Delmarva Review, Volume 9

By Delmarva Review

Welcome to the ninth annual Delmarva Review, a literary journal publishing exceptional poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction, in print and digital editions.
As a journal, our focus is on the voice and literary qualities of authors’ work to tell their stories. We do not preselect a theme. Often, we are impressed by the courage or clarity of a writer to reveal skillfully a personal feeling or truth that will resonate with readers and be remembered. In the following pages, contributing writers probe a number of topics: love, loss, aging, addiction, physical and mental illness, personal identity, relationships, and, of course, death.
The cover photograph, “Significant Other,” by George Merrill, is suggestive of human relationships, depicted by two weathered picket gateposts (in Oxford, Maryland) with expressive “eyes,” bound together by a simple tether. The image invites one’s imagination.
In recognition of William Shakespeare's 400th birthday, we are featuring the work of Shakespearean actor and poet James Keegan, from Milton, Delaware, in this issue. His essay explores how the veteran actor draws human qualities from his Shakespearean roles on stage to build contemporary characters in his poetry. Mythological undertones surface throughout much of the writing in this edition.
Volume 9 contains the poetry and prose of thirty-six authors from 11 states. We encourage the work of authors in the greater Chesapeake region, and we welcome all writers, regardless of residence. The writing in this edition includes: forty-seven poems, eight short stories, and 10 essays and memoirs. We also review five recent books by regional authors.
True to our namesake (the Delmarva Peninsula), we have printed a special section in this issue listing 114 current books published by authors from the Chesapeake region. Covering most genres, the list provides an excellent view of the diversity of creative work by regional authors.
During nine years, The Delmarva Review has published new literary prose and poetry from over 250 talented writers in twenty-eight states, the District of Columbia, and nine other countries. This has resulted in authors receiving over forty Pushcart Prize nominations, as well as notable mentions in Best American Essays and other publications.
Our editors, writers, and readers are appreciative of partial funding from a Talbot County Arts Council grant, with revenues provided by the Maryland State Arts Council, and from individual tax-deductible contributions.
It is my pleasure to work with 12 volunteers as editors, readers, and advisors to publish The Delmarva Review. We are passionate about the review’s contribution to the literary arts and the importance of literacy to our culture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delmarva Review
• Release date: Nov 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370835973

Delmarva Review

Founded in 2008, Delmarva Review is a literary journal dedicated to the discovery and publication of compelling new fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction from emerging and established writers. Submissions from all writers are welcomed, regardless of residence. We publish annually, at a minimum, and promote various literary and educational events, to inspire readers and writers who pursue excellence in the literary arts.Delmarva Review is published by the Delmarva Review Literary Fund, supporting the literary arts across the tristate region of the Delmarva Peninsula, including portions of Maryland, Delaware, and Virginia. Publication is supported by a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council, with revenues provided by the Maryland State Arts Council, as well as private contributions and sales.

Book preview

Table of Contents

The Delmarva Review

Copyright

Preface

Poetry

Len Krisak

TIBERIUS

ALLEGORY

μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα

VICTOR HUGO: SONNET

FRENCH TEXT:

THE POWER OF THE WIND

Devon Miller-Duggan

BIRD, BIRD

CANON IN D FOR STEVE HELMING

Michelle Brooks

OBITUARY FOR A NEON ANGEL

SMART, VERY SMART

ARSON

STOCK FOOTAGE

David Salner

SUMMONED AT FIRST LIGHT

DRY-DOCK MUSIC: BALTIMORE

QUESTIONS FROM THE GALÉRIA FRAN DAUREL

Helen Wickes

AFTER THE ANCIENT MARINER IS GONE

SURVIVING SUMMER

Jed Myers

THE WORM OR NOT

TWO LIGHTS

DROWNED MAN BLUES

Daniel Ford

GRIEF

SEMBLANCES

COMPATIBILITY

USAGES

INTRUSIONS

Mary Louise Kiernan Hagerdon

WALTZ OF THE FLOWERS

NO ACT OF CONTRITION

AGLOW

INDEPENDENCE DAY 1976

STICK WITH THE FEELING

Peter Leight

THE WANDERER IS LATE

PUPPET EQUALITY

TORTOISE

DOWN THE HOLE

Suzanne Parker

PAINTING SUITE #5, WITHOUT WORDS 7, 9, AND 12

CARDIOVERSION

Sharon Scholl

LAST WORDS

TERMINAL

ASH

Jeffrey Alfier

THE COLLECTIVE, 1950

SHARKEY COUNTY AUGUST

FIESTA CRUISE DAY, SAN PEDRO HARBOR

SONORAN VALLEY REDEMPTION

ESSAY AND POEMS BY JAMES KEEGAN

THE ACTOR AS POET

TROUBLING AGAIN OVER OVID’S STORY OF ACTAEON

GENERAL CASSIO COMES TO CYPRUS

MACBETH AT THE LZ, WAITING FOR EVAC

AUTUMN MORNING

Nonfiction

Laura Bernstein-Machlay

TO THREE SUBURBAN MOMS TOO FRIGHTENED TO DRIVE THEIR GIRLS TO MY DETROIT NEIGHBORHOOD

Catherine Simpson

SERGEI

Vanya Erickson

ONE GOOD THING

Michele Whitney

MY DISEASED HOPE

Jonah Smith-Bartlett

THE TALE OF AN EPILEPTIC

Tom Larsen

STICKMAN

Michael Gutierrez

THE BONE BAG

Desirée Magney

WHITE SHOULDERS

Virginia Hartman

TWO WORLDS

Fiction

Cécile Barlier

IMMERSION

Dorothy M. Place

ALEX BROFTON FINDS THE TRANQUIL SPOT

Barbara Esstman

MOVING EXPENSES

Solveig Eggerz

SAVED

Beth Sherman

THE GRAEAE

Sherri H. Hoffman

THE AUDREY HEPBURN

John Scott Dewey

ONE LAST MARCH UP HALLS HILL

John Benner

AFTERLIFE DOT COM

Book Reviews

THE BOWL WITH GOLD SEAMS

By Ellen Prentiss Campbell

A TASTE OF SALT

By Harold O. Wilson

ANATOMIES

By Susan McCarty

MY FATHER IS AN ANGRY STORM CLOUD

By Melissa Reddish

JFK’s FORGOTTEN CRISIS: TIBET, THE CIA, AND THE SINO-INDIAN WAR

by Bruce Reidel

New Books by Regional Authors

PUBLISHED IN 2015

PUBLISHED IN 2016

Contributors

In Memoriam

Our Partners

The

Delmarva

Review

Evocative Prose & Poetry

Copyright

VOLUME 9

Wilson Wyatt, Jr. - Executive Editor

Bill Gourgey - Managing Editor

Emily Rich - Editorial Advisor

Anne Colwell - Poetry Editor

Wendy Ingersoll Perry - Poetry Reader

Harold O. Wilson - Fiction Co-Editor

Melissa Reddish - Fiction Co-Editor

Cheril Thomas - Fiction Reader

George Merrill - Nonfiction Co-Editor

Cheryl Somers Aubin - Nonfiction Co-Editor

Gerald F. Sweeney - Book Section Editor

Denise Clemons - Grants and Contributions

Jodie Littleton - Copyeditor

Charlene Marcum - Proofreading

Cover Photograph: Significant Other by George Merrill

The Delmarva Review is published annually in print and digital editions by the Eastern Shore Writers Association, a nonprofit organization supporting writers and the literary arts across the Delmarva Peninsula (including portions of Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia). Additional support is provided by sales, tax-deductible contributions, and a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council, with revenues provided by the Maryland State Arts Council. The content of each issue is determined solely by the editorial board.

The Review welcomes new prose and poetry submissions from all writers, regardless of residence. Editors consider only those manuscripts submitted electronically during specific submission periods. The dates and guidelines are posted on the website www.delmarvareview.com.

General correspondence can be sent to:

The Delmarva Review

P.O. Box 547

Secretary, MD 21664

E-mail: [e-mail]

Copyright 2016 by the Eastern Shore Writers Association

www.easternshorewriters.org

Library of Congress Control Number 2008215789

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5377517-7-1

Preface

Welcome to the ninth annual Delmarva Review, a literary journal publishing exceptional poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction, in print and digital editions.

As a journal, our focus is on the voice and literary qualities of authors’ work to tell their stories. We do not preselect a theme. Often, we are impressed by the courage or clarity of a writer to reveal skillfully a personal feeling or truth that will resonate with readers and be remembered. In the following pages, contributing writers probe a number of topics, including love, loss, aging, addiction, physical and mental illness, personal identity, relationships, and, of course, death.

The cover photograph, Significant Other, by George Merrill, is suggestive of human relationships, depicted by two weathered picket gateposts (in Oxford, Maryland) with expressive eyes, bound together by a simple tether. The image invites one’s imagination.

In recognition of William Shakespeare's 400th birthday, we are featuring the work of Shakespearean actor and poet James Keegan, from Milton, Delaware, in this issue. His essay explores how the veteran actor draws human qualities from his Shakespearean roles on stage to build contemporary characters in his poetry. Mythological undertones surface throughout much of the writing in this edition.

Volume 9 contains the poetry and prose of thirty-six authors from 11 states. We encourage the work of authors in the greater Chesapeake region, and we welcome all writers, regardless of residence. The writing in this edition includes: forty-seven poems, eight short stories, and 10 essays and memoirs. We also review five recent books by regional authors.

True to our namesake (the Delmarva Peninsula), we have printed a special section in this issue listing 114 current books published by authors from the Chesapeake region. Covering most genres, the list provides an excellent view of the diversity of creative work by regional authors.

During nine years, The Delmarva Review has published new literary prose and poetry from over 250 talented writers in twenty-eight states, the District of Columbia, and nine other countries. This has resulted in authors receiving over forty Pushcart Prize nominations, as well as notable mentions in Best American Essays and other publications.

Our editors, writers, and readers are thankful to members of the Eastern Shore Writers Association, our publisher, for ongoing support. We are appreciative of partial funding from a Talbot County Arts Council grant, with revenues provided by the Maryland State Arts Council, and from individual tax-deductible contributions.

It is my pleasure to work with 12 volunteers as editors, readers, and advisors to publish The Delmarva Review. We are passionate about the review’s contribution to the literary arts and the importance of literacy to our culture.

Wilson Wyatt, Jr.

Executive Editor

Poetry

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

– T.S. Eliot

Len Krisak

TIBERIUS

There won’t be conquests anymore.

Time saw to that. Now comes withdrawal.

There’s not the slightest chance that war

Will rouse the appetite at all.

Faint images will have to do,

Ghosting memory’s blue cave wall.

Bound fast, this is the last Capri

That isolation offers you.

Excite yourself with fantasy

If memory fails. Below, old goat:

The grotto. Up above: caprice.

Your vices have you by the throat;

Your organs rot now, piece by piece.

Waves wash the cave and never cease.

ALLEGORY

Itchy and Scratchy

Agree to bury the hatchet—

A pact that would seem

To require that one of them

Remove it first from Scratchy’s skull,

Where Itchy’s usually buried it.

Now if you’re not too dull,

Consider applications that might fit.

μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα

first line of The Odyssey

Sing, Muse, of you yourself—your many ways.

You always did (more early than of late).

Perhaps you can’t be said to advertise,

So what’s the news? What’s happened to that love

You said there never was a question of?

You said so many made for such malaise

That neither one should ever mention marry.

(Deep thoughts: that love was sometimes felt as hate;

That there should be a shelf-date on all mourning;

That you should get your money back on lies.)

Might TV help? Then there could be a warning

With the come-on: something like, "But wait,

There’s more! Closed course: do not attempt. Supplies

Are limited, and your results may vary."

VICTOR HUGO:

SONNET

(to Judith Gautier)

Beauty and death are two things so profound—

Of shadow and of azure—one might say

Two fierce and fruitful sisters shared a bond:

The same enigma they cannot betray.

O women’s voices, looks, locks black and blonde:

Shine, for I die of love—your charm’s bright ray.

O pearls the ocean’s great waves roll around!

Luminous birds dark forests hide away!

Judith, far closer than you think, your fate

And mine each one another contemplate.

Your eyes? A sacred chasm I behold.

While I—I am a gulf of stars inside.

Madam, we two are neighbors there enskied

Because you’re beautiful; because I’m old.

FRENCH TEXT:

La mort et la beauté sont deux choses profondes

Qui contiennent tant d’ombre et d’azur qu’on dirait

Deux sœurs également terribles et fécondes

Ayant la même énigme et le même secret.

O femmes, voix, regards, cheveux noirs, tresses blondes,

Brillez, je meurs ! ayez l'éclat, l'amour, l'attrait,

O perles que la mer mêle à ses grandes ondes,

O lumineux oiseaux de la sombre forêt !

Judith, nos deux destins sont plus près l'un de l'autre

Qu'on ne croirait, à voir mon visage et le vôtre ;

Tout le divin abîme apparaît dans vos yeux,

Et moi, je sens le gouffre étoilé dans mon âme ;

Nous sommes tous les deux voisins du ciel, madame,

Puisque vous êtes belle et puisque je suis vieux.

THE POWER OF THE WIND

Quixote-scaled, the blades—akimbo—tell

No time the wind won’t tell. Gargantuan,

Yet spare as a Mercedes asterisk,

The pinwheel turns as if to cast its spell

On those who read it for a peace-sign joke.

Arma virumque, wrote the Mantuan,

However. Spinning spoke-by-dagger-spoke,

Inscribing an imaginary disk,

This moulin seems to sharpen each stiletto

For some giant joust against the day

When ignorant of why it has been built,

And greatly slaving like a mute magneto,

It turns on those for whom it’s toiled away,

Prepared to take its masters on, full-tilt.

Devon Miller-Duggan

BIRD, BIRD

"If people only knew

what goes on in our lives," Fleda says,

"under the surface.

Swans paddling madly."

I say I think I’m a crow—

capable of using tools

and making plans,

fond of what shines,

more likely to pray

in a murder than a whiteness.

CANON IN D FOR STEVE HELMING

Every busker in Münich, possibly in Europe

plays it just to scratch at you.

Half the brides in North America

wade through its little river on their way

up the aisle.

It’s everywhere beloved—

my friend Mary went to sleep to its

unstrained strains every night of her childhood.

It’s soft as a cherub’s ass,

notes twirling like jewelry box ballerinas,

legs frozen in airy arabesque.

It’s unsusceptible to irony or satire,

a white dough of music, and

it means to lull. I know, you

much prefer the Münich businessman

who spends his lunch hours by the river

reading the paper, his suit,

shirt, tie, belt, socks, shoes and underwear

neatly folded next to his beach chair,

skin giddy with sun and river swirl,

demeanor quiet, stubborn,

formal as baroque canons.

Michelle Brooks

OBITUARY FOR A NEON ANGEL

The city, alive with sirens, makes you

long for other days, for the lost ones.

The causalities of your youth stay hidden,

buried beneath the darkness you cast

in every direction. The night casts its own

shadows onto your small stake of the known

world. If you love me, you will tell me your

whole heart, you whispered to various men,

not knowing that diminishment seeps

into everything around it. You become

a crime scene, the tape around a body long

removed, all color drained by morning.

SMART, VERY SMART

Jimmy Carter looked green

as he delivered his last state

of the union. Of course, everyone

did on the old Magnavox for ten

minutes or so. My parents turned

it on well advance of the buyer

who had called in response

to the Thrifty Nickel ad. It takes

a few minutes to get going, my dad

said. Don’t we all? the man replied,

broken vessels on his nose, a map

that led nowhere. My mother forced

a smile and offered coffee. I’ll take it,

the man said. And the coffee too.

Jimmy spoke of malaise a crisis

of confidence as my dad unplugged

him and offered to load the television

into the man’s car. My mom looked

relieved. We needed the money. We

always did. Thank you. That guy

depresses me, the man said. Tell me

something I don’t know, Jimmy. His hands

shook when he picked up the mug.

Hell, no matter who you pick, they’re

all disappointing, the man said, once

the bloom is off the rose. He swilled

the last of his coffee like it was medicine,

the kind you forced yourself to take even

though it didn’t work so well anymore.

ARSON

Fires burned behind every window

in my first grade assignment to draw

a house. Fifteen suns blazed in the sky,

and strange flowers bloomed in the yard

where children didn’t play. Who lives

in your house? the teacher asked me.

Nobody lives there. Curlicues of smoke

streamed from the multiple chimneys.

I didn’t include a door. Someone else

might have made up a story that included

a dramatic rescue. In my story the fires

always burned. The why didn’t matter. I

only knew what I saw when I closed my eyes.

STOCK FOOTAGE

You meet someone who asks, Are

you free? A question like a gun,

loaded. When you learned to shoot,

your instructor told you not to put

your finger on the trigger until you

intended to pull it, the assumption being

that you would. Is this the answer

to the question your life asks no matter

how hard you try to muffle it? You buy

yourself some time. You pick a letter,

any letter, but you see nothing except

pages filled with your own handwriting.

David Salner

SUMMONED AT FIRST LIGHT

Melville’s White Jacket

Bare feet on deck,

he felt the waves wash through the boards,

the long swell, the tender holding of the sea.

But when the boatswain twirled his cat,

he guessed what they’d been summoned for. All afternoon,

as the keen scourge hissed, he listened. Just listened,

which left a mark. Our lives are made of water,

a wash of salts within us, a tide

rising and falling back. As an old man,

he watched the sun sink to a line

where sea and sky are blended, a measureless

haze at the horizon. And studied how the darkness

spread from wisps of pink and orange. And wondered,

what am I to do with beauty?

What am I to do with that man’s pain?

DRY-DOCK MUSIC: BALTIMORE

It was therefore an act of supreme trust on the part

of a freeman of color thus to put in jeopardy

his liberty that another might be free.

—from The Life and Times of Frederick Douglass

Surprising, most of all,

Stanley himself…. On the way to work that day,

he walked through clouds of cinnamon, an amber fog

enveloping the port, all the way to Fells Point

and the dry docks, where he works—

building a ship with four-pound mallet,

driving cotton-white strands between oak planks,

sealing a sharp-built hull with oakum

from keel to turn of bilge. Dry-dock music

freights the air, saw-scrape and mallet-knock,

chatter of carpenter and caulker,

craftsman and slave, of black and Irish

joined in an uneasy hug of labor. He knew the trades,

sailing and caulking, and others that a free man needs

in this slave port, like how to keep his freedom papers

always in his pocket, for the eagle stamp

protects him from slave catchers, the lowest form

of life, who love the music of another’s chains.

His papers say that he was born right here,

born free, but it was in the port of Charleston,

when he was just 15, that two white sailors

who hated slavery, grabbed him by the arms

and told a port patrolman, "This here’s

the cabin boy of our good ship, the Mother Mary.

His name is Stanley Johnson—he’s had a bit

and captain needs him sober, so let us pass."

He had the wherewithal to play the drunk,

although he’d never had a sip, not then,

and with their help, he slipped

the chains of bondage, set sail on Mother Mary,

kidnapped into freedom. From that day on,

he’s worked on ships, on shipboard only,

where he feels free. Now that he’s old,

the ships he works on are in dry dock,

his papers always in his pocket.

They describe the bearer by his age,

color, height. . . . But they could just as easily

describe a man named Frederick, on his way

to freedom, with papers in his pocket

in the name of Stanley Johnson.

QUESTIONS FROM

THE GALÉRIA FRAN DAUREL

Barcelona, September 5, 2015

Why is the patient one the gray baboon?

Why is the fabric of mutation made of steel?

Why does a solitary leg walk down the road?

Why does the heart expel a crowded boat?

Why does the light bulb hang above the lamb?

Why does the poison wash across the stone?

Why does the man put on an