POeT SHOTS # 6 (Series B) - Ray Greenblatt

LOVE IS NOT ALL     by Edna Millay

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

 Sonnet is an Elizabethan poetic form; but this one uses contemporary language and sensibility. The theme of love is tested by forms of possible death--starvation, exposure to the elements, drowning, TB, contaminated blood, broken bones . . .What may be a worse trial is directed toward the soul when "a man is making friends with death . . . for lack of love alone." Yet the poet reaffirms her belief in love: "I do not think I would."

POeT SHOTS # 5 (Series B) - Ray Greenblatt


The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tiresme out the most.
This, and the pretense
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.

          Modern--"Not that anyone here/but you would understand" she says directly to the reader.
          Mythic--"I come from the province of the gods/where meanings are lilting and oblique."
          Shocking--"Humid as August, hazy and languorous/as a looted city the day after."
          Men beware: "They gaze at me and see/a chain-saw murder just before it happens."
          Why should beauty, tenderness, vulnerability be destroyed?

POeT SHOTS # 4 - (Series B) -Ray Greenblatt

             QUARANTINE by Eavan Boland

n the worst hour of the worst season
          of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking--they were walking--north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
          He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
          Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
          There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
          Also what they suffered. How they lived
And what there is between a man and woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.


The couple's tortuous trek: "walking, walking, west, west, and, and, last, last, worst, worst." Fragments capture the fits and starts of dying. "Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history." Yet their loving sacrifice for each other endures in history.



POET SHOTS # 3 (SERIES B)   by Ray Greenblatt

Pasiphae, by Joanne Hayhurst

From the leathery leaves of olive trees nearby
an open window, a winter rain's been weeping

while her blood is slowly seeping onto
sheepskin where she lies in silence

of the birthing room. As if she's half
asleep or dreaming in the rain light

of a cave, where shadows without margins
merge and shift and sounds sometimes confuse,

there seems to be a whimpering from somewhere.
Rising, dreading, drawn beyond her will,

she shudders as blood trickles down her thighs--
she comes closer, sees the swaddling clothes,

the small stirring in the cradle. Time swallows
time: she's flung, fragmented, into

dark, through whirling worlds, free-falling--
as though her womb had filled with dross or stone,

she settles to the floor beside the cradle.
Beyond her will, fierce trembling hands unbind,

unwind the rags, the endless swathing--
naked now, exposed--a small thing, limp,

and wet, unfolding the old darkness
of a dream. A moan--his, or hers?--

Smother it or back away or leave it
here to dry and wither, disappear.

The small thing turns his head: dark eyes open,
seeking hers; in them wells the sharing

of their sorrow: his delicate long lashes,
the flesh, the downy hide, the muscular

perfection, the cord, the velvet flanks,
the fetlocks, hooves, a fine and graceful tail.

The baby's fingers tighten at her touch--
nails, thin as skin of grapes, pale as water--

his infant fist closes on her finger;
she brings him to her: hot familiar breath

upon her neck, his smell of rising yeast
or forest floors in summer. She rests her face

upon his face, on two furred nubs that will
become the terrifying horns. The queen

begins a heavy humming: old sounds
of the Aegean Sea and winter rains--

Maybe she expected it: the door's
flung wide and, oh, the animal howling.

A mother's love knows no boundaries--not even for something unearthly: "the downy hide, the muscular/perfection, the cord, the velvet flanks,/the fetlocks, hooves, a fine and graceful tail." Although a queen she has suffered so much, as he will: "in them well the sharing/of their sorrow."


POET SHOTS # 2 (SERIES B)   by Ray Greenblatt


ON THE BALCONY by Emily Grosholz

We understood at last the native tongue
of the candle struggling to maintain
its story on the balcony, in the wind,
set opposite the quiet moon.
We felt ourselves grow darker with the wine
and an increasing reticence
that waited near us like the sleeping children.

Perhaps it was the music playing
deep inside the rooms behind the wall,
blues from south Chicago with no words
but those the flame supplied,
curved and falling like the wind in veils
or flights of stairways down,
a failure and advancement, always down.

Perhaps it was the blind wall with its traces
of ivy, advertisements, empty rooms,
pattern of our two dark heads by moonlight
broken by the candle's shifting tongue.
All our talk became a listening
and echoed from the wall
in letters and the seams of vanished stairs.

The moon, the candle, answered to each other;
we heard the small one gutter
in imitation. loving and unstable,
mocking and shaking, of the silent moon.
We listened till we half believed
it was the language of the dead,
their strange flat hands like ivy on the wall.

So distracted by the task of living,
we must turn for wisdom to the ones
who wear the past upon their faces
as the walls of houses do,
as the moon reveals itself in phases
moving from a scored white vacancy
into the baleful silhouette of fire.

We watched the flame embrace the wax,
the crumbling wall surrender to the touch
of ivy, sinking deeper in its scars.
Close behind, the music played,
the children slept enfolded in a dream,
their respiration like a lower
run of minor notes, descending scales.

Later the flame dropped off, so suddenly
we wondered, drunk and silent as we were,
why our light companion fled
and left us to our old abandonments.
Your darkened face, just after, lit
to features I could understand;
I read it with my mouth and hands
because my eyes were full of night.

The night is alive for lovers. All things become sentient--"candle," "moon,"  the voice of "music."
          "All our talk became a listening
          and echoed from the wall
          in letters and the seams of vanished stairs."

          "as the moon reveals itself in phases
          moving fromscored white vacancy
          into the baleful silhouette of fire."


POeT SHOTS #1 (Series B)  - by Ray Greenblatt


Look at me. I'm standing on a deck
in the middle of Oregon. There are
people inside the house. It's not my
house, you don't know them.
They're drinking and singing
and playing guitars. You love
this song. Remember? "Ophelia."
Boards on the windows, mail
by the door. I'm whispering
so they won't think I'm crazy.
They don't know me that well.
Where are you now? I feel stupid.
I'm talking to trees, to leaves
swarming on the black air, stars
blinking in and out of heart-
shaped shadows, to the moon, half-
lit and barren, stuck like an ax
between the branches. What are you
now? Air? Mist? Dust? Light?
What? Give me something. I have
to know where to send my voice.
A direction. An object. My love, it needs
a place to rest. Say anything. I'm listening.
I'm ready to believe. Even lies, I don't care.
Say, burning bush. Say, stone.  They've
stopped singing now and I really should go.
So tell me, quickly. It's April. I'm
on Spring Street. That's my gray car
in the driveway. They're laughing
and dancing. Someone's bound
to show up soon. I'm waving.
Give me a sign if you can see me.
I'm the only one here on my knees.

"Stars/blinking in and out of heart-/shaped shadows, to the moon, half-/lit and barren, stuck like an ax/between the branches." Simple words. Complex thoughts. Her lost love. Dead love. She is the lost Ophelia in so much anguish.

Ray Greenblatt   (rgreenblatt71@comcast.net)


Therése Halscheid


will read her poetry and share her visual art

Wednesday September 7

7:00 p.m.

at the Community Arts Center

414 Plush Mill Road

Wallingford, PA19086

Open Mic will follow

The First Wednesday reading series at the CAC is sponsored by the Mad Poets Society. For more information see the web page (www.madpoetssociety.com) or contact First Wednesday series host Sibelan Forrester (610-328-8162, sforres1@swarthmore.edu)

POeT SHOT # 11 Blog Post by Ray Greenblatt - On Greenblatt



                                         BACK FROM THE DEAD by Ray Greenblatt

Renzie came back from the dead

really back from hell

literally he was dead and

was sent back. I believe him

his honesty is compelling

as well as his honest anger

he has nothing to hide.

He slouches over there

in filthy clothes and flesh

pockets jammed with swatches

of newspaper he picks out

of trash cans and gutters

--dirty is nothing compared to hell—

pretending to read as cover

pace a few steps then back

he tells me he is thrilled

to be here. Bored? Never

of course being really dead

he doesn’t have to sleep

but he pretends to

for the sake of others

especially the cops

who would confine him.

He loves hanging out

in this underground station

where people come and go

all the time—he laughs—

a little like hell.

He begs money to

sometimes buy food to

pretend he must eat

yet he does like some tastes

--not like during life

it was almost compulsion—

he also likes some odors

garbage at its rottenest

doesn’t offend him.

I could go on, as he does

but I have to continue

my real life as he his death.

I see Renzie standing there

in his great bulk

--in hell you don’t wither—

eyes shifting in their sockets

empty gums contorted

cursing the invisible

waving a dirty piece of paper

like a fatal summons

people swirling all around

used to his odorous presence

his eccentric reality.


We have seen many ghosts wandering through the year of poems above. Ghosts of the past, ghosts of our hopes, ghosts of our hurts. Renzie claims he has returned from the dead. We see men and women who seem to be caught between life and a living death. How did they deserve such a fate?


                            TOAST ON A SUMMER AFTERNOON

- Eileen M. D’Angelo

I ordered a Guinness and thought of you,

on the deck of The Inn at Jim Thorpe. It is August,

and the wind sighs a hint of fall. The scent of sage

drifts down the mountains, over stone mansions,

to the Switch Back Railroad on the hill.


Here in Mahoning Valley at the bottom of a bowl of trees,

Sunday falls gently on my shoulders like late summer light,

here where the Mauch Chunk Creek secretly runs

below the streets, rushing all the way to the Lehigh River.


Somewhere in the woods I know the first curled leaf

is beginning to change. It has taken every ray of white sun it can,

and will take no more:  it has held on for this very afternoon.

When autumn’s first chill steals down the valley, it will let go.


The afternoon light shifts on the wooden floor of the pub,

where men walked a hundred years ago, me with dark hair

and light eyes like yours, hearts burning hope

in a new land, hands full of black diamonds, lungs full of coal dust.


Maybe your ancestors and mine, these mining Molly Maguires,

their very lives owned by the Philadelphia & Reading Coal

& Iron Company. Innocents hanged for crimes invented by rich men,

lies spun to hold Irish mineworkers, to chain them to the land.


Their spirits haunt the old stone jail: Walk now, where their bodies

once swung before a crowd. Strange: the sound of bagpipes on the air.

Whispering voices rise from the dark earth, cry out from dungeon cells,

from collapsed tunnels far below. Their scattered bones

ache between coal veinsand underground streams.


Today, I raise my glass to all of them.  To you.

The Guinness is dark and strong.  The froth soft upon my lips.

Sunlight warms my pale cheek, as the old clock tower,

in the center of town, tolls the hour.

(Previously published in Philadelphia Stories)

                                                                *                     *                    *

We each have a history. History is where we live. Sometimes we must move to a new setting for complex reasons. Often unjust, often haunted, always mixed with emotions. Our memories, our memories of those we know and love flow like rivers, like the seasons.

                                                -Ray Greenblatt

A Friend in the Theater & on the Court - Blog Post by David Kozinski

A Friend in the Theater & on the Court

by David P. Kozinski

Native Philadelphian Michael Toner, wrote an elegant, personal eulogy in memory of Brian Friel, in response to the death last year of the great Irish playwright – and, as I learned, short-story writer. Michael’s article was published in the November 2015 issue of The Irish Edition. Titled “The Magician of Ballybeg: Brian Friel (1929 – 2015),” the article relates biographical information about Friel and his work, and observes his place in the history of literature. It also offers insight about how the writer affected Michael’s life and work; as an actor, playwright, director and dialect coach.

My wife, Patti Allis Mengers, also an actor, director and writer, knew Michael from their participation in the Philadelphia theater scene before I met him. She introduced us to one another in the mid-1990s. Almost immediately he and I found that we had much in common; literature, ideas, a love of poetry and language, and, most importantly, the need for a tennis partner.

For the next five years or so we played singles on public courts in Northeast Philadelphia, at Roosevelt Park in South Philly – contending with the traffic noise from I-95, just above us – and even in Maine a couple of times when Patti and I visited Michael at his summertime digs in Belfast. Because of the aforementioned highway noise, we developed hand signals to keep score and to indicate whether a shot was in or out.

I do not recall either of us ever offering the middle finger as commentary on the other’s “out” call, even though our matches were quite competitive. The mood always remained friendly. In 2001 we began playing doubles with two pretty good athletes,  which was both a bit easier on the legs and lungs, and also raised our games, somewhat. We did not become good tennis players, but we’ve had a great deal of fun and decent exercise in our mediocrity.

In his tribute to Friel, Michael notes,  “Memories flood me of working Brian’s plays…the great ensemble of Volunteers under Deen Kogan at Society Hill Playhouse…the east coast premiere of Translations at Villanova, directed by the Abbey Theatre’s Paul Moore…acting and directing Dancing At Lughnasa in Portland and Belfast, Maine…performing my one-man show of Friel monologues, The Humors of Ballybeg, at Rowan University…doing Molly Sweeney, directed by Mimi Kenney Smith for Amaryllis Theatre…assisting the late Frank Olley in directing Aristocrats at Saint Joseph’s University…each play had its own unique magic, and you knew that with Brian Friel’s words on the page, you were in the presence of a master…” Through his friend, the late Professor Lester Connor, Michael met Friel and his wife Anne in the summer of 1980, visiting for tea at their home in Muff, County Donegal. This was shortly after Translations had been premiered by Friel’s Field Day Theater in Derry city and was touring to sellout crowds in Ireland. 

I was able to attend several of the Friel plays in which Michael participated, including Translations, Aristocrats, and The Humors of Ballybeg which deepened our friendship and widened my rather narrow theater education. I’ve been in the audience when he’s acted in Eugene O’Neill’s Moon for the Misbegotten, in Rock Doves by Marie Jones and in Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. Michael is a voracious reader and Vietnam vet whose own plays address a variety of themes. I’ve enjoyed his one-man show, Ever Yours, Scott Fitzgerald, its title taken from the closing the novelist used in his letters, and Michael’s large-cast Vietnam veterans’ reunion play, Another Dead Soldier.

Over the years, we’ve occasionally exchanged our own works-in-progress, as well as books by great writers; most of them of or about poetry. Gifts from Michael of collections I’ve savored by Seamus Heaney, Paul Muldoon and Richard Howard come quickly to mind. We participated in an evening of scenes from Shakespeare that Patti organized, upstairs at Philadelphia’s Plays & Players on Delancey Street in the mid-1990s. Highlights of the evening were Patti’s late mother, Eileen Kovatch Mengers, cast as one of the weird sisters in a script-in-hand scene from MacBeth and wearing two pairs of glasses in order to read her part, and Michael’s performance. I don’t recall which scene he acted from memory – it may have been from Hamlet – but I do remember that his entrance was arresting and his delivery natural, convincing.  

In June, Michael was halfway through the four scheduled performances of the late poet and playwright David Simpson’s autobiographical play, Crossing the Threshold into the House of Bach, a production of the Amaryllis Theater Company. In the play, a blind organist, practicing J.S. Bach’s last chorale prelude late at night, strikes up a conversation with a youth minister that reveals experiences from Simpson’s own life, while exploring profound themes. Michael had completed two performances of the challenging play at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Elkins Park (PA). He was preparing for the second pair of shows at St. Mary’s Church at the University of Pennsylvania, rehearsing at the Amaryllis, located on Sansom Street, when calamity struck.

Walking to catch the train home to Northeast Philadelphia, sometime around 11:00 P.M. and in a heavy downpour, Michael was hit by a driver who fled the scene. The proximity to Jefferson Hospital may have saved his life, but the doctors could not save Michael’s left leg, which was amputated. (Don’t believe the postings on the web that cite his having lost his right leg.) This was Tuesday, June 9th, just days before the Philadelphia Writers’ Conference started, always a busy weekend for me. As soon as she heard the news, Patti visited Michael in the hospital and reported that he was awake and communicating, which was very encouraging. Meanwhile, the Philly theater community reacted with alarm and concern, spreading the news widely and quickly.

Gentle and intellectually inclined, my friend is nevertheless feisty; tough-minded and determined. Anyone who carves out a place for himself in the theater must be. These qualities have no doubt contributed to his recovery, as did keeping himself in shape through running, tennis and exercising at a gym for years.

In a phone conversation last summer Michael told me he had counted 15 visits to Jefferson’s O.R. during which he was under anaesthesia; four times for operations and the rest for other procedures. After being released from the hospital, he received a prosthetic leg and rapidly learned to walk with it. Michael credits the hospital’s staff and that of Moss Rehabilitation with excellent care. He also told me about meeting the daughterof the late Penn professor and U.S. Poet Laureate,  Daniel Hoffman, at Jefferson. She was helping Michael plan his post-hospital care. They not only discussed aftercare, they talked literature, which was, no doubt, excellent therapy.

Before the injury, Michael was cast in a production of Eugene O’Neill’s Moon for the Misbegotten, reprising his portrayal of Phil Hogan. On January 20th, Patti and I attended a performance upstairs at the Walnut Street Theater along with a large, enthusiastic audience.  “Phil” is an old farmer and Michael’s hindered gait seemed like a natural part of his character. While we were having dinner at a nearby pub after the performance, a couple approached our table. The woman told Michael that she hadn’t realized before the performance that he had a prosthetic leg. She thought his limp was part of the role!

When the play’s run in Philadelphia ended, the cast took it on the road for a month, visiting universities and arts centers in ten states. They performed the play and conducted master classes in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York and New England and headed south to Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, and then west to Indiana and Michigan. Michael told me the tour was both exhilarating and exhausting, as one might expect, and quite fulfilling.

With luck, Michael will be fitted with a new, computerized prosthesis in the near future that would allow for much greater mobility. I look forward to seeing my friend on the boards for years to come, and someday joining my brother-in-racquets out on the tennis court; volleying at the net, exchanging friendly japes, and laughing.

POeT SHOTS # 9 Blog Post by Ray Greenblatt

POeT SHOTS #9                                                       Blog Post by Ray Greenblatt


After the divorce it took awhile
in a small cheap apartment,
but finally I got another house,
this one bigger, emptier.
I moved in with nothing
of my own to fill the rooms,
but still threw out the two chairs
and table the previous owners left.
I kept the doll I found
in the yard, a Barbie with matted
blonde hair and not a stitch
of clothing. A new wife,
I thought, and I proposed to her
right there in the middle
of my cutting the grass, lifting
my beer in a toast to love
and long years together, and though
I doubt she really wanted it,
I did pour some on her hard pretty body,
and used my fingers to rub away
the mud that was caked all over her.
Later I actually bathed her
in lemon-scented Joy, along with
the dish and glass I'd used for breakfast,
lunch and dinner.
                                I didn't feel weird
about any of this yet, this was still weeks
before I was in K-Mart and bought
the outfit, jeans and a plaid flannel shirt,
Cowgirl Barbie, but for comfort, really,
something to wear around the house.
It would have been wrong if I'd gotten
the tight black sequined dress I saw,
or the hot baby blue mini with the silver
belt and matching fuck-me pumps.
It would have been wrong if I had
kept her naked, sitting on the bookcase
bare-assed for all the wold to see.
But is this so wrong?
                                    She listens to me
sometimes; sometimes I can tell
she is not paying attention at all,
but that's okay; sometimes I'm not much
for talking myself. She is always there
when I need her, though. Is that so wrong?
And I'm always there for her.
                                                  The yard
is her nightmare, but she knows I won't let
that happen to her again. I'm not so sure
about the life she's had, the station to which
she's been accustomed, but it is good here,
in this big empty house. She's treated well,
and her wardrobe, now, is next to none.

Dolls can comfort children. A poet--tongue in cheek--asks if a doll can do the same for a grown up? To start over, we must pare down to basics. We must put the past behind us--no matter how much acting out it takes. It is our own personal psychotherapy.




The Philadelphia Poetry Festival is coming! 

SUNDAY, APRIL 24, 2016 from 1:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m.

 Do you run a poetry organization, magazine or poetry series in the Philadelphia area?   If so, please register NOW for the Philadelphia Poetry Festival 2016 by sending your request via email to philapoetryfest@comcast.net.  Include your name, the organization you represent and a brief summary of what your org does and where and when you do it.  Please use the word “REGISTRATION” in the subject line of your email.  REGISTRATION DEADLINE IS FRIDAY, APRIL 15TH


Each organization will present one poet to represent them, who will read for five minutes.  In the spirit of the event, we ask that organization leaders or editors NOT read, but choose a poet to spotlight. 


This year’s festival will be held at a wonderful event space:  THE ROTUNDA, 4014 Walnut Street in West Philadelphia.


BOOK FAIR.  The Philadelphia Poetry Festival will include a Poetry Book Fair.  This is for individual poets signing and selling their books of poems.  All proceeds will go to and be handled by the authors.  The space is very limited – You must sign up in advance.  Please contact Leonard with interest:  gontarek9@earthlink.net

PROGRAM FLYERS/MATERIALS.   There will be an area for circulation of program brochures, flyers and information about dozens of Philadelphia poetry and writing outlets.  Bring your favorite series information to share!

PARKING.  Lots of street parking in the area, metered and non-metered.  Fresh Grocer Parking Garage across Walnut Street.

GREAT PLACES FOR FOOD & SPIRITS & BUSINESSES WITHIN A BLOCK: Smokey Joe’s, Mizu Sushi Bar, The Greek Lady, West Philly City Tap House, Bobby’s Burger Palace, Copabanana, Hummus & The Last Word Book Shop!

PAST PARTICIPANTSAmerican Poetry Review, Farley’s First Thursday Series, Apiary, The Collective Mic, Moveable Beats, Philly Youth Poetry Movement, The Green Line Reading and Interview Series, The Fuze: Philadelphia Slam Team, Philadelphia Stories, Philadelphia Poets, Rutgers-Camden’s “Louder Than a Bomb” Teen Poetry Slam, Mad Poets, Musehouse, Moonstone, Philadelphia Writers Conference, and MORE! 

Join us on April 24th to Experience a Unique Sampling of the Greatest Poetry on Earth and the Greatest Poetry Community Under the Sun!

This is the area’s most comprehensive poetry event solely dedicated to celebrating Greater Philadelphia Poetry in all of its manifestations.  Be there or be square!


POeT SHOT # 8 - Greenblatt on a Poem by Gloria Parker

POeT SHOT #8                                             Blog Post by Ray Greenblatt

THE BANK SIGN FLASHES 10 DEGREES     - by Gloria Parker

Then 8:40--then 9 degrees. Not that I need to be told--

I'm wearing the lone glove I found in my pocket, sitting
on the other hand to keep it warm-

I'm late for work, the radio's news is demoralizing as ever,
tiny ice pellets pepper my windshield and same light turns

red three times. I add these to my monologue, then make
a dangerous u-turn from the bumper-to-bumper mess

onto a side road which turns out to be just as bad--thick
with drivers who must have had the same idea.

A red fox steps out of the brush and trots along the swale
beside the cars with what looks like a kaiser roll in his mouth

and I picture him stepping out of a Saturday morning cartoon,
not a miserable Monday

where a kaiser roll is never a kaiser roll, but a sandwich-size
creature, locked in fox's jaws.

The school bus I'm stuck behind with its host of red lights stops
at every driveway. Bundled-up kids waddle from their houses.

It's kindergarten I'm late for--where for six hours in an overheated
room there'll be no time to build a case against the cold and brutal.

I'll take out and put back paints, toys, books--wipe noses and tears,
open lids from tight thermos bottles, sing songs to temper the din.

After rest time, they'll watch me make blue squares on a giant sheet
of white paper. I'll tell them a palatable version of the story.

Each child will have a square. One of them will draw Mrs. Fox
in a pink flowered apron, making her husband's favorite lunch--

peanut butter and jelly on a kaiser roll. She'll look all over--under
the table, in the stove and refrigerator, on top of the cupboards

but won't find his lunch box. He'll put on his periwinkle vest,
his hunter green hat with the speckled feather in the band

and in the last frame, Mr. Fox, in his red and orange coupe will
go off to work with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his teeth.

The ironic title of the poem seems to have little to do with the main theme. A working person--a teacher-- goes through the daily trials of life, even confronting the "savagery" of nature, i.e. a fox with its prey (in modern times the Kaiser tried to gobble up countries). Kindergarten is a "safe" place for innocent children. The humor grows as the fox, and life, is made acceptable by giving him a kaiser roll, jaunty clothes and car, and placing him in a cartoon.

POeT SHOT # 7 - Greenblatt's Thoughts on a Poem by Philip Dacey

POeT SHOT #7                                                                                             Blog Post by Ray Greenblatt

THE SENTENCE      by Philip Dacey

It could have been a desert,
as beautiful and dry
as grammar, the sun burning
with the logic of parts of speech.
I crawled happily there, the sand of syntax

cradling my knees, rocks,
those punctuation marks, slowing me
into attentiveness. Some words tufted
like cactus, with little flowers
of sound topping them.

I lay in their shadow, cooled,
every subordinate clause
a ravine to skid down into,
dunes rising and falling
rhythmically, phrase after phrase,

an eros of contours. And when the sun
was setting on what had been written
and the shadows of letters lengthened,
verbs chased each other, desert animals,
the only motion to be seen.

Then darkness, a great, overarching full stop,
left me alone and forlorn,
waiting for the sun to rise
on the presumption
of the next sentence's opening gesture.

How can the sun be a part of speech or sand syntax? How can a ravine be a subordinate clause or dunes be phrases? Only through the poet's imagination and the written magic of poetry.

POeT SHOT # 6 - Blog Post by Ray Greenblatt

POeT SHOTS #6                                                                            Blog Post by Ray Greenblatt

MUSICAL RAPTURE       by Lisa Lutwyche

I am a child in bed, unable to sleep.

My mother's piano rings through the house,
lovely and tortured, both things at once.
Passages played over and over until they obey.
And when the music does the will of her strong,
able fingers, it makes me cry.
The hair raises on my skinny arms.

My ugly cheeks rain with tears.

Musical rapture wraps me, wide-awake,
all colors and rocking waves of feeling.
I don't know what to do. I'll break the spell
if I go to my mother, who plays downstairs, alone.
But I want to tell her I'm listening.
Someone is listening to her wasted music.

Even now it comes to me. Chopin. Bartok.

My sister's breathing, my mother's hands,
bringing to my heart something like pain.
Dangerous, evocative, music reaches too deeply,
too far into a past I've never understood.
A secret, in the night, no one else to hear the piano.
She only played when my father wasn't there.

Except when they played together,
cello, piano, my held breath.

The strong rhythm carries us through the poem. There's a mystery here; only hints in the ending. When music is "beautiful," we wonder at disjointed wording: "tortured-obey-will-strong-cry-skinny-ugly-tears-alone-wasted-pain-dangerous-secret." An entire world hides in and behind the music.

February's "Rhyme, Rhythm & Reason" at the Regency Reading- Post by David P. Kozinski

Mad Poets Blog post March 2016

Last Sunday’s performances at the Regency Café in Lansdowne, PA were pure pleasure. Featured were musicians Michael Asbury and Joseph Nocella, and poets Lili Bita and Robert Zaller, who are married to each other. The program was titled “A Love-in Event”, which was all the more appropriate as it took place on February 28th, two weeks after St. Valentine’s Day. Veteran Mad Poet and host of the monthly reading series known as “Rhyme, Rhythm & Reason”, Camelia Nocella, handed out Mardi Gras style love beads to attendees and presided over the festivities, which included an open mic reading. 

Anyone who is even slightly interested in poetry and lives in the greater Philadelphia area has most likely read Zaller and Bita’s work, or better still, heard them read their poetry in one of the countless venues they have graced over the years. They’ve published multiple books – including Zaller’s translations of Bita‘s work from the original Greek – and had work appear in too many journals to list here. Both are long-term Mad Poets and members of the Overbrook Poets group. Writing about them in this blog is a bit like preaching to the choir, but seriously, if you haven’t heard them read, keep your eyes open and look for announcements of upcoming local poetry events. On Sunday, both poets delivered new material that dealt with matters political, with love and sex, and with events both Olympic and ordinary in scale, constructed on a foundation of history and philosophy. As always, they read with conviction and a flare for the dramatic.

A very pleasant surprise was the pairing of tenor Michael Asbury and keyboardist Joseph Nocella. They offered two sets of standards, sandwiched around the poets’ readings, from the Great American Songbook, including Rodgers and Hart’s “My Funny Valentine” and an original composition of Nocella’s. Asbury’s voice was bell-clear, with refreshingly exacting intonation, and he delivered the songs with originality and self-assurance. Despite his youth (he appears to be in his twenties) I would have guessed he has worked with a number of fine voice coaches, but he told me most of his training has been from singing in church and close listening to recordings. Nocella, who is married to the series’ host and organizer, possesses the true accompanist’s gift for allowing the soloist to excel. In part, this requires knowing when to push, when to back off, and how to frame a performance. His own composition (sorry I missed the title) featured surprising twists of harmony and a sophistication that reflects his familiarity with and understanding of Broadway, jazz and beyond.

Upcoming in this series at the Regency are poet Anna Evans and musician Kathy McMearty on Sunday, March 20th. All the offerings of “Rhyme, Rhythm & Reason” start at 2:00 P.M. The café, which offers a delicious and inexpensive menu and free parking (!) across the street, is located at 29 N. Lansdowne Ave., Lansdowne, PA 19050. Call 484-461-9002 or see http://regencycafe.com for more information. 

POeT SHOTS # 5 - Greenblatt on a Poem of Paul Martin.

POeT SHOT #5                                


This raw second day of spring,
they sit on the damp patchy green,
oblivious of everyone and everything
that moves around them.

He teases her, hiding
something behind his back.
In mock anger, she twists
her face into something so fierce
it causes them both to laugh.

Then she floats her kerchief
like a green flame
in the breeze above his head,
but he yanks it down
and binds her leg to his
with a knot at the ankle.

One arm around the other's waist,
the other boosting them from the ground,
they awkwardly rise
to try this new thing they've become.
Trying to run, they fall,
fall and again fall,
each time pulling the other up
til they work out this strange, stiff-legged
rocking rhythm
and heads tilted back, laughing at the sky,
they hobble into the distance
faster than you might expect
as though they could manage
a lifetime like that.

*  *  *
What a unique and powerful way to look at a marriage! "Binds her leg to his/with a knot at the ankle," "One arm around the other's waist,/the other boosting them from the ground," "To try this new thing they've become," "Fall and again fall/each time pulling the other up," "Laughing at the sky/they hobble into the distance," "As though they could manage/a lifetime like that."

POeT SHOTS # 4 - Greenblatt on a Poem of Therese Halscheid.


"AFTER ALASKA" by Therese Halscheid

She lives in me now, in the north of my chest, where it is all dark, all winter--
to my ears will come her voice, then to my eyes, this white woman,
then pathways to the tribe she roamed with, to places inside me
where they are hunting and she is gathering and there, a certain arrow,
and there, a stab of certain pain

then to moments other than these, to nights when my heart is a drum
for her dancing and her movements tell stories, and I feel in her feet
all that was told to me, all that was shared.

When I breathe and the wind blows in a mighty power, my mouth forms
 a small opening and she scales the dark throat to leap where
my lip catches the light, that she might sit
and be warmed for a while--

I felt her once, during an inner storm, as a certain chill ran through,
after my muscles tightened into big cold mountains
that she was arranging my ribs, arching them same as the shelters
she spoke of, in the icy north of Alaska, where they shape
whalebone over driftwood and pack it with sod.

There is a veined landscape she traverses in the spring
where my blood runs as thawed rivers

and she waits on the sands of myself for the return of the whale,
propped against a white embankment of bones, knees drawn to her chest
as in the way of the Eskimo, at times looking up, reading
the starry pores, the sky of my cloudless skin.

Has the white woman absorbed the Eskimo? Or has the Eskimo taken the white woman into her? There is a mysterious mutuality: "north of my chest," "to my ears will come her voice," " my heart is a drum, " "I feel in her feet all that was told,'" "she scales the dark throat," "she was arranging my ribs," "my blood runs as thawed rivers," "the sands of myself," "reading the starry pores," "the sky of my cloudless skin."

– Ray Greenblatt

POeT SHOTS # 3 - Greenblatt reviews Bill Van Buskirk.

POeT SHOT #3 –                                                                  Blog Post by Ray Greenblatt


For one of the last times
The sun beat down with all its might,
Drying streets gave up
The vapory, sweet ghosts
Of last night's rain;
And anything, anything
At all that could, gave back that light--
Windshields, trolley tracks, and
Lucky pennies waiting on the sidewalk.
So, in the middle of her final sickness--
A reprieve. A sun miraculous, tropical and lush
Shone for them in the middle of November, and
They went shopping on South Street.

The cancer left her gawky and gaunt,
Like a girl of thirteen years who grew too fast.
With restess eyes she searched through
Grimy windows for a reflection, for an angle
Where still she might be shown to some advantage.
Jewels were what she wanted, though;
Only they would do--Chiseled, lovely things
That would reflect the light of the next century,
That would endure to greet a thousand future suns.

Almost out of time now, she hurried along
As best she could. Limping, her body losing
Energy in the waning afternoon, she dragged him
From place to place; but he didn't get it.
Those old irritations, Saturday afternoons
Of waiting in the mail, settled over him.

And then she stopped. She vacillated
In the doorway of a tiny shop that sold
Only earrings. He could hardly bear it.
He could hardly bear this urgency for trinkets,
This urgency that drained her, that
Consumed even this shell of who she was.
But he gritted his teeth and fought for patience,
He remembered to breathe and stayed right with her.
He teetered with her in and out; it was a kind of dance
They did on the threshold of that shop.
He searched for her there, in the wreckage
Of who she was; and what he found
Was a startling kind of question rising up.

Feverish it hung there
Suspended in the brimming eyes.
And when at last he found her,
It burst inside him like a bomb.

"So is this it then?
Is this too much to spend upon a decaying shell?
Am I too far gone to decorate? Even for these?
Am I forgotten like a month-old-Christmas-tree
Waiting around to be burnt?"

So there it was, all of it,
The dying child's question
Hanging wordless in the air.
Terrifying, rounded and perfect in its way,
Turning in a chilly breeze, glittering
From one angle, then another,
Like a hundred earrings blinking in the sun.

This is a haunting poem. It is immediately seeded in the first paragraph with telltale words: "last-ghost-anything-final-reprieve-miraculous." The husband is worn out with supporting his wife. She is worn out from her illness but wants something significant before life ends. The power builds throughout the poem and is overwhelming by the close.  No matter what it takes, we must love each other right up until the end. 

- Ray Greenblatt


POeT SHOTS # 2 - Ray Greenblatt talks about a Lisa Baron Poem.

                                                                                                                                         by Lisa Baron

I do not remember the one
sharp pain, being carried
by the neck to the dark forest,
or the bites into the soft
of my stomach. I first remember
the calls of the others
inside the Royal Bengal
asking me to join them
on their walk through
the halls and libraries
of the great beast's
limbs, or along its spine,
and sometimes to the round
of its tail. I was told I, too,
would become a great
storyteller. That soon
an insatiable hunger to tell
would come to me.
That the dead only know
when the living need
to hear from us--
that I would learn to ignore
their pleas and prayers
when needed.

And as the light fell this evening,
the great hunger came. And so
we have gathered around
the great drum of the tiger's heart
and are slapping bass tones
into the coils of its ears.
He ignored us at first,
but we were insistent.
We entered the soulful water with him

and now wait, half-submerged
behind the leafy cover of a bush,
can see behind the golden mirrors
of the beast's eyes the men
pulling their boat to shore
to gather honey among the mangroves.
I do not remember leaping
on the back of the man
as he moved toward the trees.
I only remember
whispering in his ear,
trying to calm him, telling him
his grandfather was waiting

with the rest of us
in the great belly,
that he was anxious
to tell him a story, that one day
he, too, would crave
to tell someone something.

       This is a fine poem. It has all the ingredients: a strong opening; rhythmic meter; a non-pausing narrative; selective but vivid imagery ("golden mirrors of the beast's eyes"); double entendres (the hunger to eat and to tell); insertion of modern elements ("slapping bass tones"); etc.   

        However, what makes it especially fine is the unique approach and theme: inside the tiger "live" other people who walk the halls and libraries of his limbs, spine, tail.  Telling stories is what motivates humans; and the dead know the needs of the living.

                                    - Ray Greenblatt