The Café Review

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Craig Sype - Poetry Editor/Audio
Danny Louten- Art Director
Katie Benedict- Managing Editor
Kevin Sweeney- Poetry Editor
Lucas Diggle - Online Editor
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Steve Luttrell- Founder and Publishing Editor

Operating as usual


We , at The Café Review, are sorry to hear that we have lost two of the wonderful poets whose work has appeared in recent issues
It is with a heavy sadness, we have to say goodbye to:

Robert Hogg
Bernadette Mayer

New  coming out soon! If you know anything about poetry in New York … these names might look familiar 😉

New coming out soon! If you know anything about poetry in New York … these names might look familiar 😉




Coming Soon

THE CAFE REVIEW Summer Blockbuster!

A Special Retrospective Tribute to the poetry and art of New York City’s Lower East Side and The
St. Marks Poetry Project.
Featuring the work o many of the original poets and artists.

This is an issue,we feel certain ,will be a collectible
Time capsule collection!

Order your copy now ! This is a very limited edition!


These Few Seeds, by Meghan Sterling.  Terrapin Books, 2021,75 pages, paper, $14,72, ISBN: 978-1-947896-39-0How does one ...
These Few Seeds

These Few Seeds, by Meghan Sterling. Terrapin Books, 2021,
75 pages, paper, $14,72, ISBN: 978-1-947896-39-0

How does one justify bringing a child into a world of conflict and impending catastrophe ? This is the question Meghan Sterling takes on in her debut collection, These Few Seeds. Even knowing she can’t help but leave her daughter a troubled legacy, Sterling’s overall message is one of resilience and hope.

The poet presents the challenges both collective and individual that are likely to face any human child of the twenty-first century, “whose earth may be scorched / with flames.” She laments “the sad, slow / wash of water as it runs / toward an ocean that’s rising, rising.” Sterling enlarges this sense of foreboding with far-ranging geography and history. Helsinki, Portugal, Australia, and Syria provide the settings for some of these poems. In “The Deeper We Dig,” for example, the poet remembers, and even becomes, her grandmother in a time of conflict, confronting part of her own painful legacy:

I dream I am my grandmother, her face looking back at me
in the train car window, the train rushing into a mountain
in Ukraine, a place we fled before the first World War,
with the Anna Karenina train cars, with the Slavic language

In “Jew(ish),” Sterling claims first only “small traces” of that heritage, but then builds a connection to Jewishness with sensory details such as “a quality of air, like cigar smoke” and “the smell of hair oil.” Through these accumulated sensations the speaker convinces herself and the reader that, despite her secularity, she must own the “dust / of all the dead and the smoke like ghosts.”

As these heritage concerns and the dangers of climate change are part of the mother’s legacy, so too are her more specific human woes. “How Many Times” recalls a former lover when she hears that “the bone-white finger” of he**in “got him at last.” “The Ferryman” describes an abuser who “tried to drown me with force.” In Sterling’s deft hands these losses are part of the collective suffering of the world, and among the experiences her child may have to face.
The poet / mother counters the weight of such a legacy with an almost mythic connection to nature. In “All That I Have Is Yours,” it was the creek and the finches that urged her “to make” her daughter. In “Bliss” she describes pregnancy and the child’s birth as a geological event. The child is first a “mountain inside,” and next, a whale. Then, as though the sea is not large enough, the child becomes the night sky. Even a poem about an ordinary toddler event, “Puddle Jumping,” presents the mother as a part of the earth. When the daughter reaches for her, the mother’s “hand grew out of the earth” as if it were “tree branch, root.”

Finally, acknowledging an earth that may soon be wilting “under the heat of a too-near sun,” the mother passes on nature’s toughness to her beloved child.

to you I bequeath
all the courage
of birds and flowers,
water and stones,
to love enough,
to love with the toughness of trees.

The collection closes with an echo of this inheritance. The poet also bequeaths “these few seeds” which she nudges “into flower as apology.” Seeds represent the hope of rebirth, of continuation, and refer as well to the poems in this book, memories about how much this daughter is loved and where she comes from. The cover art relates to the theme of inheritance. “Snowmelt,” by Betty Schopmeyer, a patchwork of brown, white and blue, earth and sky with clumps of snow, is a close-up of the earth in spring, more abstract than representational, but, like the poems in These Few Seeds, layered, inviting, and ultimately hopeful.

— Jeri Theriault

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Be Holding, by Ross Gay.  University of Pittsburgh Press, 2020, 109 pages, paper, $17.00, ISBN 978-0-8229-6623-4When I f...
Be Holding

Be Holding, by Ross Gay. University of Pittsburgh Press, 2020, 109 pages, paper, $17.00, ISBN 978-0-8229-6623-4

When I found myself playing basketball in the basement with the basket made out of a ping pong table and the action-figure-sized wrestling ring my father made for my brother and me, I practiced The Move, the stretched out, slow-motion focal point of Ross Gay’s book-length poem: Dr. J elevating and wrapping the ball around the backboard in the 1980 NBA Finals against the Los Angeles Lakers. Granted, when I practiced The Move, I was probably using a wiff le ball instead of a basketball, and my little brother was a much less imposing version of Lakers’ center, Kareem Abdul Jabbar. But I practiced the s**t out of that shot.

And I have a feeling Ross Gay did too. Gay is an incredible poet, who is also an athlete (a former college scholarship football player), and an all-around lover of sports (he founded the online sports magazine Some Call it Ballin). That far-reaching love comes across profoundly in Be Holding.

However, it’s easy to miss that this book is about basketball. Dr. J isn’t mentioned in any of the blurbs on the back of the book, and neither is basketball. Claudia Rankine makes oblique reference to “the history of a game” in her blurb. It’s only the font of the book’s title that gives the reader a faint hint, and you have to look closely to even see it. The sans-serif font is made up of the same distinctive texture of a basketball: many tiny raised dots designed to make the ball easier to grip. As a basketball fan, I wondered why The University of Pittsburgh would make the decision to almost erase basketball from the book’s cover.

And yet, from a poetry perspective, I see why they made this choice. Although the book is deeply about basketball and Dr. J and the witnessing of his gravity-defying move, it is about much, much more than basketball. It is a book that ambitiously seeks to bring serious lovers of basketball and serious lovers of poetry together. And it’s this coming together, this beholding together — that’s where Ross Gay’s miracle resides.

Fittingly, this miracle of two entities coming together is a miracle in couplets. The book-length epic poem is a prolonged moment of wonder and witness that feels like the poet (and, through the act of reading, the reader) is holding his breath throughout the entire poem, extending the couplets in a moment parallel to Dr. J’s gravity-defying flight.

I am holding my breath

with this looking
and looking

And in this long-held breath, the long hours of the night pass throughout the poem: 1:48 a.m., 2:26 a.m., 2:59 a.m., 3:11 a.m., 4:56 a.m. The poet watches and re -watches over and over again the videoclip of Dr. J while slipping in and out of other
far -reaching associations:

. . . when witnessing
the unwitnessable, the way

we do so often these days,
today, witness the unwitnessable,

my own palms twisted again and again
toward the earth,

witnessing the unwitnessable,

If the poem focused solely on Dr. J, I would love the poem, but it wouldn’t feel transcendent; I would feel satisfaction at a skilled poet rendering the art of basketball on the page (no small feat!). However, Gay does more than that — he witnesses the unwitnessable by blurring and expanding our vision. It’s not only beautiful, but also slightly unsettling, as only seems right when one witnesses the unwitnessable.

There are no breaks in this book-length poem, no section markers to indicate transitions, and hardly even moments of transition. One moment Gay is talking about Dr. J and the next he’s on to the Marlborough Street Fire photograph. If a reader doesn’t pay close attention, these abrupt movements could be quite disorienting; in fact, even if a reader does pay attention, they are disorienting. And that’s where the magic happens. Like watching for a magician’s sleight of hand, readers are stunned.

As the smoke clears, they wonder, how did he do that ?

As an example, let’s return to and then extend the above quote:

witnessing the unwitnessable,
which is not unlike their motion

treading water
in a college gallery

P**f! And he’s off into the world of photographs, in this case two Black people falling from a fire escape, a famous photograph that won the Pulitzer Prize for spot photography. Only gradually, or like a gradual bolt of lightning, did I realize that once again Gay was helping us witness the unwitnessable.

Towards its end, the poem, like Dr. J’s famous move, reaches:

we in here talking
about the reaching

that makes of falling flight . . .

talking about holding
our breath . . .

of being beholden,
talking about

how might I hold
my beholden out to you

The result is a magical wind. One might not think words could fly like this, but the couplets are like samaras, those little whirly helicopters from maple trees — and the falling flight is nothing short of miraculous.

Jefferson Navicky

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by Yuko Otomoto avoidthe worldI opt outto be indoorsin the afternoonshade of the daya misanthropic hermitin a modern cav...
Sunday Cave

by Yuko Otomo

to avoid
the world

I opt out
to be indoors
in the afternoon
shade of the day

a misanthropic hermit
in a modern cave

of the day
of the sun

I listen
to Satie’s Lent
again & again

small candles lit
in the corner
of the room sit as if
they were musical notes

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by Yuko OtomoBIRTH • DAY     for SteveLife & Deathon a clear crisp September ending Sunday —We see a saint’s backon one ...

by Yuko Otomo

for Steve

Life & Death
on a clear crisp September ending Sunday —

We see a saint’s back
on one street comer
& then on another

his face & rosary holding palms

Who is separating Death from Life
or vise-versa?

Not us! For g-d’s sake!

A circle circles in light
as people march
singing “Ave Maria”
on their unaccustomed tongues
standing side by side

We melt each other’s thoughts
unconsciously holding hands
almost forgetting how to talk

Autonomy for one being
autonomy for two beings
autonomy for ten thousands things & more

In praise of love (in silence)

We view & salute the world
as if it were a breeze
“moment” — ing through us

You & I —
light & shadow —
life & death —
like contrasting colors loyally
lay in the same bed at night
& wake up in the morning together

We begin to end to begin a day
to stretch every possible inch
of its festive lucidity

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by Ronald Koertge     Revolutions are not about trifles, but they springfrom trifles.  Aristotle.Baggy overalls and safa...
Revolutions are not about trifles

by Ronald Koertge

Revolutions are not about trifles, but they spring
from trifles. Aristotle.

Baggy overalls and safari hats that slipped down over our eyes, so
we all looked stupid.

Why couldn’t we be like real safari guides: pants that fit, cool boots, hat at a rakish angle.

When I complained, my fat boss said if I didn’t want the job there was always somebody who did.

So I’m picking up trash around the reptile pavilion. I see a girl from my school so I say, “Hi” and she stares right through me.

Jeez, if I was actually invisible, I’d kick our tight-fisted boss in the pants and take his watch.

Ghost into the crowd, trip rich kids with money to burn, send the girls who smelled so good running for the exits.

Claim the zoo for me and my friends. Money from the till, a hundred free ice cream bars, watching the animals we’d

let out of their stinking cages head for the swanky neighborhoods with three cars in every driveway.

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by Ronald KoertgeAnd maybeyou should sitdown for thisbecause it’ssomethingwe’ve talkedabout a loteven prayed forso I’m j...
Wonderful News, Darling

by Ronald Koertge

And maybe
you should sit
down for this
because it’s
we’ve talked
about a lot
even prayed for
so I’m just now
back from my
poetry workshop
and at last
it’s official.

I’m poignant!

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by Larry GoodellGive me a pot with a little waterto boil my bone.I’m happy with less than I own.All I need is one or two...
Simple Life

by Larry Goodell

Give me a pot with a little water
to boil my bone.
I’m happy with less than I own.
All I need is one or two molecules of air to breathe.
I have a very humble chest.
I sleep on two threads stretched between
two match sticks.
It doesn’t take much for
a good night’s sleep.
Just bring my wine portion
a couple gallons a day will do it
and I’ll write a haiku for you
or a coan to p*e on.

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by Larry GoodellThe purpose of religion is to confer Godheadon lowly humans, make them feel special and blessed.A religi...
Purpose of Religion

by Larry Goodell

The purpose of religion is to confer Godhead
on lowly humans, make them feel special and blessed.
A religion will do anything to perpetuate itself
and to hell with anything that stands in its way
including Nature.
A religion is extremely selfish and doesn’t like
other religions. It wants to grow and be more powerful
and blesses man and woman marriages
so they can produce children to grow up and support the religion.
A religion likes beautiful houses for itself
and will not pay any taxes.
A religion uses God as its Commander in Chief
to control its subjects and make them slaves to its commands.

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by Bill NevinsKabul Sunset Version IIKabul Sunset — “Mourn Your Dead Now,Land of the Free”(As proud-robed mujahideenGive...
Kabul Sunset Version II

by Bill Nevins

Kabul Sunset Version II
Kabul Sunset — “Mourn Your Dead Now,
Land of the Free”

(As proud-robed mujahideen
Give wary thanks in bearded faces
To Allah in the ruins
Of Forward Operating Bases
Daubed in sad skull-graffiti boasts
Of long-departed Yanks
In shadows of rusting Russian tanks.)

I have heard or read wise poignant words.
They’ve sewn together my shifting drifting worlds.
Kipling, Shakespeare, John Prine, James Wright,
Lennon, Dylan, whatever gets me through the night

Larry Kirwan’s “Fallujah” song or Patrick Sky,

Diving into the wreck of the Iliad, the Tain,

With sweet Ocean Vuong or some haughty Irish bard

Hoping not to shatter,
I read old battle-poems for wary solace:
My own true minstrel-boy gone to war for so long.

Star-flecked American war-guidons above each letterhead:
“Rest assured, Sir, you are in our thoughts.”

I watched the Albuquerque sun rise

For him, as I feared he had no eyes.

That awful morning long ago.

I was a foolish dad, for he saw, I know.

Went mad a month then as I first wrote frantic lines —

“Dover Base” and other cries,
Bitter sighs. I knew he was dead.
We’ve gone years now to these Coronavirus times —
“changed utterly” as old Yeats said.

Do old poets ever heal, as nations move on?
In Marigold-Sunset blaze of Sunday of the Beloved Dead.

When all holy red sun banners had finally set,
and the dark came to wrap our mortal souls,
Spanish prayers were said
and yes at peace we are, he and I
these many years of peace dropping slow
these years of a war that should have ended long ago

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by Bill NevinsNight-lights and lullabies.Sweet dreams and flying machines.We were never the heroes we dreamed,We are mer...
Amaranth the Underlying Flower

by Bill Nevins

Night-lights and lullabies.
Sweet dreams and flying machines.
We were never the heroes we dreamed,
We are merely the parents we could be.
Imperfect, we live on.
Under darkling or brightening skies,
We see what we see, we know what we know.
Those perfect young lie dead: daughter or son.
We see more young ones march again to the Somme.
We see craven old men pushing guns.
So many brave youth gather in the streets of Santiago, Chile,
And their eyes are shot out by police:
Vet, black-patched like buccaneers, still they march.
As Victor Jara, long thought dead, lives and still sings,
As Salvador Allende still sings, as Chilean jazzman
Quique Cruz triumphantly sings.
We cling to that last glimpse before death stings.
We cherish the fading sight of age, wearing gold star rings.
We don Kevlar and gas-masks, perhaps.
Black-light scopes. Facebook personas.
Bomb belts. Leather chaps.
We see war. We see America sliding towards night.
We see. As a blinded sniper might,
Raging against the failing light.
Yet, for all our griefs, old lullabies and sorrows,
Our amaranthine children dream bright tomorrows.
As the poet Neruda reminds us,
“Podrán cortar todas las flores, pern no podrán detener
la primavera.”

(“They will be able to cut all the flowers, but they will not be able to stop the spring.”)

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by Eric ForsberghThe Swiss provide it.Civil servants measure outpowder in a glassine pack.A clean shooting gallery.  A c...
Free He**in

by Eric Forsbergh

The Swiss provide it.

Civil servants measure out
powder in a glassine pack.

A clean shooting gallery. A chaise.
A nurse to check the riddled pulse.
Not cut with talc, glass dust,
or powdered rust.

Vomit, and the high intensifies.

The state’s the dealer now, so
fewer are coerced to start the trip.
Fewer far.

Yet once exposed, pleasure genes erupt
in crimson yellow purple blossoms
along tight stalks, hollyhocks of DNA,
then a slow wilt
into brownish pulps
at rehab intake:
assist you not to nod at lunch,
set a time for bed,
give you a TV, a toilet,
two tablets of an anti-drug.

Emptier now, treatment centers
erect fewer Babels of billable hours,
investors taking note.
Hieronymus Bosch was right.
Voyeurs eagerly seek the naked, pierced.

Without fresh flesh, Zurich gargoyles
scratch their famished guts,
thumb-lock their Glocks, scrape
their claws along the chapel gutters,
wolfing down their young.

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by Emily H. AxelrodWe looped a ropeover a sturdy branchone late fall day,and swung high over the hillabove the sprawling...
Rope Swing

by Emily H. Axelrod

We looped a rope
over a sturdy branch
one late fall day,
and swung high over the hill
above the sprawling hospital
where inpatients paced
on porches caged in wire.
A young man watched us
every afternoon,
joking in a loud voice
through the trees.
When he stopped appearing
we wondered where he had gone,
as we had all fallen
just a little bit in love.

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by David WyattThe winter-bloom of stones                        Philip BoatrightAnd rock, also, even at its coldest,Send...
Sending Light

by David Wyatt

The winter-bloom of stones
Philip Boatright

And rock, also, even at its coldest,
Sends light back to the sun.
Who’s watching the reaction?
Windows glazed, seemingly useless.
A newspaper slaps the front door
But stories in it are those
Of the Pleistocene. A neighbor
Walks past the house, her dog
Sniffing out faint yet still crystalline snow.
The woman squints, pulling on the leash.
Who notices the stones wilting? —
This early.

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by David WyattA day could go in several directions, noiseEverywhere when I glimpse a familiar Presbyterian spire.Monday ...
Following Easter, Fog and Light

by David Wyatt

A day could go in several directions, noise
Everywhere when I glimpse a familiar Presbyterian spire.
Monday doesn’t work so well for churches.
Even suddenly appearing doors, thick as a vault’s,
A splash of sad red paint. They are fog soon
Along with Jesus, released again from the tomb.
Vagaries of shadows and stained-glass,
Decidedly clearer this morning, now amid siren wail.
The opportunist has his hands full of perfect
Chances; meet, for instance, the ambulance
At the sufferer’s house — who’s to know the one
Injured, or shouting “false alarm.”

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by Marie Gray WiseYou told me nothing about thema scrounge of old records on Ancestrypaints their historiesA department ...
Portrait of Your Parents

by Marie Gray Wise

You told me nothing about them
a scrounge of old records on Ancestry
paints their histories

A department store before World War II
a young woman with curly blond hair
strides behind a cosmetics counter
It’s Utah, so sunshiny dust brushes the air

A young man with a slanted smile
and a fedora in his hand approaches

Like you, he’s ready with a smart-guy comment
shoots it over the compacts and lipsticks
ashine in their heavy gold cases

Unlike you, he backs it up
spirits her away from the counter
whisks her across country
as part of his dream

Unlike her, I watch from above
as you wade dusty sunshine
down the outside flight of steps
to a journey in my opposite direction

No official record exists of this occasion —
the story ends without a trace

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by Nathaniel Krenkelthese days are fleetingfor now, yes, a marshmallow on a stickby a fire,                      is enou...
These Days are Fleeting

by Nathaniel Krenkel

these days are fleeting
for now, yes, a marshmallow on a stick
by a fire, is enough
but tomorrow is closing in
the cocoon is torn and light leaks
your foot is already two sizes bigger than mine
and your little sister hums pop songs
that tease her with cave paintings and other truths
if a friend calls if this pandemic lifts
if you look west
I won’t furiously sketch, insisting
just one more day, one more hour and I’ll have it
I’m not a net, not a maze, not a trophy
up a ladder

I know we can’t keep you here with temptations like ice cream,
or the promise that you can watch one more Simpsons,
but oh, dread does loiter
around each moment,
because when you do go, and we’re left
with marshmallows and magic cards
and a box of stuffies, these days will mock us
and they will say:
you see, we told you,
the roof and the no-screens policy are still here, but
sand painting child, where have you gone
even now while you both sleep in your beds, I miss you with hurt
with my eyes flitting and panicked,
down the line, knowing that’s where you belong, knowing
I’m only here to get you part way,
knowing soon you’ll look back, and
the dust of my ashes will become a day
you mark on a calendar
that plugs into the wall.

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by Jason LynnYou’re down here looking for deathGabacho,because you don’twant to beWhat everyone else back home wants you...
The Sand — Trophies of San Felipe

by Jason Lynn

You’re down here looking for death
because you don’t
want to be

What everyone else back home wants you to be
So have another Mescal

on me.

At least

You’re the hero of yourself.

And I always root for the bull in the bullfight

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by Jason LynnI heard Judy saythat when sheRan out of moneyfor her life-long hotel stayShe climbed out on the ledgeOf the...
Message from Janis Joplin’s Northern Lights

by Jason Lynn

I heard Judy say
that when she
Ran out of money
for her life-long hotel stay
She climbed out on the ledge
Of the Waldorf-Astoria
& yelled
“Dorothy’s comin’ down”
That works, right?
I mean I tour the ledges everyday anyway,
Man, I mean,
I tour ALL the ledges.
I might as well
F**kin’ get something out of it.

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by Charles BriceMy cousin Frankie was visiting with his straightlaced,super-Catholic, draconian, disciplinarian, pipe sm...
Requiescat in Pace

by Charles Brice

My cousin Frankie was visiting with his straightlaced,
super-Catholic, draconian, disciplinarian, pipe smoking,
Hitler-mustached, father and his brainless, perfumed,
rosary-thumbing, cigarette smoking, bourbon drinking mother.

Frankie’s dad was Mr. Neon in Seward, Illinois. By gosh,
he was successful, moneyed, and merciless: the reaper
of justice meted out to daily mass attendees and titanic
tithers. Somehow, Frank and I wound up on Pershing Avenue

walking /jabbering about Mickey Mantle and that terrific
Yankee team when we came across a dead dog. At eight-
years-old I had no idea what breed it was, neither did
ten-year-old Frankie but, as good Catholic boys, what

we knew and felt was that the crushed canine deserved a
proper Catholic burial like the one provided to Frankie’s
Uncle Terry who, a drunken causality of Korea,
drove off the road to his death near Torrington

the year before. So, Frankie grabbed the departed’s
front paws and I gripped his back paws and we began
the half-mile procession to my backyard under
a July blaze in ole’ Cheyenne. When we got the

deceased to our destination, we were shocked at
the absolute repulsion displayed by our parents,
especially by Mr. Neon Super-Catholic whom
we expected would have at least admired our devotion

to the rituals of the one true apostolic faith. Instead
my mother immediately immersed me into the most
secular of baptismal fonts — our upstairs bathtub.
I assumed that the same fate had befallen my cousin

Frankie, but when allowed into our basement, where
Frankie and his parents were billeted, I discovered that
a different denouement had been in store for Frank. He’d
been ordered to find a branch in our backyard that

could serve as a switch. I glimpsed him, briefly,
standing in his underwear with welts, bloody and raw,
across his thighs, flogged by his father, as Pilot
had flogged Jesus — and twice as holy.

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by Gustavo A. Bécquer     translated by Thomas FeeneyIt is merely a matter of wordsand still, after all that has pastbet...
A Matter of Words

by Gustavo A. Bécquer
translated by Thomas Feeney

It is merely a matter of words
and still, after all that has past
between us, you and I will never agree
on who is to blame.
Such a pity that love
offers no dictionary
with which to determine
when pride is simply pride
and when it is dignity.

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by Lori PowellFor a long while this place didn’t know me.The rain came and went according to its own life,the metronome ...

by Lori Powell

For a long while this place didn’t know me.
The rain came and went according to its own life,
the metronome drip from the eaves
stately with history.

Every day I was an exception.
The floorboards discussed my bare feet.

But sometimes in the seconds
between sleeping and waking
a swiftness caught me up,
as if I were glimpsed
in the corner of another’s eye, fleeting
and possibly important.

I took my cues from the late afternoon light.
I touched what it touched,
ran my fingers along the edges of picture frames,
and followed the bright hair on your arm
upward to the curve of shoulder.
Everywhere I touched a small knot tied itself:
clove hitch, cat’s paw, angler’s loop.

In the end what held was enough:
the rain, the drip, the floorboards,
your slumbering arm across my hip
pulling me into this place,
making me seem as if I were real.

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by Eamonn WallBrick, mortar, frame and floorboard hazeBurst sunlight ancient airs as the Clancys& Tommy Makem roar from ...
Graig Sack Co

by Eamonn Wall

Brick, mortar, frame and floorboard haze
Burst sunlight ancient airs as the Clancys
& Tommy Makem roar from sack store
wireless — workers rounding out racy tunes
with homespun lyrics germane to females
of the town. Burlap by thousands lined
and mounded along driest dun wooden
floors, guarded by Rover, an old Red Setter
for whom haste is an outdated term. Cold
granite of St. Aidan’s casts shadows
over work and play. Every act is sanctified.

In the yard’s sunlit space men break to savor
sandwiches served with mustard hot
as a maiden’s breath inhaled outside July’s
Scarawalsh’s marquee. Like my ancient
grandfather, men pull on pipes whilst
hocking hard, spitting still polite so long
as the actor is male and well-advanced in years.

For barley & salmon, there is but one short
season. Each weaves to rhythms I did not hear
held snugly then in youth’s eternity. Ears
float on summer’s breezes sweet and low.
The Slaney drums homeward spinning flow
salmon floating secrets we have yet to grow.

Graig’s tough men caress burlap sacks gently
as they will dry their daughters’ faces
with soft towels, Saturday evening darkening
into night, cleaned clothes laid out and ironed
for the cathedral’s early Mass. I lie stock-still
amongst a wave of tired boys: flat on sacks,
counting joists, until stirred and shaken,
Graig’s Sack Co. becomes Dunnes Stores.

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by Eamonn WallToday I ramble Deer Creek GreenwayOnce again, skirt Barnickel’s tennis courts.Crunch my willow path rehear...
It Is Solved By Walking

by Eamonn Wall

Today I ramble Deer Creek Greenway
Once again, skirt Barnickel’s tennis courts.
Crunch my willow path rehearsing
Verse songs, motoring blue highways
Tuscon to Tucumcari, country rolling by

Neighbors acknowledge my daily trundle;
They nod and weave as they rumble
private pathways through the suburb.

Ziggy Stardust shifts me soon to writers
I have stored — Chatwin, Morris, Theroux —
Their travels traversed my Dublin bedsit
David Bowie turning on the stereo, long days
Before I cut my dearest ties and moved away.
Solvitur ambulando these guides had chorused
When the music stopped and arm and stylus
Raised to rest. If I keep on walking as I sing
The sun will rise again to a bright Barnickel.

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by Eamonn Wall     A Horse misus’d upon the Road     Calls to Heaven for human blood,                                   ...
Grandmother Pulls the Dryman’s Arm

by Eamonn Wall

A Horse misus’d upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for human blood,
William Blake

One morning, a Saturday as I suppose,
Crash, clink, clatter, roll an unholy oaths
Awoke Barrack St. At hilltop a blinkered
Dray, solid and silent as a hillock, stood
Stock still. Later, when her tears had dried
To memory, grandmother, in deep blue
Dress arrayed, declared that those bottles —
Beers and minerals contained in glass
And crate — had rolled from the drayman’s
Cart the load incorrectly secured: culprit
Stout Steve Kelly, grey coat, red face
Tweed hat. Cruel, grandmother said, her
Voice firmer now, to have whipped
That simple beast about its face and flank
The unholy racket drew us children into
The road, our parents in light pursuit. Later
When the team from the beer distributor’s
— Lett’s or Donohoe’s I don’t recall — were
Done with sweeping up, we returned home.
Grandmother’s tears ran hard the hollowed
Gaps of her tight cupped face. She shook.
I’d last heard her cry the day JFK had died.


Though the Slaney has deepened its rolling
Bed, grandmother retains her spot
On Barrack St., fixed between drayman’s
Whip and blinkered beast. Perhaps, as I recall,
It has begun to rain, or the hill’s been layered
In ice. Long from angina she had suffered.
I find her seated too in her kitchen spot —
Farthest from the door and closest to the fire —
That Saturday stout Steve Kelly beat about
A stone-still dray and hit and pulled and beat.
He whipped and flayed, and hit, and beat, hit
One more time, and more, everything carried,
Note for note, along the chill mid-morning air.
He cursed and shouted out such red-faced roars
Our Grandmother had absorbed only to disdain.
The noble beast standing solemnly stolid in the rain.


Grandmother tugs the drayman’s arm. We
Were children then who waited for them
To separate, the scene bathed in slow, lucid
Light. Indoors, her sobbing ended, breath
Caught, face of color drained, I watched
Mother climb a stool to release a Power’s
Gold Label from the highest cupboard shelf
A drop to press medicinally into her mother’s
Tea. Grandmother went about the house
Silently; she cherished tender calm the aged
Favour; she read her missal, recited her rosary,
Not once that day did she offer another word.


This morning, on wall of our old house
On Barrack St., I take note of grandmother’s
Image heralded cabinet high above sofa
Mugs and telephone. She’s seated on a white
Bench beside her brother Gerald in the garden
Of a chalet by the sea, these two for lifetimes
Holding warm because I can read it in their faces.
Happy, as I suspect, to seem children in eternity
Racing along the grooved potato drills for home.

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The Cafe Review C/o Yes, Books, 589 Congress Street
Portland, ME


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First Order of Things. The poem is by Wang Ping from the latest issue of the Cafe Review - the Chinese issue - which I just rec'd in the mail.
For the song I only put the last eleven lines of the poem to music. love singing these words. It was my birthday yesterday and I spent several wonderful as in wonder filled hours singing this poem into song.

Another excellent review of Between Lakes in The Café Review! With thanks to Mike Bove for his thoughtful attention to Jeffrey Harrison's work.

"Despite the intricacy of their subjects, the poems in Between Lakes are not tangled....Harrison’s tight lines are simple in the best sense of the word....Strong writing happens when the poet, after years of practice, engages the machinery of flow to achieve something that appears to have been effortless."
Audio clip for the poem "Diary in self-isolation" recently shared in The Café Review
Thank you The Café Review and Steve Luttrell for the invitation to be part of the Spring edition of this beautiful poetry/art magazine published in Maine.
I was also thrilled to see New Brunswick artists Schofield and Romeo Savoie featured in the same issue.
Teachers and professors: with Lit Mag Adoption, integrating literary magazines into course curricula is easy, and comes at no cost to you. Participating magazines include A Public Space, Alaska Quarterly Review, American Chordata, Bone Bouquet Journal, Brick, A Literary Journal, Broadsided Press, The Café Review, Carve Magazine, Colorado Review, The Common, Conjunctions, Creative Nonfiction, The Fiddlehead: Atlantic Canada's International Literary Journal, Flock Literary Journal, Friction, The Georgia Review, The Kenyon Review, The Literary Review, The Massachusetts Review, New England Review, Ninth Letter, One Story, The Paris Review, Ploughshares, Poetry Foundation & Poetry Magazine, Rain Taxi, River Teeth: A Journal of Nonfiction Narrative, Salamander, Sinister Wisdom, The Southern Review, The Timberline Review, and more!
A recording of the one and only Bobby Byrd reading some of his poetry on The Café Review ... Our favorite: "Early Morning, Front Porch."
OPEN CALL: THE OPEN COLLECTIVE is a mentorship program for LGBT poets in New England between the ages of 18 and 28 who have not received a college degree nor are currently enrolled as matriculated full-time students at a university or college, yet have an aptitude for poetry. Applicants need to be open to constructive criticism for the purpose of revision. If you fit this criteria and are interested, or know of someone who would be interested, the application instructions and more details can found here:
The Spring issue of The Café Review features a new poem by Bruce Whiteman, 'The American Poet Ezra Pound Recommends Peanut-Butter to His Italian Friends' - click the link below to have a read.

Bruce Whiteman's 'The Sad Mechanic Exercise' was no.40 in our Devil's Whim Occasional Chapbook series.

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