In these verses, poets E.W. Herman and Betsy Fogelman Tighe explore nostalgia, regret, and change. Nothing is constant, but poetry — in its bittersweet recollections — can capture the ephemeral nature of our lives. Please enjoy these poems.
—The Editors
The Old West
Los Angeles, 1975
Looking at her hair dancing
in the wind, you felt promise
in the place and all its dream
palaces. Your new name in
waves on the sand, a peaceful
easy feeling. Post-Nixon
vibes from the rocky brown cliffs
pinched by houses on stilts, a
coast that washed away all the
impostor selves. Rolling on
the 10, your wrist on the wheel . . .
just 20 minutes to the
Tar Pits then. Or maybe you’d
take Sunset: made warm
by the generous and unbroken
light, you’d fly past cottages
roofed in Spanish tile nuzzling
the hills that curved up
to castles hid behind gates and
big jacaranda trees where
jacuzzi girls waited with
tennis instructors and
open marriage counselors
beneath the benediction
of generous, unbroken
light. Then evening: The smog would
descend like an evensong
as you rolled inland. One
palm tree against the soiled
pink sky and you were smitten,
sailing to the cathedral
of the Sunset Strip, the high
billboards – Bowie, Diana
Ross, a Stanley Donen film –
standing over you like
ushers. After a pilgrimage to
Paramount (where they loved your
script), you held her supple hand
and crossed Melrose. Inside El
Adobe you saw Linda
and the Governor floating
in the candlelight like salt
swimming in margarita.
A glass of wine for her, then
home. It felt mellow making
your own life . . . hardly mattered
she was someone’s wife. Then, in
fall, the light turned lurid
as the mountains burned. You’d traverse
a hill and see smoke smearing
the sky, bleeding it in orange
and red as KNX ran
news about ‘The Slasher’
ringing his victims with salt
and blood. The fires burned
every year, you’d learn,
the wind rewriting lives.
E.W. Herman is a former newspaperman turned corporate consultant who lives in Evanston, Illinois. He worked as a reporter and editor at the New York Daily News and the Chicago Sun-Times.Black Canyon Night
Stars hang like tears.
Your eyes, an open heart
watching the traveling moon.
I watch its pale light
on your calm face.
And the borrowed bitch lost.
We search, you and I,
down the railroad ties
up the stream
round the deserted park
calling “Susie! Susie!”
all day, into night.
Years later, her loss
still
amid the guilty acts
we won’t remember.
Betsy Fogelman Tighe has published widely in literary magazines, including Rattle, twice, The Georgia Review, and TriQuarterly. She won a Pushcart Prize in 2025, as well as third place and first place prizes from the Oregon Poetry Association in previous years. Her full-length manuscript has received an Honorable Mention, been a semi-finalist for two prizes, and a finalist for another. Tighe retired in 2022 from her good work as a teacher-librarian in Portland, Oregon, and now is free to spend much of her time in the company of poetry.
|
 | A guest post by
|
Makes me have nostalgia for a Los Angeles I never knew, never saw, but only read about.
And the lost dog. We almost lost one. He was rescued and returned, against all odds.