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Commentary of any kind, is always welcomed. And I've  gotten some interesting input over the years. It runs the gamut of praise from a Roman Catholic priest doing some fascinating work in Israel, to a boo-hiss at times from a dear friend on Long Island, who I  met  over 50 years ago  when starting out in the Mad Men business  ("Oh, the places you will go"). He  has been instrumental in helping me with this site transition. 

"The melocholy of age and  the power
of memory have always been central

for (me)."

             
David Remnick  on Paul McCartney
              (for which I've substituted me)

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Mission


Her name was Domenica. “Sunday” in Italian. She was my grandmother, and in honor of her memory, this  site and company (of a sort) is named.  And by association, in a way,  for all  the hardworking immigrants who came to America with little more than a dream and left in its place a legacy; one so rich and with many stories to tell.  

 

The logo incorporates a line drawing translation of the iconic Edward Hopper painting, Early Sunday Morning, which I paid for the right to use in this way. Along with the font in Hopper's hand. That was almost 20 years ago when the original site was begun. It is not only a kind of play off the Domenica name but suggests a certain poetic sensibility in itself. Perhaps, something along the lines of…

                         A quiet moment on a day of rest 
                               before the world has awakened, 
                       to reflect on all that was done  
                        while it was in slumber. 

 

Poetry is the foundation and the initial  raison d’etre  for  this  site/company. I wanted to publish some of the poems I had written  in  the  dozen  years  or  so  since  ’91, when at the age of 46, I wrote my first. The inspiration had come from watching my six year old daughter toting her cumbersome backpack in the short walk from the car  to her  class one  Early Monday Morning, if you will. Perhaps it is also a reason why I like the Fearless Girl  so much and  have written of  her on a couple of  occasions.  Forever  locked in at a tender age, and who once held her ground  in front of  that brass bull,  she  has now been moved just outside  of the stock exchange.  Perhaps this time, to stare down the bear as well, whenever it comes out of hibernation and rears its massive head. 

While my  poetry has appeared in various literary journals (some in unexpected places),  I also wanted to publish  a  kind of book of poems, that I had not seen much of before. Most poetry seems to be written for other poets, not other people. And often in a rasther staif  format of “poem-after-poem” in similar length, tone and subject matter. While the result may be of high literary value, and perhaps praised in academic circles, it is often daunting to the more general reader. And in the course of its typical eighty-page run, with rare exceptions, the book will  be unaccompanied by illustrations or sense of graphic design.  As if to do so would somehow diminish the poetry itself. Shots from a Passing Car, my first compilationwas coming from a different place.  yet still wanting to reach that more discerning reader

 

 

It  would no doubt be tough to find a publisher to “make” my kind of book.  So I did what  my  grandmother would do: l'ho fatto da zero e con amorevole cura  (I made it from  scratch and with loving care).  I got the book I not only wanted, but needed. And in so doing, also made  a few bucks.  Which  I suppose is the definition of a company: an entity  that makes $'s. Lots or little. (I use the $ symbol to avoid interlopers, who like dogs in heat,  hyperlink in my space when the "M" word appears).  Also, the intention at the time was to help other writers get their work in print. Which predates the proliferation of online publishing.

 

My next book entitled, Muse Letters from the Front, is scheduled to be published in hard copy in  2020. I've begun work on it now. And the cover  will be that of an original painting  done by artist

To give someone a reason to return to the site, whether they bought  the book or not, I initiated something I call a Muse-Letter, which is now in its 16th year. Jeff's painting is the muse of that letter. We discussed every detail. Right down to how many tattooed stripes she should have on her left arm? Should they be facing up or down? It's the sort of tenacity I bring to all my projects and writing. A click  on the button below the masthead  will take  you to the current MuseLetter as an example.  Past issues  before 2019 still remain at the original site www.domenicapress.com/.

 

Far beyond an outlet for poems, this "letter" in any given month, is comprised of essays, reviews, quotes (that I find interesting and don't always agree with), stories, interesting words I come across, esoterica, illustrations (found or created), schtick, etc.

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 Jeff Weekly an associate from  an  ad agency in LA back in the day, art directed "Shots." 

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Commentary of any kind, is always welcomed. And I've  gotten some interesting input over the years. It runs the gamut of praise from a Roman Catholic priest doing some fascinating work in Israel, to a boo-hiss at times from a dear friend on Long Island, who I  met  over 50 years ago  when starting out in the Mad Men business  ("Oh, the places you will go"). He  has been instrumental in helping me with this site transition. 

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La Baguette

 

1.

 

Narrow streets converge at a corner

where food merchants are plying their trade;

a hubbub in the stillness of a postcard depiction.

A woman had then sashayed on by

on Rue Dauphine

as only French women can.

Who has directed her diagonal cut

across this Parisian street? Buñuel?

 

Hip thrust forward, la vie d’amour

implicit in the every step,

her dress on this sultry day clinging;

her hand encircling an unbagged baguette

long and lean and lancing the air

a master stroke in alliteration.

A man stands transfixed in speculation.

With whom would she share it?

Taste it? Tear it?

Leaving specks of crust on pouty lips

the soft dough filling her mouth?

2.

 

He crosses Pont Neuf,  a bridge built in halves

becoming enjoined after twenty six years.

Not long a span of time for stone

but a good-size chunk of a marital life.

That cliched better half lies languid in a room

of long-stemmed walls and painted roses

time having passed in beige.

 

She notes as he enters,

his trench coat twistingly belted;

a would-be Bogart in that parting scene.

Autumn winds on this ashen day,

have had their way with his desperate hair

resulting in enchanting disarray.

Eyes turn to the baguette he has brought unexpected.

She gives him a smile as long as the Seine.

Subtitles follow in the space beneath them.

Existential Triptych

2. My Dinner With Stanislavski

He speaks of a theater that could go under.

As he mulls an existence without costumes nor props.

Thank Godot for the vodka to come.

But what's to become of our inner life?

The regurgitation of pea-soup monologues?

Where would we stage-strutters go

In that allotted hour? He remains silent.

I now sense a memory of reason

Why so much sweat upon the pages;

 

So many pages in a play with no plot.

Therein might lie the madness to the method.

As shown in the tedium of Chekhov's Vanya

That final scene shattered by gunshots,

"Take me away! Take me away! Kill me.

I can't stay here, I can't!"

3. The Barn

The barn doors not left open

thus nothing has run off

 

​not the steeds of misdeeds

that should have been released

 

​along with the demons we meant to unleash

and maudlin memories still sitting baled

 

from the winters of discontent

the squandered summers that came and went

 

​the beast within that should have

long been unburdened

 

​chewing on unsown oats

behind closed doors.

1. Side Table

 

Ingrained in old furniture
is where the true stories lie.

That bureau that sits in storage in Jersey

from the last cross-country move,
outlasted the starter marriage
and the one the length

of War and Peace that would follow.

 

But most of all, I await the return
of that little side table now being repainted
by a handyman to match

the new décor in this,

the latest of multiple lives.

 

It has heard the arguments
absorbed the resentments
weathered the storms.
Coming back in a semi-gloss black,
I’ve lost count of the coats of colors

it previously has worn.

 

First bequeathed in its natural grain

by a wrinkled woman from Eastern Europe 

who never got over the drowning of a son
who looked like a young Cary Grant. 
This after losing kin in the holocaust.

 

This latest reincarnation,

will now hold a Crate & Barrel vase
and will remain standing

long after we’ve departed.

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