Wednesday, September 30, 2009

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

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

he looked at me
sadly and said

kid, whatever
you do,

don’t go into

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

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Six on a Stoop By Ed Galing



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


* From Mobius magazine.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

Poems about Ray Charles and Benny Goodman from Ed Galing


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
"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...


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.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

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

Saturday, February 7, 2009

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, 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...

Friday, January 2, 2009

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

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


The High Ground

when the mourners had
finally left the stage
and the cemetery went
i had sprinkled some
earth on my wife’s
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
i was so delirious,
and we took off, and
i began to talk, and
then i turned to her,
and she was no longer
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
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