THE NEW YORK STATE WATERWAYS PROJECT grew out of a desire t.o present to New York resim.entsthe artistry of the word in a novel sett.ing. The waterways caught our imaginations from a concern for aesthetics and the ecology of New. York rivers and lakes. We thank the South Street Seaport Museum, the National Maritime Historical Society, the New York Harbor Festival and the, Department of Ports and Terminals for their cooperation and recommendations. Payments to poets were made possible by grants from Poets & Writers and The New York State Council on the Arts. Additional employment of poets was made possible through the CETA programs of the American Jewish Congress I Martin Steinberg Center and the Cultural Council Foundation whose participating poets were funded under grants from the US Department of Labor and the NYC Department. of Employment CETA Title VI.

The 1978 schedule of events included exhibitions and readings at the South Street Seaport Museum on July 4th; at Pier 13

in Staten Island on July 21st; on Pier 84 at West 44th Street in Manhattan on July 29; at the pier at 44th Drive in Long Island City on August 12; at the North River Bulkhead in Greenwich Village (West st.reet and Bank Street) on August. 19th; at the Fulton Ferry Landing, Brooklyn on August 25th and August 26th; and in Kingston at Roundout Creek on Septemper 8th and September 9th. Each fair site was marked by the publication of a da.ted Waterways chapbook that included one poem from each of the participating poets. The waterways Project will continue documenting the activities of poets working in New York State during the 'off-season' by publishing a bi-monthly series of Waterways Magazines that will bring to the reading public materials from poets writing in unusual workshop locations. The small press exbibitions and poetry readings wd.ll be resumed at waterways locations as soon in 1980 as the weather permits. Membership of presses

in the NYS waterways Project is welcomed throughout the year and individual subscribers to the publishing program are also encouraged. Subscript.ion and membership information ean be found on the last page of this issue.

SEPTEMBER 8th & 9th, Kingston, New York

september 8

noon 12:15 12:30 12:45

1:00 1:15 1: 30 1:45 2:00 2:15 2:30 2:45 3:00 3:15 3:30 3:45 4:00 4:15 4:30 4:45 5:00 5:15 5:30 5:45

6:00 6:15 6:30 6:45 7:00

George Montgomery John Wilcock Ellen McKnight Pearl Bond Barbara Holland Benita Shira

Patricia Fre Aguasvivas Linda Jovin Halback Marcy Sneiner

John LeFever

Marilyn Mohr

Margaret Voss

Darcy Gottlieb Constance ROSS

Mark Zuss

Elizabeth Marraffino Maurice Kenny

Mike Heinrich

Sue Heinrich

Gary Irving

Rich Katims

Bob Steuding Richard Spiegel Barbara Fisher/ Athelantis Perry Susan Kronenberg Annie Jung-Blythe Don Lev

Enid Dame

Sidney Bernard

September 9

noon Hugh McDonald 12:15 Ilka Skobie

12:30 Ellen McKnight 12:45 Teresa Marta Costa

1:00 steve Levin 1:15 Mary Feldstein 1:30 Kathleen Lago

1:45 Linda Jovin Halback 2:00 Dorothy Greene-Pepper 2:15 Elizabeth Marraffino 2;30 Maurice Kenny

2:45 Margaret Voss

3: 00 Ed Sanders

3:15 Mike Perkins

3:30 George Quasha

3:45 Chuck stein

4:00 Marylin Allen

4:15 Janine Vega

4:30 Constance Ross

4:45 Patricia Fre Aguasvivas 5:00 Torn Goldpaugh

5:15 Marty Landman

5:30 Richard Spiegel

V 5: 45 Barbara Fisher Athelantis Perry


We wish to thank the National Maritime Historical Society for their assistance in both coordinating the Hudson Heritage Festival and in having invited the Waterways Project and the small press community to participate in the programming.

We are grateful to the Ulster County Arts Council and Aesopus Press for their efforts in bringing Ulster county poets ·to the Fair.

Our particular thanks to CCLM for having given us a seedinl grant which has enabled us to expand our roster of presses that will be exhibiting at the Fair.and more adequately educate the public to the existance of the project.

'Amniotic do-nut' by Hugh McDonald, published in Woodstock Times

'Love •.. ' by Teresa Marta Costa, published originally in vol. 1 No. I of The Caldron & The Well


George MontgoIHery 1979

The water

i have seen raggidy

for things floated on top we could see used diapers

not belonging there they floated

like lost ensigns. But again i have seen and sailed on

the great sloops

the wind on our sterns, the harbor glad to see us, we sang while children slept in their cribs, while s orne mothers nursed while old people

lived, not that day

to die.


Pearl Bond

The circus performer waits

in the wings the daring young man has aged his body gnarled & thin his movements stiJ.I listen

to a remembered music,

he doesn't complete anything afraid he'll miss his cue,

he doesn'~ close the lid on the coffee jar he lets the faucet dribble,

if he could he'd wear one shoe

any gesture after the first one

isn't worth repeating

unless its a dignified bow.

Stage presence replaced his wits

he has a routine of gestures clowns when the coffee jar falls from the lid, turns his pockets inside out

for money to pay the water bill.

His life is "nothing now" after comedy on high wires he used to play

a drunk who lost his trousers,

flying netless over rhinestone

glare & always the hoop-la music timing his innermost flow.


Barbara A. Holland (In Memoriam: Ree Dragonette)

The street lengthens

away over toward the East. The low slant of the early Autumn sun

awakens old promises.

Come then, remember

we had agreed to walk there together. It is early yet. The door will not be crowded. We shall wander gingerly down the stairs and sit

in the corner by the platform which awaits our turns.

even though the cafe

has given up doing business

as you have given up your body, though you still proclaim hieroglyphs in the splashings of the rose

and gold as the sun lies away

over to the East and listens.


Benita Shirah

Sure, she lies under the table waiting for an accident

to happen.

Her motto is: everything on the floor is legally mine. Sure, she can catch the mood of the conversation

And at any dog nostalgia she gets her nose in your hand So as not to waste one kind thougntbut must translate

each to a pat on the head, Or what's the use of stimulating ~onversation?

Sure, she has her pups under the bed when you want her

to have them outdoors.

Or outdoors when it rains for three weeks. But you just feel you1re unlovely, unloved, And she will sit the gloom out with you,

If it should take her lifetime.


Patricia Aguasvivas

I am ISis.

No mortal man

hath ever me unveiled.

I inhabit the Secret Commonwealth, my voice is the wind,

my legend embraces

the dark sparrow speeding through night, my tears cling

to the sea.

r labor in darkness with my sister

the dawn.

In the secret Commonwealth r am the widowed Queen, Mistress of Poetry,

I invoke the muse

who lays claim

to the hem of my gow~ which she stitched with her dreams.


a prince missionary from another realm

claw at the thin veneer

which hangs upon the electric atmosphere, seeking to rip the crimson stone

out of my crown.

My teeth

drip blood in defiance and the night air rings of terror

for behind and just within the mirror

in Which you gaze, I am •••

laboring to give birth to a love

that would shatter the glass between the worlds.

In my birth chamber a midwife whispers in tongues.

My soul is crucified upon the emptiness of the occasion. Mortified,

I embrace the terror and within

is hidden my worst fear, a silver platter

upon which is presented your qo Lden tear. Transmuting,

it becomes a ritual sword upon which I press

my tender longing ...

Linda Jovin-Halhack

truth is twisted

in the grip of the children who fear our eyes must be shining.

our eyes.

eyes are the sensual compass of the mind; true indicators of emotion

in a map of vehicle flesh.

the body weeps,

civilian arms wave wildly bludgeoning the air

and small voices lift music

above the play of moving self through space.

our tendency to separate is radical. it will not help the revolution;

the revolution

of each body like a star

a star which indicates the true turning a man must sweep

as gracefully as you have swept the fear that twisted me.


Marcy Sheiner

All I ever wanted from yo~ was a baby_ All I ever needed you for was your seed. The rest was a cover job.

The rest of the needs

I presented with tearful platitudes were merely a disguise.

I used your maleness ruthlessly.

I never was what I pretended to be.

Beneath my servility I was strong and clear:

I knew what you were goqd for. I needed your seed

and I took it with style and after the first

then I milked you for more. I milked you, do you hear?

The silly things you used me for never really touched me.

Once I had my girlchild

I played on all the mean sadistic nastiness in you which wasnrt hard to find:

I had chosen you for your nastiness, knowing it was my ticket out.

Wicked woman that I was, oh, devious creature, oh, glorious witch, triumphant she-devil~

All I ever wanted from you was a baby. All I ever needed you for was your seed. The rest was a cover.


John Le Fever

She sat waiting

for someone, whoever

it would" be, to wheel her wherever she was scheduled next in her eighty-four years, elbows resting on the

bl ue chair arms I

gnarled fingers linked

in her lap on the pale pink robe, passing in and out of sleep, shrivelled so,

her head, asleep or not, nestled in her shoulders like an egg.

Yet once, while she slept, I saw one foot

tapping out the dance.


Marilyn Mohr

She loves the East The 'veil

oblique thought

of submission

Clings to the Mufti Wrapped on his torso with Western fury Rocking under him Nails dug into granite hips

Safe in the erosion of history

Holding fast

She comes .•••

December, 1976


Margaret Voss

I see double vision in your lust reflecting a design

that separates my body from desire

You hide your mind in macho myth

my flesh a place of no return for thoughtless kisses

I look for single vision to reveal

the contours of your love etched closely into mine


Darcy Gottlieb

She collects ideas from her maple trees

as she tilts each bucket for its open gift --

learns what she never could in human ecology.

Listening to the wet rhythm cif letting go

feels her breath

shift suddenly east-west instead of riding perpendicular to earth.

Not yet immune

to tremors that inform shock at the core observes how

they recover from a wound

by holding back their juices

once the sun goes down.


Constance Ross

keeps good company, deeds well-pressed.

precision made, socializes poetic intellectual pillar of charcoal

dispensing energetic

charms the words

right out of the book, sends the serpent chasing after its tail, works the kinks

out of the last degree.

he can count on his toes and know the answer

will always come out the same.

~[ __ . __ --~--~--~--~------------~~J

From ...


every time i walk into a room

& a pack of camels Ls lying 'on the table or some loose thin dude

with a big beard & a good ass

taps a pack of camels against his wrist & flicks one to his lips

to light up just like a gangster i get the .dt I S allover again over you

even tho you quit smoking a year ago

just about the same week you gave me up.


Maurice Kenny

Vlaminck skies

flaunt, ruffle sunset over Hudson

harbors and ships up the twin towers

hard fire climbing


upon window

molten clouds disintegrate

ever black-

ening streets


impale stars cat-eyes

sprinkle the river


linger in fear as pearls



the jet throats of bridges

and highways which cover

Seyseyst grave

*Chief Seyseys, of the Canarsee, sold Manhattan Island to the Dutch.


Mikhail Horowitz

Columbus aged eightfive & raving

mad, discoveringdue west along

his wrist- a new vein: & consequently,

as all the seas

inside him open up

& lap the floor,

a New Shore


I don't like

this world at all. They never

turn the lights out. Their nights

are pink and dazzling like their days.

My cat

is losing her ability to see in darkness. And I

can't practice lunar birth control wi thout a moon.

leaving no dependents as far as i could see.


Donald Lev

july, month of julius caesar, has

come and gone for the fortythird time for me. vanity of vanities, my generation passeth away just the other day

a fly drowned in my cup of tea,


Sidney Bernard

Take the narrow, winding path Along Central Park's reservoir Where the midtown rise opens Far

a fabled, haze-crested Range of brick and spire. Brown, cobalt, misty white.

The mind, unlike the blotter of Eye, does not rest with mere reCording of the bold view


The sudden flight

Of water-logged fowl Blots out the range.

The igloos of mercantile Power. The insensate will to Build, build. The heart Lodged in the cellar.



The lion lies down with the lamb. The pussycat licks her paws. Cancer holds a pen in his claws. Subtle sounds cadence the night. Waves of insight thresh my brain

The wind whips as past a speeding train A clock ticks

A car passes and blares its horn. Be free

you are torn from the physical life form. Do not despair

your memory is here in my heart. Sister ---- go your way ----

We shall join you in another play: faster and fastidious

welted and smitten

the animals that eat you

are as good as my sweet kitten go

God is good

peace is the garden your flesh engenders.


Sue Heinrich

Stepping off the curb, my feet sink down down into the ocean of your eyes.

As you cross the street and open yourself up to me,

I catch my reflection in your face.

My mermaid to your Neptune plunges deep deep into the dark where you grow your sacred pearl.

For one universal flash you hang it round my neck on a golden string of dreams yet to be lived.

Sitting i~ the cafe, I crawl underneath your skin and swim upstream to sunbathe in your heart.

As you light my cigarette and smile that smile,

all the eyes in my eyes can see you now even when my eyes. have softly closed.

The essence of your presence makes my heart pound, so much so I fear you hear it too. The mirror in your eyes sucks my mouth dry. I see we are sitting in the nude.

Sipping tea, my body opens wide to you feeling feelings locked in silent thought.

We grasp at words. None feel like second skin so we simply sit and simply be.

Some people think skin on skin sublime.

For me, mind on mind erases space and time. The four seasons of our being each complete themselves while poised at mystic center virgin queen and ruling king dance the dance the only dance in town.


Rich Katims

In Berkeley brush-cut punks draped in snakes

and cracked leather smiles picket the air waves for ignoring their songs. "The sixties are dead," they rail against the ton-deaf brick,

"Sid Vicious has died for your sins."

I walk the streets mourning my lost twenties and think of myoId friend, sad-eyed T~rri, who in our time of lawyers and shrinks wanted to come to the coast to study

rocks and bones. But we all laughed

So she married an eye-talian jeweler with three kids and had three more.

I have come to hunt the ghost of Mario Savio, but outside Sproul Hall they talk of earthquakes and other more recent movements while

Hare Krishnas jingle and drum away bad vibes.

A kid on a skateboqrd, like a black comet on wheels, weaves through the crowd,

leaps above the streets, then fizzles in the Bay. the smoke from his sizzling tail melts into

the fog drifting in, slowly, from the west.


Richard Spieg~l

Waves would blanket us humidly this afternoon. Invitations went out to loafing souls.

The world was changed

with the tUrn of a phrase:

the beckoning body of the beautiful dancer bathed in sweat

while she turned

in place.

We came home. Closed our eyes and dreamt merrily down the stream.


AUGUST 6, 1978

Barbara Fisher

rIt! s been said, often,

with rhythm overlaid

by boredom or exhaustion that I'm like no one else. Not that I climb higher .

or languish lower

oh the polls by which we are all mystically transformed


by some supposed logical rationale. Only that

nothing mo["e

nothing less

I am something different. Other

than Other ladies,

of everyone's acquaintance. If by. that it is meant

that I am always myself when locked out

or in

by doors or walls, circumstance, traps of my own

or someone's pe~suasion, or that when freed

I catapult up and off

to fly quite high on life then I suppose it's all right to be like no one else.

If indeed it means

I'm centered, here

I am

a whole just me

Alone a whole,

but still one half of some dear one perfect


that is clear to me perhaps to you clear to orily YOll.

Then I suppose it's just, exact,


to suppose

I am like no one else. For if I pose a cypher, rough scrap enigma, thread not yet a strand, Presume the elements Private.

Rules of a quiet equation laid down by me

to you

in Personal Celebration.




Hugh McDonald

that diminutive lady my grandma

born far off in denmark to live out her life

on iowa prairie

and there to die

made doughnuts

on her cookstove

fired hot by wood fetched from the pile by my own small hands

in a skillet of iron half full of lard rendered by herself from fatback and belly of home-butchered hog


how the flavor of doughnut

has steadily rolled downhill

since then

LOVE ••••

Teresa Marta Costa

Is wanting to grab all your pain/

emptiness stuffing it into

my pillowcase and ... beating the

fucking shit

out of it.


Steve Levin

She's still hangin' in there, the flame & oil

in her lantern of bones & flesh

bright and clear

it was worth being broke and .out of cigarettes

to get her new book,

to hear her voice


to drink the light of her in hewn crystals

I hadn't seen any new poems I loved

as a jeweler flawless gems for many moons

beneath the icy skiesi

it has not been darkness but I have been alone

as a poet


o sister,

a salute to you -a wave of the pen

from a hand of bone and blood and flesh

from a he azt; of light and dark and life and death

from a poet who lives by you confirmed

in his own trutl.!

who is glad you are.


Mary Feldstein

What does it mean when a gay man

puts on his bathrobe? Does he appear

to be relaxing?

In Florida, one wears blue polyester velour.

In the Netherlands one wears red

and white stripes or blue with white flecks. 100%


There"is something very red, white and blue about

the whole thing.




Kathleen Lago

Black robed teacher nuns

We called "Sister Mary Whatever. II Why "sister" I thought

I have no sisters, no brothers I am genetically alone Straight back to the beginning Of life

Of earth

Beyond to silent voids

To blazing stars, neuter stars, Beginning in force and dying Silent, heat, light and .fire Beyond to black, to nothing.

I have come from a long line of females

Back to Jean d'Arc with her eternal trailing voices to catherine and Theresa, desert voyageurs,

to Mary, to Eve

And all the time lost ones

Harnessed in fields, stolen, murdered, ravaged, in labor Screaming life into the~r daughters.

I like to think I am their child

And my daughter's birth

Protects the .Line going forward

To the end of life.

They say there will be an end. Doom.

Threatening word, doom, Terrifying to return to the Flat dark velvet spaces

Of black holes

Aflow with shapeless living energy.




Dorothy Greene-Pepper


you virgin male

You keep donating your sperm to sperm banks

you want to see yourself coming and going

Your. face on every face your nose, your eyes, your bald head

Do they mark your sperm tube:

Descrip: Blue eyes that squint a lot


a bald head, a beaked nose

Do they watch you make love to yourself?

Do you take your pants off or keep them on

Or is this a nudey-duty howdy-doody How much foreplay is allowed?

Any conversation?

Do you have to have two martinis with haIfa jiggera gin in each first

Do you hate yourself afterwards now that lim not there to hate?



Michael Perkins


Call the wizard from the tree: the oak will die.

A century of acorns is enough. like a century of love.

Dead branches will break.

and the tree will split in half. Call the wizard from the tree; the oak will die.



Tom Goldpaugh

(Lindisfarne, an English monastery in the center of the Anglo-Celtic Age, was sacked by Vikings in 793. Seven years previous to this. comets commonly known as dragons were seen in the sky.)

Dragons fill my dreams,

flying over Lindisfarne like flocks of evil geese in a gnarled and northern mo!~~:!:'.

And you straddle one's back,

your splayed hips, your wide white thighs hangill'~! down , as it flies northward' to the open seas.

Its wings, sharp as any bat's claws,

worse than any Anthony's nightmare,

flap airlessly through the night.

You always' com= on your dragon from the south,

and I am always illuminating a forgotten manuscript, s on.e dead monk's sermon, a vision of the fathers, safe in my celibate cell.

And you stride over the air

over whe x e I sit in Lindi s f a rrie I

you and your dragon riding high on the night. Taking the stars in your hands you cast my fortune

under the moon, playing dice with the constellations

and you call to me to fly north with you on that celestial dragon.

And you tell me there are Vikings on the , ... Lnd and they are looking for ten fat monks,

but I sit safe in my celibate cell.

You'll not. come back this way again, you tell me, and there are Vikings on the wind.

Marty Landman


The sun, the stars, the clouds which blow forever coldly;

In my dreams once, Fidel Castro said, 'you American revolutionaries are all twirps, cocaine dealers and antique salesmen."

If, as we'a thought, the music did make 11S free, then we'd be taking four hundred milligrams of thorazine, b.i.d.

Still, there is culture for the masses? I don't understand .•• who here can build an ay frame, make guitar strings out of sheep

gut, and belch for days on rock SOUp?

Had Spartacus succeeded, or Allende, perhaps there would be Woodstock Nation.

But then our elders might say, 'but you have it too good, and really there is no need, and thus nothing to strive for.'

The artist understands that truth is a matter of context

Annie Jung-Blythe December 1976

Tell me it is time

to assume aopnd s t.Lce't Lon , to practice the peripatetic manner of the Greek portico with Neo-Classic Artistry

although at the expense of impulse and the sudden demise of spontaneity to mark the impressioll

of pressure discretely applied of pleasure precisely inflicted, unknown to the acclytes of immediacy.

I t


The waterways chapbook/magazine has attempted to document the marathon poetry readings presented as part

of. the '79.Summer waterways Project. Issue Noi.: 7 is a sampling of the readings held on September 8 & 9 at Rondout Creek in Kingston. Those who have followed the poets from the first issue of our magazine, we hope, have enjoyed rea.ding it as much as we have enjoyed documenting these events. We will continue documenting the populist poetry movement during the winter in a bi-monthly format, and invite new subscriptions which would begin with the October issue. The new series includes 11 issues of the Waterways Magazine and will document the Waterways Fairs, Workshops, and Poetry Readings in New York City & State.

The October issue includes the work of 14 poets who attended a series of workshops directed by poet Janet Bloom and a section containing the work of 9 poets who will be reading their work at the september 16th book event - New York.Is Book Country. 40 literary presses will be exhibiting materials at that fair under the umbrella of the New York Book Fair. Each issue of the Waterways Magazine similarly will focus attention on either a workshop or book fair and will include selections from public performance readings.

NAME (Print please) ~



When subscribing, please make payment of $15 payable to Ten Penny Players, 799 Greenwich Street, NY NY 10014.

Back issues of the 1979 summer series are still available at $2 a copy from Ten Penny Players at the above address.

(One year's subscription of 11 issues is $15.)

Ten Penny Players is a not for profit tax e~empt 50lC3 educational and literary project. Contributions to its programs are tax deductible.


AB!RAHAM MAR I NOFF BOQKS ~O~ Argyle Road, Brooklyn, NY 11218. Works for aOOby Senl.or Cl.tl.zens.

AESOPUS 27 Oriole Drive, Woodstock NY 12498, Poetry.

AMERICAN BOQK.R~VIEW PO Box 188, Cooper Union Sta., NYC 10003 Literary crl.tl.c.J.sm and essays.

A SHOUT IN THE STREET English Dept., Queens College, Flushing, NY 1]367. Literature and poetry.

BARD PRESS 799 Greenwich Street, NYC 10014. Poetry and graphic works.

BRAMWELL-MARSH PUBLISHERS PO Box 385, Staten Island NY 10302 Poetry.

BROOKLYN FERRY POETS 741 President Street, Brooklyn NY 11215, Poetry.

CmNTACT II 50 Broadway, NYC 10004 (Fourth Floor) . Li tera.ry ori ti cism, reviews of small pr-es s , poet.ry.

CROSS-CULTURAL COMMUNI CAT! ONS 239 Wynsurn Ave. I Merrick NY 1]566. Language, literary, and media publications.

FULL TRACK PRESS PO Box 55, Planet.arium Stati.on, NYC 10024.

1 Unrnendably Integral: an audio cassett.e quar·terly of the arts.

GLASSWORKS PO Box 163 Rosebank 5ta., Staten Island NY 10305 Established and new writers/artists.

GHEENFIELD REVIEW PO Box 80, Greenfield Center NY 12833 Poetry

HELEN REVIEW 2039 Mill Ave .. , Brooklyn NY 11234. Poetry and Prose ..

HOME PLANET NEWS PO Box 415, Stuyvesant 5ta., NYC 10009 L1 ter.ary critiCism, reviews, poetry, fict_ion

ITHACA HOUSE H)8 N. Pla.in St., H:haaa NY 14850.

Poetry, fine letterpress pri.nting


STRAWBERRY ~RESS, PO Box 451, Bowling Green Sba., NYC 100q4. ./'

Publishes the poetry of Na'tive American Indians.

NAMBATI PRESS, 1157 Third Avenue, NY 10021, poetry. NEW SCR I BES, 1223 Newkirk Avenue., Brooklyn NY 11230. Open co-op of writers/ poets.

N.YS SMALL PRESS ASSOCIATION, PO Box 1264, Radio City Sta., NYC 10019. Small press distributor.

NOK PUBLI SHERS 1150 Fifth Ave., NYC 10011. African studies .in various disciplines.

POETRY IN PUBLI C PLACES, 799 Greenwich St. I NYC 10014. Poetry cards.

QUEENS COUNCI L ON THE .ARTS, 161-Q4 Jamaica Ave .. , Jamaica NY 11432, publishing SOURCE, literary magazine

RED Dust, PO Box 630, Gracie Sta., NYC 10028 Poetry, fiction.

SHAMAIL BOOKS, GPO Box 2218, NYC 10001. Poetry/prose that paint.s/feels/speaks.

SUNBURY PRESS, Box 274 Jerome Ave. Sta., Bronx, NY 1.8:4.i8 Poetry from workers, women az+d the Third World Conununity.

S\>JAMP PRESS ' 4 Bugbee Road, Oneonta, NY 1382.0.

Poetry handset le·tterpress on fine papers.

SZ/PRESS, 321 W. 94th St., NYC 10025. Primari ly ,eJCperimen 'ta!1. poetry/prose.

lEN PENNY PLAYERS, 799 Greenwich St., NYC 10014. Literature/ poetry books for and by childIFen.

THE S'MI TH I 5 Be.ekrnan St .. I NYG 10038.

Li terary cri t.Lcf srn, small press news i essays.

I3TH MOON. PO Box 3, Inwood Sta" NYC 10034'. Publishing women: poet.ry, fiction, graphics, essays ..

TIRESIAS PRESS. 2039 Mi11 Ave., Brooklyn NY 11234. Poetry and prose.


( .


Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful