Loch Raven Review - 2007 Fall - S. Thomas Summers

S. Thomas Summers is a teacher of Writing and Literature at Wayne Hills High School in Wayne, NJ. He is the author of two poetry chapbooks: Death settled well (Shadows Ink Publications, 2006) and Rather, It Should Shine (Pudding House Press, 2007). Summers's poems have appeared in several literary journals and reviews: The English Journal, MiPo, 2River View, The Pedestal Magazine, The Loch Raven Review, etc. Currently, Summers is completing a volume of American Civil War poetry - Private Hercules McGee: Poems of the Civil War. He lives in Northern, NJ with his wife and children.

Summers also leads workshops for high school and middle school English teachers. His workshops focus on the power of contemporary poetry to spark literary interest in uninterested/unmotivated students.

S. Thomas Summers can be contacted regarding his poetry and workshops through e-mail. His web site can be found at www.freewebs.com/sthomassummers.

Fall 2007 Table of Contents - Vol. III, No. 3
Poetry Translations Interview Essays Fiction Book Notes & Reviews

S. Thomas Summers Posted: Private James Christopher Tanis, 87th Georgia Infantry a poem of the Civil War Names of the dead post on Fridays - black letters stretch across paper like rungs on Jacob’s ladder. His mama called him James. I settled for Jimmy. He and me spent summers jumpin' off sycamore limbs reachin’ over the crick - splashes bigger than Jehovah’s tears after his boy got himself nailed to a cross. Jimmy lost his stomach when he drank too much milk. He memorized the Commandments, swiped cookies and cigars from Dawson’s Mercantile. Preacher caught us blowin’ smoke rings in the church basement. Poster says he got shot hoistin’ the colors toward a Fed’ral line. Prob’ly blundered over every stone and stump minglin’on that field as gawky as he is, but I betchya his own blood smeared across them Star and Bars. I betchya. Stonewall Jackson at Manassas: July 21, 1861 a poem of the Civil War That beard hangs from his chin like an anvil. Ain’t no lie. Yankee bullets veer `round his head so not to smack against his face. We should just point him toward Washington and shackle up behind like a chain of geese. I swear we’d rename this country Virginia before it’s cold enough to harden your nipples. © S. Thomas Summers

Poetry Translations Interview Essays Fiction Book Notes & Reviews