The ever-evolving Other: ___ -- the editors say they are moving from Quarterly (& even less-frequently than that at one time early on) to monthly, soon, like next month -- out wherever you can find it, from AlbanyPoets (add the .com if you look for them online). I got my copy at the open mic at Valentines recently & recommend that if you want a copy, come to LarkFest this Saturday & look for the poetry readings behind the port-a-potties, or to Poets Speak Loud on September 24 at the Lark Tavern; if you can't get there, try emailing them at firstname.lastname@example.org.
This issue has 21 local writers/poets & like a printed open mic everything from the sublime to the ridiculous, or almost ridiculous. Many of the open mic poets are included, like The Poet Essence, Shaun Baxter, A.C. Everson & Alan Catlin. But we all know that there are plenty of poets out there who for one reason or another can't or don't get to open mics & stay home scribbling. So the great service & dis-service this zine does is bring some of them to us.
Some in this issue are obviously just starting out, like when we see the "virgins" at open mics; some have been around awhile & really need to read some poetry that has been written since the middle of the last century; & of course there are the con artists (I didn't know you could get a degree from the NYS Writers Institute) & mis-guided. So I've avoided embarrassing anyone by not mentioning names. Hopefully some of those published for the first time in these pages will read poems other than their own, & keep writing.
There really is no one else any longer printing local poetry on a regular basis. This is the great service this fine little zine does for the writing community, as well as promoting the open mics in this area.
But there is one more little issue I must deal with (you figured there had to be something, right?). In Ford McLain's bio he states he was born in 1968, "one of the worst years in American history." Now that takes self-deprecation to a new nadir. I mean, most of us who lived through that time know what fun it was; there are whole books written about that one year, for example Ed Sanders' 1968. Maybe 1969 was better. But then little Ford was only one & wouldn't remember that either.