Deconstructing Communism

. Visiting the Ruins of Tintagel Castle I wander through a forest deep __in Cornish countryside And think I see some elves asleep __And giants run to hide. The branches gnarled like magic wands, __Green velvet moss on trees, The ivy cloaks around the ponds, __Soft rocks bejewel the streams. I...

By Evan Mantyk In the sea of free verse, drifting downward into the bottomless whirlpool of aesthetic relativism, it is hard to not get lost; but poet, editor, and professor Joseph S. Salemi seems to have found the other shore. He has stood firm on the bedrock of rhyme and meter...

We Forget How quickly we forget the people killed, Millions slaughtered to get a lie fulfilled. All those Russians in the frozen gulag, All those Chinese, dead, without epilogue, All those hearts, for grand fantasies, stilled… The same ideas which now make students thrilled Inspired other men to the death...

By Evan Mantyk Last year, the College Board released a significantly redesigned Scholastic Aptitude Test (SAT). The SAT is used by millions of student applicants each year to gain admission to U.S. colleges and universities. The redesign brought the SAT closer to its counterpart, the other major U.S. college-admissions test, the...

By Evan Mantyk One week in mid-January this year, in the relatively obscure world of poetry, Joseph Charles MacKenzie’s “Pibroch for the Domnhall” exploded like an atomic bomb, shattering perceptions that rhyming and rhythmic poetry—poetry that common people appreciate or at least understand for a change—was dead upon the stage of...

  Console her with the Atheist’s philosophy: ____Never mind! Your grandma’s dead. It’s Nature’s way of denoting an atrophy ____In the muscles, lungs and head. I mean to say her central nervous system ____Was gradually shutting down. You really can’t appreciate its Wisdom? ____Oh, darling, must you frown? For when...

What a Wit is Worth For John Whitworth, poet Oh,  Whitman was a rhymer who enjoyed to play the part Of complicating everything.  It's something of an art To ramble on for pages on the pinprick of a thought, Which makes word choice irrelevant, and form seem overwrought, And chokes the...

You’ve not come to a meeting in three years— Within the movement, there are buzzing fears That marriage has ensnared you in its cage. And frankly, I myself have reached the stage Where anger has replaced the old respect. Now don’t get sulky—what did you expect? A happy private life...

Pibroch of the Domhnall   By Joseph Charles MacKenzie Author’s Notes: § The refrains at the end of each stanza are to be recited by the Inaugural crowd. § A Pibroch is a rallying bagpipe tune and is pronounced like “PEA-brohgh.” § Domhnall, the Scottish form of the name Donald,...

  Scrabble-ism One night I was hangin’ with Len, Eating and watching t.v. All the pizza rolls gone, I then Suggested Monopoly. “That game is all luck!” he then said, Voice revealing some anger. “Scrabble,” Len suggested instead, To which “yes” was my answer. Scrabble is, no doubt, a great...

Goodbye, sweet fetal child— for you shall die, Because a mother’s love is also dead: The hallowed place of nurture where you lie Shall soon become the ground where blood is shed. The battle to reject the womanly, Or motherly, for ‘me, myself and I’ Shall forfeit noble care of...