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Spring 2015


The Harbor of the World
- O. Arieti
Those Italian Boys
- I. Backalenick
Friendless Featherheads
- G. Beck
- K. Cain
- J. Campbell
King Street Comanche
- B. Foster
- L. Giulianetti
Poets Out of Service
- M. Johnson
Irish Farmer
- L. Kumar
Communion Portrait
- J. Lagier
- M. Lisella
Connemara 2004
- C. Lloyd
Carrying Grandpa
- M. Lyon
The Saying of Mass
- C. Moore
Taking You home
- J. Mulligan
- P. Murray
- P. Nicholas
Resurrecting Easter Sunday
- L. Pierro
Dublin Spirts
- F. Polizzi
Nun Ponnu/They Cannot
- N. Provenzano
- K. Retzlaff
- C. Steinhoff
Strawberry Pickers, Cyprus
- J. Tarwood
Melina's Tarverna
- B. Thomas
No News
- R. Tremmel
- R. Volz
Broadway Bagel
- C. Wald
Taking My 8-Year-Old Daughter to Hear Seamus Heaney
- L. Wiley
My Mother Had a Relationship with Good Bread
- C. Young
Sicilian Traces
- A. Znaidi

Spring 2015


- J. Amato
Moving Day, 1897
- D. Corrigan
My Madeleine
- F. Dunne
A Review Of Italoamericana: The Literature Of The Great Migration, 1880–1943
- G. Fagiani
The Immigrant's Grandson
- J. Giordano
Review of The Glass Ships
- R. Crupi Holz
A Sunday Afternoon
- R. Iulo
Dark Idyll
- T. Sanfilip
The Choir Book
- G. Sullivan
Review of My Two Italies
- T. Zeppetella

Featured Artist
Richard Holz



Rosemary Volz


Saturday, the West Village, maybe it’s Chelsea now
Walking along the High Line I see a huge yellow and red sign
“Tolerant of your beliefs, judgmental of your shoes –
Welcome to New York City.”

This is a tough city, you can’t be sentimental
So I brace up and look down at my shoes
Which are shoes only Walt Whitman could celebrate
And then because the sky is above and
The earth is below, I think of you, of your shoes
First the schoolyard sneakers and hushpuppies
Then the government-issue boots
Followed by wing tips and deck shoes
And sometime in-between you must have gotten
A pair of walking shoes. Though I wasn’t
Looking at your feet when you left.

When that happened, I thought about a quaint little cottage
Somewhere in Vermont where I’d learn about
Natural cures and unnatural desires,
Where I’d grow fond of cats and herbal tea
While I filled in for the local midwife
And line my cellar with pickling jars
But then I looked at the Chrysler Building
And knew I could never leave.

But it is an earnest afternoon and the Hudson
Is lapping while clouds shape change and tourist
Smile mindlessly at the funky confusion
And I sense you are still living on Mercer Street,
Wearing your worn-out slippers and
Maybe remembering the girl who once wore
White satin pumps and never learned
To read the signs.