Dog River Review - The Covers

The Dog River Review

(1982-1996)

Dog River Review, Volume 1, No. 1, Spring, 1982

It doesn't get any simpler than this

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Dog River Review, Volume 1, No. 2, Autumn, 1982

Not much to be said for this one either

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Dog River Review, Volume 2, No. 1, Spring, 1983

St. George and the Dragon

Artwork submitted by a Hood River High school student.

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Dog River Review, Volume 2, No. 2, Autumn, 1983

Destruction of Printing Presses in Mayence. Drawn by H. Vogel.

[With this issue I began to use illustrations from several old volumes

I had found at a garage sale.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 3, No. 1, Spring, 1984

Poetry Reading in Parkdale

Preaching the Koran. Drawn by Lisc.

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Dog River Review, Volume 3, No. 2, Autumn, 1984

Poetry Reading at the Editor's Home

Literary Circle in the Beginning of the Reign of Louis SVI.

Drawn by P. Philippoteaux.

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Dog River Review, Volume 4, No. 1, Spring, 1985

"And he actually thought this was poetry!"

Death of the Last of the Hohenstaufen. Drawn by H. Plueddemann.

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Dog River Review, Volume 4, No. 2, Autumn, 1985

STATE TROOPER

Art by David Sheskin

[Cover did not scan well.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 5, No. 1, Spring, 1986

"Have you ever been so bored? If it wasn't for the free wine I'd have stayed home and mucked-out the pig pen."

Herodotus Reading His History to the Assembled Greeks.

Drawn by H. Leutemann

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Dog River Review, Volume 5, No. 2, Autumn, 1986

"These bloody poetry contests attract the worst kind."

Storming of Antioch. Drawn by Gustave Doré.

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Dog River Review, Volume 6, No. 1, Spring, 1987

"The gods are indeed kind - all this and a boxed set of the Dog River Review!"

Croesus on the funeral pyre.

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Dog River Review, Volume 6, No. 2, Autumn, 1987

George Montgomery (1938 - 1987

Cover photo by Linda Karlson

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Dog River Review, Volume 7, No. 1, Spring, 1988

dogs in creek

Cover by Wayne Hogan

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Dog River Review, Volume 7, No. 2, Autumn, 1988

dog on round stones

Cover art by Wayne Hogan

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Dog River Review, Volume 8, No. 1, Spring, 1989

WHY THIS EDITION IS LATE

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Dog River Review, Volume 8, No. 2, Autumn, 1989

take-off on NEW YORKER drawing

Cover art by Wayne Hogan

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Dog River Review, Volume 9, No. 1, Spring, 1990

A Lively Discussion at the National Endowment for the Arts

The King with the mob in the Tuileries. Drawn by F. Lix

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Dog River Review, Volume 9, No. 2, Autumn, 1990

STOP LOOKING SO GLUM, THE DOG'S BEEN LATE BEFORE

Catherine de Medici and Charles IX

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Dog River Review, Volume 10, No. 1, Summer, 1991

EARLY ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE (Judson) CREWS MANUSCRIPT

Rollo Besieging Paris by A. deNeuville

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Dog River Review, Volume 10, No. 2, Fall/Winter, 1991

Validating the truth of Zeno's Flying Arrow paradox

Battle of Dogorgan. drawn by Gustave Doré

[This issue came with a wrap-around paper collar, as follows:]

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Dog River Review, Volume 11, No. 1, Spring/Summer, 1992

[Each cover was highlighted with colour pencil so each one was different.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 11, No. 2, Fall/Winter, 1992

Picture of the editor's son, Jefferey.

[This issue made possible in part through the generosity of Sheila Nickerson.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 12, No. 1, Spring/Summer, 1993

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Dog River Review, Volume 12, No. 2, Fall/Winter, 1993

Facsimile of page 6971 of Judson Crews' 10,000 page autobiograph, of which, only small portions have been published. See HENRY MILLER and MY BIG SUR DAYS - Vergin Press.

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Dog River Review, Volume 13, No. 1, Spring/Summer, 1994

The Children's Crusade. Drawn by Gustave Doré (with my apologies).

[This issue made possible in part through the generosity of Mr. R. M. Host.]

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Dog River Review, Volume 13, No. 2, Winter, 1994/95

Bulbous Imp

Cover art by Stepan Chapman

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Dog River Review, Volume 14, No. 1, Summer, 1995

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Dog River Review, Volume 14, No. 2, Spring, 1996

THE LAST DOG

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Where Have I Been All These Weeks?

It was recently brought to my attention that I had not entered anything on my BLOG for almost eight months. Yes, when I visit, that appears to be true. I don’t know exactly how to explain such a non-event. Perhaps I’ve had nothing to say during the entire time, then again, not. I may have been in a deep, blissful, meditative state, a coma even. Maybe I have been held incommunicado by outsiders who demanded all my time and resources, or, given the state of the nation, of the world, preoccupied with discovering solutions. Regardless, I seem to be unsleeping at the moment, even alert and capable of at least muddled thought.

When one has the opportunity to grow old, that is, pass into one’s sixties, though I suspect the term ‘growing old’ is subjective, and not easily defined, time really does appear to accelerate. Seems I am forever putting out the trashcan, yet the conscious part of me knows it is only once a week. If asked I would tell you the electric bill arrives three or four times a month. If only Zeno’s arrow paradox were true, and the shaft of time remained in flight forever. Alas, such endless flight is not possible, or should I say, Hurrah, such endless flight is not possible!

Sometimes, usually in the heart of night I hear the waters of the river Styx lapping against my front porch. I waded into the warm waters of Lethe some time ago, but I suspect the Styx will be considerably hotter.

The garden continues to expand into undeveloped areas of our two and a half acres despite declining energy, and shorter days created by a greater need for rest. I no longer propagate hundreds and hundreds of plants; a few hundred have to suffice. I fire the kiln occasionally, just to watch some of my clay projects explode. Creating new concrete garden art, I now realize, will have to end, perhaps as early as next year. Why sixty-pound bags of concrete mix seem heavy and awkward I have difficulty understanding. Travel to unknown towns and countries is always thrilling, and never fails to stir creative juices to a youthful passion. Still write; or rather make copious notes and convoluted outlines for poems, stories, plays, silly films, love letters and a category or two I have been unable to define. I make the occasional mosaic, putter around with stained glass, collage, art books, etc. but generally am content to read, add books to my library, listen to music, watch an occasional ‘art’ film or documentary, and generally spend the days musing on the past, the present, and a variety of futures.

The ‘tea house’ is a welcome refuge from what is already near silence and tranquility, and sipping tea while reading the poetry/haiku of Basho, Li Po, Buson, Issa and a glorious host of others brings much pleasure. And after fifty years of toil, at mostly unrewarding and uninspiring jobs, it’s nice to at last have a certain amount of freedom to follow those paths not taken.

Now, having read the above, I sense a distinctively negative atmosphere, and nothing could be less true. Life is at worst a grand adventure, and the ability to draw breath should not be taken lightly. ‘Carpe diem’ may be a hackneyed phrase, but true nevertheless.

Suddenly I feel a resurgence of creative imagination; a flood or words crowd my fingertips. I happily yield to such inspiration and hope I can find material suitable for this site before another eight months have elapsed.

Not Proust

A Remembrance of Childhood Past

I was only eight, perhaps nearing nine. Mother in hand, my hand in mother's hand. We tramped muddy back roads and rutted country lanes and mouldy woods in search of grasses. Me, diving eagerly beneath every brambly rabbity hedge or piney copse, scrambling up sandy banks held together by Hawthorn roots and blackberries, tiptoeing into fetid bull frog marshes awash with swamp-loving snakes, ready to grab every turgid green stem I saw. We searched on more than one day, or perhaps not, maybe it was only one long day. I recall we scoured the edges of pig pens and goat fields, sheep nibbled pastures and all the odd neglected cabbage, rutabaga and pea fields we could find. Toward the end of the day we climbed slowly up the Snipes, a balding hillock where a few years later my cousin David would find evidence of early Roman occupation and then use his discovery as the theme for a float in an annual school parade, but I don't think we discovered any Italian grasses to add to our collection.

But the collection of grasses. It was a school assignment, perhaps a science fair, with coloured ribbons to be awarded, and untold prestige heaped on the winner. I suppose the ribbons were Blue, Red, and White, what other colours could they be? Green? I worked hard. My mother worked harder, much harder, she always worked harder, but I think she was used to it. It was my mother who carefully carried the grassy stems I had plucked or clipped (with what I know not) in her billowing dress, or was it a paper bag? (Perhaps a bag that once carried hot chestnuts, or baked potatoes, or licorice allsorts) But, whatever the means we managed them home safely. The contest, as I remember, was to see who could collect the largest number of different grasses. We had worked hard, very hard. Then, after the sun had set my mother and I sat in the front parlor, or else in the kitchen beside the hob, and arranged what I had collected in a glass vase, or perhaps only a tin cup, but it was full, overflowing, crowded. I looked at it, how could anyone else have ferreted out so many different genera and species I thought, though I doubt I used those terms?

On the day of exhibition I confidently placed my collection of grasses on the display table beside the others. Glancing quickly at the other contenders I thought there was no possibility of my failing to take home the most important, brightest ribbon, whatever colour it might be.

After the judges had ooh'd, ahh'd and coo'd for a very long time they eventually chose a winner.

It wasn't me. I had been disqualified.

My collection of grasses, they said, would have easily been the undisputed winner, but, I had included a sedge.

Promises, Promises

or, some notes regarding Trout Creek Press and the Dog River Review.

Every year around this time I promise to organize the chaos in my studio, a workspace that unfortunately has come to resemble an abandoned storage unit. Each year the clutter multiplies and further restricts movement; there is little room to work, even in miniature. But, this year things will be different, I promise.

Much of the tidy mess is comprised of boxes of the Dog River Review (1982–1995), and copies of the thirty-one plus chapbooks I published between 1984 and 1996 under the Trout Creek Press imprint. But every time I think I have at last reached the point where I can take a pragmatic approach to dealing with this accumulation, I turn away. How can I simply dump them in the recycling bin? I can’t, and so for years I’ve been shuffling them from one shelf to another, lifting the cartons into the rafters, or stacking them one on top of the other until they threaten to crush themselves into oblivion, but not this Spring, I promise.

So, a list of what’s available seems like a logical beginning, if only to know what I might be throwing away. I know copies of the Dog River Review are out there, all except number one. And I know other early issues are in limited supply. Of the chapbooks, who knows? Of some there are an embarrassing number, others only a handful, and a few most likely unavailable. Here’s the list:

Dog River Review, # 2 (1982) thru #28 (1995)

1984
The Peter Poems and Other Disgraces – Joseph Semenovich
1985
Twenty-one Waking Dreams – Roger Weaver
1986
10/170 – Connie Fox
1987
What Are You Doing - Robert D. Hoeft
In The Compass of Unrest – Sheila Nickerson
No Difference – Fritz Hamilton
Against All Wounds – Judson Crews
Red Hair and the Jesuit – Lyn Lifshin
1988
Wanted! – Arthur Winfield Knight
On the Rack – Gerald Locklin
1989
Secret Affinities – Terence Hoagwood
1990
Measuring Time – David Chorlton
1992
Tales and Declarations – Bruce Holland Rogers
Entre Nous – Connie Fox
De La Palabra – Sam Silva
Body Bags – Nathaniel Tarn
Sweet Harvest On – Sam Silva
Glass Wall – Phoebe Grigg
1993
Vito & Zona – Wilma Elizabeth McDaniels
Love Against the Grey Winter Mean – Sam Silva
The Human Flower – David Chorlton
1994
Traveler’s Advisory – Steven Sher
The F. S. Whinkla Interview
Coffeebreak Poems – Steven Hartman
The Water Under Fish – Leslie Leyland Fields
1995
Reality Sandwiches – R. M. Host
Art As Anyone’s Salvation – Sam Silva
Making A Sacrifice Like Art – Sam Silva
Orbits – Brett Hursey
1996
Lex*i*con – Robert Rucker
Life flight – Robert Rucker

1989
Lands of Frost and Stars (cassette tape) – David Chorlton

If anyone is interested in purchasing any of the above, or desires more information, they can email me at: lhawkins@hrecn.net. I do realize that eventually they will have to be worse than remaindered, but for a few more months I will continue to move the cartons around like a game of musical chairs. Someday the music will abruptly stop.

Perhaps I can persuade Whinkla to help.