Jack, waking up from a nap: why is this house so silent?
Liam, Albert, Sherly and Mycroft in the window watching Louis, Bond and Fred chasing Moran because he got into trouble

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Jack, waking up from a nap: why is this house so silent?
Liam, Albert, Sherly and Mycroft in the window watching Louis, Bond and Fred chasing Moran because he got into trouble
Film over en met Fred Pollack. Zijn schilderijen zijn doorgaans de uitkomst van een intuïtief schilderproces van formuleren en ontregelen. Tijdens dat proces betrekt hij zowel geometrische en antropomorfe vormen, als abstracte en figuratieve elementen op elkaar, binnen composities waarin kleur zich ondergeschikt weet aan zwart, grijs en wit. Doordat vormen en vlakken in veel gevallen aan de randen zijn afgesneden, wekken zijn composities de indruk deel uit te maken van een groter kosmisch bestel.
IN HOOGENBOSCH PROJECTEREN POLLACK EN RADERSMA DE ZIEL
Their Own Interest: New Poetry by Fred Pollack
Third in a series of three
Artwork: Leon Golub, “Untitled”
Their Own Interest by Fred Pollack
He who has suffered you to impose on him knows you. – Blake
He who has suffered you to impose on him wants to be left alone. As do you, which creates a community of motive. He wants all imposition to recede into the mists of time, i.e., his…
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Goodbye: New Poetry by Fred Pollack
Goodbye: New Poetry by Fred Pollack
First in a series of three
Artwork: “Morning,” by Geli Korzhev (1958)
Goodbye by Fred Pollack
When her relationship, last in a series, failed, she asked for the night shift. Made up a good excuse. And because she had seniority and because her professionalism was unquestioned, like the sweetness some women use to hide an awkward…
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The Service
Fred Pollack
When I see a conning tower break the waves, I think how the chambers and corridors of the vast sub resound to the shrieks of nieces and nephews. If they’re good, they avoid bulkheads marked with the radiation trefoil, and never play in the missile or torpedo tubes; nice ensigns, older siblings, are stationed there to shoo them off. Variations of the same few faces scan the sonar, log communications, salute the Old Man, whose first officer is an envious but reliable brother. Home cooking! Hands around the table joined in prayer! The queasy courtesy, with “sir”s and “ma’am”s, of the South; the grunts that say so much of the Midwest. It’s sad that boys and girls of the surface fleet and Air Force generally lack this warmth and support. But they love their parents, whoever they were, however many. Pilots commemorate their fathers with the Missing Man formation, and often a woman at her sink will see a fighter buzz the lawn and dip its wing: the son she would have liked to be a priest, training to be an angel. Only the Army is helpless before the atomization of our times: a soldier clings to the wall of a house and texts his sister, girlfriend, kids inside (IM FIN MISS U), who may or may not pick up before he’s shot. Such lonely messages, like those I send from airless lockers in the double-parked tank, the windowless destroyer: Woe is me that I must forever huddle, unminded, in the shade of thy dark engine.
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Bio: Fred Pollack is an adjunct creative writing professor at George Washington University and the author of two book-length narrative poems, “THE ADVENTURE” and “HAPPINESS” -- both published by Story Line Press. His work has appeared with numerous publications including Hudson Review, Bateau, Chiron Review, Big Bridge, Hamilton Stone Review, and DIAGRAM.