Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Ed Galing: Poet of the Month Poetica Magazine Oct 2008

Poetica Link:

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


the summers were very


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


drying in the sun,

we slept at night on the


the stars and the moon, like

the hanging gardens of babylon,

iriddense, magical,

"shema yisroel, adonai, echod,"

the first words i learned to


in hebrew.


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


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.


my mother, when

she was alive,

God bless her


loved to dance;

she would say,

for instance,

when someone asked

her where she was


she would reply,

"ich gay tantzen,"

i am going dancing,

what a wonderful

jewish word is


so clear, so exuberant,

so whimsical,



she would dance to

russian melodies,

polish one too;

for she came from


she danced at weddings,

bar mitzvahs, (bat

mitzvahs also,)

"ich gay tatzen,

ich gat tatzen,"

oh, she loved the


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."

Friday, August 22, 2008

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!



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

Friday, August 8, 2008

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

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

By Ed Galing

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

By Ed Galing

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

By Ed Galing

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

By Ed Galing

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

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.


it’s only a diner.

i eat there a lot.

people are nice here…


waitresses smile

and make you feel

at home…

it’s only a diner…

yeah… but it’s more than


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


feel the same way too…

it’s only a diner…

but the men and women who

work here spend almost all their


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”:


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


and sometimes

the garbage

and rubbish

is all mixed up

and scattered


and the cars get

snowed in so

deep in the


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


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


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


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


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."


Somerville, Mass. area poet and publisher Leah Angstman keeps 91 yearold poet’s work alive.

(Ed Galing)

(Leah Angstman)

Somerville, Mass. area poet and publisher Leah Angstman keeps 91 yearold poet’s work alive.

Leah Angstman remains an enigma. She politely evades my requests for interviews, champions the work of a 91 year-old Hatboro, Pennsylvania Poet Ed Galing, ( a legendary small press writer), and has an ambitious indie publishing concern “Propaganda Press” that has an impressive slew of poetry titles. The author Budd Schulberg once asked “What makes Sammy, Run?,”….I want to ask: “What makes 20-something Angstman run?” Then again, maybe leave well enough alone.

In my mailbox at The Somerville News I found that Angstman mailed me another bunch of Galing titles: “Loose Ends,” “Rooftops: A Poetry Collection,” “Senior Center,” and “Lower East Side Poems" Galing is known for his poems of the Lower East Side of NYC where he spent a good portion of his childhood years, and they are not only works of art, full of rich detail and humor, but they are historical records of a milieu slipping away into the ether of the collective unconscious. I say Angstman is doing valuable work.

You can order these and others by contacting Angstman at: The website for the press

Here are a few poems from the collections for you to savor:


Hey buk
I ain’t mad
At you,old pal…
I like your
The way you
Fought life
Until you died…
I envy the books
You wrote,
And your barfly movie,
And your good mind,
And your thoughts,
And your friendships,
And your readings
For hundreds of bucks…
And the way you gave
As good as you got,
And all the women you had,
And all the letters you wrote
Turned into books
When you died…
And come to think
Of it, old buk,
What better way to end
Your life as a writer
Of poems,
Is to read all
In book form…
And in that way you
Live all over again…
So I salute you,
Cause you were one
Of us, once,
Until you came to dust,
And I will follow you,
Whenever my turn comes,
But I leave no letters,
Only a bit of dust
And rust.


When I ride the
Elevated train

I always
Sit near
The window

Looking out

As the train
High up
Through the streets

I watch
The rooftops

How different
Each one is;

Water towers;
Clothes hanging
On the line;
Tattered roofs
Low income

But it’s only
When the train
Suddenly dips
Into a dark

That I realize
How much I
Need the light!

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Steam Bath

on the lower east side
every friday afternoon
the holy rabbis
come to get their
steam bath
and shower,
sitting on wooden
with the fog
enveloping them
so you couldn't even
see them,
these holy ones
turn into sexual
monsters, as they spew
dirty jokes, laugh
out loud
remark on the size
of their penises
and what they would do
to women,
and forget their holy mission,
you would be shocked
and surprised
but they still don't
and later, the attendant
comes along with the
switch broom, to smack
their asses, till they are
red, till they scream in
as if to atone for all those
dirty thoughts they had,
feeling they deserve every whack
and thus,when they leave later on,
and return to their normal religious
virtues, they almost feel like
born-again christians

--- Ed Galing

Sunday, June 22, 2008

In the summer shade of the Quercus Review (number eight)—featuring Ed Galing

In the summer shade of the Quercus Review (number eight)—Review by Michael Todd Steffen

The summer edition of Quercus Review (number eight), across the country from Modesta, California, will be of interest to Boston area readers and poets and writers. Its featured poet, Ed Galing, at 90 years young, stands as a great oak of the small press, with a publishing career that spans sixty-some years. Ed is known widely to the local eyes of the nation, not least to friend and editor of the Ibbetson Street Press Doug Holder from Somerville.
I became aware of Galing’s work first through the Ibbetson Street web site and in the pages of Holder’s Off the Shelf run weekly in the Somerville News.
The featured section in Quercus gives 42 pages to Galing’s work, the first four consisting of an informal essay by Doug Holder who characterizes Galing’s experience as a “hardscrabble life,” the poet’s compositional effect a “no-bullshit, call a spade a spade style” and his poetry’s turn of wit a “calculated ironic distance.” It is an apt description of a craftsman’s unseeming wisdom and acquired skill with words and sense and how to place them, ever so nonchalantly, as in ONE DAY IN A NURSIN HOME, in which Galing, pushing his wife in a wheelchair to the cafeteria for lunch, is asked where his is taking her, and—

i reply with a smile
i thought today we would go
into the forest, and see the
lake, and the trees, and maybe
stop in the pizza parlor…

Galing’s answer here is as wry as the names of those with whom he plays cards in SENIOR CENTER—

every day,
there is moe epstein,
abie weisberg, and sam
adelman, and me.

Galing’s poetry bears on you to the extent that you are immersed in language. People of some age and wisdom are keenly attuned to language in a way others are not. Some of us must especially focus in order to perceive the music in what is being said. A dip of the hand
does not find the resistance of wading up to your breastbone in a pool or shoreline. Galing’s wit and expression are so at one with the fluency of his spirit, after these some years, the demarcations in the language, the poetry, simply breathes from him. Ed sums up the almost transparent union in his composition process:

I sit at the electric typewriter and bang them out… It is as if the poem has come to mind long before it develops on paper.

Quercus is a reputable biannual literary journal of poetry, fiction and b & w art, which has featured such names as X.J. Kennedy, Naomi Shihab Nye and Charles Harper.
Their number eight, along with this generous feature of Galing’s work, includes poets and writers from every direction in the United States, from Ashland, Oregon to Bristol, Rhode Island, from Houma, Louisiana to Broomfield, Colorado, not to forget poet Mary P. Chatfield from Cambridge, Massachusetts whose quiet description of waterfowl and winter ice melting on the river in “Waking” reads itself as carefully as the observation “the wing display the splashing the feathering/the reeds.”
The fiction section highlights Frank Arroyo’s “Acceptance,” written with an exquisite patience for detail and palpable ambience. Reserving the story’s plot for your curiosity, I can’t leave this article without quoting from Arroyo’s deft descriptive style, the narrator’s perceptions as a child lying in bed at night toward the end of the story:

The silence of the house turned the air around me electric. I could hear the steady hum of the refrigerator; a car slowly turning some corner, and then speeding up; the wind seemed to rise with some great force, as if the ocean had come with it, leaves crackling against the bottom of the house, the wind caught in the swaying trees, a branch tapping the roof in a steady rhythm. Outside my bedroom window, through the twisting and blurring black branches, I focused on the thick blue air of the back field, how deep and tangible it seemed because for a moment it became a dark ocean of waves rolling with the rhythm of the tapping branch, the bright windows of the distant tenement building bobbing in the waves…

For a peak at this issue of Quercus Review and ordering information go to

Ibbetson Update/Michael Todd Steffen/June 2008

*Michael Todd Steffen is the winner of the 2007 Ibbetson Poetry Award.
Labels: Steffen on Quercus

Thursday, June 5, 2008

The Elevated by Ed Galing

The Elevated

the trains of new york rumble
through the night

overhead they snake along
curved rails, clattering
their way overhead,
as the train passes old
tenement houses, and people
walking down below
on the streets.

entering tunnels where it
becomes very dark, until it bursts
out into the light once again...

as a young boy my parents lived
close to the EL, and my bedroom window
faced the elevated trains, which
made noise all night long, as they lumbered
overhead, in the dark,

and often I would lie there in my bed
and listen to the rhythmic noise of the
wheels, and it was so strange that even
the noise they made was true to the
beat, making a kind of symphony of the
sounds, hurling the train through
poverty laden east side streets,

while inside the train itself, were many
drunks, gangsters, homeless people,
with no where to go, but just to ride
the rails all day and night,

while I listened to the sounds,
and was glad I didn't have to worry
about tomorrow.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

The Boardwalk by Ed Galing


In those days we went
To the beach by train,
We would disembark
And walk the boards
Smellin’ the sea breezes,
Admiring the way the
Swelling waves hit the shore,
And curled away in
Rhythmic motion.

We were young
And we would get to the
Sand and open our umbrella
Shedding our outer

We had our bathing suits on
Ready for the dip
In the ocean.
We laughed a lot
In those days
I remember
Admiring the way
We both looked
For young flesh is so beautiful.
I flexed my muscles
And grinned as she snapped away
We got sunburned
We ate our hotdogs on the boardwalk
Made love in secret under a blanket.
We soaked in the juices
And loved ourselves,
And to hell with tomorrow.

--Ed Galing

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Confessions of a White Hat by Ed Galing

Confessions of a White Hat by Ed Galing ( Alternating Currentc/o Propaganda Press POBOX 398058 Cambridge, Mass. 02139) $5

I speak to 91 year old Hatboro, PA. poet Ed Galing on a regular basis, and I am amazed that despite his advanced years his mind is still sharp, and he continues to regale the small press with his prolific output of poetry and prose.I am also glad that a local press: Propaganda Press, headed by Leah Angstman, has published a new chap from Ed. Ed has written extensively about his days as a boy on the streets of the Lower East Side of NYC, his stint as an occupation soldier during World War ll, and life in Amercia as a Jew, family man, and the many roles he has played in the expanse of his lifetime. His latest book "Confessions of a White Hat" deals with his time as a naval reservist in the post World War 11 Cold War era. In characteristic Galing style he gives the reader the taste and texture of the Navy-life as he knew it. Here Galing describes the milieu,and the sensibility of his place and time:

The Begining

we are a motley
as motley as
you could ever wish
for; fresh out of
other branches
of the service,
after world war
the Reserves
wave a silver
platter before
our eyes;
ex marines
coast guard
we all clamber
on board,
not willing to
forget the
military yet;
the cold war
is still on;
unrest in other
parts of the
Russian Bear,
i had to be nuts
but six months
after i get out
of the Army
i am now a
member of the
Naval Air
on Active Duty
at an air station
four miles from
and the fat is in
the fire once

Friday, April 11, 2008

Just Because by Ed Galing

everyone who wants his
name to be known
should write
his or her own obituary.

do not wait
for others to write
about you,
this is not a
good idea.

they will
not do
your name

no one knows "you"
better than yourself,
so while you are alive
sit down
and begin to
write your own obit.

make it a good one.
put in all the
wonderful details
that made you what
you are.

omit disasters,
do not mention pitfalls,
dwell only on your accomplishments,
how beloved you
were while alive,
and all the good
things you did.

send it to your newspaper
omit the date of your death

fill that in much later.

--Ed Galing

Saturday, March 8, 2008


BREAKING NEWS: Sam Pierstorff, the editor of the Quercus Review, will be reprinting my Ed Galing article previously in Rattle Magazine "Ed Galing: A Poet of the Greatest Generation" in the May issue. The issue will be a tribute to this 90 year old small press legend....


i have an
to perform
as a Jew,
i have a solemn
not to forget
the past,
no matter how old
i become.

my heart as
yearns for
the homeland
for a place of our own
we Jewish people
so long without one,
I shall not
forget where i
come from,
the tenement house
on the lower east side
where the early
jews first settled
down in this new land

all of those memories
lodged in my brain
like a newsreel of the past
and i can still see
the ship, and those
who stood on the top deck,
watching as they
approached the statue
of liberty and freedom.

In my ninetieth year
in my mind
i have just been born.



I alway sat in the
front row
with the bald-headed guys.
I was eighteen years old,
and all i wanted
to do was see a naked
girl in the flesh.
it only cost about
a buck or so to sit
there was a blacony
for fifty cents,
but you couldn't see
anything looking down
on the stage.
the orchestra was loud,
the drums with the
boom, boom, boom
the trumpets so loud
it broke your eardrums.
the curtain came up
and after a half hearted
chorus number,
the strip teaser came out.
we all hollered, take it
off, take it off,
the stripper pranced up
and down the stage,
bit by bit she peeled
off her clothes until
the G string.
she would wiggle her
ass, give a wink and
dissappear behind the
then i went to the
men's room to take a

Sunday, January 27, 2008


The phylacteries on
my forehead (small box)
were like a hot iron
the little Black Box
in the center of my forehead,
as if to brand me, once
and forever,
as a son, my father
wanted me to follow
in his footsteps
and the thongs on my left arm
wrapped around,
wrapped so tight,
as I recited the
"Shema" with
my father-
I at
thirteen felt like a
convict in irons,
and felt like I
was condemned
because God
could punish me
and I would die!
My father was Orthodox.
He wrapped himself
daily in ritual ceremony--
His proper shawl and mine
the mark of Cain
I wanted
none of it.