Monday, May 25, 2015


Kenneth  Warren
1952 ~ 2015

I just received this news about Kenneth Warren, whom I never had met, but we long ago shared a front cover photograph display and interior article in Poets & Writers on the highs & lows of being small press publishers. From that date forward we were forever in fair exchange mode. No one ever had to remind the other. We always came through and what I sent to Ken from Longhouse pressings, he sent in turn back to me from House Organ, and the poetry wheel revolved. Yes, forever the twain was met. Not as easy as you might think, and eternally thankful.

[ BA ]

                           for Kenneth Warren (1952-2015)                         

from the shelf  tumbles dust

dry words, unread pages

there is heaven and earth

Ontario become a dark ship in a lake of gods

your soul was as constant as the driven wind

deep soul, beautiful lake, beautiful water

it is a taking away, taken from us

the subject of poetry as you know too well

a cloudburst unleashed

the evening cry of gulls

sunset below the pattern of storm

driven like sleep finally come

aftermath of black waves

growing wave crests orange

almost all the beats would be fine

in rhythm, but then there would be

a pause, a skip

I’d glance at you, eye to eye

and see the terrible aloneness

what bright color might next catch our interest?

bury that thought  as they now bury you

the rabbit in the moon

was placed there

as tribute for rabbit’s sacrifice

of his life and substance

for the saving of others

                                         Alan Casline       
                                         May 25, 2015
                                         Elsmere, New York


"Just came to my e-mail to hear of the death of Ken Warren. Ken was one of my best and bountiful friends. So many times our paths crossed and we got to do a few things together. I was so looking forward to House Organ  #100. I could always push on Ken and he would always carefully push back. Loved the guy and the world a dimmer place. Still a bit shocked."

[ AC ]

  I haven't asked Alan to share his poem, words, photograph, but something tells me
he doesn't mind.


Alvaro Cardona-Hine & Barbara McCauley 

photograph by Jeane George Weigel


the cows walk ahead of me

down a road milky

with low-lying fog

from time to time

I hear voices

above the steady pounding

of the river

then I realize

it's the song

I had thought of singing

a butterfly with two

suitcases of color

on its shoulders

bumps into me

A Witness

I come from the arms of my mother

glad to live alone

with you and you and you

everywhere I look

an odor of light

bears down hard

upon the earth

the wind from the ocean

suddenly finds itself

among the barley

Three Rivers Tie A Knot In My

now the sun is on the hill

caressing the backs of the eucalypti

from my room I can hear

the cicadas above their patron saints

woodpeckers up the mountain

I laugh a little under my breath

I have fooled the priest

who expected me at confession

my growth depends exclusively

on the broth

simmering in the kitchen

New Explanation

staring at a bird in the darkness

becomes evening     evening

stresses its song     a song

how light

after being stolen

is spent on useless roads

how the wind leans on blunt instruments

large fields are often small


for Barbara

what I wanted to tell you is on the tip of my tongue

the wind will find it in your ear

it is a day of rain and sun

some patches of snow hold out under the silent pines

flower after flower blooms directly across our path

Alvaro Cardona-Hine
Lhude Sing Cuccu
Alba Books Press 2015

Friday, May 22, 2015



Strange to see—

A sofa abandoned

In the woods

Off a dirt road

By the river we hike

No one around for miles


We turn the sofa back

Onto its legs, sit down

Call the dog up with us


© Bob Arnold

from the forthcoming ~
The Woodcutter Talks


Wednesday, May 20, 2015



Selected Poems 1968 ~ 2015
chosen & edited by Bob Arnold

New and available now from Longhouse ~

160 pages

 Perfect bound softcover


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 PO Box 2454
 West Brattleboro, Vermont 05303



Poets think they’re pitchers when they’re really catchers. — Jack Spicer

Okay, now that we have the game field established, start pitching, that means you dear reader. Long green grass stretches before you.

You hold in your hands the ultimate catcher’s mitt of poetry, written over six decades of the poet’s life — imagine six decades. As the editor, I one day asked the poet, as if I was coming by for a cup of sugar, “Say, why not send to me all of your poems written and published over all of your life.” Like I was asking for nothing at all. Well I was asking for nothing at all since the best of poetry is spun out of thin air. The best poetry reads like an umbrella being put up in the rain. What a terrific function! What a way to stay dry! What a balance of dryness and wetness. What aptitude! Let’s go for a walk.

The poet wasted no time, and I knew he was a poet because his lover for life, Lorry, helped him get together all the poems in their sun-baked island home in Florida and in a matter of only a day or so I had all the poems before me, in my catcher’s mitt. Or I was going to make a pretty perfect catcher’s mitt. It would be poems that were lived and made in different locations like Florida, Jamaica, the Virgin Islands, New Jersey, New Mexico, California, the Berkshire hills of Massachusetts, along a horse trail, swimming in the bowl of a lake, holding a daughter’s hand, listening awhile and awhile longer.  Gerald Hausman could have been famous, and in fact he is famous because he lived the life he dreamed of with one woman, his children, little bits of money and lots of beans and good chili, with an insurmountable energy for storytelling and writing children’s books, and publishing other people’s books, and traveling the simpler paths, where you never run into funny fame and fashion. You make poems like a baker makes good bread. Everybody eats.

You may even forget you are a poet, until another poet tells you —
 you are.

Well over forty years ago I first found the first published books of Gerald Hausman, like folded up into birch bark they were, and they were poems of the time that could be written on the softest subjects and with the most delicate care. There was such hope. It would be the easiest thing to share if only you could find a pitcher and a catcher — and if you did, and they were good at what they did —  the rest would fall into place. People would come, a crowd would gather and watch, cheer, and they’d play into the night. 

Bob Arnold


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Bob Arnold's first 
children's book

"R a i n   B e a r"

~ $12.95

A Cooking Book 

~ $15

If I Blinked Through
These Windows

Collected Music Writings     
a big soaking book of youth     

 ~ $20


Sweeping The Broom Shorter

Selected Poems    

~ $15

two different covers ~ take your pick!


maple sugaring in Vermont    

~ $12


The Garden of Amazement 

Scattered Gems After Sâeb 

~ $15



Small Lines On The Great Earth

poems from Scotland    

~ $15

My Sweetest Friend  

poems from brother to sister     

~ $15

The Islandian 

Poems & Fables
journey to another land  

 ~ $12

Volumes 4 & 5

edited by Bob Arnold 
 848 pages perfect bound

~ $50
 plus $7 priority mail

Go West

c'mon! travel westward by train 
in a full book of photographs
& poems

 ~ $15


selected poems 1959 ~ 1985 
edited by Bob Arnold 

~ $12.95

Start With The Tree

150 photographs by Susan Arnold
a lifetime of building & marriage      

 ~ $20


Tuesday, May 19, 2015


The winter was long, deep, cold, and the apple tree in our backyard
says, "Do it again!"

© photo Bob Arnold