Thursday, June 16, 2022

Poetry from Spring 2022 In Alba, Big Windows Review and Shot Glass Journal



Several poems which will be collected in the upcoming chapbook have been published in recent months. Last Week When It Rained appears in the Winter 2022 of Alba Journal of Poetry. This journal  also published  Sappho to Gongyla and The Confusion of Katya in issue 8 back in September 2003. 


Last Week When It Rained

Last week when it rained, we were together
in my small apartment, sharing the most intimate
confessions. Despite the late hour, we continued
to uncover answers to the questions that had troubled us
for many decades. This kind of work, you said to me,
is exceptionally satisfying, and I agreed.

The Confusion of Katya
(after Akhmatova)

A river flows past
a dome of many windows.
Monks are chanting.
My sister and I hear the mass, waiting for Catherine's barge
and the sweep of her golden wheat.

On the third day the aging Tsarina rides alone through ripening fields.
She takes my grandmother's ancient hand
and on the crooked staircase
kisses my lips.

 

Sappho to Gongyla
(inspired by several fragments from the Greek)

My face was hot. My need was strong.
I saw you lifting your arms at the edge of the sea.

Did you truly expect to touch the sky?

You did not glance in my direction.
You did not hear me breathing as I breathed your name.

When the moon sets, I will still be here counting the stars.


Big Windows Review published the poem Purple Sun and the flash fiction New Years Eve on the Q in their May 2022 edition. This journal also published What You Said in German was Not About Kissing in the May 2021 issue.

Purple Sun 

 

I am back where I started. You are walking 

toward me with a glass of water in your hand. 

I look downward at your bare feet in the grass.

I understand that there are shoes you have never worn.

 

I know that everything might have been different.

I might not have crossed the street. You might have told me 

to go away. There might be two moons in the sky 

or a purple sun. Nod your head if you agree.




What You Said in German was Not About Kissing

Sharing a ham & cheese hero with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise and a bag of those cheese waffie things you liked on a hillside at the Bronx Botanical Garden was more fun than meeting you in that trattoria on the Piazza Navona with the waiter who spoke such good English because you were wearing the blue dress that buttoned down the front and we were caught in the rain but when we got back to the apartment on 189th street it was hotter than ever and we dragged the mattress up onto the roof and ate pepperoni pizza from downstairs where everybody spoke Italian to you but you didn’t know a word except maybe prego and scusi and although you took German at Hunter it wasn’t much help when we rode the D train to Central Park where the Met was performing something from Wagner, maybe Tannhauser which goes on forever but I loved you because you had read all of The Magic Mountain and called it Der Zauberberg and sometimes I look at you and want to tell you that Dominic’s has been closed for years and there’s probably no one else except maybe Barbara Kaufman who remembers the night when you said something in German and I thought you said “Kiss me.”

This poem was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Big Windows Review.


This month, Shot Glass Journal of Short Poetry published I Have No Memory, written in Austin last year.


I Have No Memory

 

 

I have no memory of getting on this bus.

I am sure I will recognize one of these streets eventually.

I will get off the bus and have something to eat.

Yesterday I drank coffee in the place that you loved on South Congress Street.

I ate the same kind of tacos with egg and chorizo that you always ordered.

Later, I will meet with old friends on zoom. 

They will tell me about people who are not dead.

I have no memory of getting on this bus.
I am sure I will recognize one of these streets eventually.
I will get off the bus and have something to eat.
Yesterday I drank coffee in the place that you loved on South Congress Street.
Later, I will meet with old friends on zoom. 
They will tell me about people who are still living.

Monday, February 28, 2022

A new view of the 1884 Roxy Druse murder case

 

Roxy in her cell at the Herkimer Jail


The Raven Review has been kind enough to publish my short fiction based on the notorious Roxy Druse murder case of 1884, entitled:

My Mother Killed My Father


An imagined witness at the Druse trial,  Jacob Timmerman gives his theory of the case. He is convinced that Roxy took responsibility for her husband's murder in order to save their daughter Mary from the consequences of her act. Although in that era, even the hint of incest or sexual abuse would never be mentioned in a courtroom, Timmerman is certain that was what drove the seventeen year old girl to take an axe to her father in their isolated farmhouse in Jordanville, NY.

As the trial unfolded in 1885, it drew wide attention in the newly sensation-seeking national press, notably The Saturday Globe, based in nearby Utica. On the one hand, Roxy was depicted as a monster for killing and butchering her husband Bill, and then feeding his remains to the family's pigs. On the other, she was defended by many early feminists and anti-capital punishment activists who petitioned the governor to commute her death sentence. Nonetheless, she was hung at Herkimer in 1887 and her daughter served ten years before being released.



In 2011, I published an historical novel inspired by the Druse murder, entitled:

Roxy Druse & The Murders of Herkimer County

In that much longer fiction, the narrator W.H. Tippetts visits Roxy and Mary in their cell act the Herkimer County Jail and eventually comes to a similar conclusion about Roxy's sacrifice of her own life in order to save that of her daughter. Tippetts, as I picture him, is not the most perceptive character and is involved in many mysteries and adventures before reaching a somewhat muddled understanding of what happened. He is based on an actual journalist who interviewed the Druse women and wrote the short history of the county's murders included in my volume.


Here is a link to my much more detailed article from 2011 on the Druse case:

Roxy Druse: Female Fiend or a Woman Wronged?


and here are some sources and suggestions for further research:

The Herkimer County Historical Society maintains extensive files on the Druse case, as well as on the even more notorious case of Chester Gillette, who was executed for the murder of Grace Brown in 1908. The Society also owns the old jail which is occasionally opened for public visits. It is a grim place and after Roxy’s death,  her spirit was said to haunt its dark corridors.

The Little Falls Historical Society holds a vast scrapbook collection compiled by my grandfather,  which includes numerous local articles on the Druse case.


The author of  The Forgotten Central New York Murder Case maintains  that the botched nature of Roxy's hanging led to the invention of the electric as a more "humane" method for taking a life. That instrument made its debut at the state prison in Auburn, NY in 1889, and Chester Gillette was one of its most famous occupants. Gillette was tried at Herkimer for the murder of Grace Brown  and held in the same jail occupied by Roxy a few years earlier.

A search of the New York Times archive under Roxalana Druse will yield several articles from the period of the trial.

The New York State Library has a comprehensive collection of local newspapers from the years of the trail and  appeals.The case attracted many opponents of capital punishment.





Saturday, December 11, 2021

That, you tell me, is true poetry

 Published in Sledgehammer Lit 




The Edge of the Bed

 

 

 

At first, we are waiting on a large terrace. A clatter of plates.

Distant footsteps. All the languages are foreign. Everyone has a dog.

 

Twice as many people as expected are here. 

We are on a list but not the most important one.

 

We are asked to leave. By whose authority, I loudly demand.

People turn to stare. Some mutter. Perhaps this is all a mistake.

 

You point out inconsistencies in the man’s vocabulary.                                                     

It appears that he is reading from a script on his cell phone.

 

We are sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed.

Our foreheads are touching, or possibly our hands.

 

We review what has happened. We seek explanations.

None of our theories are an exact fit for the circumstances.

 

I ask if other people always finish your sentences.

That, you tell me, is true poetry.

 

 

 


 

 

Sunday, October 24, 2021

Two stories of the Mohawk Valley published this week: World War I at home and UFOs in the 1960s


"Battle at Indian Cave" was published on October 24 by Sundial Magazine. This is a story set in 1918 when anti-foreign feelings were running very high in the midst of the pro-war frenzy encouraged by the Wilson White House. The gang of boys, and one girl, at the heart of this story are all from various slavic nations within the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and quite alienated from the red-whte-and-blue spirit animating much of the Mohawk Valley in that fateful year.  They decide to hide a disabled older boy from the draft, with tragic consequences.

Sundial Magazine recently included my earlier story "The Colonel Takes Command" in their first-ever print anthology of American historical fiction, Dim and Flaring Lamps, available at Amazon in electronic and paper formats.




"The Golden Stairway to Heaven" appeared on October 23  in Litbreak, a site devoted to publishing new writers. I wrote the first version of this story many years ago, inspired by rumors of a UFO sighting that I first heard at the long-closed Half Way House, a tavern midway between Little Falls and Dolgeville. That tale was probably just drunken fantasizing but somehow the idea of a flying saucer landing up near Salisbury Center stuck in my mind. This story is the result.


Friday, August 20, 2021

Stories and poetry published in the Summer of 2021

 


The short story “Under the Lake” appears in the UK-based Cerasus Magazine and can be purchased  as a summer special paperback at Amazon. The story is loosely inspired by legends surrounding Beardslee Lake , five miles east of Little Falls in central New York State.

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The poem “Dream of a Spanish Town” is a very different kind of work, inspired by reading the Peruvian poet Cesar Vallejo many years ago. It appears in Maya's Micros, a segment of the Closed Eye Open site. The founders of the site pay tribute to such thinkers as Carl, Jung, Alan Watts, Simone Weil, Huston Smith...

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"The Painted Sidewalk" can be read in last month's Farside Review. 



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Hammer and Sickle, a story of the McCarthy Era in upstate New York,  appears in another UK-based review, Bandit Fiction. Like the rest of my historical fiction, it is inspired by legends and history of the. Mohawk Valley, in this case the story of a solitary farmer who painted pro-communist slogans on his barn in the midst McCarthy period. 


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Second Chance Lit is a unique publishing site in its commitment to work previously rejected or forgotten. The editors David and Katie Wasserman only accept work that has been turned down by other magazines, and I felt honored when they published my poem "Doctor Wicked" in their second issue in April. Another experiment run by Second Chance lit is the Phoenix Project, dedicated solely to works of literature originally published in now defunct magazines. My poem "No River Where They Parted" appeared in the Phoenix section of the site and was inspired, somewhat like the Vallejo-inspired poem in Maya's Micros, by reading the Italian poetry of Eugenio Montale many years ago. It originally was published in the long defunct little Brooklyn Magazine, the Brownstone Review.

Monday, July 12, 2021

Recent publications

 

Wilderness House Literary Review # 16/2

The flash fiction, "A Perfect Babysitter," was published in June, 2021 by Wilderness House Review and was originally written in an online workshop of the New York Writers Coalition




The poem "Dr. Wicked" appears in Issue 2 of Second Chance Lit, April 2, 2021







The prose poem "What You Said in German Was Not About Kissing" is in the  5/21/2021 issue of Big Windows Review.



Monday, June 14, 2021

Hill Cumorah, the Sacred Grove, the Smith and Whitmer Farms: Historical Fact and Historical Fiction in Palmyra NY


 Seven years ago I wrote an historical novel in which I imagine the sister of Joseph Smith telling the story of the Mormon prophet. Almost nothing is known of Sophronia Smith, but enough evidence exists to prove that she was present at every important stage of her brother's life.

Although the novel, entitled The True History of Joseph Smith, has sold fairly well at Amazon, I am in the process of revising and re-marketing it. Past readers may note that the new edition now on Amazon reads more fluently and that some unnecessary detail has been pared away. Much thanks goes both to LDS readers and to skeptics who have reviewed the book. I believe that the novel, closely based on the historical record, can appeal to both sides of the divide that has existed ever since 14 year old Joseph claimed that God the Father and Son had appeared to him in the woods behind the family farm in Palmyra NY.

In the process of revising the novel, I recently visited Palmyra, New York where Joseph told his family and then others about his visions and his finding of the gold plates. My first stop was at Hill Cumorah where Joseph and his wife Emma  are said to have uncovered the gold plates that became the origin of the Book of Mormon.



I climbed to the top of the hill in the company of a very helpful guide, and thought of the scene in my novel in which Joseph and Emma return to the Smith farm with the plates completely covered:

"Determined to know where my brother and his bride had gone, I sought the counsel of my ever-reliable youngest brother. I found Carlos feeding the chickens. He knew nothing of what concerned me. Going to the fence that ran along the Canandaigua Road, I looked north and south. Then I saw the wagon in question slowly heading in our direction. As it drew nearer, I recognized Joseph as its driver.  Beside him sat Emma and on her lap was a large parcel wrapped in a white cloth."

The entire family, except possibly their brother Alvin, immediately accepted the reality of the gold plates but the young prophet did not allow anyone to actually see them. An excerpt from the novel:

"That night Mother and Father were permitted to lift up the Gold Bible but Joseph warned them that it must stay covered by the large table cloth which he had wrapped around it. Hyrum also was allowed to heft its weight, which he estimated to be about forty pounds. After Joseph recited chapters five through seven from Matthew, he said that our family needed to guard the treasure lest evil-minded men seek to steal or destroy it. He then directed each of us to retire to our beds while he found a place of concealment for the Record which only he would know."

My next stop was the Smith family farm, only two miles from the Hill. Here, two young women missionaries gave us a tour of the farm's buildings and fields. They were both very devout and well prepared. Interestingly, the family with whom I took this tour were descended from Joseph's brother, Hyrum, martyred with him in Carthage Missouri in 1844.





The original Smith log cabin has been replaced by a replica, authentic in every detail. Although it was not the actual house, it was a great pleasure to see the tiny room where I could imagine Sophronia and her sister Katherine chatting about their remarkable brother.




The larger house on the property is partly the original Smith home, built largely by Alvin before his death a mere two months after the plates were found. It was easy to picture the highly emotional conversations that took place in this house, as well as the attack on the house launched by local treasure seekers who believed in the reality of the so-called Gold Bible.





The farm is beautifully maintained and it is easy to picture Joseph and his family working and talking in the fields and barn. 




Directly adjacent to the farm is a forest known to believers as the Sacred Grove. I found it a very moving place to visit in the early morning and was able to imagine Sophronia and her small brother Don Carlos Smith coming upon Joseph just after he experienced his great dream or vision:


"Entering the woods, we trod noisily in the dry leaves of the previous year and danced merrily about, to the little one's amusement. Nearly at Hathaway Creek, I spied Joseph stretched out at the foot of a lofty oak.

“Look at your lazy brother, sleeping the day away! What do you say to sneaking up on him?”

“Can I wake him up?” asked little Carlos.

“Surely,” said I as we advanced on tip-toe toward his sleeping form. For a second, a dark thought seized me and I feared I was looking upon his corpse. Then Don Carlos had jumped full onto his brother with a great shriek of joy.

Smiling hugely, Joseph seized his little brother in his arms and rolled about, making the most ferocious growling. Carlos squealed with delight as Joseph lifted him high over his head.

“Oh Joseph,” I said. “I am glad you are yourself again. I was so anxious to see you looking downcast.”

“Oh, that's no matter,” he grinned, reaching out to include both of us in his embrace. “The Methodists don't count for a fig now!”

We sat down together as Don Carlos searched for pebbles to throw into the brook. Joseph put his arm around my shoulders and pulled my head onto his chest. I could hear his heart beating.

“I had the most splendid dream, Sophronia. A glorious dream!”

“Do tell me of it!”

“I came here to pray, dear sister for I was sore distressed by the Methodists. I thought they were true Christians but they betrayed my trust.”

“The wretches!”

“Yes, but I forgive them. They know not what they do.” He paused for several minutes and his eyes seemed to gaze into far distances. I prompted him to continue.

“I prayed to the Lord in the name of Jesus. I called out loudly for help. Show me the way, I said to the Lord. Show me the true way. After many hours, I had received no answer and fell into despair. I thought to myself that the Devil rules this world.”

“Oh do not say such a thing, Joseph!”

“It was only a passing fancy, dearest sister. After I was assailed by the demonic fear, I grew weary and lay down under this tree to rest for a moment before again calling out to God.”

Joseph paused again and his eyes grew bright. “A truly glorious dream came unto me.”

“Yes?”

“Or perhaps I awakened and saw with my very eyes? Perhaps this was no dream at all but a true vision like that of Paul on the road to Damascus!”

“Tell me,” I pleaded.

“I saw a pillar of light....there!” He pointed to the empty air above us. “It was beyond the brightness of the sun and slowly the light descended from the heavens until it was all around me. I was in the midst of the brightest light! And in the cloud of light I saw them!”

“Who, dear brother? Who did you see?”  

“I saw two holy personages whose brightness and glory were beyond description!”

“Did they speak, Joseph? Did you hear their voices?”  I was completely caught up in his dream and breathing fast. 

“The older one with the white beard called me by name. He said to me, Joseph my son. And I answered, yes Lord, what will you have of me?”

“Yes? Yes? Did God answer you?”

“Yes, dear Sophronia. You have guessed it. That personage was God himself, the great father of us all and he pointed to the personage at his side, who had long flowing hair and beard of a beautiful auburn shade.”




In the novel, Sophronia nearly always supports Joseph but she never actually sees or hears the supernatural events he describes. In the above scene, she is obviously very encouraging. Later, as he becomes surrounded by his followers, she finds it harder and harder to break through the ring of sycophants and to share her anxieties and warnings with him. The novel concludes with her attempt, along with two of his wives, to rescue Joseph from the murderous crowd in Carthage.

Before leaving western New York, I stopped at the Whitmer farm in Fayette, about 30 miles away, to see the place where Joseph organized his followers into a new church and finished the Book of Mormon. An older missionary and two young women missionaries provided a very thorough tour of the farm, which I took in the company of a devout family from Utah. The children were very knowledgeable about the Book of Mormon, which I confess to finding tedious in the extreme. Mark Twain described it as "chloroform in print" yet sincere people do find value in it.

This is also where three of those followers were convinced that they too saw the gold plates which Joseph had been translating with the aid of scribes and various mysterious instruments such as seer stones.




I can imagine Joseph going into these woods near the Whitmer farm with David Whitmer, Oliver Cowdery and Martin Harris. Although those three are listed in every Book of Mormon as witnesses, all of them were excommunicated by Joseph. His personal magnetism was so great, however, that all three continued to believe in his revelations and never retracted their testimony as to the reality of the gold plates. 

Such was the power of an uneducated farm boy's imagination that 200 years after he began to tell his wondrous tales, he is still believed by many millions. I returned from Palmyra more impressed than ever by this remarkable American story.


BUY THE BOOK:


Those interested in reading more of Sophronia's version of Joseph Smith's life can purchase the paperback or kindle copies at Amazon. Although the dialogue and some scenes are imagined, there is no significant detail in the book that contradicts the historical record. 

Readers comments are welcome: wildernesshill@gmail.com