Dear Friends, this is my last post on New York Peristalsis! I’ve recently found that the scope of this blog hasn’t been wide enough for what I want to do, and so I’ve created a new WordPress blog over at
I want to be free to write about many more things than living in New York City, and so this new blog offers me that possibility. (Although you know that NYC Peristalsis was about more than just this city, the blog title corralled me into that sphere.) This will be an author’s blog, with a lot more. If you are ever looking to revisit posts from the old blog, worry not! David McBloglin has a category called all “New York Peristalsis: About New York”. All you will have to do is click on that Category link, and all the humorously-complainy posts about living here will be available for your perusing pleasure. The other categories include:
Activism Against Sexual Abuse
Travel, Home and Other Places
Writing and Poetry.
As you can see, it’s easy to navigate. If, over the years, you’ve followed this blog via WordPress Follow or if you’ve subscribed via email, it would be great if you could go to my new blog to do the same.
Thanks so much for reading, and for your support since my first post in September 2010. Let’s not say goodbye: the conversation continues over at:
Here is an extract from a poem by one of the exciting poets who is participating in our fundraiser for RAINN, the nonprofit / charity that advocates for survivors of sexual violence in the USA. Her name is Emily Brandt, and the poem in question (“Secret Garden”) was published in issue 12 of The Recluse which is the online journal of The Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery. (The Poetry Project has a long lineage in the New York Poetry scene. Distinguished, certainly, but I’m not sure if that’s the word in the experimental scene. According to Miles Champion, “The Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church in-the-Bowery was founded in the summer of 1966 as a direct successor to, and continuation of, the various coffeehouse reading series that had flourished on the Lower East Side since 1960.”)
The extract is below, and you can read more of it here. If you missed my previous post about my motivations for organising the reading, you can read it here. The post has all the information you will need to donate to RAINN, and directions if you would like to come to the reading, which is at Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shop on Saturday, 29th April at 7 p.m. Anyway, here is the poem. And as Emily adroitly says, there is no other way to say it:
There’s no other way to say what’s next in this nonfictional mythology: A man rapes a woman.
A first draft reads: a man rapes a woman and nothing happens to him. Nothing! happens to him.
A revision reads: what happens to a man after he rapes a woman?
A revision replaces “rapes” with “sexually assaults.” A headline rewrites “has sex with.”
I know what happens to a woman. At least three hundred versions of I know.
It’s not hyperbole. I can share a hyperlink.
Here is a poem by one of the exciting poets who is participating in our fundraiser for the nonprofit RAINN, which advocates for survivors of sexual violence in the USA. His name is Thomas Dooley, and the poem in question (“Maybe in an Atlas”) is published in his fine collection Trespass, which was selected for the National Poetry Series in 2013. As PBS Newshour puts it in their Weekly Poem section, Thomas’ book “dramatizes family pain passed through generations”. Below is the poem, which you can find in Trespasshere. If you missed my previous post about my motivations for organizing the reading, you can read it here. The post has all the information you will need to donate to RAINN, and directions if you would like to come to the reading, which is at Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shop on Saturday, 29th April at 7 p.m. Use this link to PBS to listen to Thomas read the poem.
Maybe In An Atlas
Maybe another New Jersey
somewhere. Linden wood
as cash cow. And a way out. If my father grew
taller that year, sudden. Reached
the high altar wicks, a Moses
in Egypt. Bigger than the priests. What if deus
ex machina. Or a catcher.
No rye. Rye watered
down. Rocks to mean rocks. Not
glacial. Not a cold hand
anywhere. A siren sounds
on skin. Maybe a pie
in the window. Adults made big gestures
with giant hands. He wasn’t soft.
Boney, but not folded
like egg whites, hankies.
In his yearbook: “Aspiration: farmer.”
Tall as corn, as noon sun. Only if he grew
taller, sudden, he wouldn’t be
lightweight linden, maybe a hundred
proof. She was proof. Girls
were softer. Maybe his hand
looked giant. And she lay down
softly. Like he was made to, maybe.