Room 16, Oceanic Hotel, Star Island Last night my grandmother came to me seated by the shore, in white pinafore, in the bloom of youth where people say she looks just like me, or I like her: “Irish Mary” – hair like a filly’s unruly tail, wide teeth and dark eyes. She asked, “What are you doing now?” I woke with a start, her scent near me as the sun brushed the morning sky with light. White Island light winked, as the Minot lighthouse blinked three times on each turn in my childhood room in my grandmother’s Scituate house: I Love You, the light was said, to say, and we loved it back. -Ellen Taylor

“From the Porch of the Oceanic Hotel, 2003,” from Portsmouth and Star Island Poems, John-Michael Albert (Portsmouth NH: Marble Kite Press, 2016, p. 69) From the porch, I know what flat is. I was on the Thomas Laighton for over an hour, half of it from the Portsmouth docks to the mouth of the Piscataqua, half on the open Gulf of Maine, a straight line from Fort McClary on Kittery Point to the White Island Lighthouse, beacon to the endangered common terns. Star Island, six miles from Rye Beach, from North Hampton. On land I cannot see that far—the distance from my home in Dover to my work in Durham—but at sea, I can scan 100 miles of choppy blue from Cape Ann MA to Cape Elizabeth ME: trees, beaches, towns, the sea-foam green arch of Portsmouth’s I-95 bridge, even the flat-top of Mount Agamenticus; and scattered lobstermen and spinnakers bob and billow in between. All so close, I could touch them. All so far away, the don’t make a sound. “On the Isles of Shoals, for Tom Daley, Writers in the Round Poetry Facilitator, 2006,” from Portsmouth and Star Island Poems, John-Michael Albert (Portsmouth NH: Marble Kite Press, 2016, p. 78) All day the breakwater stood sentinel between the hotel and the Maine Gulf waves. All day I sat in my rocker: reading, listening to the waves pound time for the swallows. But dark has come, Haley’s igneous bridge Has dissolved with the last light, and the sound of waves has rushed the porch, my feet, my chair, and has left me dark-deaf to all but its roar. All day the bullies shoved these nine sisters; but now, the isles relent and carry me, slowly, across the star-pocked sky with this full moon, these sleeping terns, these bobbing Gosport yachts. -John Michael Albert

ROBERT For Robert Dunn, Portsmouth Poet Laureate The tide turns on its hinges and you left me that way, looked back over your shoulder, your mouth in shadow. I walk from the North Church up Bow and down to the park where all the tides line up waiting for their cues, and I wait. I dreamed I went to an exhibit in the place most dead and alive in our brick city. In a painting of the Isles of Shoals there you were, walking between them. Your ashes, scattered between Star Island and Appledore were every color – mixed with word bones, pennies, cigarette butts, and string. Feather- spines and shell hinges litter the paths I follow you down. What else have you left for me? What else? © Lesley Kimball, 2016

This Doesn’t Leave Here for Mimi White Though I confess I’ve grasped little of the sun and its input— the island’s endless stare and the lull between the lace and singed sill— one could’ve guessed by the gull’s risen bill and the last of the lilies holding still for us that nothing leaves here in focus, singled out. For most is lost to us, even uncertainty, blame and one can only assume that the moth’s wing is silt to the touch, that the plum is past sweet and does well just to gasp and then take from the moment only that which is light incensed, heat. And though having noticed the sea and having said glass I cannot help but worship my part in it how is it I cannot wait to lower myself again towards the grass as if it whispered my name, leaving me, not to what the world, thought of as light but the flame, word has it, had led me to believe. sea is vying for sky sky is vying for sea I’ve been eying you, love & you’ve been eying me o what un-get-at-ability! night’s buying into day’s light day’s buying into night’s mysteries all that white prior to white, love what are the stars trying to decree o what un-get-at-ability! don’t forget to duck down when coming in from outside smutty nose bills with moonflowers smuttier lungs fill with their tides cedar tree’s sighing over the wind wind’s sighing over the cedar trees from where I’m lying I see that I end up where we are beginning to be o what un-get-at-ability o Celia you’re breaking my heart you’re shaking my confidence daily o Celia I’m down on my knees I’m begging you please to come home

White Sails Billowed white sails drift across the surface atop dark blue water on a summer breeze, boats nudged through ripples on zephyrs. The horizon dotted with white triangles passively flow on wind and tide. From the shore, a single gull watches his outlined shadow on a square-ish rock set almost like a monument against a vast field of gray-brown pebbles, his feathers ruffle in the wind. The rock I choose is misshapen, conformed like a shore line chair where others have been seated watching white sails in motion beyond, hoping for a windy reprieve. Julie A. Dickson 2014 Star Island

Now is Past Off to the Isles of Shoals so close To our coast, but far in the past. Calmness and motions aligned with A current of rugged fixed rockscape. The world ebbs here, to return to The magic that flows form the Shoals. Our need to feel the presence of place Our forebearers knew was unique. We are yielded by earth to nature, Consumed, at last, to her bones. We grow, conceive, love and believe A small part of all she has known. Palette Azure, sky-blue, just over the horizon, Mauve glitters on a far strip of sea, Dark olive rockweed shows at half tide, Roses blush, magenta and white, Thick creamy yarrow with fern green leaf, Grey spots on a yellow moth’s back, Silvers and blacks of the birds and the rock, Gulls gold beaks with a blood red dot, Pulsing orange lilies, sunny bindweed, Scarlet berries, auburn hips of rose, Restless water blues, startled marine teals, At sunset, the deep purple stage drape Across hot-pink flames of receding day. The shock of crimson canopy. -Erine Leigh

In Space Waiting by your bed but you’re not here I can’t believe it’s been a year If I had a phone I’d hope that phone would ring But I came back here to nothing Seems half my life I’ve been in space I can’t remember what your face looks like I look out in the backyard I look into the woods It’s not looking good Nothing seems familiar when I look around your room Everything is colored by the moon Seems half my life I’ve been in space I can’t remember what your face looks like If I were a satellite nestled with the stars I could see exactly where you are And if you were below staring up in space I could take a picture of your face -Guy Capecelatro III

The Cold Front by Tom Daley A thunderhead hauls air from behind Portsmouth to our north off the back of an enormous weather. Across the Gulf of Maine, the cold front collides with the high haze. You have landed on this island fullof candle stubs and decommissioned depth charges, stately, locked against infatuation. I watch you stride off the boat, tall, broad-shouldered, your moustache and goatee prickling against the narcotic effect of your luminous eyes. When I walk into the stone house you are ensconced in a wing chair, attending to some casual trouble at the foot of your griefs. I practice your name and feel the bitter potency of your locked-down turbulence. Your irises freckle with dust motes. The colored particles whirl with slow motion across sunbeams that beg their way through filthy glass. We share that awkward telepathy of two players in a pantomime who have forgotten their cues. Later, you sit in during the class. You are the only one who can explain the difference between a heart attack and Russian roulette. In your own class, you offer the biography of phrases such as “suit of light” with which you stun my attention. When you sing, you shuffle your words into muffled queues, race between ache and shoofly shy. Your voice startles your high notes and chills them into whispers. The hair on my fingers stands on end from start to finish. I bless this cold front for it has doused the electricity that kept my inner ear vibrating to you without respite or shock. first published in Ponder Review

Song to the Sea – a poem by Rosemary Staples, music by Cynthia Chatis Waves reach out Their white gloved hands To stroke the sandy shore Waves breathe in Exhale the dawn As speckled white birds soar (Chorus) Angry or calm, its beauty a reminder, everyday a song, a prayer to be kinder Waves of sea And sky collide Motion stirs emotion Waves release A veil of salty tears Dewdrops of the ocean (Chorus) Waves of starlight Ignite and dance Rejoice with creation Waves peak Violin winds bow (Guy: I left the following line out, purposely…artistic license 😉) Air soft as lotion (Chorus) Waves flowing Like time and tide As music rolls and folds Waves announce there is no end to what the ocean holds Waves announce there is no end…

The Sun is Always Shining The sun is always shining, saying just try to be unhappy like how it once talked to Frank O’Hara on Fire Island, who also wrote about the sun but he wrote about everything— love and movies, art and parties— and I like writing about death so I’m trying to be weepy, somber, even petulant would do but the sun, stupid-ass sun, keeps shining and I’m happy, so happy I force myself to remember how once I got sunburned, second-degree sunburn— I was 13, at the beach with family— how could they have not told me I needed sunscreen? I try to get angry at my parents, or sad— they’re both dead now— but the sun, damn sun, reminds me how I peeled twice and as my skin came off in big blank pages I thought of the awful names kids called me— Pollock and fat ass— and how I wished those days could go away so I rolled up the names into little skin balls, flicked them into room corners out car windows, between my mean brother’s sheets and guess what? The sun, that great forgiver, giant blinding prayer, made me pure again. Love Poem with Questions I don’t know what’s making the waves crash way off this New England coast, a strange confluence of tides or small island wannabe hiding just under the water’s surface. That’s probably the answer, but knowing won’t make me stop asking which annoys my husband whose favorite G-rated question is bacon or sausage? Favorite answer both please, which is one of the many reasons I love him, this belief in possibility, forever optimism even though he hates all the questions I ask just to ask questions. Why do haircuts never go on sale? Do sunburned tattoos peel in color? Would you still love me if I were a paraplegic? Once, being rhetorical, philosophical as a room full of skinny 20-year olds in vintage-inspired glasses I asked, What is there in life besides longing? He said, What kind of question is that? which is a pretty good answer. -Nancy Krygowski

Three Epitaphs from Caswell Cemetery music by Chris Coté Lydia L. Stevens (1823-1850) The tear of affection can ne’er call her back The fond heart’s dejection, its yearning may lack She sleeps her last sleep, but our loss is her gain Then friends do not weep for she riseth again William Caswell (1794-1836) Death is a debt to nature due I’ve paid the debt and so must you John Caswell (1765-1825) The voice of our beloved friend Is wholly lost in death But still his dust and ashes speak My friends, prepare for death He’s left this world, his toils are o’er, Free from all sorrow, grief and pain To us he will return no more, But we shall meet with him again

April 17/18, 2022 Barcelona, Spain I walked toward the light. Too early to sleep I wandered past graffiti covered walls, Past a woman hanging thin white blouses over the railing. She hand-fed beans to her parrot. The shells so light they floated away. She shaped her day hanging laundry The way people living alone do. I had no idea I was headed toward the sea But I knew I needed light. -Mimi White

Star Island Sunrise In skirts of burnt sienna and blush pink, terracotta and candlelight she comes: breakers plume rocks, clouds bask in the hues of the horizon, shifting from pewter to rose gold; even the gulls gentle their rust-hinged tune. And then we feel it, the heaviness of light lifting us up- -Lauren WB Vermette

Blessings from a Garden Island The spirit of the poetess From the Isles blesses us The writers and the painters Future forms of her past friends She walks with us at eagle point Whispering into our ears While sitting silent by the water Waiting for words to appear She has followed Marianna She has fell into her rhythm Finding herself in her past homes Carving a life from clay and stone Watching us walk on harbors cobbled Stones, hundreds of years have past Thousands of her kindred spirits How many more has Portsmouth left? How many more left to remember Her soft words on pages placed She walks along a garden isle For centuries the artist waits For centuries the artist stands On isle, inland, on the page For centuries she has become A lighthouse guiding to this place (Celia thaxter What a babe Celia thaxter We’ll wait with you some day) Jonathan Frazer Lessard 2/1/23 9:48

On Appledore Island Poet to Poet The island bookstore displays her poems, letters, stories – Celia Thaxter, 1894. Amid reconstructed gardens of dahlias, hollyhock, cosmos, we walk hand in hand— me in zip-off pants, she in petti-coated skirts. As Celia offers a taste of island life, herring gulls guard chicks, scold interlopers, waves spray granite ledges. Tides meter ebb and flow of eons and foghorns, sounding for years, punctuate cool night air. Struggling to craft a poem, scribbling free verse to a new age, I hear sisterly suggestions for rhythm and rhyme. Our footsteps fade into a future that came and went. Star Island—Off the Coast Come with me now to a magical place where water laps slippery rocks, its spray tossed like gems in sunlight, where gulls drift on thermals and caw in delight, where porch rockers creak in the wind to staccato rhythms and poetry births itself. Follow me, like Alice, to a place where cottages link together along a thin boardwalk, lead to an artist’s barn of cedar shakes and a pond where sandpipers bob to their own reflections. Enter this place where an old turnstile leads through low-hanging shrubbery to gravestones and granite monuments that share secrets. You’ll hear the wail of a foghorn wending its way through notes of jazz and music of a six-string quartet, watch the canvas of moored sailboats flutter like lacy sheers in an open window, breathe in a palette of color—goldenrod spikes, purple aster stars and blousy reds of rosa rugosa, Its sweetness scenting memory. Sunsets? Yes, sunsets too hover over open seas, backlight an old lighthouse with history walking its ramp. Year after year, the island will stitch your life together, leave memories like a string of beads draped lightly in your palm. Here, you’ll sense your place in the choir— You will come back. You will come back, poised on the tip of your tongue. -Barbara Bald

Owl She birthed you, but she is so unknowable. Is that the word? Try, nocturnal. Each night she glides on wings silent as a vole quivering under snow. Perched on your bedroom sill she watches you dream-twitch, then spins her head to spy the snow- mound ripple—sugary in moonlight— as the vole tunnels past pines. She lifts off, silent still, and you— daughter of hurt and squeal— are awake. When you sigh, your heart-shaped face aches. Is that the word? Try, breaks, knowing when she dies you’ll inherit all she’s swallowed whole yet had to leave behind. -Meg Kearney

Stars Fly in Overnight this spring, land before this island opens for tourist season. We birders huddle in sleeping bags, in a cold water flat, emerge to fog thicker than mother’s pea soup. Wrapped in blankets, we sip coffee beside our bird master, waiting. When the fog lifts, we see what he sees through his bionic eye. His parabolic reflector tells him just what birds flew in overnight— northern parula Carolina wren black-throated blue warbler More than twenty warblers, plus scores of other birds on their way to summer breeding grounds, some as far as Canada. Like an English pointer, he shows us where to look, to see what he sees, hear what he hears. Our senses fully alive to the day: salt air, sun brightening--brain saturated with ruby-crowned kinglet, redstart, Northern waterthrush. Following him to cliffs alive with surf, we search for oystercatcher, glimpse spotted sandpiper, black guillemot, ring-billed gull, collapse on the cliffs, stare at the sky. A merlin circles Hotel Oceana, sitting on its forty-six-acre pile of rock. * * * It was a seven-mile crossing from the mainland. We are owned by its little stars. -Beth Hyde Fox

Star Gazing If we watched stars the way they watch us I guess they’d see us explode…eclipse, expand and contract at the pull of a trigger. The dilation of our eyes would wax and wane as we plunged head-long through galaxies, passing at light speed without understanding – suddenly we turn around to face the sun. Pen Click Poets ,/ 2016 Lauren W.B. Vermette ~ Rosemary Staples ~ Julie A. Dickson

9/9/22 5:20 PM THE CHAPEL I find the path That leads me here I off my cap and mask to breath Alone within these warm stone walls I sit myself to look within I hear voices Too close and loud To bless this humble chamber Distracting me from finding peace Two fingers snuffs an ember It seems the wired spider’s web Can reach out past the sea The voices fade The ocean sounds And glowing forth resumes in me -Jonathan Frazer Lessard

Polaris On our January porch, hands open to starshine, we are pierced by Polaris. It's a stigmata I feel as my right palm presses your right palm, fingers laced. It's a burning, a covenant. Later in our bedroom, some shine on your shoulder where I touch as you drift into your own night sky. We have been pierced by star points, filled with light. We sail on it, I your compass, true North, and you my lantern and flame, tower and beam. -Carol Bachofner

Ineffable M. Bryant. Star poem 3-19-23pdf There is a word for that: the poet sighs and snow mounds hiding earth and life. Sound is gone and seemingly asleep while winter’s down shroud tugs the tree beneath: There is a word for that ever in the quiet, thick and sweet not mellifluous or tart, dark, damp, or deep the Muse retires failing to divulge: the word for that. Poet searches sky, the heart, a rhyme,. What is the word that muted Muses hide in frozen coffers locked to keenest minds? Could melting in submission be a key? So loud the voices swelling without note— is a word for that buried in the drifts as crystals pirouette in lateral lines converging to adhere to window panes dancing snow flakes honor silent chant. There is a word for that: Oh poet bow! Let creation strike you dumb!

Writer I carry a pen in my shirtpocket mostly it’s just a pen in a shirtpocket but once in a while it leaks through and makes an indelible mark over my heart and when that happens people are moved to put their hands over their own hearts -Paul Hostovsky and exclaim that my pen actually had them believing if only for a moment that it was a matter of life and death -Paul Hostovsky

blue eyes I want to know if your favorite color is blue does it tease the back of your throat when you taste it? I once smelled blue a fall harvest farm sweat and combines and how do you feel about yellow? Is it raucous and laughing? I heard yellow once it was the chiming of crystal bells rung with palsy I only know these colors these two will do because now these colors you see, these colors lead me to you -Adam Shlager

Star Island, September Morning - Maren C. Tirabassi Dawn rises on East Rock in pearls, pinks, and golds with hints of grey, and we stand, with the far-sightedness of September on an island – the autumn wisdom that makes and wakes and breaks every day so precious. Then we turn to the west, where against the dark clouds that trailed fifteen-minutes of rain in their swift mainland flight, a full rainbow arcs above the old Gosport church, some stones around faith that have stood a long time. In the grass circle made by Vaughan cottage, Parker, the old parsonage, there’s a red-checked tablecloth crumpled on the ground, and spilled clams and broken shells, left when someone ducked inside from last night's downpour. Now, in tank tops, pajama bottoms, rain hats, and digital cameras, the sky sees us, dressed in our enduring and our hastening on, reflecting colors of our two horizons, but even if it were all fog and my feet hurt, cut by shells of all my past days pried open and eaten too quickly, I’d reach out for the ring of it, this every-time-is-now ... on Star Island.

The Sea Will Call R- Sons of the fathers, taken to sea Though some will follow, landlubbers will flee A fisherman’s life is not meant for all But for the true sailor, the sea - she will call Wayfarers’ voices adrift on the waves As darkness is falling, they cannot be saved Scurry on ship deck, pull ropes, secure boom The fishin’s been hearty; it makes the gulls croon. R By day the fishermen cast out their lines when night approaches, they shan’t be entwined at sea in night shadows, men have been lost Rocky coast beckons, on reef they’d be tossed R Holds over-heavy, fish laden their hull Hands waved in presence of lone eager gull Bountiful take from the cold azure sea Sky streaked in ruby as night makes its plea R Homeward the sailors to pub and cold ale Drink up tonight lads, tomorrow we sail! Fish market booming with catch of the day Celebrate full nets of fish - fiddler’s sway R Tune of the ocean, the tide’s jaunty dance On the sea’s bounty, they all take a chance Families depending on weathered da’s face Love of the salt air, they just can’t erase R Sons of the fathers, taken to sea Though some will follow, landlubbers will flee A fisherman’s life is not meant for all But for the true sailor, the sea - she will call Repeat R Lyrics- Julie A. Dickson Music- Dan Miner Star Island 2014

NOVEMBER The turtles stop crossing the yard. The air does not vibrate with dragonflies or bees. The wheelbarrow, rusted and empty, retreats to the shed unneeded. The garden folds its dead into turned soil while dried leaves tuck up under the chins of the roses. Some herbs move inside to winter on windowsills. Wood stacks to attention ready for the coldest night. A mouse builds a rental in the chicken coop. We let it stay. Not all things leave on schedule. On the anniversary, I visit you under grey stone, and bring nothing, say nothing, think that next time I will plant bulbs. -Belinda Braley

The Ballad of Louis Wagner (words & music John Perrault) The fog peers in the windows, passes ‘neath the lamps, settles in the doorways, huddles from the damp— slips inside the houses, rooms, the sleeper’s bed and dreams, rolls him over, turns him out, into the shrouded street. Dreamer, listen to the river, rubbing at the docks, through the smokey loneliness on Ceres Street we’ll walk— there’s someone waiting for us, where the tugs are tied, his name is Louis Wagner, and he’s waiting there tonight. Over there by the warehouse—a shadow like a stain, a man—and around his neck, look! A silver chain. He’s pointing at us, fingered us, it’s Wagner’s laugh alright— shh...he’s about to speak. God, look at his eyes. ~ “A night like this, just like this, in March and it was cold, John Hontvert and Ivan Christensen had some in from the Shoals, to sell their catch and buy some bait and pour themselves some rounds, oh those crazy fools had left their wives on the Isles of Shoals alone. “And they wanted me to join them, to go out baiting trawls, but in my mind flashed silver there had been some talk about, last summer out on Smutty Nose, and I was Ivan’s guest— I heard him whisper to his wife Let’s hide the silver in the chest. "So I left them in the alehouse, pulled by an undertow, I grabbed my hatchet, shoved the dory out, and I set my back to row, I rowed that dory through the night twelve miles out to sea— twelve miles out and twelve miles back, it seemed eternity. “I see the trees on Gerrish Island, looming from the shore, the swell is building under me and I’m digging in the oars, and a sickle moon comes cutting cross my shoulder from the east, colder than the hatchet blade lying at my feet. "It’s all darkness over Appledore, darkness over Star, darkness over Smuttynose, pounding in the heart— and those women out their waiting—Anethe—Anethe and Marie— and Karen, Ivan’s sister, she was so good to me. “Lunging Island to my left, Malaga to my right, Smuttynose lies dead ahead I can just make out the light— and the rhythm of my rowing, it’s coming faster now, the Half-Way Rocks just off the stern and death just off the bow!” Louis, Louis Wagner, rowing through the night, Louis, Louis Wagner, the noose will fit you tight— silver chain around your neck, silver in your eyes, silver in your Judas soul that never never dies. “The wind now whipping from the west and the swell will not be tamed, the ocean building to a roar and the mind will not be changed— this boat will have its landing, this sea will have its flood, these hands will have their silver, and the devil will have his blood. “One lamp in the window, a beacon ‘cross the ice, safe harbor for the weary, sake keeping for the night— comfort for the sailor, wrecked upon the sea, terror for those gentle folk who once befriended me. “I’m gliding into Haley’s cove and there’s not a soul in sight, I grab the hatchet, climb the bluff, heading for the light— the snow is sucking at my boots, the ice gnawing my hands, but the blood is boiling in my veins, the blood—do you understand? “I smash into the cottage, my hatchet swinging wild, Anethe leaps up from sleeping, her eyes are like a child— She screams God—John—God—running from the room, I grab her in the doorway, the axe glints in the moon! “Fire racing through my brain, explosions in my eyes! Anethe lying on the floor, and Karen screaming Why? The axe, the blood, the sky, the moon, the pounding of the sea— the howling of the crazy wind... The wind—or was it me?” Louis, Louis Wagner, raging in the night, Louis, Louis Wagner, the noose will fit you tight— silver chain around your neck, silver in your eyes, silver in your Judas soul that never never dies. “Anethe, Anethe Christensen, her lovely golden hair, all smeared with blood, all splashed with blood, oh god it was everywhere... and Karen, gentle Karen, she just wanted to be my friend, she made me well when I was ill—her blood is on these hands. “Marie? Marie she got away, she ran barefoot through the snow, I followed her tracks through the craggy rocks but the moon was falling low— I couldn’t find her anywhere, and I went back for what I came, but in the chest I only found this piece of a silver chain. “Oh this icy piece of a silver chain, and there was nothing more, I threw the chest against the wall and I smashed the bed room door— I ripped apart the still warm beds, I tore up every shelf, I cursed the very universe... and then I cursed myself. “I stumbled back down to the dory, and I flung the hatchet in, I shoved off for the mainland, fighting time and wind— the dawn was breaking bloody red when I rowed into Rye, I threw myself down on the beach and I hung my head and cried. “I made it to the train to Boston, but nothing was the same, and every woman on that coach kept whispering their names: Anethe... Anethe and Karen—they were with me all the while, then they took me back to Kittery and I had to stand my trial. “The judge was steaming on the bench, and the jury numbered twelve, and a thousand eyes inside that room condemned my soul to hell— I was seated in the dock, Marie was on the stand, and right behind me, I couldn’t look, were the eyes of John and Ivan. “The judge looked toward the doorway, and the jury disappeared, and a hush rolled through that courtroom like a fog across a pier— then the judge he banged his gavel, and the jury took their seats, and the foreman stood and he pointed at me and said: Guilty in the first degree. “Oh the sun had not yet risen, there was a moon still in the sky, they took me from the prison with the sleep still in my eyes— and the moonlight on the gallows made that noose like a silver chain, and as I fell, I heard Karen pleading: Louis, won’t you be my friend?” Louis, Louis Wagner, hanging in the night, Louis, Louis Wagner, the noose now fits you tight— silver chain around your neck, silver in your eyes, silver in your Judas soul that never never dies. ~ Well Karen’s question gets no answer, for the wind’s beginning to rise, and the fog’s rolling out with the river, look at the run of the tide— and now a moon, a sickle moon, is rising just off shore, and out beyond the tugboats, listen—you can hear the dip of his oars. Dreamer in March at Portsmouth Harbor, when the night puts on her mask, and the fog prowls the dripping street you might hear a stranger laugh— you might feel a bloody finger, jabbing your moral soul, for Louis Wagner is bound to relive what happened on the Isles of Shoals. —John Perrault Rockweed/Music/ASCAP