FEILE-FESTA
Spring 2015
Poetry
The Harbor of the World
- O. Arieti
Those Italian Boys
- I. Backalenick
Friendless Featherheads
- G. Beck
Spailpin
- K. Cain
Fashioning
- J. Campbell
King Street Comanche
- B. Foster
Santi
- L. Giulianetti
Poets Out of Service
- M. Johnson
Irish Farmer
- L. Kumar
Communion Portrait
- J. Lagier
Away
- M. Lisella
Connemara 2004
- C. Lloyd
Carrying Grandpa
- M. Lyon
The Saying of Mass
- C. Moore
Taking You home
- J. Mulligan
Departures
- P. Murray
Yiaprakophela
- P. Nicholas
Resurrecting Easter Sunday
- L. Pierro
Dublin Spirts
- F. Polizzi
Nun Ponnu/They Cannot
- N. Provenzano
Kate
- K. Retzlaff
Refuse
- C. Steinhoff
Strawberry Pickers, Cyprus
- J. Tarwood
Melina's Tarverna
- B. Thomas
No News
- R. Tremmel
Signs
- 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
FEILE-FESTA
Spring 2015
Prose
Augurina
- 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
BIOGRAPHIES
Contributors
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Kate “Are you hearing the thunder? Four hours by bus. Kildare hunger drove them headlong into the wind, Nebraska bound. Mical Bridget they left behind with the Old One, but finally, she went west, to a family she had never met, beyond Pawnee lodges and stands of cottonwoods, to a place last kissed by salt waters long before dinosaurs exploded into star shine, married a good looking drunk, had three daughters and a son, who took in his Da when Bridget said, “Enough.” Then Catherine Bridget married a Scots Prod and was lost. “Dropsy,” said the death certificate, But the obit said, “Two daughters and a son living.” Kate said, “Don’t call me Bridget. I’m no one’s scullery maid.” Kate it is. Handed down, along with the anger, like her lace hanky, mother to daughter. |