Literary Gazette 2012

LITERARY GAZETTE P R O S E • P O E M S • P H O T O G R A P H Y

E L E M E N T A L n a t u r eA RIVER REPORTER LIFESTYLE MAGAZINE

Page 2 • LITERARY GAZETTE 2012 THE RIVER REPORTER

LITERARY GAZETTE 2012 • Page 3THE RIVER REPORTER

C O N T E N T SB I O G R A P H I E SEDIE ABRAMS received her Master’s in Communication from RPI. Edie participates in the Every-Other-Thursday poetry workshop in Voorheesville, NY. With Dennis Sullivan and Michael Burke, Edie hosts Sunday Four at the Old Songs venue in Voorheesville and the Smith’s Tavern Poet Laureate Contest. Benevolent Bird Press published “Mermaid in Metamorphosis.”

NORMA KETZIS BERNSTOCK lives in Milford, PA and is a member of the Upper Delaware Writers Collective. Her poetry has appeared in Connecticut River Review, Paterson Literary Review, Lips, anthologies including Paterson, the Poets’ City and “Voices From Here.” Twice she has been awarded an Honorable Mention in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards. Her chapbook, “Don’t Write a Poem About Me After I’m Dead,” was published in 2011 by Big Table Publishing.

A part-time resident of Big Indian, NY, ELIZABETH J. COLEMAN is the author of “The Saint of Lost Things” (Word Temple Press 2009). Her work has appeared in Connecticut Review, Raintown Review, 32 Poems and Blueline, among others. She has an MFA in Poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts.

WILL CONWAY writes and gardens in Mongaup Valley, NY where he lives with a cat and his lovely wife.

JACQUELINE DOOLEY is a writer, mother, small business owner and cyclist working out of her home in the Hudson Valley. Sometimes she writes poetry.

ANDY FOGLE’s fifth chapbook, “The Last Apprenticeship,” is forthcoming from White Knuckle Press. He has nonfiction forthcoming in AWP’s The Writer’s Chronicle and English Journal. He has an MFA from George Mason University and teaches high school and college, and is working toward a PhD at SUNY Albany.

KIRPAL GORDON is a NYC-based writer whose latest works are “Round Earth, Open Sky” (a novel), “Ghost & Ganga: A Jazz Odyssey” (three novellas), “Eros in Sanskrit” (prose poems) and “Speak-Spake-Spoke” (jazz & spoken word CD). For more on his work, visit www.KirpalG.com.

KATHLEEN GALVIN GRIMALDI’S poems have been published in many regional and national literary journals. She is a member of the Upper Delaware Writers Collective and the American Academy of Poets. She has taught poetry courses and memoir writing workshops at the TOALC Center at East Stroudsberg University.

GEORGE GUIDA is author of two volumes of poetry—“Low Italian” (Bordighera Press) and “New York and Other Lovers” (Smalls Books). A collection of stories, “The Pope Stories and Other Tales of Troubled Times” (Bordighera), will appear in 2012. He co-edits 2 Bridges Review and teaches English and Creative Writing at NYC College of Technology.

JOHN HOPPER is an editor transplanted from the New York City area to Ithaca, where he has become re-focused on poetry through readings, workshops and writing. He has two published collections (1962, 1994), and Chronogram has accepted several of his poems.

JAMES HOUTRIDES was born in Greece, raised in New York and worked most of his life as a journalist at CBS News, where he was a writer and producer from 1968 until his retirement in 2003. For the last 24 years he worked at CBS News Sunday Morning.

BOBBI KATZ has a degree in art history, but she has made a living as a social worker, fashion editor (disaster!), house cleaner, editor and in-house writer for Random House. She now makes her living writing children’s books. Her collection “Once Around the Sun” was included with the top 10 poetry books rated by Independent Booksellers. She

is currently working on a new collection, “Star Struck.” Visit www.bobbikatz.com.

LAURA KING is a walker on a foggy precipice, placing one foot in front of the other and trusting best she can. She works as a freelance creative marketing and event strategist, writer and art director. She plays at poetry and sporty things. She loves nature, stays sane though meditation.

HOWARD J. KOGAN is a psychotherapist and poet. He and his wife Libby live in the Taconic Mountains in rural upstate New York. His poems have appeared in Still Crazy, Occupoetry, Poetry Ark and Farming Magazine. His book of poems, “Indian Summer,” was published in 2011.”

CECELE ALLEN KRAUS lives in Copake, NY. In 2009 she published a chapbook, “Dreaming Barranquilla,” inspired by Peace Corps experiences. Recently, her chapbook “Tuscaloosa Bypass,” was released by Finishing Line Press. She has poems published in Naugatuck River Review, Passager, Chronogram, Windfall, Backstreet, and the chapbook anthologies, “Zephyrs” and “Java Wednesdays.”

MORT MALKIN has formal training in lyric poetry composition at Brooklyn College, New School, and the invited workshop of Jose Garcia Villa. A founding member of Milanville Poets Unlimited, he is widely published in newspapers, journals, anthologies, and his own chapbooks. He is completing an illustrated book of poetry celebrating The High Delaware River for National Parks.

KAREN MORRIS is a psychoanalyst, poet and student of Ikebana, the Japanese art of flower arranging. Ikebana dates back to 5th-century Shinto rituals, its 3 elements representing heaven, human beings and earth. Because of its relational nature it is ideally suited for poetry, able to contain every aspect of emotion, including catastrophe.

MIMI MORIARTY is the poetry editor for The Spotlight. She lives in a log home overlooking the Hudson River Valley with her husband, Dan, and delights in her four grandchildren who regularly visit. Her next project is to teach them to make pizza dough just like her grandmother’s.

LISA ROSINSKY holds a BA in creative writing from Johns Hopkins University. Her work appears, or is forthcoming, in 32 Poems, Iron Horse Literary Review, The Innsifree Poetry Journal, Measure and the anthology “The Poetry of Yoga, Vol. 1.” She recently interned at Highlights for Children in Honesdale, PA, and was a member of the Upper Delaware Writers Collective. She is now an assistant editor at Rowman & Littlefield.

NATALIE SAFIR is the author of five collections of poetry and has been publishing poems in literary journals across the country since the late 1980s. Her poems have been anthologized in college texts. She has been a poetry workshop leader, editor and lecturer in local institutions and directed a reading series. She currently teaches memoir in Tarrytown, NY, where she lives.

BRUCE WEBER is the author of five books of poetry, including “The Break-up of My First Marriage” (Rogue Scholars Press, 2009). Among other publications, his work is featured in “Riverine: An Anthology of Hudson Valley Writers” (New Paltz, New York: Codhill Press, 2007). He has a second home in Saugerties.

NANCY WELLS’ poetry appears in the chapbook “Oh To Be a Dandelion”, and the Upper Delaware Writers Collective anthologies “PoeTree” and ”Leaving the Empty Room.” A visual artist as well, she has created a series of visual/word books, including “How to Zip Mummy,” “A Ballad of Two Empty Rooms” and “Balloons are for the Living.”

Where the Dead Live 5 By Howard J. Kogan

Duet 5 By Lisa Rosinsky

Bareback 7 By Cecele Allen Kraus

End Of World Ikebana 7 By Karen Morris

The Bamboo in the Garden 8 By Elizabeth J. Coleman

Why I Live Where I Live 8 By Norma Ketzis Bernstock

To Fly A Kite 9 By Mimi Moriarty

Gusts 9 By Natalie Safir

Fast 10 By Jacqueline Dooley

What You’re Looking for Is Looking for You 11 By Kirpal Gordon

First Light 13 By Will Conway

Basso continuo 13 By Mort Malkin

evening 13 By Nancy Wells

Moon Speak 13 By Bobbi Katz

Fire 15 By James Houtrides

The validity of winter 15 By Laura King

the wind rustles across the bow of the trees 16 By Bruce Weber

A Coyote Is Not a Wolf 16 By George Guida

Blind Contour in Greenridge Cemetery (Excerpt) 17 By Andy Fogle

Sloop 17 By John Hopper

Riverscape: Summer 19 By Kathleen Galvin Grimaldi

Sweet Autumn Clematis 19 By Edie Abrams

PublisherLaurie Stuart

Section Editor Mary Greene

Creative Director Lori Malone

Production Manager Connie Kern

Sales Manager Jeff Winsper

Advertising Consultant Barbara Winfield

Advertising Consultant Eileen Hennessy

The Literary Gazette is published by The River Reporter/Stuart Communications, Inc. Entire contents ©2012 by Stuart Communications, Inc. Stuart Communications maintains an office at 93 Erie Ave., Narrowsburg, NY. Its mailing address is P.O. Box 150, Narrowsburg, NY 12764. Phone 845-252-7414. E-mail [email protected]. Publication Date: July 19, 2012


F r o m t h e e d i t o r

F r o m t h e p h o t o g r a p h e r

Mary Greene Section Editor

My creative quest is the discovery of visual gifts—those precious instances of unrevealed beauty that we unknowingly encounter every day. Much is to be gained by embracing these opportunities.

Experiencing beauty, whether occurring naturally or introduced by the hand of man, is a primal need in society that I would put on par with the need for sustenance and love. To convey it, we have relied largely upon the arts through the ages. However, beauty is in short supply in the art world today, so I want to do my part in redirecting our attention to that which elevates and enriches the spirit and gives us hope—our society needs this more than ever. An integral part of this process is the rekindling of the qualities of childhood that should never have been lost—curiosity, exploration, discovery and wonder. It takes some effort, but the payoff is great. We need to literally and figuratively unplug the TV—to detach ourselves from the piped-in influence of a tabloid/sitcom/reality TV culture that dulls down our senses while acting as a substitute for imagination. Once we do this, we open ourselves to the possibilities. And then, with no preconceived notions clouding our vision, we can recognize and celebrate beauty—it feeds and replenishes the soul.

The emotional high I experience when encountering these visual gifts is relived through the making of expressive photographic prints of these overlooked and underestimated, but finally vindicated subjects. [Chip Forelli is an award-winning international photographer who specializes in black and white images. He lives with his family in the Upper Delaware River valley. For more information visit www.chipfiorelli.com.]

“When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs.When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.”

-Ansel Adams

This edition of the Literary Gazette focuses on the elemental nature of the world—both in its physical aspects and accompanying human perception. The poems and prose explore unique and specific aspects of universal themes such as love, loss, aging, memory and sensation; they take us on journeys of self exploration, deep discovery and formative experience; they describe how human perception can be heightened and altered by acknowledging our essential and unbreakable connection to nature. Some of the poems celebrate the natural world in simple and joyful ways. Others urge us to pay attention and be vigilant. And always, on every page, the exquisite photographs of Upper Delaware Valley photographer Chip Forelli add another layer of meaning, another angle of perception upon which we can dwell. All of the photos are shots taken in or near the Upper Delaware River valley.

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BARN AND S ILO

DuetBY LISA ROSINSKY

Two pairs of wrinkled hands and eighty-eight smooth keys,some black, some white: so simple. Two pairs of hands, one

hundred and sixty-two years combined between them,like cords of thick rope hoisting the curtain of a late act

in a long and richly-detailed play. Seven fresh-pickeddaffodils in a tall blue vase on top of the piano, shivering

with each chord. One petal falls, and another. Candles,white; flames, yellow; points of light in the dim room.

Two grey heads bent over the pages of Bach. See themthrough the thick panes of glass that inexperience slides

before my younger eyes. Better, hear what they make:no pantomime, but a frenzy; each note no fragile flower

but a flame, capering on a stiff thin stem; burning but alight.

Where the Dead Live By HOWARD J. KOGAN

I have a black and white photograph taken in 1909 of my father Sol, who was four years old, his older sister Miriam, a younger brother Joe, his mother Leah, who looks pregnant and angry, his father Jonah, uncle Benny and his sister Rose.The adults look solemn; the children frightened.The men are in dark suits, the women in gowns, I wouldn’t be surprised if the clothes were supplied by the photographer. Only the children seem to be wearing their own clothes. It’s a formal, posed studio photograph taken to record a significant moment, perhaps their arrival in the United States.My father looks like I did at that age, as my son did at four. I guess that means this is my family and I wasn’t kidnapped from the palace of Czar Nicholas II.Everyone in the photo has been dead for decades. Yet, during the long moments I visit with them, they are not black and white images but people who are as alive as I am. People who, as I turn away, become like fireflies, dimly sparking in the long night at the end of our days.

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IN THE F IELD

End of World IkebanaBy KAREN MORRIS

-Written on Rapture day, the last day of the world, May 21, 2011

The fact of love,dot, dot, dot—is not love

laughter over the telephonefactoids of connection—

there is no taking back not love

my news isof empty spaces—

each word a dropped blossom,a sacrifice to the windof activity—

my shears singover the small mountainof pink blossoms accumulatingon my lap—

my phone is irretrievablyoff the hook— like the petals of this poem.

Bareback By CECELE ALLEN KRAUSA stranger came into my yard on a horse as I stood barefoot with nothing to do. The rider dismounted and I jumped at the chance to ride, to leave my house with four rooms for the six of us,

a broken window with cardboard replacing it,the spaciousness of a scorching day with no plans except a swim at the Queen City Pool. I was eager to leave that tract house in the nondescript neighborhood that edged up

to the all-black Druid City High School where on Friday nights Daddy walked us over to hear the marching band play Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley rhythms, putting me in mind of the dark night he took us down a dirt road in Micaville

to the black Baptist Church where male quartets sang of heaven and home—the sound track of his red clay childhood. Spooked by a girl on his back, the horse bolted and galloped to the two-lane highway. Scared stiff, having only ridden

my Grandpapa Allen’s mules, I shot a glance down the highway and jumped. Now a fresh scar inches along my collar bone reminding me of that first scar—a curvy slash over my left eyebrow, quite graceful, if you don’t mind its livid red.

The old scar’s color comes back now with age and that urge to ride an unknown horse still flares up from time to time.

FENCE AND F IELD


MAILBOX AND P ICKUP

Why I Live Where I LiveBy NORMA KETZIS BERNSTOCK

Meet me on Old Mine Roadnear Bevans Church and I will tell you aboutthat snowy February dayon the gravel trailnear Van Campen’s Inn,air, ice fresh, rock-strewn fieldslike whipped cream swirls,the sounds of foraging mice, snow crystalsshifting in afternoon sun, the click of a Nikon as we pushed knee-deep through driftsshooting crumblingbarns and shadowscast by barren limbsin late day light.

I will tell you about the lone house near the river’s edge warm with yellow light, how wisps of smoke like wind-blown kite tailsdanced above a slanted roof,how a memory of one day can change a life.

The Bamboo in the GardenBy ELIZABETH J. COLEMANOne evening during my mother’s last stay at the hospital, after we told her good night, my aunt and I walked uptown. On our way, we encountered a man standing outside an ethnic deli. He held out a smudged Styrofoam coffee cup. And I reached in my purse for money. Don’t do that, my aunt whispered.

One evening during our mother’s last stay at the hospital, after we told her good night, my aunt and I walked uptown. On our way, we encountered a man standing at an ethnic deli holding an old Styrofoam coffee cup. And I opened my purse, for some money. Don’t do that, my aunt whispered. But I had just read an article in The New Yorker saying that if someone asks you for money, they need it more than you. This is important to me, I said. It’s one thing if you have the money, but don’t go fishing around in your purse on the street, my aunt said. I insisted. Never mind, the man said, laughing sadly.

One evening during my mother’s last stay at the hospital, after I told her good night, my aunt and I walked uptown to find a bit of peace. On our way, we encountered a man standing at one of the ethnic delis that bloom on the streets of New York. He held out an old Styrofoam coffee cup in his right hand, as a Buddhist monk in Tibet might hold a begging bowl. And my purse opened, the way a flower might unfold at first light. For I had seen how the world will end, with the fury of water, with daisies and forget-me-nots and even hillsides swept away, and homes tossed into the middle of the road.

GRASSES AND FROST


R IVERS IDE

To Fly a KiteBy MIMI MORIARTYYou must conjure up wind as you do languageno wind, no kite flying

you must inspire the wind to pour over the lakeslam into the yard

until the kite sails with its own ambition its love for flight unlocked

there you are holding it by a stringits red wings flickering like a tanager

its rainbow tail flapping as the years have flapped bydeep irony on a day at the lake

with grandchildren numb with joythey too young to call it their own century

too milk-fed to be stilled in disappointmentthey know today

and the promise of a campfire tonightthey know wind and a kite

but they have yet to encountershuttered windows, slammed doors

as yet no words to break the kite’s spiritas it soars.

Gusts By NATALIE SAFIR

“What might have been still waited for its chance.” – Mark StrandIn the northeast it takes the first pounding rain andsiren winds to bring downgarnet lemon leaves

Powerful gusts of troublethat come late into life, testing resources and talents

The indefinite outline of what’s coming spreads its fogevery time we raise our headsfrom what we are doing What might have beenlies buried beneath leaf piles;under our thick soled shoesdry chords splinterinto overtures of change

FLOOD WATERS

Page 10 • LITERARY GAZETTE 2012 THE RIVER REPORTERTHE RIVER REPORTER

CARLEY BROOK ROAD | 7AM

FastBy JACQUELINE DOOLEY

I am that flock of blackbirds, startledtaking flightin a synchronous wavethe blast of air carrying me,getting up under my wingsbut I’m not afraid of speedor a sudden change in directionbecause I have the flock.I am the flock.And the road is the sky, unwindingendlessly before meI am that horsewhose pasture rolls along, greenhills with a rising crest of mountainsI can run fastvery fastsurging past the earth, barelytouching itAs I join the herdI am the herd.These aren’t fences that confine methey are doorwaysswinging open with each beat of my hoovesI am a clockwork woman, switchingmy gears with every hilland dropI bend with the roadbounding forward on round legsfeet immune to the rocksthat want to slice opentender human soles

THE RIVER REPORTER LITERARY GAZETTE 2012 • Page 11THE RIVER REPORTER

What You’re Looking for Is Looking for YouBy KIRPAL GORDON

Admit, first, that you weren’t in the crosswalk, that you didn’t see the car coming and that while you’re up in the air time really does slow down, so before you return to earth, know that you’re a long way from the streets of New York now, that the road’s end you’re about to behold offers no consolation, but in the language spoken here, what you’re looking for is looking for you. So don’t lose heart because on this side of the veil you’ve fallen in the sand with the sun blazing twelve golden rays through your cranium’s brain-stem: a walled city will yet appear on the horizon just around the next bend!

If you’re still concerned with how you might land on that other side of the veil, you won’t see the city shimmering beyond the dunes, but sooner or later you will and when you do, you won’t care why it appears out of nowhere in the middle of what was a New York afternoon or who Buster Keaton waits for while playing solitaire because you’ll approach with a lover’s abandon knowing here is water and well, your journey complete, the mystery unfolded, the roundness of all roads shining in the silence of the sun, the edge the troubadours reach for in song, one world’s death birthing another made manifest.

Nevertheless, there’s no entrance. Only jagged glass welcomes those scaling her walls. To enter, become with your whole heart your intention, and like all things, your intention shall come to pass. It’s why the City of Karmic Completion is so named, why you’ve discovered what others insist doesn’t exist.

Once inside her gates, appear to notice no one and no one will appear to notice you. Past the fakirs on their beds of nails and the sadhus coated in ashes, find the stall that sells the hazelnut. For the city to have meaning chew the nut slowly and swallow the pieces before its subtle sweetness reveals the city’s deepest secret: although you’re no longer alive, the delicious taste of the hazelnut does not stop but only turns, as all things will, into something else.

Buster Keaton knows this but keeps a straight face, the same one he wore years earlier in a Hollywood classic now being shown at the city’s cinema. There’s world enough and time before the show begins except that the hazelnut stall is hard to find and the afternoon heat is so killing that even Samuel Beckett stops filming Mr. Keaton who in silent deadpan watches Rocky Colavito stretch his back in a full nelson with his bat. Veiled women in black surround him, paid to weep and wail for who can forget how Rocky blasts a cold beer Cleveland Indian homer?

Further up the midway, Wilhelm Reich tells reporters how his orgone box drew rain during a

drought in Maine. As the sweltering heat melts his speech liquid, you may notice holes in the field your sense organs perceive. Falling into sleep or stepping into your pilgrimage bath, you may simultaneously find yourself entering a painted cave where a thousand voices call and ten thousand answer, creating a sound current which keeps your consciousness floating above the ruins of a lost city where a single singer in sun and sand laments in riming rubiyats that her Beloved has gone. Don’t get too close! Everyone turns out to be you in the City of Karmic Completion.

Would you rather pretend you’re not here, that all this is merely the side effect of being accidentally lifted into unconsciousness twenty feet into the air? In that case, let’s say you’re an American playing softball in Nagasaki and a pitcher hangs the ball just where you can’t hit it. Over the course of your swings his catcher may tell you there are no undertakers in the Land of the Rising Sun. The body is washed by the family, put in a hazelnut casket and cremated, the charred bones placed in an urn where the dead turns into a kami, a spirit to live in the living room shrine. However pointless his pitch, you will have struck out by its end.

Meanwhile, in the City of Karmic Completion the harvest has just begun. On rounded hillsides monks gather hazelnuts in their brown robes. To their unique order alone, the nut, which they call the filbert, bears the remembrance of Philibert’s feast day, which they turn into a spirit known as Fra Angelico. Like their patron saint, a French aristocrat who gave his wealth away to seek the vision of lamby Jesus in a grotto, the taste of that spirit is said to grow richer with regret, disgrace and denial. As goes regret, Rocky Colavito admits there are no Indians in Cleveland. As goes disgrace, a shackled Wilhelm Reich raises his fingers skyward in heart attack to demonstrate rain’s a dance that ends in renewal. As goes denial, Samuel Beckett knows cinema is magic and the soul’s true abode is comedy.

Nevertheless, in the city’s stadium, a softball game is underway. As goes the loudspeaker that just called the faithful to prayer, expect to hear, if the announcer is Buster Keaton, nothing. In return, light a candle. As goes the ageless woman the city is especially famous for, that beautiful, white-clad, green-eyed, olive-skinned courtesan with dragonflies mating in the twilight around her, she may brush up against you. If she asks, “Where does the burned wax go?,” get ready: you’re the next batter.

As you approach the hot plate where energy meets matter and consciousness greets carbon form, find at the microphone the face of that famous silent screen actor whose deadpan draws but one conclusion: you cannot go on but you must go on for dehydration has by now made your body a wick and your mind a ball of wax. Like your vision of the City of Karmic Completion, the extinguishing of your flame does not stop but only turns, as all things will, into something else.


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I SL AND TREE

First LightBy WILL CONWAY

The poem at the beginning of the worldconvulsed into being, raw letters and gruntsthat passed for a song. Who was listeningin that lonesome now, before words werefull and formed? Some say it was an illusionthat anything at all was there, other than hot stardust coalescing into a solid massof overheated rock. It is the same hot airwe are breathing and speaking through.Noises of meteoric impacts lent shape to sounds tracking an atmospheric wind.Though her storms were cosmic, Earth cried out for her mother, slapped into life by a masked doctor’s hand.

Basso continuo By MORT MALKIN

Basso continuo of the River below,

percussion brushes of wind through trees, measures of soprano bird calls — my footsteps kept pianissimo

so I may play in this world-class quartet.

eveningBy NANCY WELLS

evening turns a blue gray-one lonely moonbeamlights up the sky

Moon SpeakBy BOBBI KATZ

People on Earthwatch me growand react as sliver by sliverI add to my act.I bleach the starswhen I am fulland give the tidesan extra pull.A golden marblehung in the sky,I lamplight Earthwhile I slide by.Then sliver by sliverI subtract,becoming againan invisible fact.I seem to take a dayto restthen sliver by sliver I slip into full dress.


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F IELD AND FOG

FireBy JAMES HOUTRIDES

First the smell of fireNot fire—smoke—The smell of smoke slidesDown the mountainsideOn the back of the wind

No one seems to noticeNot the priest and his wifeNot the two retired Greek generals Or their wivesEating lunch outdoorsAt the priest’s home

They talk about the churchThe liturgy the art of chantingSubjects the generals know wellThey have come from AthensTo the island to visit the priestTo see his church and the Holy IconsTo chant with the chanters

And always wind off the mountainWind through the pines and palm treesThrough the olive trees and almond treesThe trees bend away from the wind

Is that the fireAsks the wife of one generalYes the priest saysOn the other side of the islandNot far—a few kilometersAre we safe—asks the generalFor now—the priest says

We must pray to GodTo put the fire outThe general’s wife says

The priest smilesIf we wait for GodWe will all burn to death

The smell of smokeNot smoke—fire—Fire crackles Down the mountainsideOn the back of the wind

The validity of winterBy LAURA KING

April opens my tight-fisted heartand rattles away all bias and judgment against the winter I fought yet needed so perfectly. Today the heavy blanket I stitched feverishly with chaotic weave in fierce, breathless resistance to early darkness,death, cold, solitude and change, I will cast into the rising Delaware as my wrong accounting…seeing finally, in this blessed armistice conveyed by troupes of daffodilsand robins,that not one thing can hold firm,and no one season holds more wonder or validitythan another.


SUNRISE | GRIDL INE

the wind rustles across the bow of the treesBy BRUCE WEBER

the wind rustles across the bow of the woodsa delicate pas de deux of barenboim and dupres inhaling comfort in simple things a white birch treeregal swan of these woods the radiant snapdragons overflowing wooden buckets the yellowing edges of leaves preparing for the cocoon of winter the ample harvest of sleep to begin the beguine the sharp plane of the saw the blinding light of a razor’s edge the blue stone rolling to the edge of the stream moving along with a donnybrook of dreamsout-tossing the shrieking hawk and the squirrels leap across the mother lode of trees

A Coyote is Not a WolfBy GEORGE GUIDA

Just as gray but prone to sleepas his cousin schemes, he liesunder brush as you tread by, startled to his feet only then,and with a glance, trots awaythrough dead leaves, as pages ofa legend in which he standsat this safe distance, breakingfor the hero you never werethe code of lupine ease, ferocity only when approachedor, as with wolves, in a packconvened to help him downand tear apart his prey.

He watches as you prayto him, for every animawho isn’t here to see theseseconds of détente, thosetips of canines visible enoughand ears pricked up for the soundhe hears as wolf callas you hear pebble crunchand gusts as the sounds of all the other woods you’ve walked,hoping to become him,feral enough to drowse in dry leaves, solitary save for hunting, but intrigued by another creature curious and half-civilized.

LEAVES AND FROST


CHECKING THE NET

Blind Contour in Greenridge Cemetery (Excerpt)

By ANDY FOGLEDrunk on grass, the dog rolls in clippings,kicks them up—fall back to her belly. *

As if submerged in water,insects’ dusk-buzz all around. Beyond that, aimless propeller.

The thought of rain, the gray and pink thickness-sky, belly of brook trout, bevy of outliers and oversights. *

The faintness of any pre-dusk half-moonwill fadeas night rises.

*

In the first quarter,what is light grows; in the last,what is dark.

SloopBy JOHN HOPPER

In the sun and the sprayI show you my dash,Sails furled, flapping,Arms stretching to grab the sky.

But of the rest of me,That which slices the water, Buoys me up and moves me alongBy some arrangement with the darker currents,You know nothing.Running aground, I am cast up,Or dry-docked, paralytic, Wrenched from my element, I have not joined yours.

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REST ING CANOES

Riverscape: SummerBy KATHLEEN GALVIN GRIMALDI

1 3The regal Delaware When I was youngmoves smoothly, effortlessly, I used to sit at the water’s edgegoing with the flow with pail and shovel

arising from within, and a rounded sand sifter of many colors,stretching its way forward holding destiny in my little handsinto yesterday’s tomorrows. as the sifted sand made it through

Her waters paint in broad strokes and the obstacles were thrown awaymeasured rhythms and cleansing energies. with their sharp-edged density,Wisdom-keeper, Earth’s listener. never knowing the lightness of being in the flow.

2 4The buoyancy of motion Silver-white cloud shapesbetrays what has been learned are reflected back to shore-lineabout the nature of rock and stream, against an illusion of azure stability.

seeking in the flow Yet all is in motion;that which never changes no flow is ever at rest.while allowing what remains Like the course of a lifeto sink into oblivion with its winnowing purposesalong the river’s bottom, holding the stillness of yet to beapart from all appearances. strong and steady and self-contained, while it winds its meandering way forward and through summer’s short season.

Sweet Autumn ClematisBy EDIE ABRAMSOur sweet autumn clematis covets every orifice of the wire-meshed gazebo.

Nimble and with abandon, it breaches what it can until it reaches its optimum,

the man-made apex, and lazes in the blaze of the sun and chaises in the phases of the moon.

Tendrils steal inside, extend in mid-air, like snakes smelling for safety, calculating,

to slither along the screen, emboss the table, or divorce all the above.

The incense of florets trumpet cupidity. Its snoopiness has no bounds. It lures

with redolence of sweet spice just when the autumn of Life manifests in hundreds, if not thousands or millions, of kaleidoscopic leaves that canvas the wake of our hobo lives.

Sweet autumn clematis, delilahseduction, delilah delusion. But, oh! what

a delilah delight. Its joie de vivre explores,grabbles, while we decompose, morose,

but for this exotic tryst with our clematis.

BIRDHOUSE CONDOS

News Source for the Upper Delaware River Valley Region Since 1975

No. 28 JULY 12-18, 2012 www.riverreporter.com $1.00

TRR photo by Sandy Long

ud the town board’s adoption of Local Law 3 by unanimous vote.

Highland adopts Local Law 3

llivan County town to ban gas drilling

lier sessions by some mem-

h nting clubs. Bo-

ations

Councilwoman Amanda Scully’s remarks were brief,

but pointed. “To those of you who think we are taking

away your right to make money and take minerals, I’d

like to know why your right is more important than all

l of the Town of Highland’s right to have safe

land that they can pass down to their

d during the pro-

h were

Your Award-Winning News Source for the Upper Delaware River Valley Region Since 1975

Vol. 38 No. 27 JULY 5-11, 2012 www.riverreporter.com $1.00

Does the majority oppose drilling?

In Callicoon is there any way to nd out?

By FRITZ MAYER

JEFFERSONVILLE, NY — It has

been the stated position of the Com-

prehensive Plan Committee of the

Town of Callicoon that the survey taken

three years ago does not provide enough

information to determine whether the

majority of the town is opposed to or in

favor of gas drilling.

At a public hearing on the proposed

comprehensive plan update on June 27, 44

people spoke against allowing drilling in

the town and 10 spoke in favor of it. While

a couple of the speakers were from out of

town, even without them the margin was

still four to one opposed to drilling.

For some, that is evidence enough that

the majority is against drilling and it

should be banned from the town, as has

been the case in Tusten, Lumberland

and Bethel. Bruce Ferguson of Catskill

Citizens for Safe Energy said that of the

people who commented on gas drilling on

the survey, 88% were against it. He added

with petitions being presented to

night, there were approxi-

sing opposition

to drilling and hydraulic fracturing. He

suggested there could be legal action if

the committee or the board takes action

in opposition to the will of the majority.

(According to the 2012 census, there are

3057 residents in the town.)

Resident Alvin Shoop said that ques-

tions about how the population feels

about drilling could be cleared up with a

new survey, one concerned with whether

people were for or against drilling or had

no opinion. Shoop said he had guarantees

from various people to cover some of the

$2800 cost, and a show of hands indicated

many other people would pitch in.

Former Sullivan County Legislator Da-

vid Sager told the committee that elected

and appointed officials in the town, ac

cording to New York Municipal Hom

Rule law, have a duty to protect the safe

and well-being within the town. He s

gested that updating the plan in a w

that invites drilling into the town,

invites lawsuits from those who mig

harmed by it.

The issue brought forward peopl

don’t normally turn out to town me

Continued

Contributed graphic

This design for the proposed waterfront in Narrowsburg, NY was created by New York City/Milanville, PA

rchitect Joe Levine.

ed river walk envisioned

wsburg vine’s plan

Your Award-Winning News Source for the Upper Delaware River Valley Region Since 1975

Vol. 38 No. 26 JUNE 28-JULY 4, 2012 www.riverreporter.com $1.00

By TOM KANE

HONESDALE, PA — Six months ago, it looked as if

this might never happen.

“It looked pretty bleak back then since there was

no money in the budget to open this pool,” said Michael

Slish, Honesdale Borough parks and recreation chair-

man. “But then, after Rick and Gary Linde, owners of

Leeward Construction, jumped in with the offer to do

all the concrete work at the pool free, and they offered a

challenge to the rest of the business community to follow

their lead, it happened.”

Slish added that not only the business community

joined in, but also many groups and individuals followed

suit with offers of money and volunteer time. He said

“This was truly a most remarkable community effo

like I’ve never seen before.” Even more remarkable w

the fact that people came with food for the workers wh

the work was being done, Slish reported.

“We’re going to put the names of donors on a plaqu

ntrance of the pool,” Slish said. “It took me five

d the names.”

Day of Appreciation. Wit

kids came in d

d y lo

Honesdale Borough Pool o

Many sponsors mad

HURRY!

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8/31/12

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For over a quarter century The River Reporter has published The Literary Gaze e, a unique publica on showcasing the values and quality of life in the Upper Delaware through the words and images of local poets and a local photographer. That celebra on con nues all year long in the pages of The River Reporter.

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Documents

Literary Gazette 2012