FEILE-FESTA
Spring 2011

Poetry

Ancestors
- R. Baldasty
Beloved Albatross
- D. Bastianutti
From Trã Bãn
- K. Cain
The Current (La Corrente)
- L. Calio
Down with the King
- M. Cirelli
May Mass – 1957
- L. Dolan
America
- G. Fagiani
Persephone’s Devotion to Her Mother
- M. Fazio
Bastardu
- V. Fazio
Christmas
- D. Festa
L’Amour, L’Amour on Summer Afternoons (L’Amour, L’Amour D’estati Filuvespiri)
- M. Frasca
Sgrìob
- S. Jackson
Sirocco
- W.F. Lantry
Little Swift
- R. León
Since You Asked
- M. Lisella
Dublin 2010
- V. Maher
39 Fifth Avenue
- C. Matos
Sunrise in Sicily
- A. O’Donnell
Watching Monzú at Work
- F. Polizzi
L’incontru (Rendezvous)
- N. Provenzano
Propriu Quannu Sta Scurannu (When the Day Is Almost Over)
- N. Provenzano
Bones (Le Ossa)
- D. Pucciani
Things
- E. Swados
Mount Etna
- G. Syverson
Poet Jack Foley Says, “We’re Not Writing for Eternity
- J. Wells
Lord of Winter
- A. Zanelli

FEILE-FESTA
Spring 2011

Prose

Review of Frank Ingrasciotta’s play, BLOOD TYPE RAGU
- L. Calio
Dinner for Three
- D. De Santis
Notes
- A. Guruianu
Review of Carol Bonomo Albright & Christine Palamidessi Moore’s anthology, AMERICAN WOMAN, ITALIAN STYLE
- R. Holz
Review of Joanna Clapps Herman’s memoir, THE ANARCHIST BASTARD, GROWING UP ITALIAN IN AMERICA
- R. Holz
Exiles in the Lost World of Italian Food in America. Review of Anthony Di Renzo’s BITTER GREENS
- M. Lisella
Reverbs
- A. Morazán
The Bearded Woman of Inis Mor
- D. Schummer

Featured Artists
Andy Kover

Richard Holz

BIOGRAPHIES

Contributors

Kathleen Cain

From Trä Bän* – for Paul & Dubhaltach O’Colmáin Talking to the other passengers seems sacrilegious but it lessens the fear of drowning. The clouds reach long hands of light into water now black, now brown, now blue. The fishing boat of Seamasín Kane pushes through waves without a shudder. He’s sure of her. It’s the sea he watches. We leave the cliffs of Dunquin, move out beyond the headland, beyond the House of Mór, old goddess-woman, watching us. Three miles. Maybe four. Only one certainty here – the great, fast-moving sound, the rivers of water we are crossing we are crossing. The island* sleeps, has slept for fifty years and more, dreaming her people. We are coming to wake her, to say hello. We are coming over to sift her shores. We are coming to stand on the White Strand and learn what it means not to love, so much, the mainland. *trã bãn (Gaelic): the white strand *Great Blasket island, off the Dingle Peninsula