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	<title>Two Hawks Quarterly &#187; Ed Frankel</title>
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	<description>A Literary Uprising</description>
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		<title>Selections from When the Catfish Are In Bloom: Requiem for John Fahey by Ed Frankel</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/24/selections-from-when-the-catfish-are-in-bloom-requiem-for-john-fahey-by-ed-frankel/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/24/selections-from-when-the-catfish-are-in-bloom-requiem-for-john-fahey-by-ed-frankel/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 24 Nov 2008 18:24:09 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>AULA Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[acoustic steel string guitar]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[American primative]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Los Angeles]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Blind Joe Death]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[blues]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[cosmic sentimentalism]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Ed Frankel]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[John Fahey]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[music]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[rolling stone]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Literary Journal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Born in 1939 in Maryland, John Fahey pioneered the use of traditional country and blues finger picking to showcase the acoustic steel string guitar as a solo instrument that could play a mix of traditional and non-traditional musical genres. He collaged ideas associated with Bartok, Charles Ives, Indian and Gamelan music, Tibetan chanting and western hymns, into often eerie, unpredictable improvisations and meditations. A proficient self-taught guitarist by his teens, Fahey referred to himself and his musical style as “American primitive,” although he had a B.A from American University and an M.A. in musicology from UCLA. He released his first album in 1958 under the pseudonym Blind Joe Death. During his trips collecting music and records in the south, he rediscovered Delta Blues legends Bukka White and Skip James whom he helped get recorded. Fahey released numerous albums and performed from the sixties until the early nineties. He was ranked thirty fifth in Rolling Stone’s 2003 “One Hundred Greatest Guitarists,” but his eccentricities limited him to a cult following. Before he died in 2001 he had stopped many years of drinking, recovered from Epstein Barr disease and was playing and recording again. He turned away from his earlier styles, what [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Farbende by Ed Frankel</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/23/farbende-by-ed-frankel/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/23/farbende-by-ed-frankel/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 24 Nov 2008 05:43:55 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>AULA Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Literary Magazine]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Los Angeles]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Ed Frankel]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Farbende]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Literary Journal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://aulapress.wordpress.com/?p=1648</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[The iron treadles rock and doven in the flatiron shadows, pressed air and piece work. Hungry hands move like birds. Every week the girl who makes the least gets fired. You march arm and arm with women from the factory, a banner draped across your chest and you sing. Farbende I used to call you—the fire that dances. I’d like to turn the foot treadles backwards, unwind those hours in the factory, unravel all the dresses, the shirtwaists, sleeves and collars until all the colored threads and all the hours pile up around you, as tall as this high-rise of iron and glass, dovecotes and warrens, this view out a window that doesn’t open, over the Schuylkill River, named for a people no one remembers. A quarter moon hangs in the clouds, a necklace of forgetting, white pearls of morning and the black pearls of sleep slipping off the necklace into the river’s shadows. In your translucent reflection, a girl with red hair throws marbles under the hooves of the horses. when the police move in to break up the parade. She runs hand in hand with the Italian girl In the black headscarf who worked next to her. A [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Chalk It Up To Love by Ed Frankel</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/23/chalk-it-up-to-love-by-ed-frankel/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/23/chalk-it-up-to-love-by-ed-frankel/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 24 Nov 2008 05:32:05 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>AULA Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Los Angeles]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Be Bop]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Buick]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[chalk it up to love]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Ed Frankel]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[red mouth]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[trumpet player]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Literary Journal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://aulapress.wordpress.com/?p=1644</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[And then, hooked up to tubes and oxygen, She was screaming, catch me Joey, I’m falling! I picked her up, the heft and weight Of rabbit bones wrapped in silk, I’ve got you Rose I’ve got you. There were things I wanted to ask her, But she was calling me by her brother’s name. It doesn’t matter any more, She said. It’s ok Joey, It’s ok. The finest bugler in the army during World War Two. The best trumpet player in Philadelphia He had perfect pitch, gray bedroom eyes. He’d pull up in his Buick, with his quiet Be Bop smile, And honk the horn, a Jewish Chet Baker. C’mon Rose, let’s go for a ride. Let’s get lost. Years later our kids told me how she’d fling off her apron, Put on some makeup, fuss with her hair And leave them with Doris across the street. She’d jump in the car and come back before dinner, Always in a better mood. Now she was flailing with her arms and legs, And her closed eyes jumped around the room I could feel her dropping through the rush of years, Moving through herself like water. I could almost see the things [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Ed Frankel: Dark Parlors Remind Me Of The Spanish Civil War</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2007/08/13/ed-frankel-dark-parlors-remind-me-of-the-spanish-civil-war/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2007/08/13/ed-frankel-dark-parlors-remind-me-of-the-spanish-civil-war/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 14 Aug 2007 07:10:55 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>AULA Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Ed Frankel]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Dark Parlors Remind Me Of The Spanish Civil War Sometimes when late afternoon shadows puddle in the corners of my living room, my face whitens and black crosses appear on my eyes, and my white, gloved hands lightly finger invisible arpeggios. Dark rooms remind me of Lannie and Beauty Budd, the Spanish Civil War, and my mother, Anna, as a young girl, on the stoop in North Philadelphia, dreaming of pennies and Yehudi Menuhin, saving her lunch money to buy the Untermyer edition of Modern Verse, recommended by her high school English teacher, who, yes—even hid a copy of The Worker in his desk. She memorizes Eliot and Edna St.Vincent Millay and transcribes Chopin’s Nocturnes in the library downtown, because who had the money in those days. * We had an upright piano at the foot of the stairs, in a brownstone row house in Oxford Circle, built for the children of the victory gardens. While my father played pinochle in the kitchen and listened to the Friday night fights, Rocky Graziano trading punches with Tony Zale, I could hear the laying down of meld, the slap of trump, cutthroat bidding and laughing, the ringing of a bell. My mother [...]]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Ed Frankel: Guelaguetza I</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2007/08/13/ed-frankel-guelaguetza-i/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2007/08/13/ed-frankel-guelaguetza-i/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 14 Aug 2007 07:00:16 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>AULA Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Ed Frankel]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://aulapress.com/2007/08/13/ed-frankel-guelaguetza-i/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Guelaguetza I At the stoplight of the Overland entrance To the Santa Monica Freeway going west, A woman is standing on the four-foot wide median That separates traffic, selling bags of oranges And peanuts from a shopping cart, Single stemmed crimson roses. She walks up and down, peering Over the flowers into the drivers’ windows. I try to figure how much she makes On each two dollar bag of oranges, Each two dollar long stemmed rose. * I buy a rose, a bag of oranges and some peanuts, Tell her keep the change from the twenty and wish her well. At home I put the rose in a glass of water And think about my own atravesados, My own crossers of borders&#8211;Luftmenschen— People who could live on air as they traveled, with their hearts trussed with twine and old rope, Clutchers of lean bones, Their valises stuffed with stale bread, hard, long-shots, Posed sepia memories in stiff borrowed clothes, Clutchers of thin straws and last hopes, Who didn’t wear necklaces of marigolds and sugar skulls But maybe one of rozhinkes mit mandlin, Raisins and almonds, Who didn’t drink champurado made from corn and chocolate But glasses of tea with a [...]]]></description>
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