Gloucester POETRY

New Poem by Dan Wilcox

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HSteinMHrtly2

Portrait of Marsden Hartley, undated, Helen Stein (1896-1964) Cape Ann Museum

 

 

Marsden Hartley’s eyes

 

 

Marsden Hartley’s eyes

stare out of Helen Stein’s portrait

into this Gallery ringed by his portraits

of the boulders of Dogtown

the paintings mostly red

or green, but always blue

like his eyes that stared outward

when the oils were wet

where the granite sat against the sky.

 

(Cape Ann Museum  September 28, 2012)

 

Dan Wilcox

 

dan wilcox

Dan Wilcox is the host of the Third Thursday Poetry Night at the Social Justice Center in Albany, N.Y. and is a member of the poetry performance group “3 Guys from Albany”.  He is a frequent visitor to Gloucester and his book of poems Gloucester Notes  is forthcoming this year from Foothills Publishing.  You can read his Blog about the Albany poetry scene at   dwlcx.blogspot.com


 

 

New Poem by Robert Gibbons

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FOLLY COVE, GLOUCESTER. Sharon Casavant

 

On the Afternoon in the Aftermath of the Root Canal up in Lewiston

The root of the matter is crucial.

Even in as simple thing as a tooth.

Or that of the World Tree, roots reaching

deep in the realm of the underground. Heart

of the matter of language with its dirt, & clean

stones. Cistern of language I felt today, when down

by the waterfront the wind in the waves was more like weave

of a text, knowing that underneath ocean life teemed: cormorant,

seal, crab, & fish, right down to the floor of seaweed. Stood a while

taking it all in, reading the vast World, when the tanker, Leopard Moon

out of Singapore cast added daytime light on pages turning stars in the harbor.

 

Robert Gibbons

Robert Gibbons, a former Gloucester resident, is the author of nine books of poetry. In 2013, in addition to completing a Trilogy of prose poems with Nine Point Publishing,  he published Olson/Still: Crossroad, a brief study concerning the similarities in approach to art by Olson in words, and Clyfford Still in paint.

 

Revelations – Poetry by Melissa de Haan Cummings

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IMG_0624

Essex Boatyard by Brent Jensen



REVELATIONS

A bicycle seat
by the middle 
granite step
to the back stoop
a bit of driveway
in front of the Neon
the top of an orange
and blue motorcycle 
lobster pot buoys
along the fence

What happens
if you hit this?
I don't know 
but don't play 
with buttons
on my machines!

Nice to contemplate mist
leaf free branches
and evergreens

Ice cakes return
to the Mill River

Butler is a white
Basset type 
with short brown ears 
He climbs snow drifts
and trots along up there
wondering why people
fail to join him
He also likes to stop
for bird song
and water sound

Forty knot spray 
whipping through the gap
horizontal 
turquoise kayak
on the mud
up right again
this penultimate day 
before Equinox

Well I went over to Essex
and I bought horse feed
because we have six 
or eight deer 
in our back yard
They are so thin!
One's a fawn!
A doe came onto the patio
to eat leftover bird seed
They are so hungry!
I know you aren't 
supposed to feed them
They are vegetarians 
but they eat horse feed
Ninety bucks!
I had to!
You had to!
             --Adelia



Melissa de Haan Cummings
17-19 March 2015

74bdd-melissa2bcummingsMelissa de Haan Cummings majored in French and English Literature at 
Bryn Mawr. She has published poetry in a number of journals. 
 She describes her interests as including, “much small boating around Cape
 Ann, love of Charles Olson, Hatha yoga practice since 1969.”

Poem by Robert Gibbons

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peters

Cape Ann Shore. Carl Peters (1897-1980)

 

 

When the Gentleness Arrived

 

 

I don’t know when the gentleness arrived.

It could have been that day way out on the peninsula

where the sea, stones, mussel shells greeted me in unison.

It could have been as recent as yesterday,

when the leaf my granddaughter picked up

& blew away, I took Williams’ advice & kissed it.

It surely wasn’t long ago when the war raged

as much inside of me as Nam, Afghanistan,

Iraq, or between father & me, no, not then.

It could have been that first snowfall

I had to call her to look at for herself, or

when I first heard the Bach phrase in a Jarrett

improvisation.

 

Robert GibbonsRobert Gibbons, a former Gloucester resident, is the author of nine books of poetry. In 2013, in addition to completing a Trilogy of prose poems with Nine Point Publishing,   he published Olson/Still: Crossroad, a brief study concerning the similarities in approach to art by Olson in words, and Clyfford Still in paint.

Poem by HB (Hilary Frye)

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lupine

Lupine Lane

A demure and tranquil lea

Adorned the proffered arm of Sea

A lustful eye

Befell this scene.

A rape of landscape

So obscene

It Chocks

This vista up

With

Blobville;

Blob envisioned,

Blob designed,

Blobs will live there

With their kind,

There breeding clones

To feed us.

(Me ‘n Alfreda will never eat

The market basket Genus!)

HB April, 2015

Grounded in Ground Fish- poetry by Ann Molloy

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ann molloy our lady                Our Lady of Good Voyage. Sculpted in 1915 by Angelo Lualdi. (Cape Ann Museum)


Gloucester, Mass. Grounded in Ground Fish.

 

By Ann Molloy

Gloucester, Mass. Grounded in Ground Fish

Was there ever a cooler place in all of the world?

A perfect natural harbor.

A home to all who come from sea.

Welcoming them with arms wide open, like a loving Grandmother to her kin. Embracing them, and comforting them.

Jutting out to the richest fishing grounds in the world.

Passionate like no other place.

We work hard and we play hard, and we have pride because we’ve earned it.

Muscles built on hauling fish. Feeding the world with what is real, valuable, sustaining, nourishing, protein, energy, life-force…

Feeling content, alive, and a little special.

Definitely different.

Humble to ‘all that is’.

Appreciative, thankful, abundance, contentment, happiness, love, glowing, special for sure.

Unique, unexplainable power, energy all around.

Magnetic, self-sustaining…

Air, wind, water, light and Fish.

Grounded in Ground Fish.

ann molloy hatchman                                     Hatchman, 1995. Paul Ciaramitaro (Cape Ann Museum)

Let us fish,

Let us be,

There’s plenty of Fish,

Still in the Sea.

You can’t beat,

Our small boat fleet,

With a factory ship,

Taking all in one trip.

All for corporate greed,

The machine it must feed,

What will be left in its wake?

It won’t taste good, if it’s fake.

Go ahead drill and mine,

Grow Fish on land, it’ll be fine,

A payoff here, a promise there,

Are there enough who truly care?

Let’s stand up and bring us back!

Band together and do not crack.

It’s in our blood, and

It’s in our hands.

This is Gloucester, Mass.

Try as you may,

Nobody can take what we got away.

 

ann photo (2)

Ann Molloy was born and raised in Gloucester. After several years of traveling around the country and world, she settled back here and has been helping run her family business, located down the Fort and on Kondelin Road. For over 20 years, Ann has been in charge of Marketing and Sales for the Neptune’s Harvest division of Ocean Crest Seafoods, which came about as a way to fully utilize 100% of the fish, by turning the gurry (everything that’s left after you fillet a fish) into an organic fertilizer. She has a wide knowledge of organic fertilizers, and the fishing industry. She also loves to paint, write, and see live music.

New Poem by Melissa de Haan Cummings!

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Russell1946.jpg.450x600_q85

The Wonson Twins. c.1846. ~ Moses B. Russell

FOUR HOURS

What to do with four hours
in chilly weather 
Follow Chuang Tzu
read the night before
"Let your mind wander
in simplicity..."*

First Dylan wants 
shootouts names himself
several players from
various teams
achieves tremendous
excitement with his scores
Did you see that?
Did you see that move?
Yar it was me you scored on

Dylan's turn with the iPad
games finds Riley restless
Want to wash the kitchen floor?
You who love pushing 
the Wet Jet button  Yah!
Riley sprays half a dozen spots
says he will scrub later
Yah!  Out of liquid 
Fetch another jet  from upstairs 
Out of energy
Leave them in Damon's
Computer Room

Riley asks for eggs wants more
eats less has an urge
for Butterfinger
so the boys race next door
with an unneeded key
limited to one dollar each
which Dylan gives Riley
who claims Eli stole
forty dollars from his bank

O K take dogs along
insist on walking the whole
block up Tucker
O you eat the chocolate first?
Yah   It's really good this way
I got a Kit Kat Bar!
Guess what my favorite
candy is!  Kit Kat   Yah
Riley asks for batting practice
O K thinking it will be short
lasted two hours in yesterday's 
warm sweatshirt weather 
Dylan thanked me I loved 
pitching buckets of tennis balls
ducking as the hits fired
from aluminum bats
which wintered in 
the outdoor toy box
under a yard of snow
catching  and batting 
gloves inside
on October steps

Riley says he doesn't really
want to do that is bored
Is Sata bored?  Yup
What can we do?
Learn poker?  Yahtzee
is a preliminary 
Go ask D to print poker directions 
Sata to the attic looks for Yahtzee
Dylan goes to call Mum
says she will be home 
in five minutes
Find Yahtzee which is 
a good challenge 

Directions for poker
will take a dozen pages!
No No   Just ask 
for beginning poker
Two pages
You only left me one bottle 
The other one has fluid
needs batteries   
O

Discover that Riley
who has memorized
some multiplication and division
of the fancy Core Mathematics
tutored by Grandfather Ph.D
for the two day examinations
coming this week
cannot add a column of numbers
What about addition?
What use is the elaborate math
for the practical tower
of numbers which will tell
who wins the game?

Riley calls Mum
says she will be home
in half an hour
Riley takes the iPad
Dylan plays Yahtzee
Sata wins everything
not knowing that the next
morning Riley will
score two Yahtzees
earn one hundred
and fifty points!

Mumma does come
In time for a ninety minute
walk to the end of
Bianchini Road
so sweet with south
easterly stung cheeks
and a tired chihuahua 


*Chuang Tzu, Basic Writings, Burton Watson, trans., Columbia University Press,
N Y, 1966, p.91


Melissa de Haan Cummings
8 April 2015
melissa2bcummingsMelissa de Haan Cummings majored in French and English Literature at 
Bryn Mawr. She has published poetry in a number of journals. 
 She describes her interests as including, “much small boating around Cape
 Ann, love of Charles Olson, Hatha yoga practice since 1969.”

Easter, a poem by Eric Schoonover

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Easter

A motorcycle blats down Prospect,

downshifts at Destino’s curve then to

roar off beneath the Virgin’s startled eyes,

the schooner still cradled in her arms

 

atop Our Lady of Good Voyage.

A neighbor’s pool holds koi floating on

their sides amidst great chunks of ice

residue of an unholy winter. Ichthus.

 

The icons confuse: no baby but a ship,

fish dead but no loaves. What I’d really

like to know, Where is that baby? Perhaps

the Harley hogger on the way to Mom’s

and ham with yams will tell.

erik schoonover

Eric Schoonover is a writer, boatbuilder and watercolorist living in Gloucester. He is the author of the award-wining The Gloucester Suite and Other Poems and a novel, Flowers of the Sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Blizzards of 2015 – A poem by Ruth Maassen

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Photo Sargent House, Main Street, Gloucester, Massachusetts, winter 2015, by Bing McGilvray

Sargent House, Main Street, Gloucester, Massachusetts,
winter 2015, by Bing McGilvray

The Blizzards of 2015

The storms crawled by with fearsome power,

snow blowing sideways hour after hour.

Shovel a shovel-wide path to the door.

Oops, snowed again! Shovel once more.

Dig out the driveway, the car—what a slog.

Dig a path to the hydrant, dig a path for the dog.

Heave the snow high up over your head.

Try to forget what the weatherman said:

Another one’s coming! Man oh man.

With a bull’s-eye painted right on Cape Ann.

There go the plows scraping and rumbling

all through the night—we shouldn’t be grumbling,

we’re snug in our beds, while the heroic

crew on the roads, exhausted but stoic,

battle the stuff coming out of the sky,

ton after ton, but they never say die.

Another one’s coming! Can we hope for

a break between blizzards to get to the store?

No train, no T, no parking, no walking

the kids stir-crazy, the grouch not talking.

Trapped in a snow globe! Let me out, let me out!

the snowsick, slap-happy denizens shout.

At least we broke the record snowfall,

though that doesn’t begin to make up for it all.

The leftover filthy snow piled up high

no doubt will be gone by the Fourth of July.

So step aside, Blizzard of ’78.

You’ve had your day, you really did rate,

but you weren’t as gargantuan and messy and mean

as the Blizzards of 2015.

~ Ruth Maassen

ruth maassen (2)

Ruth Maassen, Rockport’s poet laureate, arrived on Cape Ann in 1980. She does proofreading and book design for independent authors.

The Last One, a new poem by Kent Bowker

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25195l

Gloucester Harbor. 2011 Ned Mueller (b. 1940)

The Last One

Coming from P-town to Gloucester
motor sailing in a calm, lightly ruffled ocean
in the empty bowl of the horizon
we came upon a rusting hulk
brown streaked blackened red side,
slowly turning on the flat black sea.

A long dark rusty gilnetter, lines out,
like a hopeless memory circling in the flat sea
What is beneath this surface for the families?
For the layers of families waiting
for the missing fish money.
The boat’s steel flakes fall off
in the long search for the last fish,
no money in it for paint,
in seeking it rusts away

Dark cavities behind the streaked plates
we see no seaman, maybe a hint of a face
the ship rusts, circling in the flat sea
inside the sharp edge of horizon
the songs of the sea were still
the wind slow

reaching down
for the last fish
long searching, circling
nets winding, futile,
paint chips flaking, gone.
A face appears in the recesses
of the large net wheels
fades back into the indigo
shadows in the turning boat
as if depression driving
the hunter who must hide, –
a recluse of the sea
seining for the last fish.

In its own vortex
scorpion of the mind
repetition, the laying of nets
a slow dervish dance
arms raised like railroad semaphores
for the end of the line, a train coming,
in the desolation of this lifeless desert,
the slow turning over flat water
the dervish spinning ecstasy
is a ritual to invoke
the fish providing spirits.
the slow turning over flat water
slightly scratching the surface
inscribe the tracks of the dance
over depths of the sea
seeking the last fish –

so long out- rusting away
becoming pointless
lost, seeking, –
as the families
are fading
away.

Kent Bowker

Kent Bowker

 

 

 

Kent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.