“Paul Pines’s poetry precipitates gritty reality with sparing drops of philosophical cyanide. If Robert Creeley had owned a bar, he’d have written not a few Paul Pines works — as it is he’d have approved, heartily.”—Andrei Codrescu

Paul Pines: Last Call At the Tin Palace

Praise for Paul Pines' work:

"In my youth I was lucky enough to stumble into the Tin Palace. Lord, I wish I could do it today — and with Paul Pines’ poems, hey! I can.Whether he’s dissecting rats and roaches with scientifi caplomb, or eulogizing Ellington, Eddie Jefferson, he’s always got that Low East jazz vibe. A little Roswell Rudd, a little Paul Blackburn. And when you’ve got that going on, you fl ow like beer and Borges. It’s the Tin Palace. It’s Paul Pines. It’s where poetry is always happening."—Bob Holman

"Paul Pines, like Homer, has the poet’s ear and eye and can tell stories from his life that become cultural history as well as works of art in themselves. He captures the rugged beauty of a certain time and place, not on a ship in ancient Greece but from the sidewalks of New York and the music that was played and still reverberates. This is the kind of book you can read and re-read and feel you are part of the band. Pines got the whole picture and painted it for everyone else."— David Amram

"I celebrate this book & its sweet & sour hip yet hot clarity, its subtlety & concision tempered by in-your-face mystery & hardcore knowing. Thank you, Paul Pines, for a sublime ride!" — David Meltzer

"Paul Pines' Songs from the Page of Swords consists of those personal, bounding poems, deceptively simple in short measured lines, and a soft voice that is loud enough to resonate. Pines is conscious of every image, locking them with threads of sound. He has traveled, and loved, and spent difficult time alone. He has erred, sinned, and found peace."— Louis McKee, The American Book Review

 

 ISBN:  0-9785555-7-0; $15.00

BOHDAN ANTONYCH

           You want to be Orpheus,
            make trees dance, grass sing,
            water a sustaining melody:
            you refer to yourself
            in the third person, saying
            "Antonych moves" or "Antonych breathes";
            you give the moon animal reflexes,
            the sun a grace, like your own,
            that looks for its intelligence
            in everything it lights upon,
            wants to grasp it where
            it grows invisibly
            from seed.

            I see you in Lviv
            holding your ears as almonds burst
            or late at night Mercury rains
            marine concerti
                            on stones
            that will rise and weep
            at Judgment,
                          when all things confess
            they'd been distracted,
            couldn't keep their meanings clear.
          
            At 28, nearing the end,
            you rush to keep pace
            with your ghostly dictation:

            in my mind
            you're all ears,
            listening to silverfish
            eat your books
            like a whole band of Carpathian tubas.