Ann Arbor Review


Amit Parmessur
Elisavietta Ritchie
Donal Mahoney
Fahredin Shehu
Richard Kostelanetz
Alex Ferde
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Duane Locke
Chris Lord
Nahshon Cook
Al Ortelani
Shutta Crum
Ajibola Tolase
Silvia Scheibli
Laszlo Slomovits
Emmanuel Samson
Lyn Lifshin
Running Cub
Nikita Parik

Alan Britt
John Grey
Bhisma Upreti
Paul B. Roth
Jennifer Burd
Sunday Michael
Michael H. Brownstein
Ali Znaidi

Richard Gartee
Kanev Peycho

Engjell I. Berisha

Fred Wolven
Petraq Risto
Carolyn Elias
Alabi Oyedeji



Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2015 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 47 years all together....



Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:



As a child I marveled at a man
That had the same name as the poet Rimbaud,

Although, at that age I did not know anything
About the French poet.  No one for at least

A hundred miles around knew there was
Such a boy as the French poet Rimbaud.

Who was known at this time a long time ago:
The golfer, Bobby Jones, the baseball player, Babe Ruth,

The preacher, Billy Sunday, the boxer, Joe Louis.
It was long time before I knew everyone was honored

Besides athletes and preachers.  These were
The role models.  We were supposed to grow up

Either to preach from a sawdust floor in a canvas tent,
The gospel, or hit a fast thrown white ball

With red stitches, of hit someone with a big glove
In the mouth, or wear short pants buckled

Around the knees and hit with a stick
A tiny ball that looked like a mushroom.

I wanted to be a hobo and catch free rides
On freight trains, but my ambition was condemned.

But the man that fascinated me named Rimbaud
Worked eight hours a day, and during his work,

Painting cars or sewing together sea covers
He consumed sixteen bottles of homebrew.

It was amazing that a man could drink two bottles
Of homebrew every hour and produce quality work.

Down the street on Seventh Avenue was a freak store,
But the sword swallower and the fire eater

Never excited me as much as this man who
Could consume so much alcohol.

I must mention that the homebrew was due
To this being the time of prohibition,

And 3.2 beer had not yet as under Roosevelt
Become legal.  Homebrew’s alcoholic content much higher.

I asked my parents if I could not became a hobo
And ride freight trains, could I become a homebrew consumer,

Go for the world record of consuming 32 bottles a day.
I was spanked for the first time in my life.

This spanking made my parents more respected for
The slogan of the neighborhood was

That beating the child with a rod was the child’s salvation.
To follow the Bible literally my parents even used a rod.

I knew little about the car painter and seat upholster, Rimbaud,
Except he was a classical scholar, could read and speak

Ancient Greek and Ancient Latin.  Since the educational principle
Of the transfer of training was discredited,

He could not get a job of teaching Latin and Greek, so became
A car repair man and a drinker of homebrew.



When the mind escaped
From the country of sleep
Where it was arrested for treason
By a border patrol dressed in black suits,
Their coat edges bordered with white,
And shot by a firing squad
That was lit as in a Goya painting
By a large lamp on Ground
Whose glow was ochre
Like the wilted petal of a white orchid.

The mind became Cartesian
Enough to recognize it was in
An extended thing on floor somewhere
That was not home.  He later
Learned the same from a historian
Who also had passed out
After drinking too much vodka
As he discussed John Locke’s proposition
That matter had a spirit.

So since he was already dressed,
He drove fast to make on time
For his class where he would lecture
In a wrinkled suit on
“Self and synthetic unity
Of appreciation in Kant.”



The white marble eyes,
Now shoe-polish black,
On a Medici Garden pedestal

The blackness and its blindness
Empowers marble,
Now the eyeballs
Can see and understand history.

The dead when alive worked hard,
Became tired, exhausted to become famous.
Now notice years after their funeral,
Their white marble lips are now lipsticked.

So today in Rome, I wonder whom.
Was it a Prince, a plebian who obediently served,
A gladiator who entertained, a cook who cooked,
I’ll never know to whom this honored bust belonged.



The shawls of shadows shoulder
The curls of spots on soft white sand.
White petalled sand flowers impastoed
On earth by night rains.  I walked on dampness.
From her room with the dark chiaroscuro
As in Rembrandt comes the electronic music
Of a cloaked chorus chanting a miserere.
The white collars gather dust from her life.
She paperclips grief to their chorus’s eyelashes.
To me, the sound is like the rose tint
Centered inside a lump of rose quartz.
The sound is her luxury, the compensation
For lost apertures, the peepholes
In closed doors of the Delphi oracle.



The youth knew they possessed what all the older wanted,

It was a possession if sold would bring the highest price.

Youth could sell Girl Scout Cookie,  football tickets at illegal prices,
Used cars, and crack in small cellophane packets,

But they could not sell their youth.

Not being able to sell such a valuable possession was

It made youth feel asocial, alienated, psychopathic,
For the old was selling so much.  A garage sale every other block.

This having such a desirable product, youth,
And not being able to sell it
Caused youth much anguish,

Even suicide.




I was sipping Campari when wind pushed

A composition of rain drops on plate glass.

It was then shaped like a crystal orchid.

I surmised, rain outside; could have been hose

Or vision.  The orchid thrilled, enchanted.

The petals white, but looked at through my glass

Of Campari, sloshing like an ocean wave,

Became the color of lip-colored wild roses.

So my old mind had taken me away from sounds

Of horns and motors on the noisy street.

Placed me in unexplored, unknown forest.

I heard again the songs of goldfinch, wrens.

I wondered what number Phythagoras

Would use to diminish this intense real.



Duane Locke, Tampa, Florida


Ann Arbor Review  |   Home    |   next  |  previous  Back to Top