Who is Phillip Levine?Phillip Levine is a poet, an actor, a director & a yurt dweller. He is a four-year alumnus of the Chenango Valley Writers' Conference where he worked with Bruce Smith, Tom Sleigh and Kelly Cherry. He was a scholarship attendee and invited reader in 2002, 2003 and 2004. He has been a featured reader at numerous venues in NYC and the Mid-Hudson Valley, including The Cornelia Street Cafe, The Bowery Poetry Club and ABC No Rio. Phillip is poetry editor for the Mid-Hudson Magazine Chronogram www.chronogram.com and the online journal Entelechy: Mind and Culture www.entelechyjournal.com. He has been the host for 3+ years of the poetry open-mic every Monday night "forever"at the Colony Cafe in Woodstock, NY, and is the president of the Woodstock Poetry Society. He was a recent guest of Paul Elisa on WAMC-FM (NE Public Radio), of Doug Gruntheron WDST-FM, a featured poet at both the 2001 and 2002 Woodstock Poetry Festivals and competed in the 2000 National Poetry Slam. Contact Us We welcome comments on our webpages as well as invitations to read and to submit our poetry for publication. Hooked slip slip slip outof sleep light slips light slips fingers under sheets untangles mine from yours, out of ours unfolds me over you onto feet into day (forgive the day) Hand in hand on steering wheel steering big apple into little mirror We angle east to deep wide open The Belt loops around it all. Dry flat womb of Queens, bully chin of Kings Loosens at Atlantic altars. Avalons: Gravesend, Sea Gate, Oriental. Bare, bright, Brighton. Past Amelia's Field to Riis Park, Breezy Point, Seaside, and nearly Far Rockaway, rockabye And we used to fish Aching,arching rods unreeling slipping line into wave beneath foam Bending over backward breaking wave The barb, the tip, the hit Float and foam and weightless falling to forever after falling Toss and twist and turn to falling to turn to now returned to now to no line, to no reel, to now to unheld empty hand to useless elbow, still bending and unbending to head, to heart, to now, to hooked Like fish or bait or boot Kick me. I hunger. Clams or mussels or abalone but not fish, never fish, can't risk fish So peering over shoulders into other people's buckets almost falling Staring toward Paris from the pier off Coney Island Phillip Levine Woodstock, New York Copyright ©2005 Phillip Levine
|
Full Moon Saturday It's Saturday night And the moon has her high-beams on. And down on the flats all the young slicks have their motors running tight and their hair combed sharp. While up on the mountain it's rutting season And all the new dudes have their boots on high. But I can no longer see in that kind of light. And I have no howl left. And the shine is so close it's hot in your nose. And everyone stops to contemplate their next move. But it's the moon's move, And with her one wide eye, she presses hard on everyone's pedal. For a moment, I feel alive again. Phillip Levine Woodstock, New York Copyright ©2005 Phillip Levine
|