Revealing Self in Pictures and Words by Tom Taylor aka the poet Spiel aka Thoss W. Taylor

By g emil reutter
“… every Saturday morn, I lay upside down on my self-upholstered wrought iron radio bench to listen to opera from New York City even though I knew that a boy, plus opera, worried my third generation farmer father.” – Tom Taylor
Tom Taylor is a painter/poet, a child of the 1940s he grew up on a farm, learned at a congregational Sunday school, active 4-H guy and Boy Scout. At an early age he knew he was different. His road would be difficult and different from many he grew up with. He embraced his sexuality at an early age and fought the battle that many fight when afflicted with mental illness. He escaped to Los Angles where he became known as Thoss W. Taylor- Painter. He gave up the L.A. lifestyle and returned to Colorado later in life with his partner.
Taylor’s beautiful images populate this 118 page memoir of his life. Surreal and real he is an exquisite creator as a painter as when one looks upon the images, one feels the artist’s passion, pain and joy. Coupled with the images are the poet’s words, like his paintings are devoid of fiction, excerpts that roll from page to page boldly revealing his life without any pretense.
He tells us:


“Gravity wants me back but I’m not ready to eat dirt—just like all the previous
times when I face the door to the end. Though the worldwide rubbish of
deception and discontent mount, there’s too much beauty and revelation in
rare moments of universal connection and clarity that set me up to soldier
on—such positive insight seldom prevails more than two winks and a nod.”
“I am a rambling maverick man. I’ll be sleeping with new light to maintain my
stance against the knives and when this cloth becomes too-small, my sword is at
my side.”
This memoir of images and words by a “maverick man” is a must read for all those who have lived a full life, who know the struggles and joys, who take the hard stand to be who they are no matter what the hardship. It is not just a memoir for those who are gay or those who struggle with mental illness but for all who live a full life and overcome the obstacles the brutal reality of life throws at us. I for one am glad that Taylor has avoided gravity and is not ready to eat dirt. This memoir is a gift to all of us and we are better off for Taylor’s continued living, creating words and paintings.
g emil reutter is a writer of poems and stories. He can be found at:

Gothic Orange By Robert Milby


A Guardian of Lost Legacies


 By Karen Corinne Herceg.

In Robert Milby’s new chapbook, “Gothic Orange”, he fosters in us “the awe of eternal human history” (P. 5, l. 13), as he states so eloquently in “The Fossil Record, Catalogued by a Child.” He uses his home county of Orange in the Hudson Valley, New York region to create a microcosm of wonder and natural intelligence that informs both the local and wider landscapes of the world. Specific regional references correlate to universal knowledge through very personal perspectives, and Milby knows the minutia of the area as well as anyone. In stark and striking language, he writes with an antique authenticity, a pre-industrial mindset, and nostalgic yearning for a purer time of farms, fields, and the poetry of nature with “The sagacity of woodsmoke, grease/and ethers of the hayride of American history” (P. 10, ll. 10-11). He exhibits a remarkable ability to observe the environment with extreme patience and detailed specificity in the tradition of such great poets as Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Frost.

Milby reminds us that the ghosts of the past are integral to our shared history. They are ever present, but mostly obscured by modern noise and distractions that steal our rich heritage and the quietude required for reflection that enriches the imagination. We are overwhelmed by contemporary emphasis on commerce, capital, and our perceptions of compressed time. There is great irony in our emphasis on physical gain, loss, and success as opposed to what we miss on much deeper, spiritual levels:
            Small village life, family secrets and scandals, useless to
            City folk, because in the end, the money cults prevailed. (P. 9, ll. 25-26)
We are out of balance with nature and the very wonders that surround us. We bypass these gifts each day with our eyes transfixed on screens and superfluous messages. Meanwhile we forfeit the subtle, important wisdom that resides within our natural environment. Milby laments our lack of reverence for the natural world. He asks:


           What is this motoring madness; distraction
           from the walk of life; song of Aurora’s heralds;
          whisper of a child at Dawn? (P. 18, ll. 10-11).

There are very specific examples of our inability to acknowledge the disconnections we experience within our environment. Milby cares deeply and expresses this throughout his work.  We feel his deep sense of loss of a centuries old cottonwood in “The Balmville Tree,” cut down and disposable. He assigns an anthropomorphic persona to the tree that enhances the fact that this was a living, breathing entity: “Here he stood, a patriarch; a witness tree; over 300 years of/Hudson River story” (P. 13, ll. 2-3). And, again, in “Night Noise,” he employs a human element in a description of  “the parched and cracked skin of fields” (P. 16, l. 3).  Given our ubiquitous disregard for the importance and pre-eminence of nature, is it any wonder that a coyote would hide “from the heresy of humans”? (P. 26, l. 20).

Milby has a facility for examining humans and nature both in opposition and in communion. In “The King of the Frogs” he states: “I speak science truths one day, mythology the next” (P. 8, l. 17), evoking our ongoing conflicts and attempts to reconcile the mystical and the material worlds. He draws on his deep understanding of nature and extensive knowledge of both literary and world history to create an informed and nostalgic yearning, combining his wonder of the natural with ponderings of our many troubled interactions in the world. With wonderful, original lines like “the rails hiss like feral cats” (P. 10, l. 14-15), “wildlife gossip like human festivals” (P. 14, l. 17), and “Post partum rain” (P. 16, l. 1), he brings into focus the symbiosis of humanity and our indigenous environment. His connection to nature is intensely personal, and he integrates that connection with all aspects of art including painting, as in “The Field—for Vincent Van Gogh,” and with music in “The Grand Montgomery Chamber Series in Spring”:

            The artists spoke mythos through the piano. Forests rose,
            Surrounding the concert hall.
            Marshes and pastures permeated the parking lot.
            No breathing was labored as Chopin walked through the walls. (P. 4, ll. 10-13)

 A visual image or auditory experience can evoke a direct association with elements of our inherent biological world. We have a legacy that is both ethereal and tactile, and nature is the bridge to that magical world through which we can “trace our organic past” (P. 5, ll. 1-2). There are “verses trapped in ancient stone” (P. 5, l. 8).

Milby is the Poet Laureate of Orange County, New York (2017-2019), an honor that is well earned and well deserved. He is the paterfamilias of poetry in the county and beyond it, encouraging and supporting his fellow poets, reading not only his own work but also promoting the work of others, hosting series and events since 1995, and publishing throughout the Northeast in many journals and anthologies. He is the author of four previous books of poetry and two spoken word CDs. We owe a debt of gratitude to him for his dedication, support and assiduous study of the ancient art of poetry that is so vitally needed in our modern world.

We may not ever reconcile the contradictions of human desires and intentions with the imperatives of nature, but we have poetry like Milby’s to prompt us to awareness and reflection so that we, too, might stop to reconsider our interactions and possibly make “a truce with/snowflakes” (P. 24, l. 19-20).

Milby, Robert. Gothic Orange.  New York: Printeks Reprographics, 2018. Copies available from the poet at:     

Karen Corinne Herceg writes poetry, prose, reviews and essays.  A graduate of Columbia University, she has studied and read with renowned writers Philip Schultz, David Ignatow, John Ashbery and William Packard. Her latest book is Out From Calaboose by Nirala Publications (2017).  She lives in the Hudson Valley, New York.

The Poet Idris Davies (1905 – 1953)

Idris Davies memorial

Memorial to Poet Idris Davies

id dav

An introduction to his life and work by Byron Beynon

Travel north-eastwards from Swansea, along the A465, away from Dylan’s “ugly, lovely town”, on through the watchful Vale of Neath, by-pass the lyrical place names of Glynneath, Hirwaun, Cefn-coed-y-cymmer, and Merthyr Tydfil, continue until you turn onto the A469, follow it to the small town of Rhymney. Founded during the nineteenth century on iron and coal, it was by the early 1900s employing thousands of workers in the town’s collieries. It was there in 1905 the poet Idris Davies was born, and by the time he died in 1953 his poetry was respected and read by some of the most influential and distinguished poets of the twentieth century.

TS Eliot published Davies at Faber& Faber, writing about his work he noted “that they are the best poetic document I know about a particular epoch in a particular place, and I think that they really have a claim to permanence…….   There is great integrity, I think, about his work, and his subject-matter is something that he knew from A to Z. If all poets knew their proper material as he did, there would be less futile verse in the world.”

WB Yeats, writing to Vernon Watkins in March 1938 wanted Davies’ poem “William Morris” set to music. He had read the poem in the magazine “Wales” during the autumn of 1937, and went on to say “If I were a millionaire I would pay somebody to set it to music and whenever I was visited by any person who knew Morris I would pay somebody to sing it to us.”

In January 1946, Dylan Thomas, in a radio broadcast on the BBC Eastern Service, and produced by John Arlott, read Davies’ poem “The Bells of Rhymney”, in a programme  entitled “Welsh Poets”. Many years later the iconic American folk-singer Pete Seeger  would set this poem to music, it was also recorded by the 1960s’ group The Byrds, by Judy Collins, The Alarm, and many others.

By 1973, Philip Larkin, as editor of “The Oxford Book of Twentieth Century Verse”   included two of Davies’ poems, “The Lay Preacher Ponders” and “High Summer on the Mountains” in the anthology. Since the early 1970s Gomer Press has brought out several editions of Idris Davies’ Collected Poems, keeping his work alive and available to the discerning reader. It is easy to understand why, the work is humane, dramatic, lyrical, sophisticated with a deceptive strength and a clear sense of rhythm.

In a robust introduction to the 2003 edition, Jim Perrin claimed that Davies is “ the most significant and original Welsh poet to have written in English during the twentieth  century”. Perrin considers Davies’ two long poems “Gwalia Deserta” and “The Angry Summer” as being “among the most considerable achievements in Anglo-Welsh poetry, and fully worthy of inclusion alongside other great twentieth century long poems from marginalised cultures: Patrick Kavanagh’s “The Great Hunger”, Hugh MacDiarmid’s “A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle”, Sorley MacLean’s The Cuillin”. “

Davies had left school at 14, worked first as a miner and was introduced to the poems of Shelley by a fellow-worker named Eddie Balman. He became acutely aware of social and political issues: “But the greatest of our battles/we lost in’26/ Through treachery and lying,/And Baldwin’s box of tricks./ I began to read from Shelley/ In afternoons in May,/ And to muse upon the misery/ Of unemployment pay.” (from his poem I was Born in Rhymney). 1926 was a crucial year for Davies, the year of the General Strike and the Great Coal Strike, a long period in the mining villages of South Wales of privation and suffering. He later wrote “Do you remember 1926? That summer of soups and speeches,/ The sunlight on the idle wheels and the deserted crossings,/ And the laughter and the cursing in the moonlit streets?” (from Gwalia Deserta).

He eventually escaped the mines and attended Loughborough College and the University of Nottingham, and by the end of 1932 had qualified as a teacher. He would teach in London for several years. In 1940 he lodged at 28 Haselmere Road, Crouch End, teaching at Hoxton. He kept a diary and wrote about the blitz- “Sept, 8. Sunday  11.45am ……. perhaps one of the worst nights London has ever known. About 500 Nazi planes bombed London’s dockland in the Eastern area, doing considerable damage and killing about 400 people, and injuring many more. A big fire blazed along the river for hours and the London sky was wonderfully lit-up.”The next day he wrote “I travelled by tube this morning……I have seen a good deal of damage today, most of it round Old Street Station. There’s a big crater in the street, and the Maternity Hospital at the corner was hit….Hoxton has suffered severely from the raids of the last three nights. Crouch End, so far, has escaped any severe damage,”

The writer Glyn Jones, a friend of Davies, wrote an essay about him in 1968, stating that “ He became a great lover of London, of Hampstead Heath, of Epping Forest and especially of the Charing Cross area with its second-hand bookshops. And he got to know many Welshmen then living in the capital, including Aneirin Talfan Davies, Keidrych Rhys and Dylan Thomas, whom he used to meet on Friday evenings.” Welsh writers frequented Griff’s Bookshop in Cecil Court, and in the early forties and early fifties it was kept by a man named William Griffith, who kept a representative stock of Welsh and Anglo-Welsh publications.

In 1938 Dent published his volume “Gwalia Deserta”, the first of four published volumes (the next three would be published by Eliot at Faber). During the period 1939-1945, he was evacuated several times with schools from London to Northamptonshire,   Hertfordshire, and to Wales. It was during this time that he wrote “The Angry Summer”, a poem of 1926, expressing his feelings for his people and what they had endured. This long poem of 50 sections, along with”Gwalia Deserta” (36 sections), and his autobiographical poem “I was Born in Rhymney” plus several shorter poems such as “Waun Fair”, “Capel Calvin”, “Rhymney”, “London Welsh”, “Midnight”, “Hywel and Blodwen”, do I believe have that claim to permanence which Eliot noted.

By the early 1950’s he became seriously ill with cancer, and just a month before his death his Selected Poems was published by Eliot in March 1953. Eliot had already published Davies’ “The Angry Summer” (1943), and “Tonypandy and other poems” (1945). Idris Davies died at his mother’s house in Victoria Road, Rhymney in April 1953. Today there are no mines to employ the workers, time has brought many changes, but Davies’ “poetic document” remains. There is a plaque on the house in his memory, and opposite there’s the library which also remembers him with a plaque,and a display of some of his books, pens, photographs and the family Bible. Here then was a poet who had compassion for the plight of the people he had been brought up with, a poet to echo Eliot, who knew his subject matter.

In late 2016 Faber & Faber published “The Map and the Clock: A Laureate’s Choice of Poetry of Britain and Ireland” edited by Carol Ann Duffy and Gillian Clarke, which includes two of Idris Davies’ poems “The Bells of Rhymney” (poem xv from Gwalia Deserta) and “Mrs Evans fach” (poem 7 from The Angry Summer). His poetry is direct, it sings, and continues to be read and appreciated into the 21st century.

For further reading and sources on Idris Davies:

The Complete Poems of Idris Davies edited by Dafydd Johnston (University of Wales Press 1994)

Collected Poems   (Gomer 2003)

The Dragon Has Two Tongues essays by Glyn Jones  (Dent 1968)

Idris Davies of Rhymney a personal memoir by Islwyn Jenkins (Gomer 1986)

Poetry Wales – Idris Davies Special Issue (1981)


Byron Beynon 2014

Byron Beynon lives in West Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including North of Oxford, Third Wednesday, Poetry Ireland, Chiron Review, London Magazine, Crannog and the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets). A former co-editor of Roundyhouse poetry magazine.  Collections include Cuffs (Rack Press), Nocturne In Blue (Lapwing Publications) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions)

Reader Picks for the Holidays 2018


The following list consists of 15 book reviews published in 2018 that have generated the most interest from our readers as of November 2018. Click the links and consider a purchase for your holiday gift giving.


The Conduit and other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy by Richard Gessner


Border Crossings by Thaddeus Rutkowski


The Gospel According to the Son by Norman Mailer


Appearances by Michael Collins


The Infinite Doctrine of Water by Michael T. Young


A Look Back- Antic Hay by Aldous Huxley


Leaning into the Infinite by Marc Vincenz


Monte Carlo Days & Nights by Susan Tepper

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The Gates of Pearl by Jill Hoffman


Ornaments by David Daniel

Daggerfrontcoverhigh-res-730x1097 (1)

A Bright and Pleading Dagger by Nicole Rivas


Thieves in the Family by Maria Lisella


Logos by Gil Fagiani


A Fire Without Light by Darren Demaree

Lasater Philosopy of Ranching by Laurence M Lasater cover photo

The Lasater Philosophy of Cattle Ranching



A Poem by Kristina Krumova

blood on paper

Image by Diane Sahms-Guarnieri

Yesterday – the blood from my nose is flowing upwards
I can see    the floor is covered with stillness
Today – the dropped napkin is soaked with    us
notes collapse into noise
Yesterday – “To hell with your writing!”
the pencil is not just for    scribbling
Yesterday again – are you screaming insanity in my ears
your wrath and my malice screw each other so hatefully
Yesterday again – you are not there
you are not here, I’m not there, we    fled far away
Yesterday again – blood is dripping on your pages
your/my    pages, yours/mine
Yesterday – the blood from my nose drips upwards
Again – the pencil is good for killing too
Today – is not tomorrow’s yesterday, because    all of our tomorrows emigrated
Today – you are the tenth man with whom I die forever
Today – my gravity kept a minute of silence because    each
Yesterday – we will remember tomorrow



Kristina Krumova is 29 years old and she lives in Sofia, Bulgaria. She has a Master’s Degree in “Contemporary history” from Sofia University and she was an Editor at New Social Poetry Magazine, Bulgaria. Kristina Krumova works as a freelance editor and she’s preparing her first poetry manuscript.



2 Poems by Seneca Basoalto


I live in venerable skin of temple, fermented and collapsing,
damned and haunted by the eradication of how all at once
you existed
alabaster emblem coughing and leaving earthquakes
along the potholes and sidewalk weeds,
you snuff the paparazzi,
pelicans and pecans invading chin and belly – a bellow
of monologue stampeding the ball of your fist like Capote
and priest, empty pizza trays lodged like lust
inside the pockets of your cheeks, decaying teeth
as one by one you lost Leo sunrise and moon in Cancer,
baritone and cocoa barrage, the alphabet of erotic timing
comforted by squirrels under sleepy hollow banks,
the way you suckled on woven fabric in a farmhouse –
I authored my worth from how stiff your bones became
when your fingers were plump and turned air to plums,
and I puckered my strep throat to siphon your life like maple
from stumpy legs that knotted roots with the libertine,
I did everything to deserve how traumatic this all became.


Unknown Things
I stared into his wake, and I did not dare to see anything else –
Here lies involuntary fear, the earth converging around
both births and an inactive set of lungs from a
clandestine pauper who bites, who squeezes
stumpy hands around breasts like he would an old orange –
metre of black felicity and elbows, all of which
you forgot
Deign the freckles of deity – the resulting ash on a crown
of monsters swaying and seizing the rotation of every sound
you make – your throat echoing into the waves of the ocean
My love becomes salt. My words become dry.
my heart becomes residue of sand and sediment
prophesying your complaints into correlation with
my sentiment as if those strings were attached
at the hip (or the groin) staging blocks of melted
Parisian candle wax along the downtempo trod of
inebriated flat feet that have no sense of direction and
are connected to a body with no concept of distance
I live far from famous graves and avoid the oral fixation
to lozenge on a tongue that could impregnate me
through all seven layers of death and spirit, four
little flower petals pressed like algebra between the
pages of a soiled book
I muffle the sigh of my love, as it is filled with unknown things.

Seneca Basoalto is a student of Psychology and Philosophy with over 24 years of published creative writing experience. Having a background in the backstage music/movie scene – she’s congregated a myriad of strange experiences and used them to fuel her insightful writings. Seneca’s defiant edge and chimerical psyche instigates self-reflection in the eyes of readers. Her Iberian lineage can be seen influencing the attitude and magnetism of her diverse range of work. Some of her works include philosophical essays featured through SNHU, a collection of poems included in a Love Anthology released by Z Publishing, a book of love poems titled Captain & the Scientist for sale through Barnes & Noble and Amazon, Therapeutic Writing Program Coordinator for A.R.I.A., as well as poetry collections published through Glasgow Review of Books, Words Dance, Barrow Street, and The Moth. Currently she is a submission reader for Frontier Poetry.

Ebb Tide by Ian C Smith

mach grind

Ebb Tide

Thirteen years on she steps back into my wasted life, stark on the front page, a new name, the husband’s, same cool beauty, her face jolting me in my meal break near oil drums filled with rain, machinery’s grind and clatter silenced, my heart on overtime. Vanished.  Foul play suspected.  Two youngsters left, their father, who I know will be on everybody’s mind.

After trouble in the city I moved back to the area where we attended school, that madhouse of burgeoning libido.  I think we held hands.  Was there a note passed?  A kiss?  Now some moron might have killed her.  My brief early love.  I want to save her, me, a sad sack semi-skilled wage-slave attracted to trouble who can’t save himself. Who pays the price daily for skiving off in school.  Kissing instead of studying.

She hitched three hundred miles of coastal roads dismayed by monotony’s grip.  In a motel with seagulls in crisis, light dimming, sharks out there somewhere, an ocean of pressure overwhelming her, she knew the jig was up, turned  herself in, old before she hit thirty.  The husband of our suspicions might have grasped his second chance.  I fled the factory.  Now, with me washed up by a sighing sea, wind wild in my face mending pain, she alights in a thought gap.  I hope we kissed.



Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in, Amsterdam Quarterly, Antipodes, Australian Poetry Journal,  Critical Survey,  Live Encounters, The Stony Thursday Book, & Two-Thirds North.  His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide).  He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island, Tasmania.