All the Babble of the Souk Reviewed by Richard Lloyd Cederberg

      ALL THE BABBLE OF THE SOUK

A personal reaction/essay from:
Richard Lloyd Cederberg
________________________________________
 
Initially the title of the book puzzled me. ‘Babble’ and poetry seemed antithetic. But Robin’s usage of the title in the first poem – ‘Africa North’ -seemed to be hinting at something vaster in scope. “All the babble of the Souk, men over there, over there women. All the life of the planet, so little part of it that I breathe” This made it seem like a sweeping vision from a finite point of view. After reading various poems, I saw that the poet’s work was alive with surreal vignettes; visual snippets patched together to create a montage of life’s mysteries, colors, and characters. This particular observation was supported (I felt) in a verse from ‘Lucky Hat Day’. “The world is a patchwork quilt, stitched up to the hilt its seams, which we quarter in our dreams, on which our edifice is built.”
 
Soren Kierkegaard said: “The poet can understand everything, in riddles, and wonderfully explain everything, in riddles, but he cannot understand himself, or understand that he himself is a riddle.” At that point I knew that attempting to dissect the poet’s work in a grand intellectual context was the wrong approach. Besides, I wasn’t qualified. Instead I would read it as if I was sitting under a waterfall and offer back the stimulating way the content was washing over me. First and foremost… I purposed for a better grasp of the title. Something that made sense to me. With that I felt I would have a better chance at apprehending the contents. So that’s where it began.
 
Book titles, for me, are kinda’ like figureheads on the prows of wooden sailing vessels; a face on it, but not the power of it. This title seemed to be corroborating all the chaos and noise humanity makes living their lives and hawking their philosophies and products in a global marketplace. Certainly this obvious interpretation had some merit, but it didn’t seem (to me) to affirm the books ultimate scope. Still curious; I dug into the definitions and discovered something intriguing. There was one definition that stood apart and became a key that started a trickle of water for me.
 
BABBLE as an intransitive verb: to talk enthusiastically or excessively. To utter meaningless or unintelligible sounds. To make sounds as though babbling. As a transitive verb: To utter in an incoherently or meaninglessly repetitious manner. To reveal by talk that is too free.
SOUK… a marketplace in North Africa or the Middle East.
A fuller definition: A marketplace in North Africa or the Middle East.
A bazaar. Also: a stall in such a marketplace. It became personal here.
STALL… A small area set off by walls for a special use. A booth where articles are displayed for sale. The water began to flow stronger now.
 
The Poet’s Stall. You can call it whatever you want but each of us has one. Mind. The seat of the faculty of reason. The poet’s singularity of cogitation. Senses. Telescope. Microscope. Binoculars. Tools. Oxymoron. Pun. Idiom. Simile. Onomatopoeia. Hyperbole. Alliteration. Personification. Metaphor. A verse from ‘The Pine at the Summit’ offered a glimpse into the process. “My mind’s a needle scratching sky, bleeding a sigh of shadow, as through tension of this extension, I summit into ascension.”
 
All poets require a safe [set apart] place they can enter to assimilate and interpret the world around them. A place where they can observe the mysterious vastness of life without being overwhelmed by it. I could visualize, then, a place set apart in the midst of a noisy-plagued-global-marketplace, where the poet could readily analyze, understand, and express the essential (and non-essential) elements of all that was being observed and felt; locally, from his travels, and in a broader global context. Robin’s poetry found the cracks in my defenses then and began hydrating me. Each reading, after that; the content became more meaningful.
 
As someone once said: “It requires wisdom to understand wisdom; the music is nothing if the audience is deaf.” Many say that poetry is an [almost] dead art form. I’m not so sure about that now.
 
For me personally: the essence of profound insight is simplicity. If poets only cater to poets then a part of the ‘souk’ is deprived. Some say poetry is painting with the gift of speech. If this is true, and I believe it is, then Robin’s work, to me, evokes, M.C. Escher, Robert Raushenberg, and perhaps (at times) even Salvador Dali. Readers take caution. Robin is a poet’s poet. A reasoning philosopher who sees life vastly different than most, and, who channels much of what he sees and feels into his work.
“As he affirms in ‘Clear Drops of Water’: “To write is my possession – a given time, a given space, a given self, as if it were an alchemy that could turn blood into wine, we’ve different tastes nature or me.”
 
‘All the Babble of the Souk’ is not simple. It is woven with riddles that, when resolved, offer the reader a singular critique of life from a safe perspective. Robin’s poetry may never be fully grasped by me. It is esoteric. Intriguing. Surreal. Adventurous. Philosophic. Brainy. But even though it demands carefully considered thought to fathom; it still flows as pure water in its declarations, imagery, and suggestions. Poet Hislop’s unique work has heightened my appreciation for the written word.
 
1. I am once again thankful for the depth, beauty, and mysteries of another’s poetic invention.
2. I discovered another beautiful view of the One Tree.
3. I have purposed now to get out of myself (more often) to discover another’s perspective; something quite essential for the poet and creative writer I’m thinking.
4. I can see an aspect of metaphor now that I’ve never known.
5. Poetry is NOT dead.
 
JEG HILSER DEG Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
Richard Lloyd Cederberg
Author/Poet

 

 
August 2007 Richard was nominated for a 2008 PUSHCART PRIZE. Richard was awarded 2007 BEST NEW FICTION at CST for his first three novels and also 2006 WRITER OF THE YEAR @thewritingforum.net … Richard has been a featured Poet on Poetry Life and Times Aug/Sept 2008, Jan 2013, Aug 2013, and Oct 2013 and has been published in varied anthologies, compendiums, and e-zines. Richard’s literary work is currently in over 35,000 data bases and outlets. Richard’s novels include: A Monumental Journey… In Search of the First Tribe… The Underground River… Beyond Understanding. A new novel, Between the Cracks, was completed March 2014 and will be available summer 2014.
 
Richard has been privileged to travel extensively throughout the USA, the provinces of British Columbia, Manitoba, Alberta, and Saskatchewan in Canada, the Yukon Territories, Kodiak Island, Ketchikan, Juneau, Skagway, Sitka, Petersburg, Glacier Bay, in Alaska, the Azorean Archipelagoes, and throughout Germany, Switzerland, Spain, and Holland… Richard and his wife, Michele, have been avid adventurers and, when time permits, still enjoy exploring the Laguna Mountains, the Cuyamaca Mountains, the High Deserts in Southern California, the Eastern Sierra’s, the Dixie National Forest, the Northern California and Southern Oregon coastlines, and the “Four Corners” region of the United States.
 
Richard designed, constructed, and operated a MIDI Digital Recording Studio – TAYLOR and GRACE – from 1995 – 2002. For seven years he diligently fulfilled his own musical visions and those of others. Richard personally composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions during this time and has two completed CD’s to his personal credit: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Both albums were mixed and mastered by Steve Wetherbee, founder of Golden Track Studios in San Diego, California.
 
Richard retired from music after performing professionally for fifteen years and seven years of recording studio explorations. He works, now, at one of San Diego’s premier historical sites, as a Superintendent. Richard is also a carpenter and a collector of classic books, and books long out of print.

 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

Marchesi reads Prufrock

robin marchesi graphic
 
Robin Marchesi is an old friend, his lyrical poetry is featured at all three of our sites, Motherbird.com, Poetry Life & Times and Artvilla.com, together with his other poetical works put together with his own music and imagery. Below, on the small MP3 T.S. Eliot, we are pleased to introduce yet again another rendition at Artvilla.com of T.S. Eliot’s Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock, this time delivered through the strains of Robin Marchesi’s rich emotional voice with its biting irony and soft sentimentalism. Editor’s Note. Robin Ouzman Hislop.
 
T.S.Eliot
 
 
 
Me
 
 
Robin Marchesi, born in 1951, began writing in his teens, much to the consternation of his mother, the sister of Eric Hobsbawm, the historian.

In 1992 Cosmic Books published his first book entitled “A B C Quest”.

In 1996 March Hare Press published “Kyoto Garden” and in 1999 “My Heart is As…”

ClockTowerBooks published his Poetic Novella, “A Small Journal of Heroin Addiction”, digitally, in 2000.

Charta Books published his latest work entitled “Poet of the Building Site”, about his time working with Barry Flanagan the Sculptor of Hares, in association with the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

He is presently working on an upcoming novel entitled “A Story Made of Stone.”

 
http://www.amazon.com/A-Small-Journal-Heroin-Addiction/product-reviews/0743300521
 
http://www.illywords.com/2011/09/down-the-rabbit-hole-a-glimpse-into-the-wonderland-of-barry-flanagan/
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop

Colour 2005. A Poem by Robin Marchesi.

COLOUR 2005

The uniqueness of perception

For which

As a young man

I so proudly stood

Has bred unique experience.

Now

Older

It has created

A huge

A

Lone

Ness.

Look at great Artists,

All of them,

Took their tone

In this lineage,

Of unique, aloneness.

Too much color, for another,

To bear.


 
 
Me
 
 
Robin Marchesi, born in 1951, began writing in his teens, much to the consternation of his mother, the sister of Eric Hobsbawm, the historian.

In 1992 Cosmic Books published his first book entitled “A B C Quest”.

In 1996 March Hare Press published “Kyoto Garden” and in 1999 “My Heart is As…”

ClockTowerBooks published his Poetic Novella, “A Small Journal of Heroin Addiction”, digitally, in 2000.

Charta Books published his latest work entitled “Poet of the Building Site”, about his time working with Barry Flanagan the Sculptor of Hares, in association with the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

He is presently working on an upcoming novel entitled “A Story Made of Stone.”

 
http://www.amazon.com/A-Small-Journal-Heroin-Addiction/product-reviews/0743300521
 
http://www.illywords.com/2011/09/down-the-rabbit-hole-a-glimpse-into-the-wonderland-of-barry-flanagan/
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop

This Poetry is Money!, Janet Kuypers’ Periodic Table of Poetry 7/7/14 Chicago feature

This Poetry is Money! , Janet Kuypers’ Periodic Table of Poetry 7/7/14 Chicago feature

In one of Janet Kuypers’ installments of This Poetry is Money! , Janet Kuypers’ Periodic Table of Poetry 7/7/14 Chicago feature

In one of Janet Kuypers’ installments of Periodic Table of Poetry poem readings (in her effort to write a poem for every element in the Periodic Table, to later become a book), Janet Kuypers was the feature at Waiting 4 the Bus in Chicago on July 7th 2013 (7/7/14) with “this Poetry is Money”.

[tubepress mode=’playlist’ playlistValue=’PLYa-AZK78_hrwoj4iaXu8iiDUBusVS1_y’ ]

the 7/7/14 this Poetry is Money Janet Kuypers chapbook
Download this poem in the free PDF file this Poetry is Money chapbook,
w/Periodic Table of Poetry poems.

Writings included in this show:
Lanthanum
Erbium
Rutherfordium
Hafnium
Thorium
Protactinium

 

Snake Song. A Poem by Saira Viola

 
When you take on the law
She’ll screw you ‘till you bleed
But you’ll go begging back for more
She’ll lead you on
With fast ,pretty talk and gold in her mouth
Ants will hiss in your milk
While you wait for that bitch’s next move
And you’ll play sophisticated psycho games
And sob – sob just like a dumpster babe
Your heart will stop – clock three beats
And you’ll be her court jester
As she slams you to the ground over and over until you break
Then she’ll silence your cock with a money threat
Hushing you still
And you’ll shake with fear as she whispers in your ear
Gimme Gimme Gimme
More cash for this bastard farce
Her ‘Honour,’ lives in a white world
She sees Justice delivered only for respectable boys and girls
The only ones permitted to drink from the font
Ask the Angola Three
What Amerikan ‘justice,’ means
She likes them to beg , crawl on their swollen knees
For a regal punch in the belly
Wrap her protective arms around you
Then : cuff you to her gavel
Strap you to a chair
Blind you with deceit
Shackle your aching feet
And let your ears sing for mercy.

 
 
boomie picture
 
Saira Viola ia a best selling crime writer , satirist, song lyricist and creator of innovative lit technique sonic scatterscript. Her work is infused with undercurrents of politics, pop philosophy and black comedy
 
http://gonzotoday.com/author/saira-viola/

 
artobscene
Saira Viola, Author at GonzoToday
gonzotoday.com
 
Saira Viola is a critically acclaimed poet , author, song lyricist , satirist and creator of innovative lit technique self labelled sonic scatterscript .

 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop

My European Jaunt, Radio, Nameplate | Poems by John Grey

MY EUROPEAN JAUNT

When I traveled through Europe,
every woman in every hotel in which I stayed,
was either young and beautiful
or very old and white-haired and a countess.
There were no in-betweens.
Nor was there a middle ground
between opera at La Scala in Milan
and the accordion player in the outdoor cafe
off the Champs-Elysees in Paris.
No gruesome pop music.
No third-rate rock bands warbling
in cut-rate English.
It was either grand divas or atmosphere
and nothing else.
I watched Real Madrid play soccer
and kicked a ball around a piazza
with some Italian kids.
I toured fabulous palaces
and the modest houses
of two or three of my on-the-road companions.
I admired the young and beautiful women from a distance
and I sat back enthralled
when the ancient countesses held court.
I was in thrall to Tosca’s splendors
and yes, a sip of latte, a bite of croissant
and a touch of the Edith Piafs
was like the perfect zip code
to my travails in France.
I roared with the crowd.
I laughed with the figliolos.
And Versailles is everything they say it is
while Angelique’s abode is charming.
Okay, I confess,
I did slip into a McDonalds once.
But the girl behind the counter was young and beautiful.
And, at a back table, an ancient countess
dipped French fries in ketchup.
Besides, I was only there to use the bathroom.
I swear to you, no hamburgers were consumed
in the making of this poem.

RADIO

They gathered around the radio then.
Dinner over with, the family retreated to the parlor.
Father turned the knob. Transistors slowly
hummed to life. The solitary speaker cleared its
throat. Then came a singer, female, rousing,
sending the boys off to war with loud and patriotic tonsils.

She had no face, no body, but in their heads she did.
Father rode her cleavage with every high note.
Mother saw her brassy, blonde, but a good girl behind
the makeup. The daughter dreamed herself into high
heels and tight red dress but her vocals less a belter,
more seductive. To the son, she was America
singing right at him. By the time the number finished,
he was ready to fight.

It was still a time of bread-lines, soup kitchens.
Europe was a madhouse. Americans held their breath.
But they had cheesy song, they had kitsch,
they had what moved the heart, they had altos,
they had red hot mamas, they had torch singers,
and, if that didn’t stir, there was always
“God Bless America.”

The radio shaped the conversation.
It was Stars and Stripes,
It recruited.
It was a huckster selling war bonds.
It was a president’s crackling fire.
And when talk couldn’t convince,
on came a songstress from the heartland,
catchy numbers you could tap a bayonet to.

Boys died with tunes in their head.
Or they came home, notes rattled,
chords shredded, verses blotted out,
but the chorus, though wounded badly,
still on the tongue.
The radio welcomed them back into their old chair.
Their blood no longer needed,
they sang along to the hit parade.
Television was on the horizon.
Until then, a kind of victory would have to do.

NAMEPLATE

How sad the eye
roaming a brass nameplate.
Faithless vowels.
Consonants weeping over
rusty screws.
His elbow takes
one desultory shine
to what his mother
first called him
sixty years before.
It’s five o-clock in the afternoon,
a telling time for office furniture.
Computers shut down.
Drooped shoulders lift.
Coats on racks
fall into line
with grabbing fingers.
But a man on his last day
can barely push his chair back.
Much as he hates the place,
he has no wish
to emigrate.
He leaves the nameplate
where it is,
figures the company’s so cheap
they’ll hire another
Frank Smith,
just so they won’t have
to replace it.
Maybe that’s the new Frank Smith
he saw in Personnel,
coming in as he was going out.
So many Frank Smiths in the world.
A man tries to explain it
but a nameplate says it best.