Tuesday, August 20, 2019

Join Eileen M. D’Angelo at GoggleWorks Center for the Arts October 3rd, 2019

Berks Bards welcomes Eileen M. D'Angelo to join us at GoggleWorks Center for the Arts to read selected poetry. Following his reading, we'll allow ANYONE to step up to the mic and read what moves them.

When: October 3rd, 2019 at 6 pm

Where: GoggleWorks Center for the Arts Studio 411

201 Washington Street Reading PA 19601

Read Eileen M. D'Angelo's Bio below:

Eileen M. D’Angelo, Director of Mad Poets Society and Editor of Mad Poets Review, has coordinated over 1500 special events in the tri-state area and was the subject of a Tribute by Philadelphia’s Moonstone Arts Center in 2018.  She has been published in Rattle, Manhattan Poetry Review, Paterson Literary Review, Drexel Online JournalWild River Review, Philadelphia Stories, Philadelphia Poets and others. A judge for the Philly area open auditions for the pilot program of HBO’s Def Poetry Jam, she conducted workshops and performed original songs and poetry on WXPN’s World CafĂ© Live, at St. Joseph’s University, Rutgers, Rosemont College, Main Line Art Center, Delco Community College, Manayunk Art Center, Hedgerow Theatre, Montco Writers Conference, Walt Whitman at 200 celebration at City Hall, and other venues. Former Board Secretary of Musehouse:  A Literary Arts Center in Chestnut Hill, and former six-term President of the Philadelphia Writers Conference, Eileen is an advocate for domestic abuse awareness and Founder of Arts Against Abuse. She was named the 2017 Paralegal of the Year and was also the recipient of the 23rd Annual Victim Rights Award given by the Delaware County District Attorney’s Office and the Domestic Abuse Project.

Below is a sample poem from our featured poet:

The Art of Getting Lost

It begins with an unbroken line bending out of sight. 
The road is unfamiliar, yet you pressure the pedal, 
confident you are on the right road.  No stops 
or bathroom breaks because you are making good time.

You never see it happening as you drum your fingers 
on the steering wheel to the sound of Radar Love,
leaving crowded beltways and choking smokestacks behind, 
oblivious to the subtle replacement of cities
by small towns.   Of small towns by trees.  
And you?  You are foolish enough to enjoy the ride, 
as you disappear into the wide mouth of open country.

There is no sign  Entering Nowhere - Population 1
to give you the option of turning the car around.
No warning that soon it will be only you 
and a handful of horses, the occasional silo, 
a pile of gray rocks from an old foundation.

The fields around you have never even dreamed 
of a gas station, let alone a rest stop, 
and as the car carries you into oblivion, you wonder:  
              Isn’t that the same bale of hay?  

There, in the heart of desolation, as though 
you alone survived the bomb . . .  
It is you and the sound of crickets, you
You and the surprised sound of your own voice:
              I’m in the middle of nowhere

And time slows down.

You fumble for road maps in the glove box, 
pull the car to the pebbly shoulder of the road. 
One crow on the wire above you 
throws back his head and laughs, as you spread a map
on the hood to the curious stare of cows, the car sheepish 
as if it should have known something.

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