FEILE-FESTA HOME    |     PAST ISSUES    |     ORDERING INFO    |     SUBMISSIONS    |     LIBRARIES    |     LINKS    |     STAFF    |     ABOUT US    |     CONTACT US

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



















Donna Pucciani


Still, Still

I teach my Italian cousin
two meanings for "still" —
"as always," and "without movement."

Still here, I say, though we
could die any time at our age.
We think of this at the cafe,

sometimes aloud.
The inexplicable benediction
of some faceless God

will decide when and who
submits to the scythe. Meanwhile,
we ponder how to let the sun

enter in as before,
let the rain and the hills
keep on feeding the soul.

On the piazza
pigeons peck at crumbs.
Their iridescence flits

between black and green
with violet silks. Tourists
come and go like so many sailboats

dotting the lake. How to be still
as the harbor at dawn, to remain
unmoved and unmoving,

the still life of a bowl of fruit,
of the mountain in whose shadow
we speak?