Small Press: The Magazine of Independent Publishing; V. 3, N. 1; September/October 1985
R. R. Bowker, , 1985, Wraps, , , Good
122 pp. Wraps soiled and bumped. ''Our Second Anniversary Issue.'' Contents: Features: Books from small presses; Over there: Americans are still busy publishing in Paris by David Applefield; Confessions of a Frankfurt first-timer by Janja Stanich; In Toronto: The Canadian Booksellers Association Convention by Beverly Slopen; Land of Small Presses by Shane Cleary (In Ireland that's the only kind of publishing there is); In Stockhom: The Swedish Book Fair by Nadia Steinzor; Doing Business with mainland China: China books and periodicals by Marianne Yen; Cross-cultural communications by Joseph Barbato (dedicated to bringing out notable works in neglected languages); Funding a Latin American poetry project: A saga with two surprises by Frank Graziano; 'Reckless and Doomed': Johnathan Williams and Jargon by Michael McFew; plus the regular departments and reviews. Cover: Fritz Eichenberg, wood engraving based on E. A. Poe story.
ON my small farm, where rocks and weeds contend Which shall possess the more its barrenness, In spring, among the very earliest flowers, Almost untimely, is the saxifrage— The season’s dear, though humble, harbinger, Rearing on fragile stem its clustered head, Between the seams of rocks, by east winds blown, And with a feeble root and few low leaves, As if it needed neither earth nor sun, But grew by that exhilarating sense Of winter past and far-off breath of spring That likewise man, by his own tokens, knows. But when all summer’s lush and favored flowers, Fed on the highest suns and richest dews, Rooted in mellow soil and sheltered nooks, Are blighted with the year’s autumnal change, Then once again in thin, unfertile lands, Along the beach-side and the meadow mange, The rose-gerardia swings its little bell And will not let the season go too soon. Its very leaves do deprecate the frost, Already brown, so not to tempt his touch, And as the thought of spring, and not spring’s self, Drew from its crevices along the ledge, The sweet, presaging herald, saxifrage,— So, now, the latest flower at autumn’s end Grows by the memory of summer days, Dreams of the rose, and blushes at its dreams.John Albee [1833-1915]