Wednesday, September 16, 2015

E·ratio is reading for issue 22, the January 2016 issue. The deadline for submissions is November 30. Please see the Contact Page for guidelines and where to send.

E·ratio has been online for over ten years and has consistently presented new, first-time and emerging writers alongside some of the most recognized writers of our time. E·ratio will never ask for a donation. Please support us with a “Like” on our Facebook Page or “Follow” us on Twitter.

Monday, July 06, 2015

Thursday, June 18, 2015

The language of these poems is at once precise and given to mystery. This is pannarrativity, the world writ large. Things are named and made new—given new meaning for both poet and reader. These are poems that see the world as one great narration. This is logoclasody, poetry as discourse—where the reader is a conscious participant in the breaking out of signification. Where, as Carey Scott Wilkerson writes in his foreword, “knowledge and experience . . . show their metaphysical hand.”

Labor Day

is for
and louder than our own

among and above all the steps
in order to

are needed, see

in that fashion
to part company

increased and further drawn
to give,

and say no more

or cannot go
to let or do or say

are ramp
and see and at an end

a fold or band
the tuft and wear

“St. Thomasino seeks the origin of words, the space that exists before the word is uttered or known, a practice which has occupied male poets and philosophers over the centuries.  He is aware, however, that women poets now attempt the same.  And this might be the meaning of his poem, ‘Janes.’


Jane is taking that which cannot be opened
Jane, that uses no words

this is taking Jane into the nameless
and, into the naming of Adam and the earth.

I highly recommend, The Valise, by Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino, for any poet who longs to reach the realm beyond the physical.  In a sense, his poems are a valise, a carrying item for meaning.  —Mary Ann Sullivan

“Gregory Vincent St Thomasino writes with a philosopher’s precision. Perhaps he is a refugee from paradox, finding asylum in these two-line stanzas so spare and direct. Fastidious in gathering particulars he makes statements when statements are needed and knows the time and place for a fragment. This, this and this: these poems are a lesson in ostensive definition. What St Thomasino keeps in his valise calls out in a restrained but singular voice for undivided attention.” —Alan Halsey

Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino was born in Greenwich Village, New York, and was raised in both the city and in the country across the Hudson River in New Jersey. He was educated at home, eventually to enter Fordham University where he received a degree in philosophy. In 2009 he received the Distinguished Scholar Award from the Doctor of Arts in Leadership program at Franklin Pierce University in New Hampshire. His poetry and prose have appeared in OCHO, Barrow Street, jubilat, New York Tyrant (v3.3), Verse Wisconsin, In Posse Review, Big Bridge, Cordite Poetry Review, The Germ, Onedit, Pindeldyboz, Xcp: Cross-Cultural Poetics, Rattapallax, Empty Mirror, GAMMM and EOAGH and in various anthologies including the Georgia anthology Stone, River, Sky (Negative Capability Press, 2015) and the language art anthology The Dark Would (Apple Pie Editions, 2013). His digital poetry has been anthologized in the Brazilian book Poesia Eletrônica: negociações com os processos digitais [Electronic Poetry: negotiations with digital processes] (Jorge Luiz Antonio, 2008). His e-chaps include The Logoclasody Manifesto, Six Comets Are Coming and The Galloping Man (Eratio Editions 2008, 2009, 2010).

If you would like to purchase a copy of The Valise, you can via are $12 and I provide free priority mail.

Tuesday, June 02, 2015

Thursday, April 30, 2015

E·ratio is reading for issue 21.  The deadline for submissions is May 31.  Please see the Contact Page for guidelines and where to send.

Friday, April 03, 2015

Bob Grumman, Poet 1941 - 2015

This was taken by Carol back on July 10, 2010, at the Bowery Poetry Club, at John Sims’ project The Rhythm of Structure: Mathematics, Art and Poetic Reflection.

Robert J. “Bob” Grumman, 74, of Port Charlotte, Florida, passed away Thursday, April 2, 2015 in Port Charlotte. 

Born February 2, 1941 in Norwalk, Connecticut to the late Frederick W. and Evelyn F. Grumman, Bob served with the U.S. Air Force as a Medic during the Vietnam War, and also as a member of the USAF Tennis Team.  A graduate of California State University, Bob moved to Charlotte County in 1985.  He worked for Charlotte County Public School System as substitute teacher until his retirement.  Among his many achievements Bob was proud of, he wrote and published “Visual Poetry.” 

He is survived by his brother, F. William “Bill” Grumman, and sister, Louise G. Anderson, both of CT; many nieces, nephews and extended family members.  In addition to his parents, Bob was preceded in death by a brother, Sherman Grumman. 

Services celebrating Bob’s life and committal will be held in his native Connecticut at a later date. 

Cremation arrangements are by Roberson Funeral Homes & Crematory Port Charlotte Chapel. 

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

A poet of Uncommon Élan sings the Intimately Oral 
(guest columnist Ralph La Charity on the poet Richard Loranger)

Richard Loranger is urban and awake, and has been that for several decades, as poet principally.  Now in his early fifties, he began his poet’s journey by arriving in San Francisco from Ann Arbor in the mid-’80s, where he immediately engaged the then-transitional Bay Area poetry environs and milieu.  You could still find an open reading any day or night of the week back then, which was where Richard fed his demon, which demon we all know.  It was the Ice Age Eighties, and a lot that was happening happened on the down low, whether at Kush’s candlelit no-chairs so sit-on-the-floor storefront on 16th Street or in those Clausen & Vinograd-frequented East Bay jousting spots in either Berkeley or in Oakland.  North Beach was desperate to stay relevant after the long shadows of Bob Kaufman and the enduring legacy of the Beats.  Yes, the likes of Corso and Ginsberg still appeared, but Bob was close to his own demise when Loranger first met him, while the ever-resonant Jack Hirschman was still a firebrand, and Paul Landry was printing limited bespoke editions of outlaw independent poets/poetics (with the encouragement of Ferlinghetti), and Bill Polak and Laura Conway, stewards of their own hand-crafted mag, Clay Drum, still ran frequent forays onto the aromatic coffee streets of the Beach.  Loranger watched, and learned, and stood and delivered hither and yon with tyro-maniacal aplomb, startling in his calm regard as eye-witness and participant in every open scene the Bay afforded.  Polak’s hosted scene was at the corner of Polk and California, an open air, traffic-noise-bedeviled open reading that became one of Richard’s first homes.  QR Hand still lived in the Mission, where he would help found the raucous and oh-so colorful scene at Café Babar, while Tania Peterson still hosted opens on the 2nd floor at Rose & Thistle, Bill Vartnaw held down a notable redoubt in Noe Valley, and Karla Harryman continued  to colonize the backroom at the No Name bar in Sausalito… back then, the Area’s premier poetry newspaper, Poetry Flash, still ran current and lengthy listings of the many obscure outlets for those of the oral/aural open reading persuasion, these that I’ve mentioned being only the notable few I can still recall, and Richard missed none of them.  Here is how he typically addressed us, his auditors, circa ’85 : 


Oh you can blah blah blah yourself to death,
but if you eye the sphere sharply,
sharpen fingers on each hour,
if you laser-splice all things = nexi
then you will sit pouring forth shine
digested of light,
throat shining ebullient kind,
and not hungry with your mouth full,
mouth full of earth.

If we could be blasted in space
we’d pin we’d brim we’d roar
but here we reptiles
divine means to leap
Heel-break-toe shin-break-heel
attempted landing thought sand
was soft forgot canyon snake
wasn’t meant to soar
Rock falls when it cracks
from within sap creeps
from the chest into light
making spores spring latch break clutch
Reeling off breathless tearing
pollen love eye-rivets
who can see virus legs
dinosaurs what we’ll be

Richard Loranger had a habit of finding the entirety of earth in grains of poetry back then, and he didn’t brake for formal gradualism.  The guy just sang it, outright and all-inclusive.  With poetry at once brash, focused, and intelligent, unapologetically hungry, giving off flares and flashes with scat-syllabic sappy delight, he startled.  
     Spring forward to the current millennium and to his second flat-spine poetry book, this one of more than 200 pages:  He has his mother’s eyes and teeth, he tells us, in the book’s prefatory note.  This from a poet who has by this time, alike to Johnny Cash perhaps, been everywhere over the course of thirty-odd years on the poet’s path: San Francisco, Austin, Prague, Chicago, Boulder, New York, to name an obvious few everyone knows.  He ate with relish and alacrity along the way, accumulating dire and abusive masticulatory evidence that had, eventually, to be addressed.  His book, poems for teeth, which the aforementioned note introduces, tells all.  In poem and song, this series of thirty-two rhapsodies delves into the intimately oral as physical locale, and into the wholesale extractions and re-structurings said locale occasions.  Herewith, the first page of a five-page poem almost halfway into the book, on page 81, the poem entitled TOOTH OF ENDURANCE:

# 9 — Upper Left 1st Incisor

Delight keeps the old man spry.
Lovely perseverant, take the rent with
a sweep of sheen — How gracious 
the year mere as lightning 
shocked and shot, the first, the 
fleetest runner pardoned for backward 
roots by the seem seam — lovely trickle 
of shorn shards and cored 
undulation, carved, stunned, 
struck and honored — first, fleetest, 
finest — beeline dancer, darting 
spree, sheer scirocco 
settled into reverence and, rightly, you, 
Old Man on a Stick, 
you do rock the house, keep the raft afloat, 
burgeon more than mere mortality.

My own first reaction was “whoa!” followed quickly by “wow!” because hey — this is so clearly a work descended from and advancing in its particularity the modal élan of TO NO POET IN PARTICULAR. 
     Its lines are right there, which is as much to say all over the place.  The words, so utterly s-reliant yet lovely, are placed with palpable rhythmic spring and chop — reading those lines aloud is like following a wizard somehow, but a wizard adept at seduction.
     Skip ahead, roughly three quarters of the way in, to the poem TOOTH OF MEMORY, four and a half pages long, beginning on page 159 with these, the poem’s first nine lines:

# 20 — Lower Left 2nd Premolar

Foraging the Pacific floor, 
closest to the roiling core of earth 
yet hugging the cold mantle, calm and still 
sifting animalcules and silt, 
drifting with the roots of islands, 
deeper than most fragile life allows 
dwells 20, scavenging, snuffling, 
burrowing a hopeful tunnel 
through himself.

Again, a seduction, yet, settling deeper than just alliterative sleight, this one sets a scene of intimate mystery wherein what is palpable teases and draws us in — anything, anything at all, might treasure forth. Well-whetted, we will follow the poet’s acute revelatory cues.  The poet has mastered the trick of emboldening his readers:  “Tell me more… ” is our breath-held plea. 
     Reverse direction radically now by tackling the first two stanzas, on page 27, of another four and a half pager, the jaunty TOOTH OF ENTROPY: 

# 2 — Upper Right 2nd Molar 

I dunno what the danger is, but I 
will figure it out eventually, I’m sure, 
as soon as I relax a bit, and then 
I’ll take a look at everything again. 
It’s just a matter of letting matters slide 
along, if you can stand to sit that long, 
and then sometimes I think I’ve gotta find 
somethin better to occupy my time.

Ne’er a molar e’er was 
like indolent Mr. 2, 
brave as a fish, 
twice as rich, 
and thrice as oopsy-doo. 

Yes, poems for teeth engages all thirty-two teeth the majority of us are heir to, one poem for each.  The poet sings his own mouth, a profoundly personal account of trauma and reverie, rendered both with denticular precision and far-reaching elegiac élan, simultane.  Fourteen of Loranger’s thirty-two teeth are “LOST,” eighteen are “PENDING,” and fully nineteen of his thirty-two poems encode within their flow italicized portions that are songs in fact, as scored in the book’s first appendix.  In the book’s second appendix you can even reference the specifics of the poems’ edentulous vocabulary.  You can sing along or play them on your instrument of choice.  You could tap them out percussively on your own pearlies.  And, in sweet acknowledgement, note as well the book’s dedication: “To Deborah Pasquale, D.D.S., for patience, skill, and kindness beyond the call.”  Nicest touch of all:  at the book’s release party in the Bay Area not only was there a poets’ band to celebrate the hour, but Deborah Pasquale D.D.S. gave a very special disquisition on dental hygiene.  All hail said interactive inclusiveness, indeed.

Nota bene: poems for teeth is published by We Press, ISBN # 0-9725663-2-5, paperback, 214 pp., $16.95 and is available through We Press, Amazon, and from the author.  Thus far and upcoming into April 2015, Richard Loranger will be touring, starting from his current homebase in the San Francisco Bay area, from Chicago on thru Columbus, Cincinnati, and New York.  For further information on the poet, see his blog

Monday, January 05, 2015

 a noun sing e·ratio poetry journal 20 · 2015

 with new work by Elizabeth Robinson, Jennifer Firestone, Wendy Vardaman, Jeffrey Jullich, rob mclennan, Sean Howard, Jill Jones, Vanessa Couto Johnson, David Chikhladze, Claire Warren, Doris Neidl, Marilyn Stablein, Apryl Miller, Eileen R. Tabios, Linda Kemp, Jacqueline Winter Thomas, Lauren Marie Cappello, Mary-Marcia Casoly, Mark Lamoureux, Carey Scott Wilkerson, Jeremy Biles

Yvan Goll translated by Donald Wellman
Xiao Kaiyu translated by Christopher Lupke

visual poetry by Yakman K. Tsering

“Ontologies of Lack and Excess in the Lyrical Poetics of Mark Strand and Rainer Maria Rilke” essay by Jacqueline Winter Thomas

e·ratio is edited by Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino with contributing editors Joseph F. Keppler and Jacqueline Winter Thomas

e·ratio is reading for issue 21. please see the contact page for guidelines and where to send.