Poet, RAY GARMAN
Haverford College alumnus Ray Garman is an activist, an entrepreneur, a photographer, and a poet. Locally, Ray has stepped up to the mic at venues in Mays Landing, Ocean City, and Bridgeton. He has, however, traveled the world, and read and performed his poetry at such notable places as Robin’s Bookstore in Philadelphia; the Bowery Poetry Club, Nuyorican Poets Café, Neither Nor, St. Mark’s Poetry Project, La MaMa Theatre, Nell’s, and the Knitting Factory in New York City; Shakespeare & Company in Paris; San Francisco’s City Lights; Fringe Club in Hong Kong; The Café in Nairobi; at Burning Man in Black Rock City, Nevada; and also along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and with the forest of drums, and rainbows, gathering.
The following are from Ray’s recent book of poetry, Crossing Waters, published by Whirlwind Press. His website is www.raygarman.com.
Back Seats
Full
and earnest,
deeply devote,
my teenage
fingers fumble
with buttons
buttressing blouse
to touch a universe
discovered
in the back seat
of matinee movies.
I awaken the nights,
deeply desirous,
I lift your skirt
to touch a universe
discovered
in the back seat
of my mustang.
Changed
and transformed,
my teenage heart
sheds fear for tastes,
feminine charms
channeled,
when I let loose
my liberty,
I lift your skirt
to touch a universe
recollected
in the back seat
of my memory.
Haverford College alumnus Ray Garman is an activist, an entrepreneur, a photographer, and a poet. Locally, Ray has stepped up to the mic at venues in Mays Landing, Ocean City, and Bridgeton. He has, however, traveled the world, and read and performed his poetry at such notable places as Robin’s Bookstore in Philadelphia; the Bowery Poetry Club, Nuyorican Poets Café, Neither Nor, St. Mark’s Poetry Project, La MaMa Theatre, Nell’s, and the Knitting Factory in New York City; Shakespeare & Company in Paris; San Francisco’s City Lights; Fringe Club in Hong Kong; The Café in Nairobi; at Burning Man in Black Rock City, Nevada; and also along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and with the forest of drums, and rainbows, gathering.
The following are from Ray’s recent book of poetry, Crossing Waters, published by Whirlwind Press. His website is www.raygarman.com.
Back Seats
Full
and earnest,
deeply devote,
my teenage
fingers fumble
with buttons
buttressing blouse
to touch a universe
discovered
in the back seat
of matinee movies.
I awaken the nights,
deeply desirous,
I lift your skirt
to touch a universe
discovered
in the back seat
of my mustang.
Changed
and transformed,
my teenage heart
sheds fear for tastes,
feminine charms
channeled,
when I let loose
my liberty,
I lift your skirt
to touch a universe
recollected
in the back seat
of my memory.
It Ain’t Your Granddaddy’s Poetry is pleased to present poetry by Joseph Arechavala, Jen Kirchner, and Anna Vosburgh!
Dogwoods
by: Joseph Arechavala
I remember the dogwoods in our backyard
Gnarled, twisted things that, in the dark, could be
Easily mistaken for monsters
The flowers smelled like a honey-day, and meant
Spring was here, even more than the robins in
March who left tiny prints in last snows
They were little, struggling trees, and I jungle-gymmed
Without care, snapping tiny, hopeful arms
As I caroused, inflicting wounds on wood
They're gone now, and I wonder if I ever
Made them cry
Dogwoods
by: Joseph Arechavala
I remember the dogwoods in our backyard
Gnarled, twisted things that, in the dark, could be
Easily mistaken for monsters
The flowers smelled like a honey-day, and meant
Spring was here, even more than the robins in
March who left tiny prints in last snows
They were little, struggling trees, and I jungle-gymmed
Without care, snapping tiny, hopeful arms
As I caroused, inflicting wounds on wood
They're gone now, and I wonder if I ever
Made them cry
It Ain’t Your Granddaddy’s Poetry
It Ain’t Your Granddaddy’s Poetry is pleased to introduce...
On his maiden voyage in the pages of Inferno: no boundaries, Paul Giacalone (a young poet whose work is striking - but not the least mired in the too often encountered teen angst) shares his work along-side the poetry of Robert Geise and Alma Cole Pesiri, two notable veterans of these pages, and the South Jersey poetry scene.
Enjoy!
Barbara Brenner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMMON MISCONCEPTION
by Paul Giacalone
BABY I SING THE BLUES TO YOU . BABY I SING THE BLUES . I'M NOT BUILT THE SAME . HYPERSPACE . TWO-TON SHOES . I SING THE BLUES . A CHARIOT SWINGS LOW . WHAT DO WE AMOUNT TO? . GOLDEN ARCHES . TWO-TON SHOES . I SING THE BLUES . YOU LOOK DOWN YOUR HOLLOW TUNNEL . RABBIT-HOLE . FORCED UNDER WITH TWO-TON SHOES . LOOK AT WHAT YOU'RE LEAD TO BELIEVE . BELIEFS THROWN INTO HYPERSPACE . TWO-TON SHOES . I SING THE BLUES . BABY . I SING THE BLUES .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
KENNEDY
by Paul Giacalone
BEHOLD . WHAT WE HAVE . WHAT WE HAVE HERE . WELL, JUST LOOK WHAT WE HAVE HERE . JUST WHAT WE NEED . THIS IS JUST WHAT WE NEED . THIS IS JUST WHAT WE NEED TO HAVE . JUST WHAT WE NEED TO HAVE WITH HIS YOUTH . JUST WHAT WE NEED WITH HIS YOUTH AND HIS BRAINS . WITH HIS YOUTH AND HIS BRAINS BLOWN OUT OF HIS HEAD .
It Ain’t Your Granddaddy’s Poetry is pleased to introduce...
On his maiden voyage in the pages of Inferno: no boundaries, Paul Giacalone (a young poet whose work is striking - but not the least mired in the too often encountered teen angst) shares his work along-side the poetry of Robert Geise and Alma Cole Pesiri, two notable veterans of these pages, and the South Jersey poetry scene.
Enjoy!
Barbara Brenner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMMON MISCONCEPTION
by Paul Giacalone
BABY I SING THE BLUES TO YOU . BABY I SING THE BLUES . I'M NOT BUILT THE SAME . HYPERSPACE . TWO-TON SHOES . I SING THE BLUES . A CHARIOT SWINGS LOW . WHAT DO WE AMOUNT TO? . GOLDEN ARCHES . TWO-TON SHOES . I SING THE BLUES . YOU LOOK DOWN YOUR HOLLOW TUNNEL . RABBIT-HOLE . FORCED UNDER WITH TWO-TON SHOES . LOOK AT WHAT YOU'RE LEAD TO BELIEVE . BELIEFS THROWN INTO HYPERSPACE . TWO-TON SHOES . I SING THE BLUES . BABY . I SING THE BLUES .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
KENNEDY
by Paul Giacalone
BEHOLD . WHAT WE HAVE . WHAT WE HAVE HERE . WELL, JUST LOOK WHAT WE HAVE HERE . JUST WHAT WE NEED . THIS IS JUST WHAT WE NEED . THIS IS JUST WHAT WE NEED TO HAVE . JUST WHAT WE NEED TO HAVE WITH HIS YOUTH . JUST WHAT WE NEED WITH HIS YOUTH AND HIS BRAINS . WITH HIS YOUTH AND HIS BRAINS BLOWN OUT OF HIS HEAD .
Attention Bikers!
Okay, so maybe you never thought poetry could be your cup-o-joe. Or, maybe you thought poetry was only for wusses. Think again, cause the Biker Poets gathered in "Rubber Side Down: The Biker Poet Anthology" can hold their own with any poet and any Biker around. As tuned into being a Biker as the folks who work the line at the Harley factory in York, and as gritty as any motorcycle ridden coast to coast and back again, they are also poets and they know how to turn a phrase!
From the poetry of its editor Jose (JoeGo) Gouveia, to K. Peddlar Bridges, J. H. "Colorado T." Sky, Allen Ginsberg, and Blaze Elliott; from Michael Lichter’s photographs to a tribute to Indian Larry, this volume holds up to my personal litmus test for an anthology. When I randomly open an anthology to any page, and come across something that captures my attention, that is a collection worth recommending!
Yours in poetry,
Barbara Brenner
Rubber Side Down: The Bike Poet Anthology edited by Jose (JoeGo) Gouveia, published August 2008 by Archer Books, ISBN 978-1-931122-19-1, $16.00
To give you a deeper sense of the poets behind the Bikers in "Rubber Side Down", some of the contributors share a sampling of both their Biker poetry, and other work.
Baiku
Jose "JoeGo" Gouveia
from Rubber Side Down: The Biker Poet Anthology
Baiku: n. A Biker lyric verse form having three unrhymed lines of five, seven, and five syllables, traditionally invoking an aspect of riding or biker life, or referring in some way to the nature of riding or riding season.
Jesus she’s dirty!
bugs & mud splatter my bike-
Ah, riding season!
Okay, so maybe you never thought poetry could be your cup-o-joe. Or, maybe you thought poetry was only for wusses. Think again, cause the Biker Poets gathered in "Rubber Side Down: The Biker Poet Anthology" can hold their own with any poet and any Biker around. As tuned into being a Biker as the folks who work the line at the Harley factory in York, and as gritty as any motorcycle ridden coast to coast and back again, they are also poets and they know how to turn a phrase!
From the poetry of its editor Jose (JoeGo) Gouveia, to K. Peddlar Bridges, J. H. "Colorado T." Sky, Allen Ginsberg, and Blaze Elliott; from Michael Lichter’s photographs to a tribute to Indian Larry, this volume holds up to my personal litmus test for an anthology. When I randomly open an anthology to any page, and come across something that captures my attention, that is a collection worth recommending!
Yours in poetry,
Barbara Brenner
Rubber Side Down: The Bike Poet Anthology edited by Jose (JoeGo) Gouveia, published August 2008 by Archer Books, ISBN 978-1-931122-19-1, $16.00
To give you a deeper sense of the poets behind the Bikers in "Rubber Side Down", some of the contributors share a sampling of both their Biker poetry, and other work.
Baiku
Jose "JoeGo" Gouveia
from Rubber Side Down: The Biker Poet Anthology
Baiku: n. A Biker lyric verse form having three unrhymed lines of five, seven, and five syllables, traditionally invoking an aspect of riding or biker life, or referring in some way to the nature of riding or riding season.
Jesus she’s dirty!
bugs & mud splatter my bike-
Ah, riding season!
06/11: American Tragedy
American Tragedy
D.J. Richardson
Another week of not
Knowing
What day it is,
Facing another dawn
On a couch,
Disheveled from occasional anguished visits.
As Aristotle's dictum
Runs through my mind
About all things in moderation,
Other thoughts
Crash
Against the inside of my skull
Like seething waves upon
The rocks
Of addiction.
And I drop to my knees
Screaming
To the Almighty
To save me
Archangels too,
Raphael, maybe,
Desperately.
And I cannot remember
When I was
Happy.
Just broken now
With a million names
In my head
Losing energy tic by tic.
D.J. Richardson
Another week of not
Knowing
What day it is,
Facing another dawn
On a couch,
Disheveled from occasional anguished visits.
As Aristotle's dictum
Runs through my mind
About all things in moderation,
Other thoughts
Crash
Against the inside of my skull
Like seething waves upon
The rocks
Of addiction.
And I drop to my knees
Screaming
To the Almighty
To save me
Archangels too,
Raphael, maybe,
Desperately.
And I cannot remember
When I was
Happy.
Just broken now
With a million names
In my head
Losing energy tic by tic.
Poetry Editor: Barbara Brenner
Robert A. Geise, Bachelor of Arts
Robert A. Geise holds a Bachelor of Arts in Literature from the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey. In fact, Bachelor of Arts is also an apt description of Bob! He published a chapbook, "A Boy Waits: eloquent with rage 14", in a joint project with poet Bob McCranie of Texas who has the flipside of the collection with "Irises". He was a member of "Sightlines: Art as Poetry, Poetry as Art" for its three-year run, has exhibited his photography, and continues to be active in the southern New Jersey arts/poetry community.
In addition to reading his poems at area poetry venues, Bob’s work has appeared in INFERNO: no boundaries, Sensations magazine, and Artella Online.
Residing in Corbin City with his family, Bob teaches English at Atlantic Cape Community College and Cumberland County College.
Yours in poetry,
Barbara Brenner
(a small wreath of haiku)
by: Robert A. Geise
fascinating you
song and dance, slap and tickle
turn me on dead men
turn me on dead men
light a fire beneath me
in our bed, our dread
in our bed, our dread
my undead fidelity
fascinating you
Divine
by: Robert A. Geise
The girl can't help it.
She wraps a size 14 green satin frock
around her size 18 curves,
slips on her favorite cha-cha heels
and heads down to the Corvettes
to do her shopping.
Bleach blond bouffant
still smelling of Aquanet,
penciled half-moon eyebrows
over emerald shadow to match her outfit
and maraschino cherry red lipstick,
she sashays down the aisle
between HABA and housewares
as if on the runway in New York,
Milano,
Paris.
It's not until electronics
that she makes eye contact
with any of the myriad gawkers,
terrified employees hiding behind endcaps,
mortified mothers pulling their pointing brats
into their polyester stretch pants,
men in stained white tank tops
eyes and crotches bulging.
She smiles jokerlike
and flicks her tongue
to greet the blue-haired granny,
whose jaw falls to her hand-crocheted lace collar.
In hardware, she winks
at the little colored girl
pretty in a pink dress
before she clears the path
between men's and women's,
walks straight past the checkout counters
and right out the automatic doors
with a 20" Magnavox under one arm
and a Dolmar chainsaw cradled in the other.
It doesn't matter where she's going or why,
she just is.
Robert A. Geise, Bachelor of Arts
Robert A. Geise holds a Bachelor of Arts in Literature from the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey. In fact, Bachelor of Arts is also an apt description of Bob! He published a chapbook, "A Boy Waits: eloquent with rage 14", in a joint project with poet Bob McCranie of Texas who has the flipside of the collection with "Irises". He was a member of "Sightlines: Art as Poetry, Poetry as Art" for its three-year run, has exhibited his photography, and continues to be active in the southern New Jersey arts/poetry community.
In addition to reading his poems at area poetry venues, Bob’s work has appeared in INFERNO: no boundaries, Sensations magazine, and Artella Online.
Residing in Corbin City with his family, Bob teaches English at Atlantic Cape Community College and Cumberland County College.
Yours in poetry,
Barbara Brenner
(a small wreath of haiku)
by: Robert A. Geise
fascinating you
song and dance, slap and tickle
turn me on dead men
turn me on dead men
light a fire beneath me
in our bed, our dread
in our bed, our dread
my undead fidelity
fascinating you
Divine
by: Robert A. Geise
The girl can't help it.
She wraps a size 14 green satin frock
around her size 18 curves,
slips on her favorite cha-cha heels
and heads down to the Corvettes
to do her shopping.
Bleach blond bouffant
still smelling of Aquanet,
penciled half-moon eyebrows
over emerald shadow to match her outfit
and maraschino cherry red lipstick,
she sashays down the aisle
between HABA and housewares
as if on the runway in New York,
Milano,
Paris.
It's not until electronics
that she makes eye contact
with any of the myriad gawkers,
terrified employees hiding behind endcaps,
mortified mothers pulling their pointing brats
into their polyester stretch pants,
men in stained white tank tops
eyes and crotches bulging.
She smiles jokerlike
and flicks her tongue
to greet the blue-haired granny,
whose jaw falls to her hand-crocheted lace collar.
In hardware, she winks
at the little colored girl
pretty in a pink dress
before she clears the path
between men's and women's,
walks straight past the checkout counters
and right out the automatic doors
with a 20" Magnavox under one arm
and a Dolmar chainsaw cradled in the other.
It doesn't matter where she's going or why,
she just is.
04/09: To those who grieve
To those who grieve
I have a bit of my belief
Each and everyone of us was put here
We are here to serve our purpose
We meet who we meet because
That is what is put in our path
To delight
To shine
To have a family
To be healthy
To be sick
Our time and our path was not accident
It was all planned out before we took our first breath
We are very fortunate when we meet such a spirit
We must not grieve the loss but rejoice in being the lucky on to have been in his path.
Rest in peace Big Don....I am grateful to haqve been in your path...
by Tina Brown
I have a bit of my belief
Each and everyone of us was put here
We are here to serve our purpose
We meet who we meet because
That is what is put in our path
To delight
To shine
To have a family
To be healthy
To be sick
Our time and our path was not accident
It was all planned out before we took our first breath
We are very fortunate when we meet such a spirit
We must not grieve the loss but rejoice in being the lucky on to have been in his path.
Rest in peace Big Don....I am grateful to haqve been in your path...
by Tina Brown
04/09: Big Don is gone
Big Don is gone
Big Done is gone
Yet, in so many ways he was never more here
We can't put on that piece of jewerly
We can't walk down High Street
We can't think about the Arts District
Without Don's legagcy
Everyday counted
Everyday was meaningful
Everyday an honest concern
Everyday an issue
Everyday a controversy
Everyday some caustic witicism
HE WILL NEVER BE GONE
by Morel Pagano
Big Done is gone
Yet, in so many ways he was never more here
We can't put on that piece of jewerly
We can't walk down High Street
We can't think about the Arts District
Without Don's legagcy
Everyday counted
Everyday was meaningful
Everyday an honest concern
Everyday an issue
Everyday a controversy
Everyday some caustic witicism
HE WILL NEVER BE GONE
by Morel Pagano
04/09: Outside the Lines?
Outside the Lines?
"I Do Not Know Who Was This Lass"
a Villanelle
I do not know who was this lass,
The face familiar, but the once known mind?
She has become a wandering mass.
Her eyes they light to see me pass,
With a wave of her hand I'd always find,
I do not know who was this lass.
Naïve in a way, with a bit of sass,
She'd let life lead and wait for a sign.
She has become a wandering mass.
She'd freely share what bread she has,
And take not a farthing, she was that kind.
I do not know who was this lass.
One day attacked in a way most crass,
They stole her reason, left her body behind.
She has become a wandering mass.
She was an enigma life could not grasp,
And died a pauper, in a park, tree lined.
I do not know who was this lass,
She has become a wandering mass.
"I Do Not Know Who Was This Lass"
a Villanelle
I do not know who was this lass,
The face familiar, but the once known mind?
She has become a wandering mass.
Her eyes they light to see me pass,
With a wave of her hand I'd always find,
I do not know who was this lass.
Naïve in a way, with a bit of sass,
She'd let life lead and wait for a sign.
She has become a wandering mass.
She'd freely share what bread she has,
And take not a farthing, she was that kind.
I do not know who was this lass.
One day attacked in a way most crass,
They stole her reason, left her body behind.
She has become a wandering mass.
She was an enigma life could not grasp,
And died a pauper, in a park, tree lined.
I do not know who was this lass,
She has become a wandering mass.
04/09: PHILADELPHIA GIRL STORY
by Ronnie G
Doctor's Hospital
Where I came in
I arrived here before
I even had a name
Ducks at Valley Green
Chasing the Indian
Up the hill--Tedyuscung
Once we were teens
(That's code for
making out in the parking lot
on Bells Mill after
your first--Budweiser)
Doctor's Hospital
Where I came in
I arrived here before
I even had a name
Ducks at Valley Green
Chasing the Indian
Up the hill--Tedyuscung
Once we were teens
(That's code for
making out in the parking lot
on Bells Mill after
your first--Budweiser)
