Author Archives: martinrowe

About martinrowe

I am the co-founder and publisher at Lantern Books, and the author, editor, and ghostwriter of several works of fiction and non-fiction. I live in Brooklyn, New York.

The Trumpiad: Book 1—Canto 8

August 2017 I “This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle”— Thus, Ulysses (from Tennyson). No wuss Was this princeling, but full of care and wile; A stern-browed Ithacan (not treasonous), Who … Continue reading

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The Trumpiad: Book 1—Canto 7

July 2017 I He rises up before you every day (Or so it seems): the blotchy, fleshy face; The blank-eyed stare; the hair in disarray Or greased back. From his purple nose, you trace The booze or drugs, the broken … Continue reading

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The Trumpiad: Book 1—Canto 6

June 2017 I June is upon us, and we’re six months in. Each day brings more alarm and consternation. Each month I find it harder to begin My task without dread and exasperation. Yet, pace Dowd, De Sade, and James Baldwin, … Continue reading

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The Trumpiad: Book 1—Canto 5

May 2017 Prelude—A Villanelle against the Villain Let fly the flags; resistance songs upraise; As one, chant slogans and hope reignite: For we have made it through a hundred days. We were convinced that he would set ablaze The Constitution, and … Continue reading

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The Trumpiad: Book 1—Canto 4

April 2017 I I’m cogitating on this, when appears Before me a familiar compound ghost. The wry smile, weary mien beyond his years, And fierce disgust bear witness to a host Of agonies imposed upon his peers— Of murder, beatings—which would break the most … Continue reading

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The Trumpiad: Book 1—Canto 3

March 2017 (Inspired in part by Maureen Dowd’s New York Times column of February 18, 2017.) I In epics, usually at their very heart, The plot stops and the hero, marked by fate, Encounters a Parnassian whose art The poet thinks … Continue reading

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The Trumpiad: Book 1—Canto 2

February 2017 I Where are the songs of Spring? (That’s a good question.) When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush. The darling bud’s not even a suggestion The lark ascending but a darkling thrush. The smell of fear’s … Continue reading

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