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

Gilda Morina Syverson

Mount Etna My stomach, like a volcano, churns, burns, spews pain and bitter acid up the esophagus, down the intestines. Memories of high school, the corner of James & Plymouth, the city bus, barely making it to school. Sometimes I’d get off, hide behind bushes or large oaks, expel yellow bile rumbling inside. How do the genetics of a volcano become my biology? Why do flames of flesh erupt inside? One day I walked down Townsend to my maternal grandparents house in the Italian North Side. Nonna poured a shot of Anisette into my mouth. It flowed smoothly, settled like cooled magma. My mother’s family came from Linguaglossa, a village near Mount Etna. I’ve visited there three times. Above my head spattered sizzling red, fragments of blistered sounds rumbled. Gray gates of lava divided the land. Sulfurous gasses covered the earth.