is no difference between a miracle and a painting, and when we were children and felt these things were true about paintings, we knew a truth before we were ever taught why it is true.”

John Sevcik, I-76 and Evening Star, oil on canvas

 In his introduction to John and Lynne’s recent Cerulean Arts show, he shared:

Both artists experience loneliness in different ways, and that is the song of the seasons, if anything is. This is not a personal loneliness, for they are happily married. They instead share a feeling for nature that puts their feelings in a mutual state of mystery, reverie, and wonder. Though together, they are also on separate itineraries. Work varies from plein air to work from memory, imagination and dream.

Lynne Campbell, Almost Night, acrylic on paper

How To Become

How to become part of the tracking grey sky? By loving it? Cars below have begun to put on their lights. The sky moves apace, indifferent. It is busy ferrying clouds. There are dark trees. And no birds. 

 Apparently, the mere anticipation of music causes us to produce dopamine. Imagine what the anticipation of a loved voice does.

The sky, dull all day, is losing what little luster it had left. What hopes might you map against it? What diagrams of private constellations, myths? These are sketched out in the heart, and projected easily tonight, for lack of stars. 

- Lynne Campbell

John said, “I have become convinced that the place apart of the poet or painter…is to explore the world at the edge of knowledge and bring something back from there. It is this withdrawal that I have come to understand may constitute the most important part of our consciousness. And it is because artists have left us their meditations on the life they observed that audiences also experience a place apart.”

A PAINTING IS A PAINTING

A painting is a painting
It’s not like you or me
Nobody gets older  
No one ever sleeps. 

It’s a stillness made of life
With meaning in its air
You feel it as you watch it,
Even as you stare:

At those forever praying
Or lying nude aware
Not of us but God
And the artist never there.

We travel time to then
And then to us appears;
Time becomes transparent
And what is far comes near. 

Who gave their life to painting
That we can know life more?
The artist in his garret?
The model in her maze?

We think of things self-evident
When we observe those lives
Frozen in the minerals
Of pigments and the mind

But what of art’s intention?
Does it think or know the way?
The artist isn’t talking;
There’s nothing more to say. 

Who made a painting matter
Then vanished long ago?
Who gave their life to painting
So we enjoy life more?

- John Sevick

John Sevcik, Field of Goldenrod (Orland, Maine), oil on canvas

I often ask: What are my own motivations to paint? What are my underlying subjects?

Certainly they are idiosyncratic. But it is helpful to read Lynne’s and John’s eloquent writings.

John shared, “This is to some extent the challenge of painting to me – how to excite the mind in a still reflection. In painting we consider the world as a long moment, with little movement…”

What an apt description of the work in their most recent exhibit at Cerulean Arts. It’s inspiring to consider the world as a long moment and how it does excite the mind. How lucky to encounter the wisdom and generosity of this talented couple.

This upcoming September, Cheltenham Center for the Arts will display a retrospective of John’s work:

Painter and Poet: The Work of John Sevcik
Opening reception: Saturday, September 14 from 2:00 to 4:00
Show dates: September 14 to October 13

https://www.cheltenhamarts.org/

For more about John and Lynne:

 https://fleisher.org/celebrating-the-life-of-john-sevcik/
https://mandismag.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/featured-artist-john-sevcik-2/
https://www.blogger.com/profile/01771570848659431520
https://ceruleanarts.com/pages/songs-of-winter-songs-of-a-summer
http://Johnsevcikpainting.blogspot.com
http://Instagram.com/john_sevcik
http://Instagram.com/lynnecampbell8
http://viewfromthestudio.blogspot.com
http://poemsforanewcentury.blogspot.com
https://lynnecampbellpainting.blogspot.com/
http://tothestudio.com

 


Cathleen Cohen was the 2019 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County, PA. A painter and teacher, she founded the We the Poets program at ArtWell, an arts education non-profit in Philadelphia (www.theartwell.org). Her poems appear in journals such as Apiary, Baltimore Review, Cagibi, East Coast Ink, 6ix, North of Oxford, One Art, Passager, Philadelphia Stories, Rockvale Review and Rogue Agent. Camera Obscura (chapbook, Moonstone Press), appeared in 2017 and Etching the Ghost (Atmosphere Press), was published in 2021. She received the Interfaith Relations Award from the Montgomery County PA Human Rights Commission and the Public Service Award from National Association of Poetry Therapy. Her paintings are on view at Cerulean Arts Gallery. To learn more about her work, visit www.cathleencohenart.com.


Mad Poet of the Year - Lisa DeVuono

The Mad Poet of the Year blog posts share the poetry of a long-time Mad Poet. This year-long appointment provides readers with a deep dive of the writer’s work and thoughts on poetry. We are thrilled to have Lisa DeVuono serve as the Mad Poet of the Year for 2024.


 
 

Lone Tulip

for Phillip

Today those tulips your wife brought from Holland,
that I planted after you died,
burst into early Spring.

Rich red velvet robes, a yellow sun in a cup
and one that has yet to show its face,
to be delivered into this world.

She went away under a dark mantle of grief,
trying to escape the scent of you lingering in your home.
I can only imagine what is the still smell of someone no longer alive?

I watch from my window, a sentinel at the ready:
hurricane season, floods, blizzards,
tree down, mowed grass.  She survived it all without you.

Earth turning over, everything aching
to push through the heavy weight of winter.
I sort debris from last year’s beds: twigs, leaves, plastic bag, a snakeskin.

My gaze returns to the lone tulip.
It has begun to unfurl its tight fist of resistance,
and I imagine it winks and bows to me.

I take a picture, send it to your wife with the caption:
“Your tulips are blooming, look at this one…I think it has his blue eyes.”

But I am looking for a sign that you have returned
to finish our last conversation at the mailbox
to smell the smoke of one of your cigars smoldering on the porch ashtray

or hear you sing through the open window,
Sinatra spinning on the upstairs turntable.


This August I am commemorating three specific events: my 25th wedding anniversary; the 20th anniversary of my father’s passing; and the one-year death anniversary of my dear neighbor Phillip to which this poem is dedicated.

When my husband, Michael, and I married in our backyard, the day was marked with the ending of a summer drought, then a torrential storm, a beautiful rainbow, and a house full of guests that had hoped to be eating outside under a big tent, and not on our living room floor. Five years later, during our 5th anniversary, when we were vacationing in Canada, my father passed away. It took two days to get home. And last year, I watched my neighbor’s wife frantically perform CPR to try to save her husband.

These anniversaries all come within days of each other and mark the mixed emotions of beginning a new life while honoring the end of another.

This poem is about how we try to live our lives within the loss of our loved ones. I say              “within” and yet everything about the loss is “without.”  I decided to compose this poem as if writing a letter to my friend Philip to let him know what is happening with us since he died. The poem attempts to highlight both ways of being: the fracturing by grief, and the wholeness from living in the present moment and what we notice as we move between them.

What details do we remember, what do we choose to believe about the departure of our loved ones? How do we cope with daily life? How do we celebrate our lives? And how might the presence of a solitary tulip planted in winter become a beacon of hope in early Spring?


Lisa DeVuono is the 2024 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. She was one of the founders of It Ain’t Pretty, a women’s writing collective that performed locally. She produced multi-media shows incorporating song, music, poetry, and dance, including Rumi in Song at the Sedgwick Theater; and Whole Heart Home, and Breaking Open Breaking Free, part of the IceHouse Tonight series in Bethlehem.   

She led creativity and poetry workshops and has worked with teens in recovery and cancer patients. She wrote a peer-based curriculum Poetry as a Tool for Recovery: An Easy-to-Use Guide in Eight Sessions for facilitators working with persons living with mental health challenges.

In addition to the full-length manuscript This Time Roots, Next Time Wings, her poetry has appeared in the Mad Poets Review, Paterson Literary Review and the anthology Grit Gravity & Grace: New Poems about Medicine and Healthcare. She is the author of the chapbook Poems from the Playground of Risk published by Pudding House Press and was the recipient of an honorable mention in Passaic County Community College’s annual Allen Ginsberg Contest.

Recently retired, she has worked as an administrator, librarian, and lay chaplain.

Review of I cannot be good until you say it by Sanah Ahsan

I cannot be good until you say so

Bloomsbury Publishing

$16.95

You can purchase a copy here.

Reviewed by Jennifer Schneider


Sanah Ahsan’s I cannot be good until you say it is as masterful as it is moving, and as inspiring as it is an exercise in reflective thinking. Presented in four parts, the collection is expertly curated. rich in emotion, and ripe of liberation that expands and extends far beyond the collection’s opening and closing pages.

The collection’s fifty poems (and LISTENING ROOM) are heartfelt and full of love– love for self, for community, and for possibility. The pieces weave tenderness and musicality with a tone as warm and as penetrating as echoes of the lives of which the poems speak. The Outspoken Performance Poetry Prize winner is gorgeous in ways that escape simple description and inspire deep admiration. The collection, and its takes on queerness, Islam, Quranic verse, family, nourishment, and more, offers lessons on how to live, question, and write with intention. Whether in community with strangers or at a table with familial and/or familiar faces, the poems breathe, in part, generational traditions, harms, and healing. The result– a buffet replete with “Ancestral recipes” in their many forms, queries of family, and questions as worthy of extended reflection as answers.

The debut collection embodies love, prayer, and spirituality through exquisite use of language and intentional use of space. The pieces are complex and layered in ways that mirror the human condition, the human body, and the politics of life and suffering. The collection takes on, in part, the body’s complexity with words that of piercing precision that also soothe like chamomile alongside wounded wombs and complex cycles of love, life, and (mis)understanding. 

With an epigraph– “for the Divine in you”, the collection exists at the intersection of poetry and prayer and invokes and invites continued contemplation. The collection is a beginning rather than an end. The individual poems stand stronger together, with each simultaneously a breath of blessing and prayer, rumination and education, celebration and caution, grief and joy. Together, I cannot be good until you say it, is a gift of a gorgeous and sublime tapestry of questions fueled by curiosity and questions grounded in rich, descriptive detail.

For example, PASSPORT opens with –

“Veiled by tablecloth, my girlfriend swats
my hand, a fly on her knee. The teaspoons
are touching in public. Her grandmother
offers me a salami stick to start. Sorry I
don’t eat pork….”

and closes –

“...I reach for relief in the rainbow when her
grandmother asks do you have a British
passport?
The burgundy-red stamped with

a golden crest moves more than my limp
tongue. I muster up the lion’s courage to ask
are we going somewhere?

 Reading the collection is a journey– one where time stands still, while always going somewhere, and the water, depth unknown, is welcoming and deeply moving, while also surprising. Beyond expert craft, the collection is much a story of kin, becoming, and conflict as a spiritual guide and reckoning. With themes of god and “good” revealing and repeating throughout the collection, Ahsan writes fearlessly and with a piercing insight that compels as it conspires to create both heightened awareness and a deeper understanding of what it means to love and be loved, to be liberated and to liberate, and to revel in the joy, music, and sadness of the written and spoken word and its many graces as well as offenses.

Stitched of love and yearning, the work is an exquisite and tender example of how poetry can be prayer and prayer can be blessing. The experience of reading this work is spiritual and spirited. Beyond its emotional qualities the work instructs in elements of craft and form. The collection is as varied as it is remarkable.

From powerful erasure —

See                

to inventive lists and couplets (see, for example, FUGITIVE ARRANGEMENTS and PINK MURMURATIONS),

to inventive use of space (see, for example, IN THE MAN OF MIND and GREY IS PROPHETIC COMPLICATION),

and poignant photographs (see, for example, pages 11, 51, and 72), the work is a tapestry as much as a reflection of life and its complexity. The work is also a master class on how and where devotion meets daring inquiry with a result that grips as it reminds one of the extraordinary power of poetic inquiry to transform and to touch in ways simultaneously new and reminiscent of past and ongoing harms.

A delicate waltz, an electric tango, a surprising twist of hip hop – if a collection of poems could dance one’s way into the heart and soul of eternity, this work would. I end the work where I began– eager to read more and to continue to learn. Much like the cycles of ancestors and conflict that have come before, the work itself balances retrospection with introspection. I won’t forget this work, and I hope, dear reader, you enjoy the collection as much as I have.  


Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She loves words, experimental poetry, and the change of seasons. She’s also a fan of late nights, crossword puzzles, and compelling underdogs. She has authored several chapbooks and full-length poetry collections, with stories, poems, and essays published in a variety of literary and scholarly journals. Sample works include Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility, A Collection of Recollections, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups. She is currently working on her first series, which (not surprisingly) includes a novel in verse. She is the 2022-2023 Montgomery County PA Poet Laureate.

Local Lyrics - Featuring Alfred Encarnacion

At the Tattoo Studio
(Bakunawa, mythical dragon of the Philippines)

by Alfred Encarnacion

The bearded tattooist assures me
there’s no discomfort even though
I haven’t asked. He begins on my calf,
a smooth tracing of form

that slowly assumes shape & color:
slithering blue underbelly purpling
to the back’s black shimmering scales,
festooned body armed with fangs, claws,

folded wings about to spring open
while I sit watching his needle extract
a dragon as if trapped beneath my skin.
Released, the beast emblazons a lost

mythology my dead father
never thought to share:
Cebu in the ancient time when
seven moons, one for each night

 of the week, lit the sky & brought
forth good fortune. But Bakunawa
the serpent dragon, craved
the lovely moons, sweet

as mangoes, and gobbled them
one by one until only a single moon
survived. Islanders prayed to Bathala
to punish the moon-eater that rose

each night from a sea cave to climb
the wind in search of prey. The pagan
god banished the dragon from sky, land
and sea until he learned repentance…

I close my eyes, breathe in the scent
of dragon blood that soothing
incense which fills this room,
slide back on the black recliner

and remember Bakunawa crawling my
father’s leg, emblem of his otherness,
remember the shame I felt when
a schoolmate blurted, “Your dad’s

a gook?” during Parent Teacher Night.
Bowing my head, I slunk away pretending
not to know the man who followed. But now
I wear the dragon, almost believing Bakunawa

vanished into the hearts of men who
betray, repent, and seek forgiveness,
lurks there to this day, rising only
in the tribal tattoo that bears his name.

 

How did you come to poetry? What role does it play in your life?
I became interested in poetry through the “folk rock” music of the 1960s, especially the poetic lyrics of songwriters such as Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, Buffy Sainte Marie, and Joni Mitchell. However, Leonard Cohen was the first lyricist whose published literary poetry (as well as the extraordinary postmodernist novel Beautiful Losers) I went out and bought. After reading, nay, experiencing his first few volumes of poetry I knew I had to try my hand at it as well. Once I was seduced by the power of the written word, writing became an extension of myself like breathing, eating, talking, walking, sleeping, dreaming…

Your poems are often very located. How does place influence your writing?
Even early on I was attracted to “place” in the work of poets I admired. I traveled to Montreal just to walk down St. Catherine Street because Cohen referred to it so much in Let Us Compare Mythologies, his debut collection. I later became obsessed with James Dickey and Richard Hugo; both of whom utilized “place” as an integral part of their poems. Think of the former’s “Hunting Civil War Relics at Nimblewill Creek,” and “Cherrylog Road, or the latter’s “West Marginal Way” and “"Degrees of Gray in Philipsburgh". Likewise, I found the work of Lisel Mueller strewn with place names that lent an authenticity that would not be available to the poems otherwise. I’m still obsessed with naming places in my past in order to memorialize those moments when I inhabited those places in real time.

 You are the Director of the Stratford Public Library. Have you always known you wanted to be a librarian? In what ways has being a librarian influenced your writing or shaped the way you view the arts?
I never had any intention of becoming a librarian until I read a biography of Philip Larken, the poet librarian of Hull University’s Brynmor Jones Library. Suddenly a light came on: I always delighted in browsing through stacks upon stacks of books in the literature departments of public and academic libraries in Philadelphia where I lived at the time, but I never thought about a career in librarianship until the Larkin bio. I had finished up graduate school and most of my classmates were going on to their doctorate studies in the English Department at Temple or other universities. I had taught at Temple as an adjunct instructor, but I was more interested in writing as a vocation than teaching as a career. Instead of pursuing a Ph.D, I decided on a MLS and applied to Clarion University’s Library Science Department. 

Before being appointed to a director’s position, I also worked both as a reference librarian as well as a children’s librarian. But most of my time was spent as a cataloger, which is becoming something of a lost art. Still, the seven years I spent assigning locations to new material and deleting weeded material sharpened my eye for clarity and consistency, and my cataloging skills I believe carry over to my poetry: I never attempted “a systematic derangement of the senses” as described by Rambaud (a dysfunctional childhood was derangement enough for me); instead; I pursued a consistent clarity in the anecdotal narratives that are at the heart of my poems. There’s such a strong narrative impulse in my work I sometimes think of myself as a recovering novelist (ha, ha).

 I think libraries and poetry get shortchanged in their conceptualization (by larger society) as exclusively quiet, reserved, and introspective spaces. In your chapbook, Library Suite, you  describe libraries as energetic and interactive places steeped in connection. How did this chapbook come together? What do you think the future looks like for libraries?
I’ve always believed that libraries were more than mere depositories for books, and I’ve labored to make Stratford Public Library—as is the case with most other 21st century libraries—an active resource of the community. This strategy allows for a diversity of programming: we offer culinary workshops, literary readings, classes in embroidery, presentations from representatives of State agencies, as well as ongoing programs such as Story Time and Lego for our younger patrons and Book Club, Book Café, and Crafter’s Corner for our adult patrons. We also make it a point to reach out to our senior patron population, often an underserved community, by offering senior-friendly high teas and chair-yoga sessions. 

My chapbook is an attempt to document some of my experiences (some factual, some imagined, some a hybrid of the two) in Library Land these last couple of decades. Some poets don’t care to write about their professions, but I’ve always been drawn to writing about the various hats I’ve worn as waiter, teacher, librarian—once I even sold lightbulbs as a telephonic vendor! I’ve been often able to utilize my diverse working background in my career as a librarian.

Some predicted the end of libraries with the advent of the digital world: why go to a library when all the texts and information you desire is as close as your computer’s keyboard? We can all appreciate the instantaneous gratification that comes from access to the Internet: Ah, you found that new book by your favorite author and you can download it right there in your living room at 3am without having to wait until morning when the bookstores or libraries open. Who can resist such expediency? Still, there are those who prefer browsing the stacks at Barnes & Noble and/or their own local libraries for the undeniable tactile pleasure of holding the physical properties—weight, texture, smell—of a book in one’s own hand. We’ve already moved into a hybrid age for libraries where eBooks can be downloaded from their virtual website but hardcopies of books are still housed in physical buildings for patrons who prefer to choose their reading material by hand rather than keyboard. Rather than offering only bibliographical service, library staffs will also serve as informational brokers for patrons in need of guidance.

In your recently released collected poems, Precincts of the Passion-Dragon, many of the poems celebrate and illuminate the struggles of working class and immigrant families. How does your upbringing influence your poetic perspective?
|
My childhood has everything to do with my “poetic perspective,” as you call it. I grew up in a predominately working class Polish and Irish community in the Port Richmond neighborhood of Philadelphia, where there were few Asian or immigrant families to speak of in the mid-1950s. I became painfully aware at an early age that I was not welcome there as a mestizo child (half Filipino, half White) with such a strange surname and such odd looks. I grew up feeling both ugly and alien and apart from the people around me. Many of my poems begin in a place of shame and move to a place of redemption or at least a place where toxic shame isn’t paralyzing the narrator. My mission in poetry has always been to find a strategy by which all that is toxic in memory can be revisited and transformed via art into something positive, maybe even something of service to others.

Where can readers keep up with your writing? Buy your books? 
You will encounter my work in literary journals, such as the Paterson Review or Chautauqua Review, or in the Moonstone Art anthologies, or at readings in Philly or local Jersey readings like the one I’ll be doing in September at the Whitman Stafford House in Laurel Springs (date & time TBA). I’ll also be reading at the Poetry Center in Paterson, NJ on April 5, 2025 as one of the finalists for the Paterson Poetry Prize for Precincts of the Passion-Dragon: Poems 2000-2020. Much more information about my activities can be found on the Stratford Public Library’s website: https:www.stratfordlibrarynj.org 

My books can be found/ordered in local bookshops such as Barnes & Noble, on Amazon.com or kelsaybooks.com. But, remember that for those readers with limited resources, you may read all the poetry, fiction, and nonfiction for free by visiting your neighborhood library and checking out books or requesting interlibrary loans. All you need is a library card and the dazzling Kingdom of Literature is yours!


Alfred Encarnacion has taught writing at Temple University, published in Florida Review, Indiana Review, North American Review, and the Paterson Literary Review. His books are The Outskirts of Karma, Ambassadors of the Silenced, Library Suite, and Precincts of the Passion-Dragon. He’s received five nominations for a Pushcart Prize; Library Suite was published via the Annual Moonstone Chapbook Contest, and Precincts of the Passion-Dragon has been chosen as a finalist for the Paterson Poetry Prize 2025. He’s the director of the Stratford Public Library in South Jersey, and he coordinates the Annual Poetry Reading at the Whitman Stafford House in celebration of National Poetry Month each April.


John Wojtowicz grew up working on his family’s azalea and rhododendron nursery in the backwoods of what Ginsberg dubbed “nowhere Zen New Jersey.” Currently, he works as a licensed clinical social worker and adjunct professor. He has been featured on Rowan University’s Writer’s Roundtable on 89.7 WGLS-FM and several of his poems were chosen to be exhibited in Princeton University's 2021 Unique Minds: Creative Voices art show at the Lewis Center for the Arts. He has been nominated 3x for a Pushcart Prize and serves as the Local Lyrics contributor for The Mad Poets Society Blog. His debut chapbook Roadside Oddities: A Poetic Guide to American Oddities was released in early 2022 and can be purchased at www.johnwojtowicz.com. John lives with his wife and two children in Upper Deerfield, NJ.

Mad Poet of the Year - Lisa DeVuono

The Mad Poet of the Year blog posts share the poetry of a long-time Mad Poet. This year-long appointment provides readers with a deep dive of the writer’s work and thoughts on poetry. We are thrilled to have Lisa DeVuono serve as the Mad Poet of the Year for 2024.


 
 

Cento: Refugees

from The Tiny Journalist by Naomi Shihab Nye

The moon sees us.

We are outdated shrines,
many orphans
from the pavement of neglect.

Forgotten perimeter
Around the edge of winter
in its camouflage of grief

Our voices pour out
through a hole in the floor.
Where is the door to our story? 

How will we sing our names?

From the solitude of bruises
to the tight throat of alert.
Where is our lucky number?

A word is brave --
we never know how far
a voice can travel.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

Who will be left to enter the calligraphy of joy?


Nothing to give you
that you would want.

Nothing big enough
but freedom.

-- “Tiny Journalist Blues” by Naomi Shihab Nye

When I think of the month of July, I think of summer memories in Northeast Philly: BBQs, badminton, and block parties; vacation reading club at Bushrod library; tennis at Tarken playground, swimming at Max Myers; penny candy at Woolworths; weekends at my uncle’s bungalow near Tullytown; the annual shore trip to Rosalinda’s in North Wildwood. 

The 4th of July was always about family and neighbors coming together and celebrating our country’s ideals, our hopes to be better, do better. The day culminated in fireworks where we watched them at the elementary school where you could see them over the treetops by the Jewish Cemetery.

These were yearly adventures and daily freedoms we innocent children could count on and often took for granted. As adults, in today’s world, we can no longer rest comfortably in our nostalgia, waxing romantic about the good old days.

This month, I am posting my print and poem “Refugees.”  It’s a cento form in which lines are borrowed from other poems to construct something new.  These lines were collected from “The Tiny Journalist” (2019) by Naomi Shihab Nye whose poems draw on her experiences as a Palestinian-American living in the Middle East, her father, and from the Facebook postings of teenager Janna Jihad Ayyad who shared her personal journey of living under conflict. 

Shihab Nye is my favorite poet and I was so moved by this collection of truth telling.  While   I often flinched, these poems also softened my heart and helped me choose and arrange words that told the story of the impact on refugees; that created something from this witnessing -- a sense of urgency and expression for those whose voices are silenced or made to feel invisible. I chose lines with questions so that the reader might ponder their own lives in contrast with so many people who are still living in poverty and war, struggling to survive, let alone build childhood memories.

With the 250th anniversary of 1776 just two years away, I (like so many others) find myself worried and anxious about our freedom: who fought for it, for what reasons, who has it, who doesn’t.  Last month, my poem “Coming to America” highlighted my own family immigration story and the challenges of leaving one’s country to find a better life. America represented freedom and opportunity for many immigrants and refugees.                              

How many personal and collective sacrifices were made over the years, and what must happen to ensure the preservation of our rights, over and over again? This poem seeks to highlight the crisis of individuals, families, nations still fighting for their freedoms, still looking for a free and safe haven.

I can’t help but ask the same of us this July.    Is America still that place?


Lisa DeVuono is the 2024 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. She was one of the founders of It Ain’t Pretty, a women’s writing collective that performed locally. She produced multi-media shows incorporating song, music, poetry, and dance, including Rumi in Song at the Sedgwick Theater; and Whole Heart Home, and Breaking Open Breaking Free, part of the IceHouse Tonight series in Bethlehem.   

She led creativity and poetry workshops and has worked with teens in recovery and cancer patients. She wrote a peer-based curriculum Poetry as a Tool for Recovery: An Easy-to-Use Guide in Eight Sessions for facilitators working with persons living with mental health challenges.

In addition to the full-length manuscript This Time Roots, Next Time Wings, her poetry has appeared in the Mad Poets Review, Paterson Literary Review and the anthology Grit Gravity & Grace: New Poems about Medicine and Healthcare. She is the author of the chapbook Poems from the Playground of Risk published by Pudding House Press and was the recipient of an honorable mention in Passaic County Community College’s annual Allen Ginsberg Contest.

Recently retired, she has worked as an administrator, librarian, and lay chaplain.

Mad Poet of the Year - Lisa DeVuono

The Mad Poet of the Year blog posts share the poetry of a long-time Mad Poet. This year-long appointment provides readers with a deep dive of the writer’s work and thoughts on poetry. We are thrilled to have Lisa DeVuono serve as the Mad Poet of the Year for 2024.


 
 

Coming to America

I

My grandfather left
half of himself home,
those other parts
still planting
one in a garden
two in a grave
three in grandmother’s womb.

He brought
a mound of dirt with him,
and every place he traveled
he scattered seeds.

II

From the railroad tracks of Utah,
sprang olive trees, twisted testimony
to broken bones. In the textile mills
in Frankford, spewed blood oranges,
hands dyed from lack of air and water.

And in the womb of la Nonna
birthed the legacy of poets:
Ariosto, Alfieri and Dante.

III

I found his wedding ring,
the golden calf
worshipped and melted down.
I wore it secretly
turning it over and over
like my grandmother must have done
to wish him back.


This poem pays homage to the immigrants who came to America to find a better life.  Many endured the Depression Era, and then, as in the case of my father, returned to their homeland as American soldiers fighting on their native soil.

The photo shows my paternal grandmother, and my father reflected in the mirror in the corner as a shadow.  When he was fighting the war in Italy, he took as chance to visit his mother whom he had not seen since he was fifteen years old.  It would be the last time as she passed away not long after the visit. 

Having never met my paternal grandfather, I relied on stories, and images to construct a narrative around men leaving their families behind, often never seeing them again.  For the “lucky” few, they returned to find mothers deceased, sisters married and with children of their own, and a country in ruins, hoping to rebuild and forge something better than the poverty they were born into.

Since I grew up in the 1960s and had the safety of our nuclear and extended Italian-American family,it was hard to imagine leaving behind all that to forge a new life.  And what of the women who were left behind?  And what is a marriage when couples are separated for years on end? And what legacy did our ancestors leave behind?  What contributions did they make?  This poem attempts to capture a snapshot of all that, as well as the longing that everyone feels to return to a home that they only remember but that has changed so much. 

This is the story I inherited. 

Today there are so many immigrant stories to be written, cultures from all over the world still affected by war and poverty, and environmental changes. I am trying to imagine something different for all our descendants, something where they are settling into some new configurations of home and no one is wishing their loved ones back.


Lisa DeVuono is the 2024 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. She was one of the founders of It Ain’t Pretty, a women’s writing collective that performed locally. She produced multi-media shows incorporating song, music, poetry, and dance, including Rumi in Song at the Sedgwick Theater; and Whole Heart Home, and Breaking Open Breaking Free, part of the IceHouse Tonight series in Bethlehem.   

She led creativity and poetry workshops and has worked with teens in recovery and cancer patients. She wrote a peer-based curriculum Poetry as a Tool for Recovery: An Easy-to-Use Guide in Eight Sessions for facilitators working with persons living with mental health challenges.

In addition to the full-length manuscript This Time Roots, Next Time Wings, her poetry has appeared in the Mad Poets Review, Paterson Literary Review and the anthology Grit Gravity & Grace: New Poems about Medicine and Healthcare. She is the author of the chapbook Poems from the Playground of Risk published by Pudding House Press and was the recipient of an honorable mention in Passaic County Community College’s annual Allen Ginsberg Contest.

Recently retired, she has worked as an administrator, librarian, and lay chaplain.

Review of How to Do the Greased Wombat Slide by Pamela Miller

How to Do the Greased Wombat Slide

Unsolicited Press

$16.95

You can purchase a copy here.

Reviewed by Jennifer Schneider


It’s rare to find a work that inspires not only how to live (and write) more courageously, but also how to write (and live) more fully. It’s just as rare to stumble across a work that provokes spontaneous laughter in addition to serious and lengthy reflection. How to Do the Greased Wombat Slide is such a work. It accomplishes all of the above, as it inspires, intrigues, and delights.

The collection is a treasure chest of how-tos and answers to questions readers likely never knew they had. The work celebrates the wisdom often revealed through unexpected wordplay and the perennial power of penned imagination. It invites readers to engage with a collection of curious topics while inspiring engagement beyond the collection’s contents. Even clip art takes on several pages of creative forms.

The work’s language, vivid imagery, and revealed imagination are simultaneously unexpected and endearing. A how-to that extends and expands far beyond any single topic of instruction, the work’s three sections, How to Dance, How to Love, and How to Endure, include lessons on living and reminders of the fragility of life.

The work plucks inspiration from the mundane.

 Examples include:

I was bored with my click-clack factory job
stamping sunbursts on the heads of pins (“Ruthanne Replants Herself”)

A bird in the hand is worth a can of spray-on pants (from “Words to the Unwise “)

How to tie a tie
How to make it in America
How to get a girl to like you (from “How to Waste Time Looking Things Up on the Internet”)

 In its travels through common occupations and ways to occupy time, the collection makes magic through strands of whimsy and wonderment woven out of ordinary terminology.

Consider, for example, The Spaghetti Squash Comes to Visit --

We hadn’t had time to study up on spaghetti squash behavior.
We assumed a vegetable visitor would be fairly sedimentary, but it
kept hopping around like an electric flea.

The collection is equal parts surprising and contemplative, full of plays on words that leave readers to admire the eccentricity of the pen and embrace firm reminders of mortality.

Examples include –

When I die, I’ll carve Remember Me
on a tombstone made of vanishing breath. (from Autobiography Written in Disappearing Ink”)

Don’t you trust me?
Well, it’s no use. I don’t have to make bargains with you. (from “Love Letter to My Favorite Ghost”)

My grandfather’s ghost mows the lawn in tan pants.
A corpse reads the classified ads (from “Snapshots from My Nightmares”)

As Miller plays with phrases and pairs strangers on suddenly synchronous stages, Miller not only dazzles with the unexpected, she encourages readers to reimagine. The work is as much a source of humor as it is a solid contemplation on mortality, morality, and the many ways of making meaning in a world that often defies sensemaking.

The work is also a celebration of poetry, with pieces like What Poetry Is, What I Mean When I Talk About Poetry, and How Love Poems Get Written , and a reminder that, eventually (perhaps ultimately), poetry and mortality intersect :

Once upon a time, you consumed this book;
oblivion spat it back out. When you died,

someone rummaged through your ashes
and found a piece of me, sparking like an ember (from On Learning That One of My Books Was Found Among a Dead Poet’s Possessions)

With themes that span the spectrum of life and loss, the collection conspires as it inspires, and ultimately unites. The work straddles serious topics with playful perusal. It’s as celebratory as it is cerebral. It creates and curates a carnival-like atmosphere of wordplay amidst the seriousness of thought and topic.

No matter one’s mood, the work will surely meet if not exceed expectations. Whether consumed in isolation, sequence, or a series of random formations, as a collection, the pieces provoke reflection as much as they inspire delight in the ordinary. Enjoy!


Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She loves words, experimental poetry, and the change of seasons. She’s also a fan of late nights, crossword puzzles, and compelling underdogs. She has authored several chapbooks and full-length poetry collections, with stories, poems, and essays published in a variety of literary and scholarly journals. Sample works include Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility, A Collection of Recollections, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups. She is currently working on her first series, which (not surprisingly) includes a novel in verse. She is the 2022-2023 Montgomery County PA Poet Laureate.

Local Lyrics - Featuring Jawn Van Jacobs

young, dumb & addicted

by Jawn Van Jacobs

i’m young, dumb & addicted
don’t even try to fix me –
i don’t want an intervention
just give me the next best thing

a coke to meth downgrade
smoking, now injecting –
tomorrow i could fly high
or be listed in the local obituaries

cause each hit is like a rapture
turnin allies to crystal stairs –
i got angels in my vision,
turpentine in my veins

if i live to see morning
by miracle, i’ll fall to my knees –
still young, still dumb, but praying
to one day not know my own face

 

What draws you to poetry? What are your poetic muses?
Poetry, for me, is a natural extension of my love for music. During my teenage years, I found myself drawn to writing lyrics, although singing wasn't my forte. Nevertheless, I was captivated by the power of words and their ability to touch people’s lives. This fascination eventually led me to explore poetry. It's a quiet passion, yet it has the remarkable ability to speak volumes. Life often presents challenges that can tear us apart, but I believe that poetry possesses the unique ability to put people back together.

Many of your poems include working class or counterculture type characters. What draws you to this archetype?
The inclusion of working-class or counterculture characters in many of my poems stems from my own upbringing and life experiences. My childhood was marked by adversity, with both of my parents facing challenges related to disability, addiction, and mental illness. Growing up in such an environment, I realized early on that my experiences were radically different from those of many others. Despite the hardships we faced, I found our life to be intriguing and rich with lessons.

Through my poetry, I aim to shed light on the resilience and complexity of individuals who often go unnoticed or are marginalized by society. I believe that everyone, regardless of their circumstances, possesses inherent worth and is capable of both good and bad. My poems serve as a reminder that a person's socioeconomic status or life struggles do not define their character or diminish their capacity for kindness.

Additionally, I utilize these characters and their narratives as cautionary tales, offering insights into the consequences of certain choices and behaviors. By sharing these perspectives, I hope to provide guidance and inspire reflection on the paths one chooses in life, ultimately striving to encourage others to pursue happiness and fulfillment through positive means.

You mentioned at a recent reading that Bruce Springsteen is one of your influences. Can you tell us a little bit more about how The Boss inspires you?

Bruce Springsteen's influence on my work stems from the raw, unfiltered honesty present in his lyrics. Much like Springsteen, I adopt a "No BS" approach to my poetry, believing that genuine connections can only be forged through authenticity and truthfulness. His ability to capture the essence of everyday struggles and triumphs resonates deeply with me, and I aspire to infuse my own writing with a similar sense of realism and sincerity.

As a fellow Catholic-raised Jersey boy, I feel a strong sense of kinship with The Boss. His portrayal of working-class life and the human experience strikes a chord with me, reflecting aspects of my own background and upbringing. Springsteen's music serves as a source of inspiration and validation, reminding me of the power of storytelling and the importance of staying true to one's roots.

Do you have any particular writing habits? What moves you from all-possible blank page to finished piece?
Consistency is key to my writing process, as I endeavor to write every day, even if it's just a few lines scribbled in a journal. I find that keeping a journal close at hand ensures that I'm ready to capture fleeting moments of inspiration whenever they arise. Additionally, the notes app on my phone serves as a convenient tool for jotting down ideas on the go.

When I encounter writer's block or feel stuck in the creative process, I often seek solace in nature. As Emily Dickinson eloquently put it, "Nature is what we know – yet have not the art to say." Nature has a way of inspiring reflection and introspection, providing the perfect backdrop for observation and contemplation. Whether it's the serene beauty of a forest or the rhythmic crashing of waves by the sea, immersing myself in nature allows me to reconnect with my innermost thoughts and find clarity in my writing. As a poet, I consider myself a professional observer, and nature offers me the tranquil space to observe both the world around me and the depths of my own soul.

Tell us a little bit about your current project!
As an MA in Writing student at Rowan, we must produce a book-length project by the time that we graduate. My project is a poetry collection titled Edge of the Ave, a gritty, lyrical poetic explosion about trying to achieve freedom within the heteronormative, white-picket confines of lower-middle-class small-town suburbia. This collection follows the life and death of the poetic persona Jawn Van Jacobs, an outlaw on the outskirts of suburbia who lives by the mantra of James Dean: live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse. Jawn, more assertive than his creator, says what others are afraid to say about the hard truths of growing up as a boy who likes other boys. While not for the faint of heart, this collection not only celebrates youthful and queer rebellion but also depicts the consequences of when it goes too far, thrusting readers unapologetically into the dark street corners of the Edge of the Ave.

Where can readers find more of your work? Keep up with your writing?
Readers can discover more of my work on my Instagram page, where I share my poetry under the handle @jawnvanjacobs. Additionally, one of my poems titled "the remembering tree" was recently published in Issue 3 of Cool Beans Lit. Keep an eye on my Instagram for updates and new releases!


Jawn Van Jacobs is a spitfire South Jersey poet who lets loose on the page with unapologetic passion. His poetry has appeared in Cool Beans Lit and Beyond Queer Words, where he fearlessly explores the gritty, untamed stories of outlaws and outsiders. Through his work, Jawn sheds light on the lives and viewpoints of those often marginalized by society, painting portraits of the human experience beyond the mainstream.


John Wojtowicz grew up working on his family’s azalea and rhododendron nursery in the backwoods of what Ginsberg dubbed “nowhere Zen New Jersey.” Currently, he works as a licensed clinical social worker and adjunct professor. He has been featured on Rowan University’s Writer’s Roundtable on 89.7 WGLS-FM and several of his poems were chosen to be exhibited in Princeton University's 2021 Unique Minds: Creative Voices art show at the Lewis Center for the Arts. He has been nominated 3x for a Pushcart Prize and serves as the Local Lyrics contributor for The Mad Poets Society Blog. His debut chapbook Roadside Oddities: A Poetic Guide to American Oddities was released in early 2022 and can be purchased at www.johnwojtowicz.com. John lives with his wife and two children in Upper Deerfield, NJ.

Review of Show Tunes by Joe Roarty

Show Tunes

Iniquity Press/Vendetta Books

$10.00

You can purchase your copy here.

Reviewed by Sean Hanrahan

Anyone who has seen local legend, Joe Roarty, perform at Fergie’s Pub or other venues around Philadelphia knows to expect poetry that is original, explosive, humorous, and, literally, percussive. For the uninitiated, Roarty performs his poems accompanied by a hand drum, which accentuates the incantatory, effect of his at turns celebratory, satiric, lyric, and rant-fueled poems. Roarty is like no other poet on the local scene, and I, for one, was excited to dive into his latest collection, Showtunes.

One poem that stood out to me is titled “aftr my father dies i go 2 applebees.” It may because, personal disclosure, I hate Applebees and have a negative dining experience of eating there after my grandmother’s funeral. Back to this funny and heartbreaking poem. He sums up the tastes of his deceased father with the propulsive lines:

applebees is n th suburbs
& my fathr was a man of th suburbs
mainly
he liked 2 drink thr
he liked wine
& he wasn’t particular
so applebees was perfct

Even while writing this suburban ode to his father, Roarty introduces (in true bohemian deadpan style) a sociopolitical comment: “i red where applebees treats thr mployees badly/so its not a place I normally go 2.” As he mourns his father, he comes to the realization that Applebees are around

where nothing has 2 add up
& u can sit n a booth
& drink & cry if u want 2
nobody minds if you pay yr bill
tip th waitress
& only hav a short drive home

The political resurfaces throughout Roarty’s work, and it does so poignantly in “america u drive a hard bargn.” He begins this assessment of modern America life with the breathlessly perfect lines:

america u drive a hard bargn
u drive a fast car
everyone pays 2 b who they r
2 gt wher they want 2 go
th only law is don’t go slow

This poem continues to discuss capitalism: “america u drive a hard bargn/th sales pitch/the bait & switch.” It even echoes Thelma and Louise, or at least to this cineaste’s mind, “i was driving a fast car but i wasn’t getting anywhere…i was yelling nto th grand canyon/my voice came bak like i was trying 2 sell myself something.” He ends this travelogue diatribe aptly comparing america (lowercase deliberate) to a “usd car lot.” Now, imagine this poem with percussion!

One of the poems in which I believe Roarty’s rhythmic and sonic effects mirror the intensity of his live performances most clearly is “watt yr gtting nto.”

hit by a wave
drivn down
sand rasping
salt stinging
ears crashing 
th tip
of an uncontrollabl force
carelessly nokking u down

In the end the poem is about love and loss with the aching force of the stanza:

u don’t wanna
nd up
lft on th shore
watching yr lovr sail away

We learn how Roarty first learned to love the drum that features so singularly during his readings in the poem, “wagon train:”

sometimes i wd go ovr 2 ricky’s hous
we wd go down 2 th basement
that’s where his fathr’s drum kit was
& if u touchd it it let out
this sound
like a pistl shot or a door cracking opn

Unfortunately for Roarty’s childhood friend, Ricky, drum practice conflicted with the airing of Wagon Train. Ricky’s father was a drummer before he became a salesman, and there is the intimation Ricky may face the same fate when he grows up. As the adventures of Wagon Train fade in Ricky’s earnest attempts to become a drummer, he, like a fairy tale dragon or baddie in a Western, hoards the musical magic for himself:

he wanted 2 play th drums
but he cd only touch
those gleaming drums…
so wn i
ntranced by thr harsh geometry
touched th snare
& its acidic xplosiv tone
a pistl shot
filld th basement
ricky told me
no

And thus, an iconoclast was born!

Showtunes is a marvelous collection encasing Roarty’s unique style. He channels the Beats without parodying them. When I read or hear his work, I am transported to the fifties/sixties as well as today. He is humorous, sly, political. He muses on the difficult, the strange, the overlooked. He brings to mind the Beat poets or the poète Maudite like Rimbaud or Villon. Buy Showtunes and surrender to its percussive insight and beauty!

Sean Hanrahan is a Philadelphian poet originally hailing from Dale City, Virginia. He is the author of the full-length collection Safer Behind Popcorn (2019 Cajun Mutt Press) and the chapbooks Hardened Eyes on the Scan (2018 Moonstone Press) and Gay Cake (2020 Toho). His work has also been included in several anthologies, including Moonstone Featured Poets, Queer Around the World, and Stonewall’s Legacy, and several journals, including Impossible Archetype, Mobius, Peculiar, Poetica Review, and Voicemail Poems. He has taught classes titled A Chapbook in 49 Days and Ekphrastic Poetry and hosted poetry events throughout Philadelphia.

Ekphrasis: Poems and Art

Ekphrasis: Poems and Art

Image Credit: Cathleen Cohen

Welcome to a new Mad Poets blog, to be offered quarterly.  

It’s a pleasure to write about the relationship between poetry and other art forms, to examine ways that a various creative arts relate to each other.

The term ekphrasis can be defined narrowly as writing that describes a work of art in another medium-- paintings, music, photography sculpture and the like.  It can also refer more broadly to the alchemy that happens when one medium tries to define and relate to another. This could refer to poems inspired by the visual arts or music -- and also the reverse! To my mind, ekphrasis can also encompass hybrid works, like artists’ books, author/illustrator collaborations and graphic poems.

Many scholars have written about ekphrasis and there are great resources online. Though not scholar of the topic, I have had a practice of writing poetry and painting for many years. Both are essential to my creative life. These art forms interact, challenge each other and open up many questions and tensions.

My aim in this blog is to feature the work of various poets and artists, to let you know of interesting viewing opportunities and to provide some angles that might prompt your own writing.


Enoch the Poet – Shaping the Visual


From Immortal Dark, Black Minds Publishing, 2020

Enoch the Poet (James Church) is a talented poet, publisher, and trauma-informed educator whose approach to using visual art and poetry is only one of his many accomplishments. Speaking with him has expanded my understanding of what ekphrasis can accomplish. Not only does Enoch use multiple art forms himself, he collaborates with other creatives. Perhaps most significantly, he is providing a platform to inspire and share the work of other poets, artists and musicians.

As Founder and Executive Director of Black Mind Publishing, Enoch is a force for social change, giving “visibility to raw artistic works, both literary and visual, that center on the healing process of the Black mind, body and spirit.” (https://www.blackmindspublishing.com/)  Several of their publications incorporate images and text through mangas, including Enoch’s own manga series, Immortal Dark. He has also authored two collections of poems, The Guide to Drowning (2017) and Burned At the Roots (2020).

Enoch’s early focus was not poetry, but animation. As a young student he was a “comic book lover and nerd”, a visual artist who considered digital arts college. His middle school in Wilmington was violent, where students experienced much bullying and fighting. But Enoch’s poetry chapbook project in 8th grade honors English class provided a way for other students to open up to him. He shifted his trajectory into poetry, rapping and music, since these provided connectivity and community. After much experience performing spoken word, Enoch won the title of Philadelphia Fuze Grand Slam Champion in 2017 and he placed well in the Individual World Poetry Slam in Spokane, Washington.

 A Seizure Is What Happens When God Enters A Human Body

by Enoch the Poet

after Osimiri Sprowal

My mother catches the spirit for
the second time this week. The first
time was in the upstairs hallway. This
time, God finds her in the bathroom,
stretched out on a crucifix of pearl
linoleum, hands and feet shaking to
tear herself away from the cross.
Grandma used to say God spoke
through thunder and I think I can
hear him in the clapping of momma
skull against the bathroom tile and oh
how God-like that is, to speak to my family
in a language we can never understand
but always feel the pain of. Possession is
not only a demonic practice ‘cuz God has
made a new home in my momma. She
catches the spirit for the third time this week, this time, God finds her on the living room floor stretched out on a carpet the color of his sons blood, a red sea, hands and feet shaking to wade through the waters, to stroke herself to freedom. Grandma used to say God exist outside of space and time and I think he been tryna’ take my momma there. They say Jesus rose on the third day and I think on this third day of seizures I can see his resurrection in the space between momma bouncing limbs and the ground. Her mouth opens and angel wings burst from her throat. We anchor her body down and they fly away with her voice. On this third day, my mother rose with only part of herself. She goes to speak and vacancy spills over her lips. God plays abusive father in my household, bringer of blessings who is still able to shake the voice out of my momma at will and everyone around me will tell me
not to curse him because he means
well and everyone around me will
tell me this is her doing and everyone
around me will tell me to thank him
that she’s still alive when he brought
this sacred illness to her in the first
place. Grandma say you got to learn
to see the blessings in everything. My
mother regained consciousness without
a voice and I spent the next 2 hours of
the night teaching her how to speak again.
When I think back on this night I picture my
mother flying full speed after her angels.
I imagine them playful and her desperate.
I imagine a dogfight of spirits where my
momma pries the rest of herself out
of their grip and reclaims herself and
she returns to herself and when I point
to me and sound emerges from her mouth
I imagine she created her own blessing.
I imagine she is God now.

https://www.rigorous-mag.com/v3i1/enoch-the-poet.html

Currently, Enoch devotes much time to creative projects that support social growth and change. I have seen him thrive as a teaching artist who advanced into the role of Program Director at Philadelphia’s Artwell, which supports youth and their communities through creative expression, poetry and other art forms (https://www.theartwell.org/). His experience and innovations bring much to our community.

https://www.instagram.com/immortaldarkmanga/              Artwork by Susana Vieira

Going forward, Enoch’s creative ideas expand the possibilities of ekphrastic projects. He is working on a new poetry manuscript, which involves “shaping of the visual”. This will include access to videos with visuals and instrumentation. He will continue to collaborate with international manga artists, (as he’s doing now through Black Minds Publishing). He speaks of further engagement with themes of generational trauma, family dynamics, and how to facilitate the healing process in oneself. He shares that he will continue to explore “how many different forms poetry can exist in. Learning poetry teaches great skills and is a great foundation to learning how to create in general.”

Here are some links to learn more about Enoch’s talent and leadership:

https://www.facebook.com/EnochThePoet/

https://www.instagram.com/enochthepoet/

https://www.blackmindspublishing.com/

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UM9A6B--8yQ

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JIjguP4MxfY

 https://www.theartwell.org/enochthepoet


Cathleen Cohen was the 2019 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County, PA. A painter and teacher, she founded the We the Poets program at ArtWell, an arts education non-profit in Philadelphia (www.theartwell.org). Her poems appear in journals such as Apiary, Baltimore Review, Cagibi, East Coast Ink, 6ix, North of Oxford, One Art, Passager, Philadelphia Stories, Rockvale Review and Rogue Agent. Camera Obscura (chapbook, Moonstone Press), appeared in 2017 and Etching the Ghost (Atmosphere Press), was published in 2021. She received the Interfaith Relations Award from the Montgomery County PA Human Rights Commission and the Public Service Award from National Association of Poetry Therapy. Her paintings are on view at Cerulean Arts Gallery. To learn more about her work, visit www.cathleencohenart.com.


Mad Poet of the Year - Lisa DeVuono

The Mad Poet of the Year blog posts share the poetry of a long-time Mad Poet. This year-long appointment provides readers with a deep dive of the writer’s work and thoughts on poetry. We are thrilled to have Lisa DeVuono serve as the Mad Poet of the Year for 2024.


 
 

Mothers of Frontenac Street

wake before anyone else stops dreaming
the web that forms is their sleep in your eyes

they worry the day into being
their love is the dust settling on every sill

they hang laundry on Mondays in the shared alleys
ripped up by the sons and daughters

who drink beer, shoot caps, make out,
disappear into war, and drown in boats that die at sea

the mothers of Frontenac Street have buried their lives
in the basement of sorrow cemented with joy

their faces forever fixed in stone
years from now, those who live in these houses

will hear a ghost of voices
calling their children home


As Mother’s Day approaches, I am listening to David Darling’s music in particular his composition, “Remembering Our Mothers.”  It’s a haunting piece and the two prints above were created as an intuitive response to his work. For this posting, I am coupling them with my poem “Mothers of Frontenac Street.”

I grew up in Oxford Circle in Northeast Philadelphia. There were lots of children to play with on Frontenac Street and the better part of our years was spent in each other’s homes under the watchful eyes of our mothers. 

In this poem I was attempting to capture how mothers were part of the everyday fabric of our lives.  They wore many hats: disciplinarians, breadwinners, caregivers. At day’s end with all they had to juggle, I wonder if they ever had a good night’s sleep.

They helped us to celebrate the joys and to weather the tragedies of those times.

The poem has a dreamlike quality, as I wanted to convey how they imbued everything from the daily tasks of doing laundry to the cracks in the walls to the sounds of their voices to the heartbreak of what it means to bear children and to let them go.

Even though most of the original neighbors have long passed on, I believe that their spirits linger in those row homes and saying their names here echo like a childhood lullaby: Katella, O’Riordan, Epstein, McCarty, Flynn, Friel, Higgins, Pickens, Cummings, DeVuono.


Lisa DeVuono is the 2024 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. She was one of the founders of It Ain’t Pretty, a women’s writing collective that performed locally. She produced multi-media shows incorporating song, music, poetry, and dance, including Rumi in Song at the Sedgwick Theater; and Whole Heart Home, and Breaking Open Breaking Free, part of the IceHouse Tonight series in Bethlehem.   

She led creativity and poetry workshops and has worked with teens in recovery and cancer patients. She wrote a peer-based curriculum Poetry as a Tool for Recovery: An Easy-to-Use Guide in Eight Sessions for facilitators working with persons living with mental health challenges.

In addition to the full-length manuscript This Time Roots, Next Time Wings, her poetry has appeared in the Mad Poets Review, Paterson Literary Review and the anthology Grit Gravity & Grace: New Poems about Medicine and Healthcare. She is the author of the chapbook Poems from the Playground of Risk published by Pudding House Press and was the recipient of an honorable mention in Passaic County Community College’s annual Allen Ginsberg Contest.

Recently retired, she has worked as an administrator, librarian, and lay chaplain.

Mad Poet of the Year - Lisa DeVuono

The Mad Poet of the Year blog posts share the poetry of a long-time Mad Poet. This year-long appointment provides readers with a deep dive of the writer’s work and thoughts on poetry. We are thrilled to have Lisa DeVuono serve as the Mad Poet of the Year for 2024.


 
 

Poetry Magnets

There’s a feast waiting to happen
on the outside
of my refrigerator.

For months
words cling like mouths from famine
waiting for me to transform
bread into body, water into wine
to mix nouns and verbs,
a dash of adjective, pinch of comma,
create a whole new recipe
of witticisms.

The miracle occurs without me.

Words fall off demagnetized
and slip into every crack
under floors and walls
into closets and bedclothes
among clutter and noisemaking.

I wash my face and they fall from faucets.
I drive my car and they sing on radios.
I go to work and they tumble from wallets.
I hand over whole sentences
for the paying of lunch.

It’s my body, it’s my soul.
We feed with poems
and the feast we put on
is not the Last Supper, but the First


April’s poem “Poetry Magnets” celebrates National Poetry Month and initiates my yearlong blog postings of poems and commentary as the new Mad Poet of the Year.  Thrilled to be sharing with all of you.

 

The origin of this poem goes back twenty years. My office was the standard issue cubicle so to personalize it, I installed magnetic words on the outside metal walls. Within a few days, colleagues would stop by to ask a question and then pause quizzically, eventually staying long enough to shuffle words around and to form a clever sentence or haiku.  Soon there were enough poems to submit to the company newsletter, and now employees from outside of my department stopped to introduce themselves and craft a poem. A real poetry rave.

 

Later when I moved on to another job and packed up my office, I noticed that many magnetic words had slipped onto the carpet, behind my bookcase, and I even found some in my desk drawers! Me thinks, I smell a poem.  Thus the birth of the line “Words fall off demagnetized and slip into every crack under floors and walls,” and from there, the poem practically wrote itself.

These days, I see poems everywhere. In her poem “Valentine for Ernest Mann,” Naomi Shihab Nye invites us to do the same with her words, She advises, “Check your garage, the odd sock in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite. And let me know.”

Where do your poems live?


Lisa DeVuono is the 2024 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. She was one of the founders of It Ain’t Pretty, a women’s writing collective that performed locally. She produced multi-media shows incorporating song, music, poetry, and dance, including Rumi in Song at the Sedgwick Theater; and Whole Heart Home, and Breaking Open Breaking Free, part of the IceHouse Tonight series in Bethlehem.   

She led creativity and poetry workshops and has worked with teens in recovery and cancer patients. She wrote a peer-based curriculum Poetry as a Tool for Recovery: An Easy-to-Use Guide in Eight Sessions for facilitators working with persons living with mental health challenges.

In addition to the full-length manuscript This Time Roots, Next Time Wings, her poetry has appeared in the Mad Poets Review, Paterson Literary Review and the anthology Grit Gravity & Grace: New Poems about Medicine and Healthcare. She is the author of the chapbook Poems from the Playground of Risk published by Pudding House Press and was the recipient of an honorable mention in Passaic County Community College’s annual Allen Ginsberg Contest.

Recently retired, she has worked as an administrator, librarian and lay chaplain.