Review of Ed Galing's "Burlesque" by Irene Koronas

burlesque
ed galing
iniquity press/vendetta books
isbn: 1-877968-33-1
2005 4.00

Ed Galing presents a time almost all of us have never heard of, or seen or been privy to, yet, his poems expose us to the bump and grind; strippers and comedians trying to entertain an audience of visually sex starved men. All this comes across in the poems. The reader will enjoy the show and will get acquainted with some of the characters behind the scenes. the poems look at life as it once was, naïve, compared to today.

“puttin the powder
on his scraggly
face

he looked at me
sadly and said

kid, whatever
you do,

don’t go into
burlesque”

Although the verse is brief in presentation, we the reader will come to understand what it means to reveal something never seen in public and we will dance with excitement.

“its only the chorus
girls, mostly,

who will go as far
as your money does.”

Irene Koronas
Submissions Editor
Ibbetson Street Press

Six on a Stoop By Ed Galing

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


SIX ON A STOOP


we were all young kids
back then, on the lower east
side of new york, and in the
summer time we sat outside
on the stoop, watching the
people pushing and shoving,
and the pushcarts, and the
garbage, and the noise…
and we would make fun of it
all, like little brats often
do…there were six of us, all
of us full of beans,
for instance, little red-haired
betty, with white stockings,
sticking her tongue out as people
walked by us, and saying stupid
things, like nyah, nyah, nyah…
there was irving, about ten years
old, small, black hair, who
made up songs as people walked by,
and we all laughed as he pointed
out people, and then there was
harry, who lived in the same building,
about eleven, and played a trumpet
so loud we banged on his door…
he would sit on the stoop with us
and make noises with his mouth, like
a trumpet…a real goof ball…
in the summer time, when it was so
hot, we made the stoop our meeting hall…
we chewed gum, hit each other playfully,
and threw things around, and that’s
how the summer went for us…nobody
gave a darn about tomorrow…we were
just kids…in poverty…
years later, as it does,
one of us became a dancer on broadway,
another became a famous song writer,
and still another an orchestra leader,
the other three never amounted
to much, though they tried, because
you can’t really get anywhere, sitting
on a stoop on the lower east side,
no matter how much you try

ED GALING
Pennsylvania

* From Mobius magazine.

Poems about Ray Charles and Benny Goodman from Ed Galing

RAY CHARLES

his long fingers
on the keyboards
were pure magic
you could see his
fingers move
and listen to the
sound of blues,
his voice, shaking
from side to side,
his smile a part of
the music, there was
no one as good as
ray charles,
a black man who was blind
but not his music
he knew the soul of music
and it was poetry
he could play a song on
your heartstrings and make
you cry
music was his main love
but it wasn't only blues
for he could play the song
"america' like you never heard it before
then
"he girl with the diamond ring, oh,oh,uh, uh"
we repeated his words,
so humble in his presence
i would listen and join in
with my tiny little harmonica,
trying to blend myself into his song
but of course ray
never knew this,
i could never play the blues
as he did, but oh, how i wished
i could...


Benny

those days when we
were between wars
when music made us all
feel good
as we young teenagers
jumped to the music of
benny goodman, and his
licorice stick,
benny, with the large
smile, and wearing glasses,
looked like our grandfather
but oh how he could play
that stick
we would rope off the street
back in 1934
and would turn the radio on
and dance
we turned and whirled
we dipped
we danced close
we made do
with what we had
we were young
and we loved young
and benny's fast
hot jazz
filled our dreams,
for benny knew how to make us
hop and laugh
those trilling
tripping notes
from the clarinet
strings of pearls
dance, dance, dance
oh how we danced:
"bei meir bistdu schoen"
a jewish melody
about how lovely your girl was
and benny turned into a
modern jump
times were good
even when they were bad
the war was a way off
but for now
this was good.

Letter about Ed Galing from Philadelphia Poet Janice Jakubowitcz

What should a productive writer do on a snowy homebound afternoon? Write stories, edit stories, send away stories? Recently on a quiet snowy day, I decided to purge some of my files. It’s like the avoidance of studying for a test as a student; I’ll get the writing jitters so cleaning helps to relax. I keep articles from newspapers or magazines that are useful to character development and writing hints. I came across a golden one. It was a Letter to the Editor of my city newspaper written by a 79 year old poet. In this short piece he eloquently explained why he wrote. It touched me again. I didn’t have a date noted and decided to Google his name. I found an interview with Doug Holder and contacted him. It turns out that Ed is now 91 and I had that clipping for 11 years! Doug gave me Ed’s phone number and I called him yesterday. We had a wonderful conversation. He offered to send me books of his poetry but when he found out that I lived around the corner from one of his favorite restaurants, (Jack's Deli) we agreed to meet for lunch when the weather gets better. Also in this incredible connection, I learned through Doug about an ezine that is published locally. They host a poetry reading once a month a block from the train station that I take every day to my job in the city. And it gets better – another poet that I met on line has known Doug and Ed for years! Ah….I love the writing life and the wonderful surprise connections that can occur in this small planet that we live on.


* I agree. The Small Press has provided me with wonderful, interesting, people to talk to you and become friends with. I am not getting rich and I ain't a poet/laureate, and there is a lot grief connected with it, but: "don't change a hair for me, not if you care for me, stay little small press stay,... ( Thank's Cole Porter)--

Doug Holder

At The Deli: Waiting For My Son

Waiting For My Son

it will take him about
two hours to get to
jack's deli, where i am waiting
he lives in maryland
says he can't get a good corned
beef sandwiches there.

so he is coming to meet me
here, and i sit in a booth
and wait and i am holding an
old album,
full of pictures from the old days.

one is when i bought him his first
bike, oh, how he rode around and
around, waving his hands happily.

it was the first bike he ever had, and
we lived in a housing project, very,
poor, but somehow, i was able to buy
him the bike.

i had never seen a happier boy in my life
i want to show him these pictures when he comes.

so much time has gone by since those days
for one, my wife has died, and
i am alone, and the album is about the
only thing that keeps me thinking young.

my wife once said: why do you keep the
pictures so long?, she couldn't understand how much it meant to
be able to see the
past, when we were young and happy.

he should be here soon...i keep thinking
now he is seventy years old, and i'm
ninety one... it's hard to believe so much time
has come and gone... so many tribulations.

wait till he sees this album, i think...
and there he is, just walked in, he sees me
and waves, and for a moment I can't believe
this is my ten year old son...this is a man...
who is slightly bent over, has a moustache, limps,
and is headed my way...no, there must be a mistake...
but here he is now, smiling and saying, hello, dad,
but the traffic was awful out there... now let's eat
some of the good cornbeef.

hello son, i reply. be my guest.

i don't think I will show him the album.
that's a different story, a different time...

New poems from Ed Galing in "Dance Of My Hands"

New poems from Ed Galing in "Dance Of My Hands" http://www.danceofmyhands.com

TWO POEMS OF ED GALING
_______________________________________


The High Ground

when the mourners had
finally left the stage
and the cemetery went
quiet,
i had sprinkled some
earth on my wife’s
grave,
said my prayers,
now i stood alone,
looking around,
noticing the quiet
reverence of this
solemn place, and
thought about how short
life can be,
already overwhelmed
with sadness, i put
my hand out, and she
arose and smiled,
put hers in mine and
together we walked to
our car at the gate,
and she said with a sigh,
let us get out of here,
and I said softly,
where to, honey?
she waved her hand
lightly and said,
anywhere with you is
fine,
i was so delirious,
and we took off, and
i began to talk, and
then i turned to her,
and she was no longer
there,
no longer there,
as i drove on,
feeling her spirit.


Nursing Home

old age sometimes
becomes a burden
and then
the nursing home
becomes a haven
for those who
can no longer
manage on
their own;
pity them,
the poor,
the old,
the homeless,
the infirm,
the demented,
the ones in
wheelchairs,
say a prayer
for those who
have to take
care of them
the nurses,
the doctors,
those who have to
feed them
dress them
even bury them
say a prayer
and hope you
never have to
be in one
yourself.

Ed Galing: Poet of the Month Poetica Magazine Oct 2008

Poetica Link:

http://www.freewebs.com/poeticamagazine/poetofthemonth.htm


Here are Ed's Featured poems:





Ed Galing



Land and Honey



the lower east side

of new york

was my playground:

i walked among

pushcarts on

orchard street

and delancy street,

i played ball with

my chaverim on the

early streets of

the east side, with

makeshift bat and

ball,

the summers were very

hot,

fire plugs gushed water

to cool us off,

as if the river jordan had

overflowed just for us,

my mother and father were

typical immigrants from

russia, simple people who

loved the Torah, and our

way of life, and instilled

into me the love for the

one and only God, who watches

over all of us,

the tenement houses rose high

and wash hung from the windows,

lines stretching across roof

tops,

drying in the sun,

we slept at night on the

roof,

the stars and the moon, like

the hanging gardens of babylon,

iriddense, magical,

"shema yisroel, adonai, echod,"

the first words i learned to

recite,

in hebrew.





Prayers



the high holy days

i am jewish

i am almost ninty

i have lost my wife

she died this year

i have nothing much

to live for,

when a man loses his

wife he loses it

all,

i take solace in prayer,

i hold the prayer book

in my hand, while the

cantor sings the mournful

hebrew passages of the

kol nidre,

when it comes to the

mention of the dead, my

tears wet the pages before

me until i can't see anymore,

i sob my wife's name

over and over again,

I say kaddish, while

the entire synagogue fills

up with the sounds of redemption.





Tantzen



my mother, when

she was alive,

God bless her

soul,

loved to dance;

she would say,

for instance,

when someone asked

her where she was

going,

she would reply,

"ich gay tantzen,"

i am going dancing,

what a wonderful

jewish word is

"tantzen,"

so clear, so exuberant,

so whimsical,

tantzen,

tantzen,

she would dance to

russian melodies,

polish one too;

for she came from

poland,

she danced at weddings,

bar mitzvahs, (bat

mitzvahs also,)

"ich gay tatzen,

ich gat tatzen,"

oh, she loved the

waltz,

in the arms of

my dear departed

father, i can see

her still,

swirling around a

ballroom, smiling,

so graceful,

throwing a wink

at me, standing nearby,

"ich gay tantzen."

Leah Angstman: On Poet Ed Galing

(Ed Galing)

( Leah Angstman)






This is a statement from publisher Leah Angstman, who has and is publishing a series of poetry chapbooks of the work of 91 year-old small press legend Ed Galing. Leah is the founder of the “propaganda press” that is now located in the Somerville - Cambridge, Mass. axis. I have been friends with Ed Galing for years and I share many of these sentiments with Leah. Believe it or not I have never met Ed in the flesh, but I still consider him a good friend. Mark Pawlak, an editor for the “Hanging Loose Press” told me that this is not uncommon. He considered himself very close friends with a late West Coast poet even though they never actually met. Sometimes letters, emails and phone calls can cement a friendship. You might even be disappointed if you actually met the person. I don’t think that would be the case with Ed!


**********************************************************************************

STATEMENT FROM PUBLISHER LEAH ANGSTMAN http://www.alt-current.com


ed first sent me a sample manuscript back at the end of 2004 after getting my contact information from other poets in the small press, many of whom i was printing at the time and some of them local east coasters: joseph verrilli, b.z. niditch, the like. he sent me the manuscript right as i was packing all of my belongings in cardboard boxes to move from my then-apartment in detroit across the country to the beautiful pacific northwest. the manuscript landed in a box and made its way across the country, untouched and unread. i had become quite sick at the time with a temporary, but long and painful, illness, and i had to take a breather from the small press, although i never put the pen down, myself. there was a two-year hiatus of just living and breathing perfect mountain air, but the tug of the small press called me back, as it suddenly seemed that the writing world was missing some of its faces and words. in these years we lost diehl, egleton, spillane, williamson, koning, l'engle, sheldon. there were personal losses: mailer, paley, styron, and vonnegut. and there were poet losses: leonard nathan, vincent ferrini, william meredith, jane cooper, dmitri prigov, and the east coast's own sarah hannah and stanley kunitz. i started feeling like i needed to break back in and capture the words of the small press before even more fled.

so i pulled out the cardboard box of hidden and unloved manuscripts, dusted them off and gave them another look. in this box of treasures was one that seemed so genuine, so honest, that i almost couldn't touch it; this manuscript would later become what is today's confessions of a white hat, the first chapbook of ed galing's published by propaganda press. but just as surely as i'd set foot on the ground to reclaim my stake in the small press, the winds of change were making their way back across my life, and it was time to haul out those cardboard boxes and pack up my life again.

this time to the other coast, to breathe different ocean air amidst blunt people and tough attitudes, but to thrive among a culture- and history-rich small press and indie art scene in boston. and right at the turn of the new year, i dusted off that manuscript one more time to unveil the honest stories and words of ed galing. i needed to get them out to the world before we lost another one, to create a lasting place where the words of our past meet the people of our future.

ed's words are sincere, so very east coast, so very much a part of the surroundings and history of this place: the bluntness with no pretense or sugar coating. in casual conversation, i asked a fellow friend in a bar if he knew some underground poets, and of all the names i mentioned, he only knew one: ed galing. ed has a place here, among the pages of history books on this coast; he is a journalistic voice of a bygone era reminding us of how things change, yet how cyclic it all is, how swiftly the seasons move, yet how long we are grounded to this earth. he is a reminder of how we need to know ourselves, our race against the clock, our honesty with all that surrounds us. simply put: ed galing is the living testament of history to this country; and if we are to see ourselves into the future, then we must reach back and understand our past, know from whence we came, know how we all got here and where we're headed. ed will help you reach back and take that journey forward, and all i can do is bring him to you.

-leah angstman

Pam Rosenblatt Reviews 5 Ed Galing poetry chapbooks ( Propaganda Press)

Diner (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing


Bargain Basement and other selected poems (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing


Out On A Limb (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing


Shadows on the Wall (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing


Chasing The World never catching up (Propaganda Press, Alternating Current, P.O. Box 398058, Cambridge, MA 02139) alt-current.com

By Ed Galing



Five of Ed Galing chapbooks have been reprinted by Propaganda Press in 2008: Diner (Peerless Press, 1999), Bargain Basement (Peerless Press, 2001), Out On A Limb (Peerless Press, 2002), and Shadows on the Wall (Peerless Press, 2006) and Chasing The World never catching up (Propaganda Press, 2008).

In each of these chapbooks, Ed Galing reveals poetry that is down-to-earth, concrete, and filled with wit. The typical reader probably thinks he can create poems just as wonderful as Galing writes. But, most likely, the reader turned poet is wrong. Galing’s poetry isn’t easy to recreate. Galing makes everything he writes look easy. Even the designs of his five chapbooks are plain and simple: 8 ½” x 11” standard white paper with a muted colored covers folded in half and held together with two regular sized staples along with no tables of contents pages or page numbers. Even the chapbooks’ titles are down to earth. Each title is developed from a poem within each of the chapbook, except for Chasing The World never catching up, a collection of poems first published by Spare Change. The titles’ simplicity make the reader wonder why Galing has chosen these particular titles, these particular poems. While Chasing The World never catching up, is a more complicated title to go with a more difficult read, Shadows on the Wall really has some controversial, difficult poems. Yet, Galing is an ordinary, no-show-off type of person. What you read is what you get. Or is it?

In life, Ed Galing is not your everyday type of guy writer, though he writes about life’s everyday happenings and progressions. He is a renowned 91 year old poet who was Poet Laureate of Hatboro, Pennsylvania in 1978; was nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice; has written over 23 books; published his works in over 400 magazines including RATTLE, POESY, MAIN STREET, QUERCUS, and IBBETSON STREET. He loves to play the harmonica and enjoys dining out, especially at diners. He was married for over sixty years, and has two sons, two grandchildren, and a great-grandchild.

In the chapbooks, Galing discusses things like diners, diner employees and customers who frequent diners, Pennsylvania, poverty, homelessness, home, mental illness, the Jewish holocaust, Jewish lifestyles and customs, old age and it’s implications, the ‘simple’ life, music and musicians and burlesque, dancing, the Twin Towers bombing, and family.

A lot of different themes run throughout Galing’s chapbooks, but the one we will write about today is Galing’s “home”, as in where home is, and how he keeps finding home in the various places he frequents. Many of the poems seem to be autobiographical.

In Diner, Galing writes about “diners, and those who work them”, the “restrooms”, the “counter work”, the “cashier”, “customer blues”, and a “diner”. After reading these poems, the reader gets the sense that diners are a friendly, surrogate family world to the speaker. Galing mentions the word “home” in “diner”, which is the title poem of this chapbook, and the reader understands that the diner is a place where the speaker feels comfortable enough to call “home”, a place where he has laid down roots, in a sense.


diner


it’s only a diner.

i eat there a lot.

people are nice here…

friendly…

waitresses smile

and make you feel

at home…

it’s only a diner…

yeah… but it’s more than

that…

it’s the place where

i feel like i’m with a family

feel less lonely

feel happier

knowing that other people

eating in their own little

booths

feel the same way too…

it’s only a diner…

but the men and women who

work here spend almost all their

lives

doing a hard day’s work and night’s work

and some of them call it

home, too…

just the way i do…


it’s only a diner…

it’s only a diner…


Through simple description, sentence structure, word usage, and repetition, Galing has conveyed his philosophy that home isn’t necessarily found in a square building structure with four walls, windows, a front door, a doorbell, and green lawn in the suburbs, but it is simply where you feel like you fit in, as Galing writes, “it’s the place where/i feel like i’m with a family/feel less lonely/feel happier/knowing that other people/eating in their own little/booths/feel the same way too…”

Galing’s chapbook, Bargain Basement, deals a lot with “home” and where home is, as can be viewed in the first poem, which is once again the chapbooks title poem, “Bargain Basement”:



bargain basement


one of the best things

about Horn and Hardarts

was the way they

treated me;

like a gentleman,


even when i was down

and out, not

a nickel in my pocket…

i could always get a cup

of hot water,

and help myself

to the ketchup…

made the best tomato soup in town…


and even the napkins

were free.


In “bargain basement”, again, Galing has journeyed outside the traditional view that

a real house is what a person should call home. Here Galing describes a restaurant, which is in a “bargain basement”, to be like “home” to the speaker who is probably homeless and receives “a cup/of hot water”, “ketchup”, “the best tomato soup in town” free of charge. The speaker says, “Horn and Hardarts/…treated me:/like a gentleman,” Such a warm and friendly environment makes the speaker, who may be Galing himself, feel at “home”.

Galing actually writes about a disruption in his family home life in the poem, “farewell to paradise”, also found in Bargain Basement:


farewell to paradise


the day my father

left and didn’t

come back

i was sixteen


i remember

walking into

a room as quiet

as a tomb,


my mother sober

faced standing near

the mantle

told me she had

news for me,


and when she told me,

i listened but

felt like dying,


and inside my heart

drummed a death song

and i watched my

mother dying too,


and i wanted to

take her in my arms

and tell her that

everything would still

be all right,


but i didn’t do it…

instead i walked out the door,

went across the street

to the small park


and it was cold and

i sat down on a bench

and i cried my


fucking eyes out


In a progressively sad and then suddenly angry tone, Galing writes about a very personal experience, an experience that had a traumatic affect on him. He was so distraught that he “…sat down on a bench/and (he) cried (his)//fucking eyes out” His once perfect family structure had broken. In “farewell to paradise”, Galing’s speaker says goodbye to the home life he once knew.

Through lower case the entire poem, including the first person, “i”, Galing has gently eased the reader into his life, though the ending line, “fucking eyes out” reveals

the speaker is not happy. Galing tells the reader things as they are. Simply put. No jargon attached. And it’s a relief for the reader to understand concretely where the poet is coming from.

Galing reveals more about his early home years in “GOOD DAYS AND BAD”:


GOOD DAYS AND BAD


we had our good days

and our

bad days

just like

anyone else…

people think when

you live in

south philly

you’re bound to

be different

cause maybe you

don’t have a

lot of money

and you live in

a row house

in a small

street

and sometimes

the garbage

and rubbish

is all mixed up

and scattered

everywhere

and the cars get

snowed in so

deep in the

winter

sometimes you’re

wishing you were a

million miles away…

but hey,

when you live in

south philly

you’re special


Obviously, Galing’s speaker identifies “south philly” with the place where Galing himself lived, the place where “we had our good days/and our/bad days”. Galing seems to write autobiographically about his poverty as a child living in South Philadelphia, as when the speaker explains, “cause maybe you/don’t have a/lot of money/and you live in/a row house/in a small/street/and sometimes/the garbage/and rubbish/is all mixed up/and scattered/everywhere”.

The speaker has been subjected to South Philly’s poverty, which isn’t such a pleasant memory, but Galing ends the poem on a positive note, writing that “when you live in/south philly/you’re special”. The speaker may have lived in the impoverished city of South Philly, but he knew it was his home, the place where he had roots.

In Galing’s “FAREWELL, SOUTH PHILLY”, the speaker again autobiographically talks about his mother. The whole poem is about “home” and identity, and about how


….These are the real south Philadelphians…

my mother was one of those.

long after I had left the old neighborhood

to get married

she remained behind

living poor in the third floor front apartment

where I had left her


taking care of the outside marble steps,

sweeping the street;

always cheerful and happy,

hardly any money, being on welfare.

she loved her surroundings at fourth and

Tasker,

and always looked out the third floor window

waiting for my return visit…


Galing writes how the speaker’s mother has found “home”, especially revealed

when he describes her “taking care of the outside marble steps,/sweeping the street,/

always cheerful and happy, hardly any money, being on welfare./she loved her surroundings at fourth and Tasker,…” She had found permanence, while Galing’s speaker has left this solid place for somewhere else. The speaker returns to the building site after a long time, long after his mother’s death. The speaker admits, “And I never cried so long, or so hard, in all my life.” The speaker has closure on the place where he was raised, where his mother was “at the window where my mother used to wave to me so many times/when I returned to see her…/I could swear that I saw her face looking down/at me, now, and waving,/and suddenly I smiled and waved back,/and whispered, goodbye, Mom…” Again, Galing has revealed a sense of “home” in Bargain Basement. Although his mother has died, the speaker still has a sense of belonging to a place which holds many memories for him.

Galing writes about “home” quite often in the five chapbooks mentioned in this review. But the strongest sense of “home” and permanence that Galing conveys is in “Because You Asked” in Chasing The World never catching up when writing about his relationship with his wife:


Because You Asked

For my wife, R.I.P.


are we dead?

she asks me


no, i say

we are still

alive,

but we are

old, she says,

we have to die

some day, i tell

her gently,

not yet…

but when you’re

old you die

my wife says,

don’t you know that?

we all die, i agree,

but even the very young

die,

the rich die,

the poor die,

the homeless die,

the soldiers die, too;

unless an accident happens

when we will die,

let’s not rush it,

it will come soon enough…

do we live here?

she ask again, as

if she forgot we have

lived in our home for

fifty years,

of course we live here,

i reassure her softly,

you and me… we live here,

where are our children?

she wants to know

they have long gone away,

i reply,

it’s just you and me.

we hug each other

eighty-eight isn’t

easy.

neither is alzheimers.


Galing has composed a wonderful poem about his wife and his kind, and gentle caring for one another. The poem flows from line to line, enjambment after enjambment. And, once again, the concept of “home” is discussed, this time Galing uses the words, “our home”, to show that the speaker, Ed Galing, knows what a strength there is in having a real home, family, and wife, as read when he writes, “do we live here?/she asks again, as/if she forgot we have/lived in our home for fifty years/of course we live here, i reassure her softly,/you and me…we live here,…”

Galing has written about the different stages and kinds of “homes” he as speaker

has encountered throughout his life, ranging from diners to bargain basements to south philly to the home his mother and he lived in during his early years to the home he and his wife raised their family in.

Diner, Bargain Basement , Out On A Limb, and Shadows on the Wall , and Chasing The World never catching up all poetically describe Galing’s journey to find “home” whenever and wherever he can.

These short and sweet chapbooks are excellent reads for people who want a down-to-earth, gentle, often humorous, and sometimes eye-opening as well as mind-opening, reading experience.

Hopefully, these chapbooks will make the permanent move to a shelf in your bookcase.

Pam Rosenblatt/Ibbetson Update/Aug 2008 * Pam Rosenblatt is a regular reviewer for the Ibbetson Update, a former arts/reporter for The Somerville News, and a member of the lietrary group: "The Bagel Bards."



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