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Mellen Poecry Press.


by Floyd Albert

"Albert's poems ring with the truth of experience....

continuously offer a compassionate mirror to life--a

meaningful mix of wit, sadness, and joy."

Natalie Safir


I am thinking about Lorca

And his passion for wild language.

All the great figures of speech,

He said, are dead, used up,

Wrung out and packed into the shelves

Of dusty, silent libraries.

We must change the way we write.

We must invent new words

And new similes. We must change

The world, which has lost its poetic passion.

We must change ourselves.

When the fascists heard about this,

They shot him dead in a Spanish courtyard.

His blood flooded the riverbeds

And the olive groves.

We cherish him now,

But he is dead,

With his unfinished poems

Waiting to be sung.


by Earl Coleman

"Fueled with superabundant vitality, a driving

cadence and a trunkful of allusions, historical and

literary.... he points to areas of privation, pain and

vulnerability which we attempt to skirt or

camouflage. An exhilarating trip!

Carolyn Stoloff


We have thrown our bones

together friend, across the mesa,

you and I, and let the dust determine

where we turn our heads.

A painted feather east or west,

a hawk above, the sage in bloom,

and we would gallop off without reproach,

our pockets empty as the skies,

since neither thought to save

two pennies for the eyes.


by Lucas Carpenter

"Carpenter makes poems remarkably

unadorned by image or metaphor, giving

his voice a quality I want to describe as

spartan. Reading them with contemporary

expectations is a disorienting experience

and one I strongly recommend."

Miller Williams


In the middle of the moors near Blackstone Edge

rests a fragment of the imperial road

that once linked the legions at Chester and York.

I sat cross-legged at one jagged end,

nine feet from the curb on either side,

gazing down worn basalt paving stones

to where the road seemed stretched

to the scalloped horizon. My radiant mind,

unfolding like a peacock's tail,

scanned the moment for meaning,

something to feel and tell.


the trouble with scenes like this is,

you either have mystic sweet communion

with the secret life of things,

ego dissolved in the dark juice of memory,

or you're mock-seriously horrified

at how much nothing

might mean,

hallucinating sweaty blue-eyed Celts

placing stones for a centurion engineer

who liked Gaul better,

their shaggy women and their wine.


by Robert J. Musante, III


A death is slightest split and upward throw

at the point of conscious crimson meeting

a whitened zone of precious light in flow,

some gleaming specks of truthfulness fleeting.

Beseech alive a break from flesh of time,

then the thrusting scenery, grayish space

as others wallow in the earthly grime--

a stoppage sunken in decaying place.

Above, a world encircles warmest shine,

pervading spirit mingling boundless eyes;

the heavens' power bringing forth a sign

for rising bliss which pleases, with surprise.

Heaven's entrance sprawls through darkening earth

near death to open sweetest fate, of mirth.


by Thomas F. Lombardi

Prairie Sunset in a Kansas Wheatfield

Yesterday the prairie grew,

Sensuous, green, wildflowers galore.

Today wheat grows gold intentionally.

Bread envelops the earth.

Tonight the sun sets low,

The prairie's green is megagreen.

The wheatfields metamorphose

From green to 14 karat gold.

Behind the sky, the fat moon,

And clouds, pink ahead;

The stillness marks the stillness

At storm center, tornado free.

The meadowlark's sweet melody,

Singular sound, pricks the looming dark.

At center stage a happy band of friends,

Breathe innocence in paradise.

As the sun vanishes cars bum rubber

Down a quiet county road,

The dust heaves up this night's news.

Life's waywardness stilled by perfection.
COPYRIGHT 2001 World Poetry, Inc.
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2001 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

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Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Sep 1, 2001
Previous Article:NEW IN POETS ON POETRY.
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