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FEILE-FESTA
Spring 2013

Poetry

Florentia
- O. Arieti
Leather Dialogues
- D. Bastianutti
Visiting Yeats When The Center Cannot Hold
- A. Cohen
Olive Girl
- M. Crescenzo
Belle Harbor: Hurricane Sandy’s Legacy
- L. Dolan
I Dream I Speak Italian with Grandma
- G. Fagiani
For My Daughter’s Sixth Grade Heritage Project
- K. Falvey
Nativity
-K. Falvey & G. Guida
Here
- M. Fazio
DOSS0 2008
- C. Ferrari-Logan
New York Edifice
- D. Friedman
The Light
- S. Jackson
Cry Baby
- C. Lanza
Un Beso in Cuba
- M. Lisella
Now That You’ve Gone So Long
- M. Maggio
The Relocation of Mint
- S. Mankerian
Passersby
- P. Meshulam
On the Transmigration of the Greek Soul
- C. Mountrakis
Eithela Na Sou Po
- P. Nicholas
In the Cold Night Air
- F. Polizzi
Arvuli A Primavera
- N. Provenzano
Still, Still
- D. Pucciani
Driving on the Left
- C. Stone
Carrickmacross
- G. Tuleja

FEILE-FESTA
Spring 2013

Prose

Remembering Ruth Singing Peggy Gordon
- K. Cain
Johnny on the Spot
- D. Dewey
Interview: Grace Cavalieri on her Italianitá, Poetry and Why It Makes Sense to Read a Poem a Day
- M. Lisella
Green Beans
- J. McCaffrey
Patrick
- M. Ó Conchúir
For the Girl Lying on Her Back in a Field of Yellow
- A. Sunrise

Featured Artist
Renzo Oliva

BIOGRAPHIES

Contributors



















Phyllis Meshulam


Passersby

         Cast a cold eye
         On life, on death
         Horseman, pass by!
*

Who is buried in this grave may be subject
to debate, but we feel him here, we five
American poets sitting at his foot
or headstone. Coins of sun dangle on the oaks
and ivy. Swan shapes skew the entrance
to the church. In the parking lot, a carved poet
squats before his stonish blanket
pleading for a light tread on his dreams.

To Yeats we read his own stanzas, pause,
disobey, then pass on to fling
our hitched breaths against the green tiger-
mountain. We make out the fairy portal
in its flank, look away, then back.
It has vanished with the jade.

By the roadside, the thousand year old
limestone cross dissolves under elements and eyes.
Phantom Irish setters lead us up
the green road where sheep have left bits
of their coats stuck on hawthorn, like threads
through a ring fort. We, too, could stick
to these thorns or drown in clouds
in the coves of the sky, but we will
return to the gallopings of our own time.



*William Butler Yeats’ words inscribed on his tombstone