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Whirling, swirling,

furled leaves from nature’s wooden bedposts

blanketing Mother Earth in a patchwork quilt

preserving summer’s residual warmth

cobalt blue skies changing the temperature of my thoughts,

preparing my mind for the idea that summer will retreat

October winds blowing me backward

forcing me to accept the change of seasons.

My determination to resist has no effect,

so I accept the terms and wait for the next phase,

now determined to embrace October,

enjoying her harvest,

wrapping her patchwork quilt around my senses,

breathing her crisp, celestial spirit,

bathing in her moist, foggy, artesian dew.

Apple pies and woodpiles fill my dreams,

food for thought and warmth for my bones.

Living in October feels like home.

We all prepare —

plants, animals and humans —

prepare for the dormant life, biological freeze.

So live in October, laugh in October, love October.

Press its juices into the sweetest cider

then rest,

knowing winter’s arrest will not stop

spring’s renewal

or summer’s passions.

The cool and blustery wind

the seasons cycle spin

we’re living now within

stop the wheel.


living in October.

Lenny Hall is a student and observer of life without formal credentials, who finds inspiration on Martha’s Vineyard.

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I remember who is gone, and who remains.

I remember their names in the coral dawns

And saffron sunsets walking on the water

With the wind across winter’s green, green sea.

I see their bodies refracted in the green light of summer,

In the dancing leaves and afternoons of thunder

When sudden rain relieves the humid weight of memory,

In dangling webs and ladders of moonlight

And village streets lit by windows’ narrow beams

Upholding midnight vows and pleas

To Hold me, hold me please. . . Hold me,

Don’t let dreams keep us from our waking sleep.

Their faces in my mirror, graying hair, blue eyes

I see in skies reflecting gravity, in the deep

Black in black behind starlight’s roses and thorns,

In the hot day’s lilacs of noon suns, in sweat and wonder

As they come and go through me, that another sudden winter

Comes, will come out of tomorrow’s unborn snow.

I remember it all like stone cut from a forbidden quarry,

The words they spoke, the lips, the hands that stroked

And held, working through rough flesh and bone,

And the laughter that came after each disaster

Of a living world without answers, of remembered love alone.

A resident of the dank and moldy primal forests of West Tisbury for 32 years, Lee H. McCormack has reportedly been seen, usually from a great distance through high-octane vision-magnifying devices.

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A man

is a person

who invents the clock so

the bomb will know when it’s time to

go off.

Growing Old

The thing

to do is sneak

inside yourself and find

the one place left for being




life, that slow flame:

each of us turns and twists

in it. It takes a whole lifetime

to fry.

A retired anthropology professor turned landscaper, the quixotic George Mills (1919-2001) was a well-loved figure in the Vineyard poetry community. Until his death George and his wife Florrie shared a small home in Oak Bluffs where they hosted frequent gatherings of poets, musicians, activists, and other thinkers.

Fan Ogilvie of West Tisbury read a poem at the Grange Hall during the Gay Head Light poetry book launch. — Brooks Robards

Supporters of the Save the Gay Head Lighthouse Project gathered at the West Tisbury Grange Hall last Wednesday, August 27, to listen as more than a dozen poets read works inspired by the Gay Head Lighthouse, which is endangered by erosion.

Annette Sandrock.
Annette Sandrock.

Lighthouse Keeper Richard Skidmore acted as Master of Ceremonies, introducing the poets, who each read a poem they had written about the Lighthouse. Those who participated were Steve Ewing, Chris Legge, Paula Lyons, Arnie Reisman, Fan Ogilvie, Susan Puciul, Cynthia Riggs, Brooks Robards, Annette Sandrock, William Waterway, Richard Weiss, and Lynn Whiting.

Legacy of Light: Poems for the Gay Head Lighthouse, the recently published volume of Lighthouse poems edited by Alexander Weinstein, Keith Leonard, and Fan Ogilvie, is available at Midnight Farm in Vineyard Haven and at the Gay Head Gallery. For more information, visit gayheadlight.org.

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Rabbi Balfour Brickner and Marina Tempelsman (one of the four winners), at the 1999 ceremony for the Reading of the Poetry Winners. — Kristin Maloney

When Elisa Brickner died at age 17 in a 1973 horseback riding accident, it was a tragedy for all who knew and loved her.

But thanks to the generosity and thoughtfulness of her father, the late Rabbi Balfour Brickner, that heartbreaking loss became the impetus for a gift that even now, four decades later, continues to touch the lives of many. It is a moving example of a bereaved parent turning loss into an opportunity to bring joy and benefit to others.

Wishing to memorialize his young daughter in a way that would be meaningful and reflect something of who she was, Rabbi Brickner that same year established and funded the Elisa Brickner Poetry Corner at the Chilmark Public Library. The Rabbi and his family were longtime Menemsha summer residents. Because Elisa loved poetry, he sought to foster that same love in other youths and all who would visit the little library, both in summertime and year round.

Today, the Elisa Brickner Poetry Corner collection contains well more than 1000 volumes for both adults and children, thanks to the rabbi’s significant generosity. But that was only the beginning.

In 1993, Rabbi Brickner approached the library again, sending a letter with a new, far-reaching proposal.

“We feel it is time to expand the memorial in a new and challenging way,” he wrote. “We propose the establishment of an annual poetry contest to be known as the Elisa Brickner Annual Poetry Contest.”

One year later, in 1994, the contest for junior high and high school students was launched and immediately attracted hopeful young poets, dreaming of recognition for their creative work.

This year marks the 20th anniversary of the well-loved competition, which is now underway, with entries accepted until August 11.

In addition to honoring the winners, the Elisa Brickner Fund, to which the rabbi added from time to time, enables the library to award them substantial cash prizes. Usually given to only the first and second place winners, this year a cash award will also be presented to the third prize winners in observance of the anniversary.

According to Kristin Maloney, the library’s program coordinator, from the very beginning the contest has drawn 35 to 50 entries each year from both year-round Islanders and summer residents. She said that many of the previous contest winners have gone on to be actively involved in writing endeavors, from poetry to novels and plays for both stage and screen.

This year’s judges are John Maloney, Donald Nitchie, and Laura Wainwright. Marlan Sigelman, summer library assistant who is also a poet, will join the usual three-judge panel for this 20th anniversary contest.

Judging takes place promptly after the deadline date and winners are invited to read their pieces at a library ceremony on Monday, August 18, at 5:30 pm.

“One of the special parts is the ceremony and the reading of the winners’ poems,” said Ms. Maloney.

For many years Rabbi Brickner would faithfully attend the ceremony, serving as emcee and announcing and congratulating the winning student writers. Since his death in 2005, his son Rabbi Barnet Brickner participates whenever possible.

Ms. Maloney said that previous winners and family members often attend the ceremony to meet the successful contestants and hear their poems. She added that earlier prize recipients have told library staff how meaningful it was to have their poems chosen, and both they and their families have fond memories of the occasion.

“The kids say how honored they were to be acknowledged and taken seriously,” Ms. Maloney said. “They say how important it was to them.

“Kids don’t really have an arena to be celebrated for writing poetry, unlike sports or performing arts. This ceremony spotlights their talent and who they are. They’re really appreciated.”

Winning poems have been displayed in a scrapbook since the beginning. As a special feature of this anniversary, the library will publish a book compiling all winners from 1994 through 2014. The volumes will be given to the contest winners, all local schools and libraries, and will be available to the public.

The contest

The Elisa Brickner Annual Poetry Contest invites entries from students in two age categories: Junior High School (entering grades 6 through 8), and Senior High School (entering grades 9 through 12).

Contestants may submit one original poem: any length, style, or subject, typed or printed on 8 1/2” by 11” paper. The writer’s name must not appear on the submission. A cover sheet with name, grade category, and contact information must be attached.

First prizewinners in each category will receive $200; second and third prizewinners will receive $100. Winning poems will be read at a ceremony on August 18 at 5:30 pm.

The deadline for submitting poems is August 11 at 5:30 pm. Entries may be mailed, faxed, or delivered in person.

For information, call 508-645-3360 or visit chilmarklibrary.org/youth.php.

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Twenty eight restless kids peer out over the rails

but there’s no wind to fill Shenandoah’s sails

The bunks are made and clothes all put away

Everyone on board hopes we’ll sail today

No one likes the situation we are in

Even the crew’s patience wears thin

Several small hands scrub the deck clean and dry

and the Black Dog burgee is raised up high

Yet like Old Glory it just hangs straight down

and a thick, white fog covers the town

Two days in Holmes Hole is too long for me

but worse for 5th graders bound for the sea!

Ol’ Cap’n Bob keeps an eye to the sky

searching for signs that a change is nigh

He is first to notice the dense fog lifting

getting lighter and finer like flour Cook is sifting

All of a sudden, the sunlight breaks through

Cap’n Bob knows exactly what he must do.

“All hands!” he shouts to his novice crew

The children line up. Well, most of them do

They grab the lines making sure they aren’t caught

chanting while hauling the main sheets taut

Up go the sails. What a beautiful sight!

Knowing together we did it just right.

Now out of the Harbor and on into the Sound

Off to Tarpaulin Cove our great ship is bound!

Ruth Major, an oil painter and writer, is working on a collection of poems called “Islander.”

Attention all young poets! The 20th annual Elisa Brickner Poetry Contest sponsored by the Chilmark Public Library is now underway.

“Don’t forget to enter!” says program coordinator Kristin Maloney.

The contest welcomes entries from young people entering grades 6 through 12. There are two age categories: Junior High School (grades 6, 7, 8), and Senior High School (grades 9, 10, 11, 12).

Contestants may submit one original poem of any length or style, on any subject, typed or printed on 8 1/2” by 11” paper. The writer’s name must not appear on the submission, but a cover sheet with name, grade category, and contact information should be attached.

Three Island writers will judge the submissions. First prizewinners in each age category will receive $200; second and third prize winners will receive $100. Winning poems will be read at a ceremony at the library at 5:30 pm on August 18.

Deadline for submitting poems is August 11, 5:30 pm. Entries may be mailed, faxed, or delivered in person.

For information and details, call 508-645-3360 or visit chilmarklibrary.org/youth php.

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Poet Annette Sandrock performed her spoken word piece during the fourth annual summer solstice celebration at Featherstone Center for the Arts in Oak Bluffs on Thursday evening. — Michael Cummo

Although the official Summer Solstice would not take place until Saturday, a band of creative writers and musicians at Featherstone Center for the Arts could not wait another minute, and gathered to celebrate the new season on Thursday evening.

Dozens of people came to watch poets perform during the fourth annual Summer Solstice Celebration.
Dozens of people came to watch poets perform during the fourth annual Summer Solstice Celebration.

The sun took her sweet time sinking behind the trees, splashing the rich green lawns with vibrant patches of gold as revelers began arriving. They trooped up the amphitheatre slope bearing chairs, blankets, picnic gear, and extra warm layers just in case.

While one might have expected a jolly festival of rowdy dance, rollicking music, singalongs, and giggles, this celebration had a very different flavor, honoring the transitional spring-to-summer moment in a serenely thoughtful style.

Poet Ellie Bates, who organized this fourth annual Summer Solstice Celebration, welcomed the audience members, now settled comfortably on the grass, sipping and snacking, chatting, and marveling at the beauty of the still-sunny evening.

As the program went on she introduced a talented line-up of home-grown Island poets. Most, she reported, are members of the Martha’s Vineyard Poets’ Collective and the Cleaveland House Poets. Many had read at Featherstone, Pathways, and elsewhere; some had taught workshops, a few had one or more books to their credit.

Delighted with the audience turnout, and the large number of readers taking part, Ms. Bates said she felt the event was a perfect kick-off to the season and the Pathways, Featherstone, Noepe Center Summer Festival of Poetry held here in July and August.

Poet Clark Myers read a poem he wrote.
Poet Clark Myers read a poem he wrote.

Annette Sandrock’s sweet story-poem told of a daisy she picked in Spain, the happy day they spent – woman and flower: “I showed it birds, I saw the world from its point of view,… Me and Daisy, walking the path.” Her words gave the little blossom a personality, delicate and precious. We want to meet it.

Jill Jupen offered meditations on life, death, and their mysteries. In a flock of raucous crows she saw Cambodian elders, huddled, chattering: “everyone talking at once.”

Artist Harry Seymour paired his poems with paintings, modestly admitting this was his first attempt at poetry. No disclaimer was needed for his strong verses, including the powerful “Empty Swings,” a passionate cry-out against gun violence.

Barbara Peckham deftly moved from outrage in a diatribe against heartless politicians ignoring the poor and powerless (“while God’s children weep”) to a lusciously lyrical poetic seascape: “Miss Ocean wears her blue green dress embroidered with crystal beads…” We envision it appearing as a children’s picture book one day, iridescent illustrations to match the sparkling words.

Winonah Harrington tossed a bouquet of haikus, floating like bubbles, glittering spontaneous images suggesting stories. Clark Myers evoked old-fashioned family life in recalling his grandmother Ada.

Shellion Hamlett, left in jean jacket, and poet Winonah Harrington enjoying the performances.
Shellion Hamlett, left in jean jacket, and poet Winonah Harrington enjoying the performances.

There were more poets, and words kept on coming, rhymed and unrhymed, couplets, haikus, free form, evoking moods from dark to lighthearted, contemplative to zany.

Edgartown Poet Laureate Steve Ewing topped off the heady mix with his newly minted “Slow Roll,” describing memorable first-time treats with economical images: childhood ice-cream, chilled Campari in Italy, red poppies abloom in France. Then he described a magical sensation, a subtle shift as he sat outdoors at twilight: “The sun stopped setting and the earth took over.”

Also sharing their talents and poems were Ann Lees, Jennifer Smith Turner, Scott Crawford, William Waterway, Ms. Bates who offered a verse along with providing introductions, and Marianne Goldberg (whose poem, in her absence, was read by Annette Sandrock. 

Three easy rocking tunes by Lizzy Bradley and Mark Mazer, began with “Georgia on My Mind,” Ms. Bradley providing the sultry vocals and making a brilliant debut on electric guitar.

Christina Montoya jazzed up the atmosphere with a fiery, powerful, flirtatious poetry/dance performance, exuding joyful woman-energy.

At last the sun had all but disappeared when William Waterway took the stage, now shadowed under heavily leafed branches, ending the evening with haunting impressionistic tunes played on a simple Native American branch flute.

“The birds were singing – they gave me my direction,” he said afterwards.

Satiated with elegantly crafted poetry, delicious food for thought, the patrons slowly, reluctantly, headed home, driving down the hill beneath a still-light apricot tinged sky.

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Our new telephone poles

Standing so straight and tall.

What have you done

To incur the wrath of us all?

Erect as a guard of sentries

Along our one-lane roads,

Your naked brown wood

A story of nature told.

A mountainside forest,

Stout, heavy-limbed trees;

Tops bend ever so much,

The stiffest of breeze.

Strong men did come,

Boot and glove. Saw and truck.

They felled your majesties,

Your centuries of luck.

Taken from your woods,

Carted to our towns,

Your cross trees now bolted;

Not a smile or a frown.

Many lines strung with care,

Along your tops and sides.

The power as apparent —

The currents in the tides.

For us, you reach up.

Our computers, light and heat

An engineering marvel,

You deliver us a treat.

But, what, we turn away?

We say that you are ugly!

Too big, too tall for us

We say (a bit) smugly.

Why our scenic uproar?

Why all of our ill will?

We like our treetops.

Power is our poison pill.

I, for one, see your beauty,

Enjoy your neat looks.

You are not at fault —

Something out of a storybook.

Jonathan Burke works for the Oak Bluffs Library and has lived on the Island since 2001.

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If you can’t deny that things have changed

And life, as before, is rearranged

If you once were warm but now feel colder

Accept the truth; you’re getting older.

If thin skin itches and you need to scratch

If you worry that your clothes don’t match

If you tightly squint your failing eyes

If you assume the mirror lies

When it shows you otherwise;

If you drive your car but forget to where

Yet somehow, safely you got there;

If you find it hard to retrieve a word

And repeat old stories already heard;

If suddenly you just stop to stare

If you search for loved ones no longer here,

Wanting them to reappear ;

If at times you become moody,

Solitary and a bit broody;

If your clothing has become too long,

If you fret and stamp and act forlorn,

Admit you’ve shrunk, proceed with haste,

Pull up your pants above your waist,

If you splash in puddles happily,

And couldn’t care if anyone might see,

Your timeless joy and jubilee,

If you stress about your whitening hair,

If younger friends now call you “dear,”

If you don pajamas at half past four

Hoping no one knocks upon your door,

If you enjoy jumping into bed at night

To read your books by one bright light ,

If you slowly sip on bedtime tea

While watching old movies on TV,

The heat turned high at seventy,

If you get up many times to pee,

If you sleep and dream haphazardly,

If you are wide awake at half-past three,

If you watch moon shadows cast a glow,

If you enjoy the dark night show,

If you are grateful for your many years

If you embrace your joy and accept your tears,

If all these things have come to be —

Celebrate! My friend

You are just like me!

Doris Lubell, 82 years old, is a year-round Edgartown resident.