I I~




THE NEW YOR,K STATE WATERWAYS PROJECT §rew out; 0f a de,sire to present to New York residents 'Ehe artist.ry or the word in a novel settiFlg. The water:w:ays caught our ima.ginations from. a concern fer aesthetics and the eoolocnr of New.York ri vers and l;akes. We thank the S'outb Street seaport Museum, the National Maritime Historicall!. SOG!.iety, the New York lHarbor Festivail. and the Department of Ports and Terminals for their (2ooperation and recommendations. Poets and independent presses nave responded by offering- their talent ! as perfmrmers and sharing in. the e~ense.We willI be exhd.- I o!Lti.ng and reaaimg at the South st,re.et Seaport Museum em Jruly 4th, at Pier !l3 in St.aten Island on July 21st, Pier ' '84 at; West 44th Street;. in Manhattan 01'1 Jl:lly 29, at Nett Avenue and 44th Drive in Queens on Al'tgust 12, at the NoriEh I Hi ver Bulkhead in Greenwi.clil Village (West S'treet and Bank Street) all August 19th, at the Fl:lJ..ton Ferry Landing Brooklyn on August 25t.h and 26th and in Kingston on September 8tb and 9th.

August 25 & August 26, Fulton Ferry Landing Brooklyn

August 45

August 26

noon Sharon Mattlin 12:15 Susan Kronenberg 12:30 Jeff Wright

12: 45- Donald Lev

1:00 Zoe Best 1:15 Enid Dame

1:30 Ron San Marchi 1:45 Stanley Barkan

Mia Barkan

2:00 Arthur Flowers

2:15 Barbara Holland 2:30 Louise Reyes Rivera 2:45 Barbara Fisher

Athelantis Perry 3:00 Louise Jaffe 3:15 Carol Polcovar 3:30 Richard Spiegel 3:45 Peter Scarpa 4:00 Sidney Bernard

12:30 Richard Spiegel 12:45 Chuck Nechtem 1:00 Sam Less

1:15 Ellen Aug

1:30 Conciere Taylor 1:45 Jamie White

v2 :00 Richard Davidson 2:15 Charles Molesworth 2:30 Betty Hansen

2:45 Dorothy Friedman

3:00 Murat Nemet-Nejat 3:15 Jay McDonnell 3:30 Enid Dame

3: 45 Do n a Ld Lev

4:00 Barbara Fisher

Athelantis Perry 4:15 Louis Reyes Rivera

4:30 Shirlene Holmes

4:15 Marlowe Ferrara 4:30 Isaac Black 4:45 Gwen Whitehead 5:00 Phil Mintz

5:15 Patricia Kelly 5:30 Louise Nayer 5:45 Henry Rasof 6:00 Mike Gogins

5:30 Gorman RUggiero 5:45 Lucy Angeleri


We welcome to the New York State Waterways Project:

Bramwe 11- Marsh Pub Li s he r s , PO Box 385, Staten Is land NY 10302, Poetry

Brooklyn Ferry Poets, 741 President Street, Brooklyn NY 11215, Poetry

. Aesopus, 27 Oriole Drive, Woodstock NY 12498, Poetry Greenfield Review, PO Box 80, Greenfield Center,

NY 12833, Poetry

Nambati Press, 1157 Third Avenue, NY 10021, Poetry Queens Council on the A~ts (SOURCE), 161-04 .Jamaica Avenue, Jamaica, NY 11432

The correct address for Full Track Press is - PO Box 55 Planetarium Station, NY NY 10024. The correct name of their audio cassette quarterly of the arts is - Unmendably Integral. We regret any inconvenience our mis-typing might have caused that press.

Grants from Poets & Writers (with grant support from the New York State Council on the Artit h~~ made possible payments to poets appearing July 21 Pier 13 SI; August 25th & August 26th Fulton Ferry Landing,. Brooklyn

Our thanks to the NYC Department of Ports & Terminals for allowing us the use of their piers, and to the National Maritime Historical Society for their help with the fair at Fulton Ferry Landing.

Grarits from the United States Department of Labor and the NYC Department of Employment CETA Title VI have made

the following appearances of the Cultural Council Foundation CETA poets and of the Words to Go Poetry Van possible on August 25- Sharon Mattlin, Jeff Wright, Zoe Best, Arthur Flowers. A similar CETA program has enabled the appearances of the American Jewish Congress' Martin Steinberg Center poets - Susan Kronenberg (August 25) & Ellen Aug (August 26)

'Creation Myth' by Don Lev from PECULIAR MERRIMENT, Home Planet Publications, 1973

'Waiting' Enid Dame, from INTERESTING TIMES, Downtown Poets

Co-op, 1978

'Kiss of Death' by Jeff Wright, from Hard Times Postcard Series


Susan Kronenberg

I follow the direction the river once took past the alleyways, -the debris,

the curving road through the swamp

on the border of the city.

I've been practising this for years:

Leaving always takes so long,

and arriving is always a letdown, but the going is more important than where I go.

My thoughts come with me. Thousdnds enter my brain,

eat away at the slippery gray tissue that has room for thousands more.

You want to know how long 1'11 be gone? As long as it takes to go out west, write a book of poems,

and come back.

You've asked me not to go,

but there's no way I can stop. Even in sleep, I'm moving. Even the earth is spinning, though it seems to be still.

You've asked me not to get older I told you I wouldn't,

but I lied~

I'll be still soon enough,

except for each cell releasing its energy -like electricity or light,

but neither.


Jeff Wright

What we will build is a blast of love to lie in - in

the final interim.

No more
us down
of sure
to jump to follow even flames departure away higher.

Of all the fleet treasures set adrift at a trumpet's tone one note to remain:

a blast of love from past domains, a wave from above to lie down in.


Donald Lev

naturally, the whole plan was a flop

they just didn't see things from every angle before

they began, like you and i would have

the whole bUsiness is lying in a

heap right over there

where those phoenixes arc nesting


Brooklyn looks like Russia in the snow.

The subway stop:

snow on its roof

snow down the tracks like a railroad station after a revolution. People stand muffled:

boots woolen mittens furs and shopping bags. A woman reads a Yiddish paper.

A man reads The Daily World.

Perhaps Mayakovsky

will be on the train reciting his poems

in a loud voice.

He hasnrt produced

The Bathhouse yet

or-killed himself.

And in the next car,

Emma Goldman

argues with Lenin

about the anarchists jailed, the sailors at Kronstadt.


Enid Dame

We huddle

like survivors

resigned to a new world energy spent, waiting

for whatever happens next. Meanwhile the snow falls, and the train is late.


Ron San Marchi

I'm sorry Mommy I'm sorry Daddy I'm sorry God

I'm sorry I don't get along in school

or with the other children

I "m so rry I don't get along at 'home I don't mean to'be mean

I'1Il sorry

I'm sorry Mommy I'm sorry Daddy I'm sorry God

In school nobody wants to play with me 'cause I don't talk right

and they donlt understand me

one boy hit me and said I was dumb I didn't say anything,

but I don't like kinde~garten

I'm sorry Mommy
I'm sorry Daddy
I "m sorry God
I \'1 an t to be a good boy
I want to have friends
I want to make you all proud of me I'm sorry


Stanley H. Barkan

Placing_ pieces of the puzzles on the table

my son

my daughter

a glass of water the flower vase

musing about

the mystery of sunlight, cereal & morning laughter

ribbons in wild-braided hair lost kites


strings & telephone cans

sister to brother parent to child rain to grass

what ties

one thing to another?


Mia Barkan


in the street

getting closer, closer, gone ...

Itls like a magic trick that disappears and never comes back.

I saw a puddle

in the street and I saw the bright lights of cars

in that

illusion of a puddle. Not wet, not dry

an illusion

from the fooled


Barbara F. Holland


Sky darkening

and the ocean scowling beneath it. Our feet escape the teasing

of the seering foam.

while out there

on the rim of the ocean five great lights

from the flares of fishermen intensify as evening

and the sea converge,

as if in secret,

but with tongues of fire, insistant upon_proclamation.


Louis Reyes Rivera

Space in time wait for train

I ride three steps backwards before I think to ask

"How far will this be taken?"

If I include or give back a decade

I would venture it has taken western gloom

500 years just to bury the skin off my surface

so long entrenched that I can't help but learn these other things Two generations to wipe out single language

one trisemester to miss-n-shape a wave

less than twenty one days to starve

and barely three to freeze to death

24 hours after one good blast

guzzled down to forget there ever was a lynching

pocket hole full of moments to slime my way from out a fight and only one lonely instant to leave my sanity home And/but/yet

as I sit along a summer's window sill

night sky wide and free this entire span of sparkling suns opened before me now

I can gaze beyond memory's checkpoint: how far do I take

clear thought

taut nerve

roving eye

and always the ever enforcing imperative: if






I will not discuss the question if






we will raise up off the ground!

Lined up against the beige brick wall

we leaned restless against the· passing time three of us



watching the street. A working lady

in green nylon slashed

up to thigh

cut low in front

with brown breasts bobbling as she moved

passed us ...

back and forth ...

our side .

our corner .

and then across the street she walked

eyeing us as she passed; wonde ring maybe

if we waited for a score. At length

she climbed into a long black car and was joined

by a man

dressed in color coordinate to hers. They sat


in that car

watching us from time to time as we stood

in the hot afternoon sun waiting

for the return of the day camp children


Barbara Fisher

'( , (2.



Louise Jaffe

Your eyes,

Once my lighthouse, Remembered, flare Ceremonial candle For my dead days.

Sale shiny things

In a place where sun Is hieroglyph

Upon these time-creased tablets Called my heart.

Words once we spoke Sing now a litany . For toss-filled nights, The final nail

For pride-planked cross.

Soul-singing things For a time where mUS1C Is mocking echo Chasing itself

Through maze of disbelief.


i am always caressed

i will not be other than i am

i am Janet and the storms i make cover my head

six angels turn their terror inward be afraid and lock your faith

tidy to your bed

i walk the mountai~s

for my lord has freed me to his mouth

my lover comes at night forward to my cot

and there are those who Swear

i am alone, softly by the glowering flames

but he moves within my eyes bids my voice, stirs my name

i will not despair as i find

too much contentcin my condition


Richard Spiegel

World traveller running from

a great malady

in a small Romanian village, struggling across seas, seeking relief:

playing the pipes,

dancing a jig,

plying his trade.

Bald with the long nose and starlit' eyes of an elfin character in wide brimmed hat he went to market before the sun rose to buy produce,

load his pushcart

& walk through Williamsburg

to the island on Eastern Parkway; playing with

green seeds and


A little walk:

the w i.Ll ow

trees, acorns and pine seeds,

green giving grandchildren presents.

At home in Brooklyn he plays solitaire

at the kitchen table while grandchildren taunt him turning cards over cards.

Peter' Scarpa '




Brothers, who sit in the cold naked Shroud of silence's star vacant night, Beyond keyless doors and galvanized bars, I have not forgotten your umbered graves, Or that each Celtic cross that mark

Your blood is a thorn bush in

The proud dying lions paws.

Comrades, my soul shares your darkness.

I shall walk again the green land Of Easter lily and golden harp;

I shall pilgrimage beside the sun pebbled sea, And forests hallowed by sainted feet.

Cross the mist slept Liffy bridges,

Over cobble worn stones of Dublin streets Pass the monk still portal in Sligo hills I shall walk again my phoenix land.

I shall walk again the emerald isle Of Druid priest and Queen Maeve,

Where girls wear apple blossom in their hair And drinking men sing because they are free; Where children turn from play to the mountains And dream; and old men relighting their pipes Speak of Wolfe Tone and Kevin Barry.

Yes, I shall walk the lang again.




Phil Mintz

Sometimes, when the pain reaches the edge, I find myself thinking about stupid thingsthe fragility of trucks.

I see them discarded in Paramus, tucked in some lot, mud flaps muddied byond recognition,

the windshield cracked, and a door hanging on a hinge.

I feared them when I drove a car.

I see them standing in Paramus,

their huge bodies rusting in the rain. It seems so futile, and wonderous

that I even attempt to eat, to breathe.


Patricia Kelly

tan bare legged briefly free of her winter heritage marna lightly tossed still living summer crabs into boiling water my innocent horror begged for recognition she brushed aside my wet ~andy

hair "silly child, that's the way'it's done" as

she cooked shelled prepared in

that narrow bungalow.kitchen,i

scuttled anxiously along foreboding

pulsing painfully under my

crystallizing shell


Sidney Bernard

He strolls the Brooklyn Bridge and imagines he hears Song of Hart Crane to windward strum of archway harps

The edilicecomplexes blocking the noontime sun on Sixth Reminds him of Nile pyramids lost in void of blackness

Paces along cloverleaf highway but can't detect

Na~ure's thrumming tune for roar of rubbered wheels

Sees violent headlines and bicentenni~l roadway signs And laments the manic pulse of these states at the 200th

As jet in its curved flight devours the continental space He wonders anew at stalled journey to democratic vistas


Marlowe Ferrara


Like the bards of old, I sat by candlelight ... pen poised over paper.

Testing the atmosphere for insp~ration.

Romantic quiet ...

surrounded me.

I watched the candles flicker,

softly ... as I daydreamed,

of another time and place.

Like the bards of old .

I sat by candlelight .

then, "

the phone rang.,· the bell rang,·,

Ah~ Do I envy the bards of old.


Louise Nayer

She ran back to in the fall found a man

above her studio apartment meditating

in the pure light

of an up-state dawn.

She called him down and sank into his arms

like you sink into small towns hiding behind postal routes and pool tables

shooting for accuracy

then throwing fits

trying not to drink

the stars

out of the sky.

She knows

something will rescue her: a whole life

away from the frozen lake

and her mother's nervous eyes

that listen for cars hitting the trees Something that will

break the ice

in its own time ...

Henry Rasof


A woman tells her husband They will have a child

And he smiles, sinking his toes Deeper into his sandals. Arms, Tired from months on tables,

Flex again. White cheeks darken. After a long day he turns to her, Full of yearning, anticipation.

All evening long his achin? fingers Tap the table. He checks the fences, The dogs, he drags his bare feet Through the ditches. The rains come And sometimes ... But this year

The grapes are almost too sweet.

He is in no hurry, but cannot wait

Forever. His soft eyes, lovely as i boy's, Caress his wife's belly. Twelve hours a day He works the vines, but he is grinning

All the time now. The barren fields

Attract crows. The other pickers

Imagine the thin, cool glasses of wine Perched like storks on the checkered cloths. The boy is crying all the time now.

Soon the clouds will spend themselves,

The men will plant new cuttings,

Toast the moon and swallow.


Mike Gogins

There was a kid wi th a game. It was called nothing. She did it again and again. There was another kid. T~ey played with each other. The game was big and scary. I thad s ex and eating and fighting. The game unfolded. It was like a paper flower. They played until there was a whole world. They got themselves jobs. They went swimming in the ocean. They each got a-partner. They forgot each other's names. They played until they died. The game went on unfolding. There was a kid with a game. It was called nothing.


Sam Less

Tonight I lie awake conscious of it,

part of my name amputated

by an immigration officer

before I was born,

erased as with one clean

cut of a shohet's knife. Extracted Russian last syllables cir~le like lost moons, satelites over America

(their light keeps me awake).

I read once that people with missing limbs sometimes think they feel them, trust

the sensation enough to give an absent leg full weight.

My grandfather first felt it-sleepless first nights in America: learning to live without it

was learning to live with its ghost. Five letters

genetically severed

so the suffix like a trait

has been wiped out of the species:

Its been two generations

and not the slightest sign of an Itsky has shown up.


" I


Ellen Wendy Aug

what is a poem

that gathers all presumption, scattered thought, all bursting emotion, which,

exploding, sputtering and spilling

crawls across night

on the neon feet of a sky rocket that bursts heart blood

filling each artery and vein

like a mercurial road map--only

to be stopped?


like fire cracker streamers eaten up

half-way through night's consumptive black-like the heart withdrawing blood from its limbs, from its branches,

from its trunk--

recalling all the network's food back into its original container ...

for at least one beat or two.


(for Carmilla Karstein a fictional vampire) Conciere Taylor

Oh the blood, the sweet blood, the heavy intoxicating aroma of life. I

sip it in slowly; sweet nectar flowing over my parched tongue; I gulp

it in choking as it goes down my throat in clotty little lumps.

The blood, the blood is life.

The blood is eons of sunsets; walks through evening fogs in forgotten graveyards. The blood

is passion, the passion of the lover

as I sink my teeth into your vulnerable

arteries; and your brief span of existence flows into the never-ending stream of my eternity. For the blood, the bladd, is life.


Richard Davidson

0She turns over in bed,

v LHer hair gets in my mouth.

Her long, strands of hair and I caress them quietly, I caress her quietly,

Child out of hell bend your lips,

Youth houses, hospitals, long needles in the Stretch of boyfriends' arms.

Child, fold your wings in the pocket of my love, Little one, as supple as velvet,

Teach me the riddle of your imagination. I want the night to never end,

I want the day as fresh as morning, Little one, you've gotten inside my head. You are in my eyes and your harlds

Touch the tunnels of my skin.

If I hold my breath, I'm afraid you will scatter, But you won't. Two old buddies from the pathways of murder,

Let me ply open your affection,

Darling, there is only the night and the naked stars. I love your hair in my mouth.

Betty Hansen


Far from home and loved ones Norwegian seamen come to port;

The ship is berthed, the engines stilled, The mooring lines are taut.

Down the gangway spilling

Come the eager laughing men;

Oh! it's good to be in Brooklyn

And to see old friends again.

They head for Otto's Tavern

Where their welcome is assured, Where the juke box blares a greeting And the foaming steins are poured. And Otto smiles and speaks to each In his own familiar tongue;

Oh! it's good to be in Brooklyn And with good friends among.

They down their drinks and call for more, They have a thirst to quench,

And cast a speculative eye

On a likely looking wench.

They play the songs of Norway

On the tireless music box;

Oh! it's good to be in Brooklyn At the tavern by the docks.

They speak about the friends they met When they were here before,

And shipmates now on other ships That they sailed with of yore. The chatter and the laughter gay Continues through the night;

Oh! it's good to be in Brooklyn When the company is right.

Then Otto grins and rings the bell, The clock hands point to four;

"Eight bells and all is well" says he, "But it's time 'to lock the door.

So come now lads, you've had enough, There's more days ahead;

Ohl it's good to be in Brooklyn But now it's time for be d l "


Dorothy Friedman

How good it would be to have three wives, three practical little people who live as I do

to bring me my wine at dinnertime and my favorite


It wouldn't matter if they were men, women or boys, as long as they spoke French and were not possessive. We would live together in a white house, observing simple rules and keeping clean.

Guests would visit and say

"There is peace in the old south

and the sun makes love to the fields.1I

The wives would go by carrying silver trays

I would be wearing tails and the little people would wear

simple white suits and gowns. The wives would take turns sitting next to me. Between the three they could make

the best souffle.

Murat Nemet-Nejat

Partial windows. village idiot.

loves to beg.

don't tell me your story i have my O\I/n.

be patient.

in seventy three years the stars turn.

drop no coin.

be quiet.

her star

insists on

black effluvia,

though says



Shirlene Holmes
We sit I say
staring to my
out the friend
window we cd
down the never be
street closer
threw the and my
shrubs at friend
our faces says to me
if I cd but to have

love is to

have life

i said to

my friend

hold your

warmth in

my cold soul

and you'll

I have never been so ugly

be pretty

see your



Yet to have

my friend

i'd touch

life is to

said to me

your soul

be loved


he never was uglier

beautiful is


1'11 buy you

a sweater

how ugly we are


Gorman Ruggiero

Part I

Pink Victorian Sunset the hammers went down; black violins danced with witches in town;

red scarves w r ap pe d the foreheads of middle-class clowns, A toy revolution never got off the ground.

Grandpa Mellows pumped and tied to systems

plastic, chrome and glass, through green tubes technicolor urine's passed; the organism spasms)

the scientific caverns radiate the atoms,

Niagra falls into chemical doom

babies turn green in small salt-sea wombs-

a curly-haired boy, twelve fingered, breathes

slowly Abigail's little girl was born early and legless; Old Mister Slavers' skin's rotting off,

it sticks to his clothes like his lungs to a cough, green dripping hands in fungus disgust,

the paper Aristocra~y says chemistry's a must.

Thin smiles cut faces, a razor cuts flesh, cherry trees blossom consumer's in trust

as the axe is still chopping at God in the dust.

Princess Dincin ascended tiled stairways;

the white-shirted matron immaculate in the room exercised the glint of precision steel-

they tapped her on the shoulder,

she spread her chunky legs,

someone gutted a fish in her mind that day.

What it costs a day to keep these sad toys turning you could feed the whole of Hell and He and me.



Lucy Angeleri

I was the circles linked in disbelief

to your high-strung squares

When my body matured--my circles slipped out-of-tune into

your squares: my geometric girl's love-play, you muttered, lacked tone

My umbrella- -my refuge--opened

and I kissed the brown

his cheeks: clava tones son of Ambn--light

man's face, hands, under the red silk lining; diamonds glowed under

The WateTways chapbook/magazine has attempted

to document the maTathon poetry readings presented

as part of the ~79 Waterways project. Issue No.6

is aSi;lmpling of the readings held on August 25th

& 26th at the Fulton Ferry Landing in Brooklyn.

Issue No. 7 will be a sampling of the readings on September 8th & 9th at Roundout Creek in Kingston. Those who have followed the poets from the fiTst issue of our magazine, we hope, have enjoyed reading it as much as we have enjoyed documenting these events. We will continue documenting the populist poetry movement during the winter and invite new subscriptions which would begin with the October issue. The new subscription series will include 11 issues

of the Waterways Magazine and will document both workshops and the Waterways Fairs that will be presented in 1980.

When subscribing, please make payment of $15 payable

to Ten Penny Players, 799 Greenwich Street, NY NY 10014.

NAME (Please print)

street address

City/state & zip code

(Back issues of the 1979 Summer Series of Waterways Magazines are available at $2 a copy from Ten Penny Players, 799 Greenwich Street, NY NY 10014)


ABIRAHAM MARINOFF BOOKS I 400 Ar'gyle Read, Brooklyn, NY 11218. WO!l'ks for and by Senior Citizens.

AME.RI CAN Be@K REVI EW'I PO Box '1 B8, cooper Union Sta., NYC 10003. Litera.ry cri t!i.cism and essays.

A SHiOUT J N THE STREET" EnlOIl!ilsh Dept .• Queens college, FJ..ushd.ng, Ni'l 11367~ Literature and poetry.

BA~D PRESS. 799 Greenwli!!;:h St ..• NYC !100il4. poetry and graphic WOEks.

HOME PLANET NEWS, PO Box 415, stuy.vesant sta .• l:iIYiC 10009. Li terary CL"i ti cism, reviews, poetry, fieidton.

CON1ACT I I. 50 Broadway I NYC, 10004 (Foarth FiLoQr) . Literary criticism. revieW's of small press. poetry.

CR®SS-CULTURAL COMr~UN I CATI0NS, 239 Wynsurn Ave .• Merrick, NY 1i566. Language, 1i te,rary, and meclia publications.

FULL TRACK P'RESS. English Dept., Queens College, Flli'1llshing, NY 11367. l'Undeniably :integralll audio cassettes, poetry,;.

GLASSWORKS I PO Box 163, Rosebank Sta .• Staten Island, NY 103'05.· Established and new writers/artists.

ITHACA HOUSE I 108 N. Plain St.. itthaca, NY 1,4850. Poetry, fine letteq1Eess printing.

NEW SCRIBES. 1223 Newldrk Ave., Brooklyn. NY 11230. Open CQ-OP of writers/poets.

KYS S'~'ALL PRESS ASSO€IA:rrON. PO BOle 1264, .Radio City Sta .• NYC 10019. Small ~ress d.istributor.





I· 1

.• I

NOK PUBL I SrlERS. llSO F.ift:h Ave., NYC 1001l. African studies in various disciplines.

POETRY IN PUBLIC PLACES. 1'99 Greenwicfu St., Nye l!J)01t41. P0etry cards.

RED DUST. PO Box 630, GEacie Sta., NYC 10028. IPoet.ry, fiction.

SHAMAL BOOKS. GPO Box 2218, Nyeil0001. poetry/prose t.hat paints/feels/speaks.

STRMvBERRY PRESS, PO Box 451, Bowling Green Sta. I NYC 10004. publishes the pc:Jetry of Native Ameri.can Indian,s.

SUNBURY I?RESS. Box 274 Jerome Ave. St.a., Blr011X, NY 10468. :poetry from workers, women ana. the Thirlft Wo!?ld cornmum.ity.

SW.AMP PRESS. 4 Bu.gbe.e Road, Om.eonta, NY 13820. Poet.ry handset letterpress on fine papers.

SZ/PRESS I 321 W. 94th St.., NYC 10025. PrJimar:itly experimental poetry/prose.

TEN PENNY PLAYERS. 799 Greenwich st., NYC 10014'. Literatm:re/poetry books for and by child!["en.

THE SMITH I 5 Beeikman S~., NiYC 10038.

Literary. criticism. sma]l press news, essays.

13TH r~OON I PO Box 3; jEnwood St.a., NYC Hle34., Publishing women: paetry, fiction, graphics, essays.

TIRESIAS PRESS. 2039 Mill Ave., Brooklyn, NY 11234. Poetry. and prose.

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