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Current: Danbury, CT, United States
Welcome! A few years ago, I discovered an application that artists employ in their works to bring cultural awareness to their audiences. Having discerned this semiotic theory that applies to literature, music, art, film, and the media, I have devoted the blog, "Theory of Iconic Realism" to explore this theory. The link to the publisher of my book is below. If you or your university would like a copy of this book for your library or if you would like to review it for a scholarly journal, please contact the Edwin Mellen Press at the link listed below. Looking forward to hearing from you!


I will present or have presented research on Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan) at the following location(s):

October, 2019: Elms College, Chicopee, Massachusetts: "A Declaration of Independence: Dissolving Sociolinguistic Borders in the Literature of Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan)"

19 March, 2011

Poetry Bus: Alley Adventure

This week's Poetry Bus has the famous Uiscebot as our daring driver. He wants us to go somewhere different and write about it. For some reason, a memory of one of the many adventures my brother and I shared as children came to mind. Stephen always discovered fascinating places, and I was the only sister who had the guts (or insanity) to go with him. This one's at our grandparents' house in an old section of Detroit, Michigan where each neighborhood had an alley.  Enjoy!

My grandparents' old house in Detroit, completely remodeled. 
You can see the tree in the background. Beyond that tree is the alley.
Alley Adventure
The Alley behind our grandparents' house
was intriguing to my brother and me.
The grown-ups didn’t want us to go there,
but he knew how to unlatch the back gate,
Sshhh…very quietly, so it wouldn’t squeak.
We tiptoed onto the graveled road.
A sweet yet acrid smell filled the air;
it was a strange, forbidden world.

This day, we discovered a horseshoe print,
embedded in a piece of hidden pavement,
shadowed by the tall grasses growing wild,
fighting for a piece of the dappled sunrays
that played upon the broken cement.
“Only one print,” Stephen whispered,
“Must be from Pegasus.”

Voices formed words in an unknown tongue
and floated from a large window of an old house
behind an unpainted wooden fence,
“Sssshhh!  Ghosts!” he  whispered.
I bent down to pick up a weapon,
a broken shard of brown glass
“This is a piece of magic glass, Jeanne,
from a land faraway… Put it down!
We don’t know what evil powers it might have.”

Reluctantly, I tossed the shard.
No magic today… no spilling of blood.
A quick run to the old wooden gate,
and we were back on Grandma’s garden path,
with freshly cut grass, wildflowers and roses,
our absence unnoticed, our memories enriched.

Jeanne I. Lakatos  2011