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I want someone to kill me for the things that I’ve become. The things that Billy did say are irrelevent, because he’s dead, killed by the hero of the town. It’s not the silence of peace, but it’s the silence of death. My homes that once carried histories of generations are now burned ashes on the ground waiting for the wind to blow them to their final destination. Follow Gary as he shares poetry from Mainers of all backgrounds.Poems will be released monthly in I love the library I love the library Every day I love the library when we are there I love the library You love the library I love the library We all love the library Every day I Love I love the wind that blows through the trees I love the pretty flowers, they smell oh so fresh I love the river I love all the life in the World If ‘namvets were ancient shamans now would be the moment we’d choose to give you shelter from the coming storm But we are merely survivors of suburbs and cities not forest nor mountain Modern men offering you our silences our words to guide you going out on your own Yet we have known for years now that the silences of our fathers will not do And we have known that words alone cannot bleed you free of your raging doubts So listen up to what we have found between silences and words: Open up your fists Watch women move Scorn uniforms Don’t march Dance “Mary Dowd is a poet and doctor in southern Maine.During that time she published over 125 books of children’s literature, poetry, adult fiction, and memoir. In quiet music a sleeping head leans into me and awakens herds of stars that spray like droplets as a horse runs across a stream. Spinning in my thoughts are valleys laden with rocks rolling down with rivers in their beds.Here is a poem of hers, for July.” – a collection of poems by the late Slovenian poet Jure Detela, translated by Raymond Miller of Topsham, Maine. Number 18 was first published in the British magazine Poem, and number 19 was first published in the U. “Reza Jalali, a writer and educator, came to Maine as a political refugee.

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It’s the proximity they can’t abide, so they keep a steady level of whiskey in their blood to keep from lashing out like tomcats over territory, over insults misperceived, over voices saying things only they can hear. Nothing between you and the knowledge your final bed won’t be much different. He had been an artist at Spindleworks in Brunswick for almost 40 years.Each side of the floor had a trough of open water, emerald-green water, like the brackish water off Porters Landing in summer – diving deep into cold black, arching spines to a sun-shafted surface…. This poem is from their book ‘Spindleworks Journey’.” Draw an apartment house and paint it blue and white. We published a book of writing from that group, called ‘Words from the curbs,’ and this poem is from that book.” When Billy turned five and started school the teacher asked “What do you want to be when you grow up? “Mihku is a Maliseet writer and visual artist who grew up on the Penobscot River. They say he knew water transformation; it gives life.Hung above each trough, a row of six strings and sharp hooks wrapped neatly around wooden pegs. Not your dignified earthworms used for catching brook trout in the excited waters of early spring, but filthy mud-worms from the flats, with hundreds of squirming legs. ” and these are the things that Billy didn’t say: I want to be a junky and a dope addict. This poem is from ‘Look Twice: The Waponaki in Image and Verse’- a one-woman mixed media installation she mounted at the Abbe Museum in 2009. A thousand years and more, we paddled the Old Meductic Trail; the water road.He has published poetry, fiction, plays, children’s books, and non-fiction, and is the online editor for Incomer, a new Maine magazine from Maine’s immigrant communities.” “April is National Poetry Month, and we celebrate it with a poem from Zainab Almatwari.Zainab came to Maine from Basrah, Iraq and is a sophomore at Westbrook High School.

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