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 Today's Commentary

Voting is Not About Expressing Your Opinion

 

Book Reviews 

The Flesh and the Mortar Prophecy by Nathan Hassall, reviewed by Jeff Cannon

 

Film Reviews

Howard's End (restoration) reviewed by Hadley Hury

 

Do You Like Casey Dorman's Commentaries?

Enjoy His Philosophical Ideas in His New Science Fiction Novel: The Peacemaker


"The Peacemaker is, plain and simple, a wake-up call. Rising oceans, temperatures, floods, people and animals forced to flee from their homes... sound familiar? Dorman weaves our reality with a great cast of characters and the likely future, making for an excellent read." --Riya Anne Polcastro author of Left Behind, Book One

"Dorman's use of biomimicry, inspired by Janine Benyus's book and her continued research on this topic, makes The Peacemaker an original contribution to utopian sci-fi." -- Anca Vlasopolos, poet, author of Cartographies of Scale (and Wing)

Buy it in paperback or Kindle format at Amazon.com

 

New Books

Read Casey Dorman's latest novel!

After losing her mother on the day of her high school graduation, Dillon Bloom enters college and discovers that her calling is to become a writer. When she finds out that the father she thought had died in her infancy may be a very much alive and famous, but reclusive, novelist she is determined to find him and discover whether he is, in fact, her father. Martin Bloom, her father, is killing himself with alcohol and, after being fired from teaching positions at Harvard and Stanford, he is living a degenerate life on a boat in Saigon, Vietnam, hoping to regain his ability to write. Dillon’s search for her father, a quest which takes her from Oregon to Massachusetts to California and finally to Vietnam, is an odyssey of alternating hope and despair in which two anti-social people, father and daughter, struggle with their identities and the meaning of the other in each of their lives.

"With Finding Martin Bloom, Dorman ventures into yet another territory, the quest novel in which the young protagonist, suddenly left on her own, goes on a journey to discover her origins and thus her own identity, and the father discovers belatedly his paternity and through it his connection to the world."

                   Anca Vlasopolos, poet, author of Cartographies of Scale (and Wing)

Buy Finding Martin Bloom in either paperback or Kindle formats  on Amazon.com

 

Visit Avignon Press online! 


Archives

 

Short Stories

Poetry

Book Reviews

Film Reviews

Commentaries

Essays 

Art Galleries

 

The Noel Mawer Short Story Award Contest 2016  Has Been Cancelled.

 

ISSN 2332-4805

Editorial Staff

Editor-in-Chief: Casey Dorman

Film Review Editor: Hadley Hury

 

 

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Azimuths a literary novel by R. A. Morean
Cartographies of Scale (and Wing) poetry by Anca Vlasopolos

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A historical moment in literature! A new sub-genre has emerged combining poetry, philosophy, and anecdote. Kiriti Sengupta, bestselling author & poet based in Calcutta, India and translator of Bengali literature, is finalizing his Reflectionson Salvation. This work promises to be startlingly unique, fresh, and enlightening!

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Dr. Mary Madec, award-winning poet of Ireland, instructor of those with intellectual handicaps, and recipient of a doctorate in linguistics, invented the term "Flash Wisdom" to categorize Sengupta's promising new style — as in a similar vein, Hedwig Gorski invented the term "performance poet" during the 2000's to describe what later became "slam." — Dustin Pickering (Founder of Transcendent Zero Press and Editor-in-Chief of Harbinger Asylum)

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 Welcome to the New Lost Coast Review

A Political, Cultural and Literary Blog

 

Two Poems by Hadley Hury

Dailiness

 

I‘ve never prayed along a strand of beads

or bowed on a prayer rug five times a day,

but I may have heard echoes of Tibetan chants

or pilgrim steps across the hills of northern Spain

when I rub wax into the old table

and buff back and forth, back and forth,

look for shadows, then stroke it again

back and forth.

 

Raking leaves brings that stir

of reaching out again and again,

like a swimmer pulling through the clean October air,

the making of the mounded stacks,

here the wheelbarrow for the compost heap,

and there, along the walk, all those

brown recycle bags waiting pleated and tall.

 

I’ve even sensed I might be onto something

simply standing in the laundry room,

in the gray oblong of winter light

from the one small window,

and carefully shearing warm lint

like wool from the filter.

 

On an afternoon walk a few days ago

I saw an older couple walking from their car

up to their porch. He stood to one side

as she opened the door and they went in.

I don’t know them but I do happen to know

that he recently had surgery

for stage-four brain cancer.

I can’t see behind their door,

but I know their litany is changing,

and the eventual question we all must face

is whether ours will turn bitter or sustain.

 

As I go from room to room

turning on the lights at dusk

I know what I cherish,

the familiar pattern forged

by finding the button on this lamp cord,

this reaching once again for the switch

on the sconce above the stair.

 

When you come into the room

and we sit down with our drinks,

let’s toast the sturdy wonder of having been

here yesterday, the day before,

always on the cusp of unknown waves

like birds migrating half the globe

because it’s what they do.

 

We make our paths

and join the world

with these recognitions,

these rhythms,

 

this dailiness,

as improbable as everything else,

an impulse in the scheme of things

that somehow finds its place.

 

Return Trip

 

When you spoke in your sleep
I looked over your shoulder
and the red digits showed 1:30 a.m.

"Here," you had said—softly but quite distinctly,

as though in conversation, and evidently driving—
"This is the road to my grandparents’ house…There they are!"

Now, hours later over coffee

in the gentle light of the porch,
you say you have no recollection

 

of this encounter with these people you last saw

alive and together nearly forty years ago—
but I'm happy you had me along, this once, to meet them.

Perhaps it is early morning, and perhaps

they too are seated on a screened porch—waiting for us—

crosswords in their laps.

Good country people, they may not be savoring

as we are a hint of cinnamon in their coffee,
but for all we know it may be precisely

 

this moment of early September when the sun

inches over the next branch south in the buckeye tree

and the world is fresh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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