Doug Holder was born In Manhattan on July 5, 1955. A small press activist, he founded the Ibbetson Street Press in the winter of 1998 in Somerville, Mass. He has published over 30 books of poetry of local and national poets and over 20 issues of the literary journal Ibbetson Street Holder is a co-founder of "The Somerville News Writers Festival," and is the curator of the "Newton Free Library Poetry Series" in Newton, Mass. His interviews with contemporary poets are archived at the Harvard and Buffalo University libraries, as well as Poet's House in NYC. Holder's own articles and poetry have appeared in several anthologies including: Inside the Outside: An Anthology of Avant-Garde American Poets (Presa Press) "Greatest Hits: twelve years of Compost Magazine (Zephyr Press) America's Favorite Poems edited by Robert Pinsky. His work has appeared in such magazines as: Rattle, Doubletake, The Boston Globe Magazine, Poesy, Small Press Review, Artword Quarterly, Manifold (U.K.), The Café Review, the new renaissance and many others. He holds an M.A. in Literature from Harvard University.
A Thought On Father's Day And yes it has come to the time when I see my father's face in the mirror. My squint is his the nascent crow's feet stretching into laugh lines. My angry brow solicits the always surprising question " What's wrong?" " Why-nothing." Didn’t I always ask him the same question? Do I find myself praying over the "New York Times" like a scholar over a sacred text? A drink to my side my legs crossed left to right just like him? Was that him the other day-- that reflection in the store window-- slightly hunched arms stiff swinging robotically clothed in Seersucker? I looked back but he was gone. Like him I am drawn to the sea to the sound of breaking waves on the shore. To the eternal ebb and flow to the primal smell of death and life To the gulls mounted on the weathered rocks to the purple death of the sun each evening, its bright rebirth from the portals of the sea's horizon. Who is this man I see it is my father and it is me. Now My Father Can't Eat Bagels He no longer packs the bite. His body can't stomach it. Some things won't pass through the ulcerated passageway. The sesame and poppy seeds seek new fertile ground. The lox has made its final run. His sweet morning ritual, his teeth pulling at the hot dough his dry lips lubricated with a flood of butter. The crust cresting at the roof of his mouth its unhindered descent. Father's 3 A.M. Vigil My room was more of a tomb preserved mementos settling in. A sediment of summer camp pictures orphaned snapshots scattered around the room. As I unpacked my bag, I could hear the ancient, tribal call of my father from the backyard, and my comic, Chaplinesque descent, down the staircase. A chubby boy in pursuit of the carbon-crusted meat the sting of vinegar on the roof of my mouth from the fascist whip of German potato salad. It is 3A.M. during my 38th year. My elderly father's light still burns in his room. He rubs the gray stubble of his weathered cheeks, so tired-- but still scheming in the early hours, still planning another assault on Madison Ave-- afraid to turn the light out and face the dark. He walks like the lonely sentry he once was during the "War" between bedroom and bathroom. I no longer hear a youthful stream pierce the water all is tentative and a struggle, and I barely can contain my tears when I see his shrunken frame hunched over pressing out what is left of him so late in the night.
Ibbetson Street Press
The Somerville News Writers
Festival
Presa Press