(must not neglect this blog...)

High school senior LIly Gentner, a neighbor and valued customer, is applying for admission to some prestigious colleges. She's at the top of her class at Lane Tech, a gigundous high school just down the street. Clearly, Lane does not have a history of cinema requirement where Lily would have run across Howie Morris in his High Anxiety role. Otherwise she would have been sensitized to the use of the shibboleth in this essay, written by her, submitted with the applications, and reproduced as follows with our best wishes.
Lily's essay: "I am not a fan of new books; I don’t understand why anyone would pay extra for a book with no character. My nerdy side, pretty much my only side, enjoys sitting on my front porch with a book, surrounded by nighttime summer humidity. There is a tiny store, just a short bike ride away, where these porch-companions stay, waiting to complete their transition from another reader’s home into mine.
Even after dozens of visits, I still don’t know what the store is called; the front windows are always too completely filled with books to make room for a sign. Visible from across the street, these books nearly always succeed in calling me through the front door and away from my intended destination. Just inside, seated behind a counter and engulfed in books, resides the owner, a little old man with a welcoming smile and a tired dog. I step past its sleeping head and into a warm, thick blanket of books.
The walls, although they must have passed some kind of building inspection, seem to be made solely out of old hardcover books- the kind with ridged spines and small, gold titles printed horizontally. The aisles, barely wide enough to walk through with a backpack, will wrap their arms around you as your eyes flit from title to title and shelf to shelf. The shelves themselves, however, are hidden, swallowed by the very books they support. The place is pleasantly overgrown, just as ivy covers an old brick wall. "
I usually begin with the shelf devoted to classics. On a good day, there won’t be anyone trying to squeeze past me to the door, and I’ll be left to peruse my titles in peace. A deep breath makes apparent the pervading scent of literature. The smell of clauses, punctuation, and the yellowing pages on which they dwell travels up my nose and brings forth a feeling like that provided by the heated air of a Christmastime home. I run my fingers over the tightly packed titles, their varying sizes making for a bumpy trail. I glance across the rows, sometimes removing a layer of books to see the one behind it; eventually, though, something will snag my attention. The sound of its cover as it slides past the others and into my ready hand makes me even more appreciative of the absence of background-music and bustling crowds.
While I read my purchases (almost always more than I had intended to make), I note the phrases underlined by previous owners, I feel the spine that has been creased by the love of another reader, and I enjoy the thought that the book once lived on another bedside table, but has found its way onto mine. As I flip the already-turned pages toward conclusion, I begin to anticipate another visit to my tiny, favorite store. "

ALERT!! ALERT!! IMPORTANT COMMERCIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!!! The bookstore has just acquired a LARGE COLLECTION of material relating to the world wide SLAVE TRADE from its early history into the early twentieth century. Books by scholars, historians, novelists, and activists, from Steve Biko through Cornell West and M.L.K. jr. Africa, Brazil, the Caribbean, merrie olde England, sad New England, and the old plantation. Our books are NOT on line and are sold to nice people who walk in, call, or send the money. That is all.

The Chicago Tribune was kind enough to publish a review of the store in its Saturday March 19th. edition. Here's the web page link to the article, but it might not last forever. Good to see you here. Please come again. It's always a pleasure. http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/ct-books-0319-bookplace-ravenswood-20110319,0,669224.story

Dear Jim Mall and Ravenswood Used Books,

The Chicago Literary Hall of Fame has announced its 2010 inductees, they are: Nelson Algren, Saul Bellow, Gwendolyn Brooks, Lorraine Hansberry, Studs Terkel, and Richard Wright.

We at the Chicago Writer’s Association, the underwriters of the Hall of Fame, thought you would be interested in knowing that November 20th of this year will mark the first induction ceremony which will be held at the Northeastern Illinois University Auditorium (3701 W. Bryn Mawr Ave., Chicago).

The Chicago Literary Hall of Fame greatly appreciates all efforts made in response to this request. Your support will help ensure the long term success of this important part of the Chicago literary community.

If you have any questions, feel free to contact me at this email, or Donald G. Evans, the Executive Director at 773-414-2603(day or eve) or at his email donaldgevenas@hotmail.com

Thank you,
Robert Grassel
Manager of Promotions and Ticket Sales
Chicago Literary Hall of Fame
************NOTE:
I am sorry to report that this notification was received with a grammatical error which we have corrected. We have also deleted email addresses originally included, having suffered severe damage to a facebook page subsequent to publication. Photo credits to Ms. Jessica Schrock, dog guardian. J.M.

Here is a selection of poems recently submitted by our friends and members. Work is published as received without editing or proofreading. All submissions are published. Thanks to the poets below for contributing and to the rest of you for being here on the page.
_________________________________

Me and the Magdalene

by Grant Tarbard

She could bend the farthest
than any girl I've ever seen
ankles about ears
knickers about knees
her hips were the saviour
of a wretch like me
Those lightning eyes
were just the summit
of her icon topography
She spoke of lust
She spoke of the moon
She spoke to the sounds
of the Seventies
Summit/icon
those lines etched on her lips
I'm a prisoner in vision
a floundering ship
bailing with the good china

Hiccups, lollypop and a rose tattoo
Hard frozen vanilla
beaten with a dessert spoon
Hunchback’d over a bowl of sloppy cereal
my eyes fixate on her as she leaves the room
Coffee cup between palms
coarse wiggle, a sip of house maid's brew

The flower,
white tulip I think it was,
lies amongst the wreaths
from the road traffic accident griefs
petals down to the dinner taste of bloodied meats
Kiss the Magdalene upon the feets
as she weeps,
she weeps,
she weeps down on her knees
upon these scenes
We meander home amongst the leaves
trodden soft and wholly young
Carried home
to coffee cup between tender palms.


© Grant Tarbard (2009)

--------------------------------
High Priestess                                                                      
Goddess of Jade, Lee Su, cruel messenger of death,
            Behold your servant.
Your maiden sings the pleas, promises of your city,
            Offerings, she brings.
 
Bali, Isle of the Lost, fair land of the Lady,
            Remembers the Goddess.
Bali, of the sea of storms, dark with gales,
            Sends your priestess.
 
Angel of Death, the High Priestess dances,
            Turning in her silk;
Servant of the Temple, covered in black robes,
            Black cloth of Bali.

Jerome Brooke 
----------------------
 
Prince of Mindanao
Prince of Mindanao, splendid in bronze,
            Marching, so young, so pure.
Vassals bow before your horse, the warband,
            Does salute you, bright in azure.
 
Gold and silver, robes of silk, gleaming bronze,
            Vassals before you bow.
Girls beg for mere copper coins, peasants mutter,
            Reap as you sow.
 
Bring the fire, young and immortal,  dear one,
            Prince of the lie.
Your arms will surely weaken, false friends,
            You too will die.
 
Prince of Shades, see your lady, at your feet,
            Captive of seeming.
Beauty she sees, a god among us, love gazes,
            Love pure, fleeting.  
 
Love below you, eyes of a peasant,
            Girl in rags, low of the land.
Hate, envy, pity, all weave the web,
            Pass on with your band.
 
  Jerome Brooke
 --------------------------------------
 
                  War Leader
            Through the waste marched the warriors,
                        Silent was the band.
            In the swift, hot wind, were seen the men,
                        Quiet in the sand.
                                          
            Gold, red gold, at their feet, gems,
                        Cast far, far away.
            Swords no longer shone,  as on parade,
                        Dull this fearful day.
                                       
            My prince looked, saw this lost line,
                        Lost, dead on this dark day.
            Men of the Queen, lost by fate,
                        Found where they fell, and lay.
  Jerome Brooke
-------------------------------------------------

Laura (1944)

I watched the movie twice, now wonder if I could
play the part, win his heart, get him to forget his
hand-held game of pinball, and, stepping through
the light and shadow pattern of the slatted window
blinds, have a chance at living happily ever after.

Morgan Harlow
--------------------------------------------

Dream in October

The warm evenings have left me sleepless.
My dreams steeped in humidity
Of strange men who I have never seen before
Yet some how know of me.

Like the man who poured concrete over the sea
I begged him to thin it out
Or the shore would set, forever, unmovable.
And the sea birds would suffer,
Legs held as fragile prisoners
While their wings beat mercilessly to fly

Climbing down a rocky embankment with a hand hoe,
He stirred the sea as I requested
And I felt a shiver from the waves
As they broke free from their concrete statuary.
A cry of gulls and a small sigh from a sandpiper
Broke the balmy silence

The sky turned grey in the nearing twilight
And I offered him my hand as he climbed
The jagged rocks, causing him to stumble, slightly
Dislodging a large stone
Where a small fire was exposed
That had been burning undetected.

And so we stood.

In silence we looked across the sea
As the fire rose up, scorching a small cabin.
There were slight breaks in the heavy clouds
Causing subtle illuminations.


Sarah Higdon
October 12, 2008

__________________________________


Lincoln Park 4:30 a.m.

Once ferocious, it cowered behind the steel bars
Amongst the squeals of taxicab tires
And the unfamiliar smells of vagrant men
Whose urine stained clothes sent off primal signals
Telling it, Animal, but not of its kind.

A rustling of dry leaves, and the darting of a tail
Caused it to involuntarily salivate
And for an instant, it forgot its imprisonment
Pouncing forward and feeling the cruelty of pavement
Scraping its feet, sharp and foreign

A hollowed out log and a stainless steel bowl
Were all it had to navigate around.
Breathing heavily, it edged itself into a corner
Clammy and stressed, tail pressed between its legs

Its ears prick up to a familiar sound
A brother lost somewhere in the night
And it connects to its origins through an unexpected vessel
An ambulance on route to some unfortunate ending
Howls in harmony.

Sarah Higdon

 

THE LATEST POST featuring poems by the
friends and members of the Facebook Group
"Ravenswood Books!", a group which is open
one and all, no application fees or vetting committee.

_________________________________________

Postcard from UW-Madison

At der Rathskeller, if you leave a plastic spoon in your coffee
you risk finding it later, melted, at the bottom of the cup.
That could drive you batty, you’ll be running across
the street to where the real bats live in gothic Science Hall.
On the subject of gothic, the opening scene in James Hynes
The Lecturer’s Tale I’ll always imagine taking place at
Library Mall, where Angela Davis spoke and hippies splashed
and waded in the fountain pool. At the Memorial Union
I waited an hour one day for a friend who didn’t show. In
winter we’d walk out on the frozen lake from the Terrace.
I’d ring Carillon bells before doing that again, content now
to view the lake from Observatory Hill, site of a pre-Columbian
bird effigy mound. Then to the Marching band practice
grounds, where I once read Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian
Gray, and cried I know not why. P.S. Bucky says hi!


Back Country Roads

Ol’ Ratty’s making his rounds, looking for
a bird or an egg that may have fallen.
And over there the turkey patrol, like a
parody of illustrations in a children’s book,
gray cautious ganders, nitpicking their way
through the dry grass and flowery weeds.

Morgan Harlow
__________________________________ 
Disposable Furniture
 
I dreamt I was in
heaven where
I met a
guy at a bus
stop who said
heaven or
not --
the only
thing worth
buying is
disposable
furniture
 
 
by:  Jayne Lyn Stahl
 
6/7/09
_____________________________

 
Christine Courtman


They say the end is worth the ride
Though riding may be grim.

They say we start out fat with thought 
and end up oh-so-slim.

They say that at the end of all is joyous, dancing Light....
I hope they're right!

LUNCH

Time is short.
In fact, it's naught.
Pay no mind to its passing

Luncheon on the lawn is served 
For those who are unmassing.

-----------------------------

Robert Abel
A Man With an Interesting Life
 
Places lived: Bali, Singapore, Hong Kong, Paris,
New Zealand, San Bernadino, New York,
Seattle, London, Phuket and Woods Hole.
To name a few. Oh yes, Sydney.
Parents: mother, a Yankee conservative from
An old wealth family, streets in Boston
Named for several. A romantic.
Father, a southern outlaw, liberal,
Fight promoter with alarming friends,
Harrassed by the FBI, poor, rich, then poor again.
A hustler. Loved his ’39 Chevy coupe.
Wives: one, but divorced. She worked for the CIA.
One son, a marine biologist. Two grandkids.
Lovers: he was a sucker for “Asian” women,
Thais, Indonesian, Korean, Japanese,
And had several of each,
Thanks to a good income and the happy accident
Of medications which overcome impotence.
He once sang in a movie and even dated
Shirley Temple, before her political decline.
He owned a donkey in Bali
And had to outrun a jealous love rival
With a kris and a very bad attitude.
Was beaten senseless in a Samoan bar
And had bad dreams forever afterwards.
Sports: golf, which he hates.
Pastimes: Reading. Writing a novel.
Grandchildren. Political chatter
(a liberal dis-satisfied with most liberal pols)
Trying to understand computers. Eating out.
Favorite foods: curries, Wellfleet oysters, raw,
Australian wines, martinis.
Prospects: he is seeing a doctor today
For awful symptoms.
His golf game will not improve,
Nor his love life.
His novel is very funny.

_____________________________


Our apartment is filthy;
Old, creaking, falling apart.
The centipedes, they are creeping in,
While I sit here listening to cellos
And violins. We are still young,
Though our responsibilities are slowly,
But surely, aging us.
I make an effort not to worry, stress, freak out,
But it's hard with every little thing
Hitting me, kicking me, poking me
On all sides.
Then, I read that one book, hear that one song,
Or watch that one movie, and then the flood gates break down
And every teeny, tiny, itsy bitsy little worry,
stress, tear flows out of my eyes and mouth.
How do you deal with it?

Stephanie Cascio
_________________


Kenny Lee

Why go and fix your bed
For just your lovesick head
Only to re-awake
As someone you're afraid of

In an abandoned ship adrift
You've forgotten how to how to steer
Nothing left to do
But lean into the wheel

You've got one checkered past
But no one ever dare ask
You somehow don't come across
Through all the blood that gets coughed up

You're a vampire on the hunt
But your fangs are mere veneer
Nothing left to say
But lean into the wheel

Beneath a stilted smile
You can see your doom for miles
But all around the clock
The machines will operate

With or without your love
They're turning around the gears
Nothing left to try
But to lean into the wheel
_____________________________________________
A Full Stein

If Gertrude Stein were truly mine
a clinging vine would grow around my neck.
With strangulation in the offing,
choking, alternately coughing,
what the heck, I'd say,
it's just not turning into my best day,
but then she'd save my life
by cutting loose
this nearly fatal noose
and I would point at her behind,
an amply large caboose,
and go "Miss Stein, were you not mine,
your oversized rear end would turn me off
since then I couldn't overlook for love
the appetites that brought on
such excessive weight,
but it's my fate to love the larger gals
and send out dada to
my face book pals.
Fin
Jim Mall

____________________________________

_________________Specimen Days Today at 1
Nancy Grace

A specimen, he's asked for,
a small one, in a cup.
The task should be an easy one,
we're mostly fluids after all:
They flow in golden eloquence,
a liquid grammar toward the floor.
"Fill the cup," he whispers gently,
then his finger strokes her cheek.

But if she sits behind a tiny desk,
afraid to raise her hand,
unable to imagine
that the wall clock has no hands,
will it steal along her flesh
to stain a "Monday" stitched in blue,
move slowly, warmly down her thigh
inching toward her soft-soled shoe
kissing calf and knee, its underlip
ingress, egress,
inertia overcoming?

Perhaps in years to come
when fluids, yellow,
speak of scotch
and thighs are something more
than moistened skin
embarrassed by her silence,
perhaps she'll learn to think of it,
not as her punishment upon a cross
but as a source of playfulness,
a word transmorgrified
as memory ancient and perverse:
the knowledge that in all that we disparage
we live as interlocking isotopes--
swirls of light and gas and dust.

Perhaps she'll then admire
its amber hue when touched by sun,
its musicality when hitting glass,
its spiral through a lukewarm bath,
its prescient power to herald life,
its generative potentiality for mimicry
(producing "dinkle," "tinkle," "wizz," and "wee"),
but most profound, and useful, of them all:
its metaphoric capacity
to tell others what she thinks:
you really piss me off, you know

_________________________________________

Timothy Campbell
The Manifesting Shroud of Desire, Part Four
30 August – 14 September 2008, Perú

Sacred birds Nervous cliffs Tired volcanoes
Tall hats Red Cheeks Fireworks
Frescoes Plazas Terraces
Instant coffee Potatoes Pollution
Vulture Folk music Wheezing buses
Faith Empty hostels Independence
Big chickens Hijacking Spanish
River Canyon Poverty
Trepanning skulls Mules Combis
Locked gates Skull binding Sweet wines
Pay toilets Ceviche Lunahuaná
Sandals Ponchos Llamas
Rocky dunes Misty ocean Cream
Lonely Whistle Llosa
Cactus Cañete Sour
Arequipa Catacomb Flags
Lima Burro Trout
Trumpets Prayers Night buses
Poor acrobats Panpipes Five borders

Jungle Mountain Slavery
River-running Flash Photography through Thin Napkins
Alabaster Cuzco Fountain
Bleeding Indigenous Rain photo
Earthquaked Chicha Cathedral
Alpaca Cobblestone Ekokos
Sitting under the thatched roof of the Claxon Museum

Now brandishing a colonial coca leaf necklace
tightly wrapped around the Dae Woo cuy culture
remembering tall Incan shaman cells sacrificing faraway virgins
behind melting glaciers
revealing the underappreciated rituals of the pigeon catchers
cartwheeling in front of after-school ice cream children
melting dreams upon Dutchman’s shoes next to mad dogs
massaging cold cigarettes into round butter balls
swinging through Quechua-tinged condor tunnels
measuring oxygen borders skulls messages in rope lips
moving making sounds like a fire in a cardboard box
while Sisyphean guides withdraw money daily
against rotating pre-conquest vases forever out of reach

____________________________________________

That's all, folks