Welcome Back tells the current story of poets previously published by Tiger's Eye Press.
Nothing is more satisfying than hearing about the further accomplishments of our poets.
Nothing is more satisfying than hearing about the further accomplishments of our poets.
Modesto Junior College Professor Sam Pierstorff once said: “You cannot call yourself a poet until you have had at least five hundred poems printed.” So I began to count.
All of my life I have worked at writing, dreamed of being another Shirley Jackson. Had no success with short stories, written as I carried on with real life. Poetry was a side-note. Time passed! Boy, did it pass! Many moves, three children . . . work.
Retirement found us moved to a new town, my eldest son gave me his old Apple computer and encouraged me to start writing again. Now, twenty-three years later, I am a poet! Yes, Sam, really! I found my niche, and a wonderful community of poets in the Central Valley. I am lucky to have been widely-published and appreciated to the number now of 891 poems published plus 50 awards of various natures. My life is so full because of all the wonderful people this has given me! And for twenty years I have been an editor of Song of the San Joaquin, a quarterly poetry journal for the valley. What more could a writer ask?
Tiger’s Eye was one of my favorite journals and I was so honored to be published therein. If I may, I would like to re-visit some of my special pieces.
Cleo Griffith, Salida, California
Time Warp
Even though my heart prepared to drop
scientists would say it couldn’t be.
Tense the seconds, time had seemed to stop.
Time, they argue, is, ‘though not to see,
love cannot make worlds to spin or stay,
scientists would say it couldn’t be
space and time are wild and swirl away,
you could not believe our complex test,
love cannot make worlds to spin or stay.
Scientists must fail me at their best:
time stood still, no answer will suffice,
we are quite beyond their complex test.
Worlds are made of more than sky and ice,
minutes can and always will be bent.
Time stood still, no answer will suffice ¾
I will claim your eyes as proof of this
as we meet and my heart seems to drop.
Minutes can and always will be bent ¾
tense the seconds, time has seemed to stop.
Tiger’s Eye 2008
The Devil If There Is One
The devil, if there is one,
appears at dawn, smoky hair flying,
hands full of memories, my memories.
She says they are indelible.
I long to believe her
but my yesterdays are liquid.
Soon there will be nothing of me.
That would be acceptable,
but, then -- she brings me
sly hints that things
might be better -- or worse --
than the deeper sleep,
that had I been different, nicer,
there might have been a sweet white place
but now, probably there will be
the red-coal place,
and wouldn’t either be better than nothing?
If I will just believe her,
touch this red-hot coal against my soul –
(soul, are you real, will you feel the burn?)
- if I will believe her
she will dance forever with me
in the sin-fed flames
and kiss me with her hot hard morning mouth.
Tiger’s Eye Blog October 2011
The Book of a Thousand Silences
(For Tom)
We are witness to a thousand silences,
heir to a thousand breakings.
Our impending night has no phrase
in this new vocabulary,
the flavor of morning has no syllable.
Even in our embrace,
we remain an arms-length away from
translating these unexpected new pages
where there is no noun
where there is no need for one.
Each hour of liquid memory slips beyond
the dimension in which we speak
toward final silence.
Tiger’s Eye, Spring 2009
After you left the burning field
loco-weed shot up from
scorched earth,
after the fire-storm,
going wild, growing wild,
nothing should grow here
but moonflower does not know,
springs up and opens
big as plates, all white
surrounded by huge leaves
as green and healthy
as any springtime child.
Growing, going wild,
crazy locoweed.
Tiger’s Eye, July, 2014
Dressed For Fire
Dressed for fire, low along the ground,
I wait for air to lift me,
puff sleeves into the scarlet wings I desire,
shoes into mercurial sleekness.
My breath steams against coolness
as I ride upon air, ride within air,
become air, high,
then low along the ground.
Our life cycle, air and fire, fire and air,
I am dressed for fire, my love,
I am dressed for you.
Tiger’s Eye Blog, October, 2011
Elizabeth and the Trees
She mastered the steep driveway
as she mastered the complications
of a multi-level home. If not comfortable
at least in control. She no longer worries
that she will lose herself within the inner
borders of so many rooms. She thinks,
plans each step, each turn. Open corners
and closed closets are equally familiar,
her windows draped or not at her will.
Outside, trees topple, disappear.
She understands: that is not her domain.
Tiger’s Eye, July 2014
Wrap Her in a Doll Dress
wrap her in a doll dress
a tiny pink and white dress
something that will fit around
her miniature baby bones
let me find the right lace
the delicate and fine lace
to lay against the palest skin
and fine black hair
here’s a doll with eyes of blue,
not like my baby’s dark eyes closed
the very size of dress I need
with fabric that I like
born too soon, and quiet sooner
tiny hands won’t grasp my finger
thin arms will lie still while we
slip the pink dress over her
my daughter’s dressed
the first and last time
I hold the cold hard naked doll
against my empty stomach
Tiger’s Eye 2012
Third Place, NLAPW Marion Doyle Award, 2016
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Still Laura LeHew continues.
In September of 2021 I was surprised and honored to be the recipient of the Ruth A. Banta Award, which honors an individual or group that has made a significant contribution to Oregon poetry and to the Oregon Poetry Association’s (OPA’s) mission.
My book Dear John-- (The Poetry Box) is a collection of poems that investigate and explore the multi-facets of love by using diverse points of view to reveal romantic love, loving friendships, and love that is complicated. The namesake poem for which this book was conceived, the final poem, “Dear John—,” is an epistolary poem in multiple stanzas ultimately on which the theme of this book is derived “what happens between the notes // is the living.” Released 11/15/2021.
My 7th book Let Widows Be Widows (Unsolicited Press) is an elegiac collection of poetry. Using diverse points of view, Widows illuminates our various states of loss, hope, love and mourning we experience with death. This book is not a lament but rather an exploration on how we overcome grief. Released 3/15/2022.
Uttered Chaos, my small press, has been on hiatus since the pandemic but the shake of the 8 ball points to revival.
lauralehew.com
utteredchaos.org
All of my life I have worked at writing, dreamed of being another Shirley Jackson. Had no success with short stories, written as I carried on with real life. Poetry was a side-note. Time passed! Boy, did it pass! Many moves, three children . . . work.
Retirement found us moved to a new town, my eldest son gave me his old Apple computer and encouraged me to start writing again. Now, twenty-three years later, I am a poet! Yes, Sam, really! I found my niche, and a wonderful community of poets in the Central Valley. I am lucky to have been widely-published and appreciated to the number now of 891 poems published plus 50 awards of various natures. My life is so full because of all the wonderful people this has given me! And for twenty years I have been an editor of Song of the San Joaquin, a quarterly poetry journal for the valley. What more could a writer ask?
Tiger’s Eye was one of my favorite journals and I was so honored to be published therein. If I may, I would like to re-visit some of my special pieces.
Cleo Griffith, Salida, California
Time Warp
Even though my heart prepared to drop
scientists would say it couldn’t be.
Tense the seconds, time had seemed to stop.
Time, they argue, is, ‘though not to see,
love cannot make worlds to spin or stay,
scientists would say it couldn’t be
space and time are wild and swirl away,
you could not believe our complex test,
love cannot make worlds to spin or stay.
Scientists must fail me at their best:
time stood still, no answer will suffice,
we are quite beyond their complex test.
Worlds are made of more than sky and ice,
minutes can and always will be bent.
Time stood still, no answer will suffice ¾
I will claim your eyes as proof of this
as we meet and my heart seems to drop.
Minutes can and always will be bent ¾
tense the seconds, time has seemed to stop.
Tiger’s Eye 2008
The Devil If There Is One
The devil, if there is one,
appears at dawn, smoky hair flying,
hands full of memories, my memories.
She says they are indelible.
I long to believe her
but my yesterdays are liquid.
Soon there will be nothing of me.
That would be acceptable,
but, then -- she brings me
sly hints that things
might be better -- or worse --
than the deeper sleep,
that had I been different, nicer,
there might have been a sweet white place
but now, probably there will be
the red-coal place,
and wouldn’t either be better than nothing?
If I will just believe her,
touch this red-hot coal against my soul –
(soul, are you real, will you feel the burn?)
- if I will believe her
she will dance forever with me
in the sin-fed flames
and kiss me with her hot hard morning mouth.
Tiger’s Eye Blog October 2011
The Book of a Thousand Silences
(For Tom)
We are witness to a thousand silences,
heir to a thousand breakings.
Our impending night has no phrase
in this new vocabulary,
the flavor of morning has no syllable.
Even in our embrace,
we remain an arms-length away from
translating these unexpected new pages
where there is no noun
where there is no need for one.
Each hour of liquid memory slips beyond
the dimension in which we speak
toward final silence.
Tiger’s Eye, Spring 2009
After you left the burning field
loco-weed shot up from
scorched earth,
after the fire-storm,
going wild, growing wild,
nothing should grow here
but moonflower does not know,
springs up and opens
big as plates, all white
surrounded by huge leaves
as green and healthy
as any springtime child.
Growing, going wild,
crazy locoweed.
Tiger’s Eye, July, 2014
Dressed For Fire
Dressed for fire, low along the ground,
I wait for air to lift me,
puff sleeves into the scarlet wings I desire,
shoes into mercurial sleekness.
My breath steams against coolness
as I ride upon air, ride within air,
become air, high,
then low along the ground.
Our life cycle, air and fire, fire and air,
I am dressed for fire, my love,
I am dressed for you.
Tiger’s Eye Blog, October, 2011
Elizabeth and the Trees
She mastered the steep driveway
as she mastered the complications
of a multi-level home. If not comfortable
at least in control. She no longer worries
that she will lose herself within the inner
borders of so many rooms. She thinks,
plans each step, each turn. Open corners
and closed closets are equally familiar,
her windows draped or not at her will.
Outside, trees topple, disappear.
She understands: that is not her domain.
Tiger’s Eye, July 2014
Wrap Her in a Doll Dress
wrap her in a doll dress
a tiny pink and white dress
something that will fit around
her miniature baby bones
let me find the right lace
the delicate and fine lace
to lay against the palest skin
and fine black hair
here’s a doll with eyes of blue,
not like my baby’s dark eyes closed
the very size of dress I need
with fabric that I like
born too soon, and quiet sooner
tiny hands won’t grasp my finger
thin arms will lie still while we
slip the pink dress over her
my daughter’s dressed
the first and last time
I hold the cold hard naked doll
against my empty stomach
Tiger’s Eye 2012
Third Place, NLAPW Marion Doyle Award, 2016
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Still Laura LeHew continues.
In September of 2021 I was surprised and honored to be the recipient of the Ruth A. Banta Award, which honors an individual or group that has made a significant contribution to Oregon poetry and to the Oregon Poetry Association’s (OPA’s) mission.
My book Dear John-- (The Poetry Box) is a collection of poems that investigate and explore the multi-facets of love by using diverse points of view to reveal romantic love, loving friendships, and love that is complicated. The namesake poem for which this book was conceived, the final poem, “Dear John—,” is an epistolary poem in multiple stanzas ultimately on which the theme of this book is derived “what happens between the notes // is the living.” Released 11/15/2021.
My 7th book Let Widows Be Widows (Unsolicited Press) is an elegiac collection of poetry. Using diverse points of view, Widows illuminates our various states of loss, hope, love and mourning we experience with death. This book is not a lament but rather an exploration on how we overcome grief. Released 3/15/2022.
Uttered Chaos, my small press, has been on hiatus since the pandemic but the shake of the 8 ball points to revival.
lauralehew.com
utteredchaos.org
from Dear John--
Thermals
I was going to tell you the green herons have come back,
three of them camouflaged by sedges, shrubs & rushes
I was going to tell you a blue heron loped across the delta, how I slowed
to the long deep strokes—wings nearly dipping—nearly dipping—nearly
how it gracefully landed alongside a great white egret, how the egret was poised
attentive to the fish barely breaking the surface
I was going to tell you the ducklings had survived
that an American copper butterfly buzzed me
that a grebe bowed its tufted head, preening in the July sun
& western pond turtles napped on logs or stretched their necks skyward but
you were still so angry I wrapped myself in a frost
& told you all was well
Time Running Out Is a Gift
Venus shimmering above
the waning crescent moon
at sunrise the sky breaks into pinks
lavender just ready for harvest
scents the air
yesterday along the path
Anna’s hummingbird hovered
just above your head--
wings whistling whirring
holding you in time
clarifying
your heart
"Time Running Out Is a Gift.” The title is from the song, “If We Were Vampires,” Jason Isbell and The 400 Unit.
Thermals
I was going to tell you the green herons have come back,
three of them camouflaged by sedges, shrubs & rushes
I was going to tell you a blue heron loped across the delta, how I slowed
to the long deep strokes—wings nearly dipping—nearly dipping—nearly
how it gracefully landed alongside a great white egret, how the egret was poised
attentive to the fish barely breaking the surface
I was going to tell you the ducklings had survived
that an American copper butterfly buzzed me
that a grebe bowed its tufted head, preening in the July sun
& western pond turtles napped on logs or stretched their necks skyward but
you were still so angry I wrapped myself in a frost
& told you all was well
Time Running Out Is a Gift
Venus shimmering above
the waning crescent moon
at sunrise the sky breaks into pinks
lavender just ready for harvest
scents the air
yesterday along the path
Anna’s hummingbird hovered
just above your head--
wings whistling whirring
holding you in time
clarifying
your heart
"Time Running Out Is a Gift.” The title is from the song, “If We Were Vampires,” Jason Isbell and The 400 Unit.
from Let Widows Be Widows--
TRINITY
because words were left unsaid
& other words inked & inked & always
deleted
because dissipating rain etches
black ice & other treacherous
circumstances
the husband working late into the night
the wife on the couch, shopping
QVC
body without purpose
the husband contemplating dissolution,
a lover, settles into drink
body without dreams
the wife defiant trying & trying not
to surrender
among the alder wild trillium
overrun the path, overtake the
hillside
nobody should
bury a child
also from Let Widows Be Widows--
hospice
a flight attendant announces
the door is closing
TRINITY
because words were left unsaid
& other words inked & inked & always
deleted
because dissipating rain etches
black ice & other treacherous
circumstances
the husband working late into the night
the wife on the couch, shopping
QVC
body without purpose
the husband contemplating dissolution,
a lover, settles into drink
body without dreams
the wife defiant trying & trying not
to surrender
among the alder wild trillium
overrun the path, overtake the
hillside
nobody should
bury a child
also from Let Widows Be Widows--
hospice
a flight attendant announces
the door is closing
Tiger's Eye Press published LeHew's chapbooks, Beauty and Buyer's Remorse
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poetry Lesson with Betsey Cullen
Poetry Lesson
Read each poem. Once silently, once aloud and a third time silently. If you don’t get it, forget it. Thus John Snyder, retired literature professor from CCNY, tells our class at the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Delaware. John’s class, Good Poems for Hard Times, looks at selected poems from Garrison Keillor’s anthology.
My husband Neil and I have carried poetry phobia backpacks since middle school, and take this class to lay them down. Older learners, we dutifully read five poems assigned each week and vie with others to add our two cents during class discussions. So many hands!
One poem, Wedding Poem For Schele and Phil, by Bill Holm, changes my life. At our kitchen table, Neil and I read aloud: A marriage is a risky business and resonate with Bill’s dark secrets of the long married:
The hand set quietly on the other’s flank
that carries news from another world
lightyears away from the one inside
that you always thought you inhabited alone.
The heat in that hand could melt a stone.
We both burst into tears.
And isn’t this what poetry does? Carries news from another world . . . you always thought you inhabited alone?
Not long after, I awake with my first poem.
Betsey Cullen
betseycullen@me.com
Three Poems:
On the Railway Bridge
find the kind of wind
you throw caution to,
a girl in a dream haze
posed on a forbidden span,
her mother’s warnings
faraway whistles.
Consider her track
as balance beam,
bridge
as life-sized Erector Set –
a frame
for her escape.
In her pocket find
a wafer-thin
Indian Head Nickle,
long ago leveled
by rolling wheel.
Such a thin veil
between dreams
and danger. Still
she returns, evades
oncoming trains,
dances around
the third rail.
Winner, Creative York Writer’s Eye Competition, 2021
Inspired by “Daydreamer”
as photographed by Leigh Reeder
play me
like Wynton
plays his horn
syn-
co-pate
me
anoint
my core
make
my lips
a riff
for your tongue
if souls
hum songs
you are
The Water is Wide
my lap
of quiet ripples
an
augmented
seventh
my bluesy
trill
after all these years
you know me
by heart
play me
Prize Poems, 2022 (Pennsylvania Poetry Society)
At a Home in Hanoi – August, 2020
By nose we travelers drift
to the kitchen. Tran Mai, roughly
our age, lures us into orbit
around the pho pot, centripetal –
onions, beef bones browned, baked,
bursting with marrow, stock laden
with fresh ginger, Thai basil, hoisin sauce --
a shock of steam, rice noodles
like a rhumba of rattlers poised to slither
into our bowls. We eat, our sighs
a shared language of slurp.
Tran smiles.
Speak to them, her sons coax.
Tell them. We will translate.
Her words, soft with Asian lilt,
set out a new stew, vintage 1969.
We, former enemies, fall into
her story, quake
as thunderous B-52s raid
her northern village.
Fragments flash like old news reels –
shards of trees, a deluge
of bombs every fifteen minutes.
Napalmed bones snap, marrow flows.
Snaking through mine fields, we
imagine our own pilots, foe
above the clouds. In her grasp,
we Americans face our own
reckoning— blood shed
on enemy soil. Her soil.
Trans’ words expose my shame,
leftovers from the sixties,
years when I took to the streets,
shunned Stars and Stripes.
But now, this soup and this story
shimmer like marrow bones
primed for the pot, a recipe
for forgiveness.
Published in Quartet Journal, 2021
Tiger's Eye Press published Cullen's chapbook, Our Place in Line
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Diana Woodcock has continued to write poetry about the Arctic Circle and climate change since the release of Near the Arctic Circle (Infinities series) in 2018. Tread Softly was released in 2018 (FutureCycle Press). Most recently, her fourth full-length poetry collection, Facing Aridity, was published by Homebound Publications as a finalist for the 2020 Prism Prize for Climate Literature. Forthcoming is Holy Sparks (2020 Paraclete Press Poetry Award finalist) and Reverent Flora: The Arabian Desert’s Botanical Bounty. In June, she’ll be heading back to Alaska to continue her research for a poetry manuscript/work in progress that was begun during her first visit to Alaska in 2012, when she was awarded a writer’s residency in Misty Fiords (Voices of the Wilderness, Alaska U.S. Forest Service).
SVALBARD GLOBAL SEED VAULT
Outside Longyearbyen, eight hundred
miles from the North Pole, scientists,
counting and envisioning the cost
of past and future disasters – even
Syria’s civil war – Aleppo’s seed bank
destroyed by bombing 2015 –
have tucked into a mountainside,
ensured in permafrost, ample space
for four and a half billion critical
crop seeds worldwide. If the worst
should happen, this backup collection
will safeguard vegetation.
Or is it all mere speculation –
no place feasible but the hereafter.
But how to disentangle ourselves
from earthly (Arctic) time and space?
Standing in front of the entrance
to the doomsday seed vault –
something about it putting a halt
to doubt – I began envisioning
what the seeds are all about.
Was it too late to practice faith?
Dalal from Kuwait had brought
seeds from her desert home,
assuming she could contribute
them right there and then.
Tottering on the threshold
of before and after, I prayed
for faith as small as that biblical
mustard seed. Immerse myself,
I coaxed, in the hope of seeds,
that someday planted,
they can reverse the damage.
Feeling a thirst for roots,
recalling the burning bush –
how thorns and thistles are not
the earth’s original natural fruit –
I wished upon a seed deposited
just then in the scat of that snow
bunting warbling and hunting
insects beside the mountain stream
flowing past the global seed vault,
toward the sea, under the midnight sun.
Note: In 2015, the first withdrawal was made by researchers in Syria after their
seedbank in Aleppo was destroyed by bombing. Those seeds have since been sent
to Morocco and Lebanon, where they'll be planted and used to research how to
grow crops in the arid region.
Facing Aridity, 2021; Raw Art Review, Winter 2020; Beltway Poetry Quarterly
Pushcart Prize nomination
SVALBARD GLOBAL SEED VAULT
Outside Longyearbyen, eight hundred
miles from the North Pole, scientists,
counting and envisioning the cost
of past and future disasters – even
Syria’s civil war – Aleppo’s seed bank
destroyed by bombing 2015 –
have tucked into a mountainside,
ensured in permafrost, ample space
for four and a half billion critical
crop seeds worldwide. If the worst
should happen, this backup collection
will safeguard vegetation.
Or is it all mere speculation –
no place feasible but the hereafter.
But how to disentangle ourselves
from earthly (Arctic) time and space?
Standing in front of the entrance
to the doomsday seed vault –
something about it putting a halt
to doubt – I began envisioning
what the seeds are all about.
Was it too late to practice faith?
Dalal from Kuwait had brought
seeds from her desert home,
assuming she could contribute
them right there and then.
Tottering on the threshold
of before and after, I prayed
for faith as small as that biblical
mustard seed. Immerse myself,
I coaxed, in the hope of seeds,
that someday planted,
they can reverse the damage.
Feeling a thirst for roots,
recalling the burning bush –
how thorns and thistles are not
the earth’s original natural fruit –
I wished upon a seed deposited
just then in the scat of that snow
bunting warbling and hunting
insects beside the mountain stream
flowing past the global seed vault,
toward the sea, under the midnight sun.
Note: In 2015, the first withdrawal was made by researchers in Syria after their
seedbank in Aleppo was destroyed by bombing. Those seeds have since been sent
to Morocco and Lebanon, where they'll be planted and used to research how to
grow crops in the arid region.
Facing Aridity, 2021; Raw Art Review, Winter 2020; Beltway Poetry Quarterly
Pushcart Prize nomination
Tiger's Eye Press published Woodcock's Infinities chapbook, Near the Arctic Circle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tom Goff continues to be one of the finest poets who successfully gives life to historical figures, bringing them back through his poetry so we might better understand who they were.
Goff was recently awarded the prestigious Robinson Jeffers Tor House Prize for Poetry 2021. Please use the link to read his prize-winning poem, "Blind Tom's" Battle of Manassas.
Tor House: https://www.torhouse.org/prize/
Goff has another poetry collection, Reading in the Dark, currently under consideration. Sections within the manuscript include poems on the Earl of Oxford as Shakespeare, and on John Keats as perceived by Amy Lowell in her 2-volume biography of 1925.
The Ceylon Diver Holds His Breath
(Amy Lowell, John Keats, Vol. 2, 421)
Keats, under doctor’s orders to speak low
Or not to speak, is at the Hunts’. A party:
One Mrs. Gisborne starts a topic, so:
On music, of the castrato Farinelli,
Whose vocal splendor, his capacity
To hold high notes ad infinitum, swelled
Or diminished, he could lengthen by his hearty
Pair of bellows, breath control, but spelled
By cyclical breathing, intake and exhale
Made simultaneous by constant practice,
Braced with support deep as his tensile belly.
Keats’ being here is sheer tenacity.
This Mrs. Gisborne cannot help but fail
To gauge how sensitive the breath-holding act is
To Keats, indeed she’s not certain he is Keats.
Gamely—for the ill poet has brooded on such
Prolonged sostenutos—he declares these feats
A trial for both singer and hearer. Touch
The subject, and you poke his damaged lungs
—Like under-the-fingernail skin pricked with pins.
How equable, though, the bob of both their tongues
With fascination on the listener’s fear:
The way the too-long-sustained cadenza spins
Empathic unbidden dread of suffocation.
In murmurs, Keats must assent to what she says;
How can she know the publication near
For verses of his where a pearl diver descends,
Bare body exposed to the sharks, to the stingrays?
Hands filled or empty from oyster beds, his ration
Is risk for meager pay, risk of the bends
When full-to-bursting lungs must surface regardless
Though blood runs from his ears. The party chatter
Surrounds the conversing two whose hands are cardless;
What earnest discussion of a most primal matter
Implicit in music as in poetry,
The instinct to gasp for air, the strain to be
Good and suspend the fermata; close to death,
Has Keats not always known how recitative
Is paid out silkworm? How like the spun shirtsleeve
Spun stanzas are threads, of unbearably thin breath?
Tiger's Eye Press published Goff's chapbook, Tintagel 2.0:
Sir Arnold Bax--A Composer-Poet Recaptured
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tom Goff continues to be one of the finest poets who successfully gives life to historical figures, bringing them back through his poetry so we might better understand who they were.
Goff was recently awarded the prestigious Robinson Jeffers Tor House Prize for Poetry 2021. Please use the link to read his prize-winning poem, "Blind Tom's" Battle of Manassas.
Tor House: https://www.torhouse.org/prize/
Goff has another poetry collection, Reading in the Dark, currently under consideration. Sections within the manuscript include poems on the Earl of Oxford as Shakespeare, and on John Keats as perceived by Amy Lowell in her 2-volume biography of 1925.
The Ceylon Diver Holds His Breath
(Amy Lowell, John Keats, Vol. 2, 421)
Keats, under doctor’s orders to speak low
Or not to speak, is at the Hunts’. A party:
One Mrs. Gisborne starts a topic, so:
On music, of the castrato Farinelli,
Whose vocal splendor, his capacity
To hold high notes ad infinitum, swelled
Or diminished, he could lengthen by his hearty
Pair of bellows, breath control, but spelled
By cyclical breathing, intake and exhale
Made simultaneous by constant practice,
Braced with support deep as his tensile belly.
Keats’ being here is sheer tenacity.
This Mrs. Gisborne cannot help but fail
To gauge how sensitive the breath-holding act is
To Keats, indeed she’s not certain he is Keats.
Gamely—for the ill poet has brooded on such
Prolonged sostenutos—he declares these feats
A trial for both singer and hearer. Touch
The subject, and you poke his damaged lungs
—Like under-the-fingernail skin pricked with pins.
How equable, though, the bob of both their tongues
With fascination on the listener’s fear:
The way the too-long-sustained cadenza spins
Empathic unbidden dread of suffocation.
In murmurs, Keats must assent to what she says;
How can she know the publication near
For verses of his where a pearl diver descends,
Bare body exposed to the sharks, to the stingrays?
Hands filled or empty from oyster beds, his ration
Is risk for meager pay, risk of the bends
When full-to-bursting lungs must surface regardless
Though blood runs from his ears. The party chatter
Surrounds the conversing two whose hands are cardless;
What earnest discussion of a most primal matter
Implicit in music as in poetry,
The instinct to gasp for air, the strain to be
Good and suspend the fermata; close to death,
Has Keats not always known how recitative
Is paid out silkworm? How like the spun shirtsleeve
Spun stanzas are threads, of unbearably thin breath?
Tiger's Eye Press published Goff's chapbook, Tintagel 2.0:
Sir Arnold Bax--A Composer-Poet Recaptured
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Caitlin Johnson has continued to write poetry since the release of Boomerang Girl in 2015. Mere months after the release of that chapbook, her first full-length collection (which included many of the poems that comprised Boomerang) was published by Pink.Girl.Ink Press.
In 2019, Johnson self-published a chapbook, WAR/La Guerre as a limited edition to satisfy the need to see the project through after several rejections from competitions.
Just released from Stubborn Mule Press is Delta, Johnson’s second full-length poetry collection. Like Boomerang Girl, Delta has an underlying theme; instead of mythology, this time it’s the periodic table of elements and other scientific concepts. She is, put simply, a series poet at heart.
Tiger's Eye Press published Johnson's chapbook, Boomerang Girl
