Tag Archives: Poetry

The Greenwich Village Literary Review Spring 2015, Vol. II, No. 1



W. Jack Savage


History –
Yip Harburg: A Lyrical Activist Against Social Injustice Leigh Donaldson & Ernie Harburg

Memoir –
Memories of Judson Samuel Bean
My Mother’s Kitchen Erica Miles

Tribute Sarah Bates
Sweet Sixteen Magda Benigna
Three Boys V. Conejero
Fire Box 598 Joe Corso
The Reunion Henya Drescher
Two Voices: a Tale from the Ancestors Mindy Kronenberg
Consequences Ann Ormsby
Jack of Hearts Leslie Silton

The Original Survivor Man Bill Batcher
The Good Neighbors James Como
The Art of Sleeping by Tootie translated by Erica Miles

Night Duty Mario Ascueta Aguado
Baalbek, Lebanon, Makawao Forest, Opening Night’s Doors, Wind, What the Sky Tells Us Marguerite G. Bouvard
Extra Padding, Sunrise/Sunset, Ute Carson
At the Eye Doctor’s Office, V. Conejero
Seasonal Utterances (Spring), Julie Lauton
If These Walls Could Only Talk, John Lysaght
The Cat, In Memory of a Well-Loved Dog, Richard Merli
The Goose Who Loved Golf, John F. McCullagh
Portrait of My Mother, Erica Miles
The Party, Mindy Ohringer
Untitled No. 2, Dave Rullo
Near Holly Springs: Good Friday, Jeff Streeby
The First Floor Apartment on 84th, Lorien Vidal

Cocktails, W. Jack Savage
Fountain 1, Samuel Bean
Fountain 2, Samuel Bean
Skycrapers with Clouds, Kyle Hemmings

Robert J. Cooney reviews Jacob M. Appel’s short story collection Einstein’s Beach House
Richard Merli reviews Gary Beck’s book of poetry Civilized Ways
Erica Miles reviews Steven Jay Griffel’s novel Grossman’s Castle
Ellen Schecter reviews Erica Miles’ novel Dazzled by Darkness

Contributors – Current Issue 


Night Duty by Mario Ascueta Aguado

The fading sunlight from demanding afternoons
Crept thru her window like glittering sticker notes
Pegged on her old corkboard-like room wall partitions.
It is time for the sun to bid this world goodbye
Like solemn swears of virgins touched for the first time
By the very essence of life. The night has come.
She’s free again to wander amidst all curses
Brought by the stinking alleys of condemned districts
She thought existed in mere tearjerker movies.
Cold nights have tamed her to surrender to the wills
Of forgetful strangers – ageless, nameless, faceless.
She could not even remember the memories
Left from a punitive manhood that conquered hers.
Her heart numbed all details of human etiquettes
Yet her refined manners exemplified respect
For every soul that she met at rundown pavements.
‘After you, my dear,’ she’d say with her sweetest smile
As she leads her new man in to her apartment,
‘After you, handsome,’ she would say the second time
As she opens the door of her dyed compartment.
It’s her favorite line. She freely tells anyone.
Not that she learned it from the movies or somewhere
She believes it is her way of showing respect
Not for the momentary pleasure she would have
But for what she earns to survive her cruel life.

Baalbek, Lebanon by Marguerite Guzman Bouvard

A man is curled up on the sidewalk,
sleeping, while passersby
are absorbed in their conversations
as they stroll to the café

around the corner. Here
there is no shelter
for the Syrian refugee who rests,
with only a small bundle

at his side, but who carries
the times he sat at the table
with the cup of tea his wife
served him, the touch

of her hand, the moonlight
on their bed, the bird song
that greeted him at dawn,
crossing the street on an ordinary

day, and then sudden explosions,
and fusillades, a tangle of screams,
and wailing in a city
of ruins, of fragments from

so many centuries,
and then a pause, a silence,
like no other in  a war
that will always live inside him.

Makawao Forest by Marguerite Guzman Bouvard


is where silence has many
voices, where we are surrounded
by life and death and there is beauty

here in the death we are so afraid of,
striations of color and texture
from the torn bark of a fallen pine,

and shoots of leaves rise
shimmering from a downed
trunk, is where like the indigenous people

of the world, we walk with the past,
present and future intertwined,
the message of roots

wandering above ground
that greet every step, their journey
has its own language, reminding us

that we are part of it, is where
our whole body thinks and
the forest is a cathedral whose

arches lift our souls, whose music
is quiet reflection and whose aisles
lead us to a new understanding.

Opening Night’s Doors by Marguerite Guzman Bouvard

Evenings the Mt. Blanc displays its lights,
deep rose blazing, a strip of pure gold
rising above the darkness, when our world

is silenced, and we are reminded
that its dimension is no taller than
the grass, and our passage is brief.

The mountain’s language is that
of eagles and hawks, the crash of water
over rocks. Yes, there are airplanes

roaring above, but only for a minute
and minutes are all we have
and must learn to cherish. They fill

the emptiness that can assault us when we least
expect it, the shadow of loneliness,
the memory of the child that graced

our arms, the person who was able
to see what lies beneath our silence,
a sudden burst of understanding.

May each moment be filled
with love and the passion that guides
us for they are our mountains.

What the Sky Tells Us by Marguerite Guzman Bouvard

Today the sky has drawn
its curtains, the wind is holding
its breath. The mountain does not
wish to see the splendors

of its meadows disappear or hear
the trilling of birds drowned out
by the drone of chainsaws, the thud
of falling trees. It does not want

to witness a land bereft
of its constellations of larch, pines,
birches, plane and linden
covered with asphalt, rows

of chalets and apartment houses.
The sky withdraws its cerulean
blue, its drifting clouds, the light
it sheds where meaning lies,

on that which cannot
be owned and the paths made
by our footsteps. The real village
lies in our hearts that are the rooms

of our loved ones, where our
souls open their windows
to see a star, the beauty of flowers,
the grass flaming in early spring.