Below is a selection of poems from our third issue (Summer/Fall 2015) by Hal Sirowitz, Elton Glaser, Dorothy Howe Brooks, Eric Nelson, Adrian Fillion and Brook J. Sadler. This issue also includes poems by Kevin Durkin, George Freek, Rupert Fike, Beatrice Perry Soublet, Ed Shacklee, John Manesis, Kevin Casey, Robert Lee Kendrick, C. B. Anderson, Allen Strous, David Kitchel, Tovah S. Yavin, C. Cleo Creech, Joseph S. Salemi, Daniel Corrie, Ferral Willcox and Jane Blanchard.

In every issue Calamaro brings attention to a poet not sufficiently known or honored, hoping its readers will delve deeper into the work of the featured poet. In this issue we profile Emily Brontë (1818-1848) and reprint seven of her poems: “No coward soul is mine,” "Spellbound," "The Old Stoic," “I am the only being whose doom," “All day I’ve toiled but not with pain," “Fall leaves, fall; die, flowers, away” and "Love and Friendship.



Come to me mellifluous and warm
in the glow of dawn, sing
to me of good work to be done.
Open your embracing arms,
and move me along, move me along.

Come to me stout and strong
in the afternoon, urging me on
with vigor and windward heart.
Sail my ship to harbor,
sail my ship late to harbor.

Come to me hot and dark
at the end of day,
coax me to passion’s bitter play.
Say, espresso, stay.
Say, tiny cups to lips, sip.

by Brook J. Sadler


Sea And Sky

The sea is in love with the sky today
and dresses herself in his hue.
The sea is in love with the sky today
and wears his color, blue.

The sky is in love with the sea tonight
and shows her the moon and stars.
The sky is in love with the sea tonight
and promises Venus and Mars.

The sea and the sky are quarreling today,
there’s thunder and lightning and rain.
The sea and the sky are quarreling today:
there may be a hurricane.

The sky and the sea are loving tonight,
becoming one from two.
The sky and the sea are loving tonight:
this could be a hurricane, too.

by Adrian Fillion


New Year Resolutions

Driving down the dark, I don’t
Look at the gush of headlights
Gaining in the next lane, but at
That white stripe by the road’s shoulder.

And long ago I gave up
Unreachable goals each time I hang,
In place of the old Xed-out calendar,
A new grid of glossy days—

Venice this year, a glamour of palaces
Sagging along the foul canals, or else
An adolescent stretch of Elvis, posed
In his slouch and pompadour and sneer.

For what threats would hold me to
My own broken promises? Not
A mind already raddled with guilt,
Or a God who’s lost his grip.

Now, I keep myself in line
With these lines, like a bat at night
Sending out its sound against
Whatever lies ahead, black contours

And blind obstructions, waiting for
Its return, distance and density and shape
Correcting the approach. I can’t see
Another way to go where I am going.

by Elton Glaser


First Language

She is savoring the words, my child,
playing with them in her mouth

like toys. She can’t see the sounds, so
like a blind person she learns them

by touch. She loves the way
they feel—singing the ABC’s

she stops on W, rolls it
against her tongue: W, W.

She loves bubble, and mama
that delicious M sound, Mmm, Mmm.

She sings herself to sleep at night:
ba-by, dog-gie, moonnn, no end

 to the shapes of the sounds,
that first sweet taste of language.

by Dorothy Howe Brooks


Dangerious Times

They say a little knowledge
is a dangerous thing, Father Said,
which means not only are you
dangerous right now, but you're
becoming more dangerous
day by day. Letting you stay
in the house is taking a risk.
That's why your mother and I
are trying to fill you up
with knowledge, so you won't
become a danger to the community.
We can handle tragedy. But can
the block? A neighbor, who lived
in the corner house, dropped dead
last month. The block has already
met its quota for bad tidings.

by   Hal Sirowitz


My Bedroom Was Close

Enough to the kitchen that I heard
My parents weekend mornings
Clinking dishes, perking coffee,
Ratcheting the toaster
And crackling the newspaper.

Within those sounds I heard their voices
Rise and fall like a distant flowing
River, sometimes below
My hearing, then bubbling up
Into splashes of laughter.

I lay in bed listening, eyes closed,
Floating, not wanting to get up,
Not old enough to say what I felt
Even if I wanted to, but old enough
To know I was hearing something
Other, or more, than Mom and Dad.
Something I liked more than Mom and Dad.

I wanted to get up and join them
But I knew as soon as I entered
The kitchen everything would change.
The people I wanted to see
Would be gone
And only my parents remain.

by Eric Nelson