Robin Ouzman Hislop

Robin Ouzman Hislop is co-editor at of Motherbird.com and Artvilla.com where he also publishes Poetry Life & Times.   His recent publication of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, was published by Aquillrelle.com. Buy All the Babble of the Souk by Robin Ouzman Hislop at Amazon or Lulu....... Read more

In memoriam Jim Dunlap American Poet 1945-2024 presented by Richard Vallance

by

A fond farewell to Jim Dunlap (1945-2024)
and celebration of his life, his memorable poetry and sonnets
by Richard Vallance

Jim Dunlap (Jan. 9, 1945 – Dec. 5, 2024), a graduate of the University of Nebraska at Omaha, had his first work published in 1970. Since then his work has appeared in over 90 publications, including allpoetry.com (frequently), The Paris/Atlantic, Potpourri, Candelabrum, Möbius, Poetry Life & Times (UK) and Sonnetto Poesia. He was also the chief proofreader for the On Viewless Wings Anthology, published out of Queensland, Australia. Jim recently published The Spirit of Christmas in Poetry (© 2011 ISBN 9-781-4659-8261-2), available on Kindle. I first encountered Jim Dunlap, when I came across his homepage, Mindful of Poetry, https://mindfulofpoetry.homestead.com, where he frequently raised environmental and human rights concerns. Several of his own sonnets and poems appear on pp. 1-6. 1. Although I have never met Jim face to face, over the years 2004-2024, we cultivated our friendship and our literary experiences through the Internet, primarily via e-mail, while we also often spoke on the phone. Sadly, Jim simply dropped out of sight once and for all time in December 2024. He is sorely missed by his friends and fellow poets alike.

1.Jim Dunlap’s sonnets and poems published in Sonnetto Poesia, ISSN 1705-4524

Fiery Maid of Orleans

She burned … with holy fire,
And gave her all … for God.
Her soul a fiery rod
Divining faith … that higher
Soared, to a sainted realm
To some fair, better place.
In mail and burnished helm,
She ran a deadly race –
And vowed, with shaking breath,
No pain would drag her down.
She died a martyr’s death
To search a golden crown.
Though stake might be her byre,
She burned … with holy fire.

Sonnetto Poesia, Vol. 4, no. 5, summer 2005, pg. 30

Symbols in Flight, 1941

I’d have liked to see the bluebirds fly
Above the white, chalk cliffs of Dover;
And while blithely soaring over,
Immersed in thought I’d lie
In calm repose upon that beach,
Admiring those swooping forms,
In evanescent, fleeting storms,
Like ballet … far beyond my reach.
Frisking, fragile, carefree birds,
Symbolic in intrinsic meaning –
Like liberty and freedom’s words
In English springs, forever greening:
As England fought a bitter fight
To hold at bay the ‘fall of night.’

Sonnetto Poesia, Vol. 4, no. 5, summer 2005, pg. 31
also in
Sonnetto Poesia, Vol. 8, no. 4, autumn 2009, pg. 16
where Jim Dunlap sets the historical background to this sonnet:
Setting, approximately June 1941, Dover Beach, immediately following the Battle of Britain. We are taken to a specific place as well as a specific time, when the world was at war and the fate of all mankind hung in the balance. It is relevant because we are fast approaching another such time. Bluebirds are not found in the British Isles, but I wrote the poem before I became aware of the act. The curator at the Dover Museum said I should just leave it that way, as bluebirds, since the song, The White Cliffs of Dover, specifically named bluebirds.

The sonnet, quasi-Petrarchan, is archived with other writings about Dover and the Second World War by the Dover Museum, in Dover, England.

A Call from the Clouds

A missed phone call, can it redefine life?
It was mid morningish, that fateful day
And I was tired, sleepy, missing my wife.
What a price I’d eventually pay.
The phone rang and rang, I covered my head.
Voice messaging would soon answer the call.
I could barely arise from the clutch of the bed.
And fumbled my way to the john down the hall.
Then I punched the code, put phone to ear,
And almost collapsed from the shock.
Mary’s voice fairly shrieked, full of fear,
As I glanced at the time on the clock.
Goodbye, my darling, we’ll meet in Heaven.
She died 2001,9/11.

Sonnetto Poesia, Vol. 4, no. 4, autumn 2005, pg. 27

Pluck by Lust

Jupiter’s encircling moons,
named for the paramounts of Zeus,
wander in a cosmic dance –
like a beaded hangman’s noose.

The Kingly God of legend
was a lecher, brash and bold –
his affections scattered fiercely,
with each catch forcefully shoaled.

Europa’s name was given
to a continent as well –
while poor unlucky Io
only got a taste of Hell.

But prudes rewrite mythology,
and Ganymede, a shepherd boy,
is ignored, although his visage
rivalled that fair maid of Troy.

Yet the moon that bears his name
may be terraformed someday –
and immortalized, he’ll be, at last,
remembered fondly, young and gay.

He frolicked in Elysian fields,
rolled naked on the sod –
and learned that one should never
tempt the fancy of a God.

Sonnetto Poesia, Vol. 5, no. 4, autumn 2005, pg. 25

A Call to Arms

The die was cast with Earth’s first dawn –
Defend the right in spite of circumstance:
Long ages since, the battle lines were drawn.

In struggle, good and evil meet head-on –
With luck and skill, our ideals will advance.
Long ages since, the battle lines were drawn.

Each battle fought, engaged with brain … or brawn ..
Strength of character and honor will enhance.
Long ages since, the battle lines were drawn.

Each one of us, a player, King … or pawn –
Be alert, don’t sleepwalk in a trance.
The die was cast with Earth’s first dawn.

The board the world … at most a hanger-on –
While some, Evil’s minions will entrance.
Long ages since, the battle lines were drawn.

Weight each choice with care, both pro and con.
The world is fraught with misstep and mischance.
The die was cast with Earth’s first dawn.
Long ages since, the battle lines were drawn.

Sonnetto Poesia, Vol. 6, no. 1, winter 2006, pg. 34

Ariadnes … or Adonis?

A ‘face that launched a thousand ships …’
Such beauty might eclipse the sun.
What God created such a one?
All men would die to kiss those lips.
Of her beauty, wondrous and fair,
For centuries the minstrels sang …
Her fame resounded till it rang
Like an invocation … or a prayer.
What cost does beauty reimburse?
Her radiance all should propound.
Though one searched the Universe,
It seems no fairer could be found:
Not Zeus himself could make more joy
In a goddess … or a shepherd boy.

Dream Flight

I envy wild hawks as they soar
In freedom up the swelling sky –
Music intertwines and swells
And forms a wreath on Heaven’s door.
Cherubs weave unearthly spells
To illuminate the bye and bye.
Like a symphony’s exalted score,
Each rising note takes wing – to fly
While … as the pounding echoes die,
The music of englobing spheres
Limns raindrops, while the Angels cry
Through veils of evanescent tears.
Like eagles, down the fleeting years,
Dreams mount those far, celestial stairs
To cull away life’s doubts and fears.
While aeries serve as darksome lairs
For unsavory truths … disguised
As demons … to be exorcised.

Sonnetto Poesia, Vol. 6, no. 3, winter 2006, pp. 26 & 27

On the edge of the Sundering Sea

Elf towers silhouette a cobalt sky
in the Northern Marshes of the Shire;
and past them, one will find the sea,
and foaming breakers in the lea –
while music echoing from flute and lyre
calls up sharp images … your laugh or cry
and sigh … and homeward turn, as if to flee
a place too bright … and pure … desire
calls softly, and the urge to rest
overpowers all else in hobbit breast,
in awe of Eldamor’s undying West.

Beware, beware, the seagulls call,
unwary Elves may linger there,
and find their very souls in thrall;
so Elvenkind, beware … beware.

Sonnetto Poesia, Vol. 7, no. 2, spring 2008, pg. 34

Millay’s Mystique

She tied her auburn hair in buns …
and wove love stories in her mind.
The world her oyster, she would find
solace in rhythm, rhyme and puns.
Her love affairs … some of them legion,
some said promiscuous, as cupid’s dart
seemed constantly to pierce her heart,
or possibly some nether region.

Yet, living, hewed to her own terms,
while partners multiplied across the years.
She’d never bow to rules … or fears,
as stories tell … history confirms.
To the end, defying death’s cruel knell,
she wove, in words, a magic spell.

Sonnetto Poesia, Vol. 8, no. 3, spring 2008, pg. 30

Embyronic Forebodings

With hair like corn-silk and lazuline eyes,
you lit up my dreams with a radiant smile,
part angel, part demon, part errant surprise,
a bundle of impish seduction and guile –

I still feel your warmth. I clasped in my arms
such joy, evanescent, but glowingly real –
I could feel stirring echoes, latent alarms
of innocence crumbling, a façade puerile –
yet a prescient stirring aroused in my breast
echoes of pain, susurrations in streams
which were instantly trapped and suppressed.
Incipient loss buoyed depressing extremes,
while a surfeit of love was enough
to avert your leaving. Oh God, it was rough.

pg. 86 in: The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of Sonnets of the Eearly Third Millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets du début du troisième millénaire 2 Victoria, British Columbia, Canada: Friesen Press, © 2013
ISBN 1-4602-1701-6
The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phenix Renaissant de Ses Cendres – Anthology of Sonnets of the Early Third Millennium = Anthologie de Sonnets a: Vallance, Editor-In-Chief Richard: 9781460217016: Books – Amazon.ca

Bear Facts – Unplugged

Conventional wisdom aside,
Black bears don’t really hibernate
All winter long – they alternate
Wakefulness and sleep … and bid
Their time till spring at last returns.
But they seldom venture from their dens
(Though it’s instinct alone that pens
Them for these seasonal sojourns.)
Spring finds them truly mean as hell:
They eat roots and pine needles to plug
Their intestinal tracts, so snug
There’s practically no need to tell
The poor things suffer to the last
Second when the plug is passed.

The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry = Le Florilège de la nouvelle Pléaide
& Plainsongs, spring, 1996

Decoding Reality

Sometimes I want to turn life upside down,
rip it along the perforations until it fragments
on the vivid razor edge of now …
scream defiance in the ghoulish face of death …
and scrawl graffiti in luminescent hieroglyphics
across the very foundation of Eternity.

Sometimes I want to dig through them
and unearth the building blocks of time and space.

Sometimes I just want to laugh, and sing, and cry …
and remember that I’m human.

Sometimes I don’t.

The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry = Le Florilège de la nouvelle Pléaide

Dream Reminiscences

I’ve marveled much throughout the years
At how our past … relived in dreams …
Recalls old heartaches, steeped in tears,
And happiness of childhood schemes.
How as I toss in restless sleep,
I dream of love … and star-crossed lovers;
And precious moments that I keep;
Things no live being discovers ..
Enshrined within my heart and soul;
I find that friends I’d long forsaken
Come each to play a crucial role,
And reenact the way I’ve taken.
I note that lovers, friends, and kind,
Though to each other, most were strangers,
Throughout my dreams are sprinkled in
And share in ecstasies and dangers.
Yet though they’re gone when I awake,
My heart has calmed and ceased to ache.

The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry = Le Florilège de la nouvelle Pléaide
Dream International Quarterly, 1992

Drinking form the Poet Laureate’s cup *

Gathering together the loose ends of our lives,
We open doors long sealed inside our hearts,
Dodging fate’s sharp arrow and fierce darts …
Like surgeons honing glinting scalpel knives.

Slicing through the tangled veil of years,
We delve for truth – and sometimes find it –
Though base emotions might still gag and blind it.
Promise beckons beyond doubts and fears.

What does the poet owe to the reader
Which might pay for the death of a tree?
Could beauty alone spark a jubilee
For a towering pine or magnificent cedar?

Whether primly polite, or rude and uncouth,
Verse validation comes mainly through truth.

* Inspired by Phil Wey’s comment at the Des Moines National Poetry Festival when he picked up Robert Pinsky’s cup and took a drink, saying, “What if I drink from the Poet Laureate’s cup”?

Envoi: Adieu. Farewell

And then adieu, – farewell! – the dream is done
(Edna Saint-Vincent Millay)

Hey, are you there? I called you twice today…
and yesterday … I divine you’re not in.
I’m worried sick. I pray, are you O.K?
Your diabetes wears your spirit thin.

Life, why so damn jealous of our last breath?
Your life’s snuffed out? No. What a shouting shame!
Why must I dwell so zealously on death?
I fear life’s a mere flickering flame.

Why must the muses take such a grim toll
on us, unveiling our intensest fears?
Are sonnets second nature to your soul
slicing through the threadbare veils of your tears?

Your sonnets serenade us in your spell, *
annulling death’s knell. Adieu. Farewell.

* adapted from: Millay’s Mystique, by Jim Dunlap
To the end, defying death’s cruel knell,
she wove, in words, a magic spell.

Richard Vallance 2025

References & Notes:

1. The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of Sonnets of the Eearly Third Millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets du début du troisième millénaire. pg. 228

2. The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of Sonnets of the Eearly Third Millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets du début du troisième millénaire 2 Victoria, British Columbia, Canada: Friesen Press, © 2013
ISBN 1-4602-1701-6
The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phenix Renaissant de Ses Cendres – Anthology of Sonnets of the Early Third Millennium = Anthologie de Sonnets a: Vallance, Editor-In-Chief Richard: 9781460217016: Books – Amazon.ca
3. The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry = Le Florilège de la nouvelle Pléaide


© by Richard Vallance 2025

E.M. Schorb reads from 1st poetry collection, “The Poor Boy”

by

Biography

 

E. M. Schorb attended New York University, where he fell in with a group of actors and became a professional actor. During this time, he attended several top-ranking drama schools, which led to industrial films and eventually into sales and business. He has remained in business on and off ever since, but started writing poetry when he was a teenager and has never stopped. His collection, Time and Fevers, was a 2007 recipient of an Eric Hoffer Award for Excellence in Independent Publishing and also won the “Writer’s Digest” Award for Self-Published Books in Poetry. An earlier collection, Murderer’s Day, was awarded the Verna Emery Poetry Prize and published by Purdue University Press. Other collections include Reflections in a Doubtful I, The Ideologues, The Journey, Manhattan Spleen: Prose Poems, 50 Poems, and The Poor Boy and Other Poems.

Schorb’s work has appeared widely in such journals as The Yale Review, The Southern Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, The Chicago Review, The Sewanee Review, The American Scholar, and The Hudson Review.

At the Frankfurt Book Fair in 2000, his novel, <em>Paradise Square</em>, was the winner of the Grand Prize for fiction from the International eBook Award Foundation, and later,<em> A Portable Chaos</em> won the Eric Hoffer Award for Fiction in 2004.

Schorb has received fellowships from the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center and the North Carolina Arts Council; grants from the Ludwig Vogelstein Foundation, the Carnegie Fund, Robert Rauschenberg &amp; Change, Inc. (for drawings), and The Dramatists Guild, among others. He is a member of the Academy of American Poets, and the Poetry Society of America.

PRIZE-WINNING BOOKS
BY E.M. SCHORB
Books available at Amazon.com

Dates and Dreams, Writer’s Digest International Self-
Published Book Award for Poetry, First Prize

Paradise Square, International eBook Award
Foundation, Grand Prize, Fiction, Frankfurt Book Fair

A Portable Chaos, The Eric Hoffer Award for Fiction,
First Prize

Murderer’s Day, Verna Emery Poetry Prize, Purdue
University Press

Time and Fevers, The Eric Hoffer Award for Poetry
and Writer’s Digest International Self-Published Book
Award for Poetry, each First Prize

visit http://www.emschorb.com.

 

 

Hollywood Woman A Poem by Sara L Russell 18th March 2023

by

She has had an illustrious lifestyle
and many well-earned accolades;
donates to some causes quite worthwhile
she has gongs and awards now, in spades.

Her mansion’s been featured in Tatler
in Mode Avantgarde and OK;
She’s been called a trooper and a battler
and she always has plenty to say.

But her face is a bone of contention
it is fixed in a permanent grin
from a facelift hauled too tight to mention
and too much Botox in her skin,

And her lips, in an unnatural rictus,
have a top lip that sticks out too far,
Yet she boasts how her surgeon could fix us
if we weren’t as poor as we are.

She goes to cafés with her ladies
all from the same era as she;
and their pooches are treated like babies
and given fresh truffles for tea;

And when she is smiling or laughing
The waiters recoil in sheer fright
For her terrible grin leaves them gasping
She’s like a cobra poised to bite;

and some of her friends look like harpies
and some of them look like vampires
and their eyeliner’s drawn on with sharpies
and they drink to lost loves and desires;

But they carry on laughing regardless
For they clothes-shop at Rodeo Drive;
They are diamonds of high grade and hardness,
though they look to be barely alive.

 

Sara L Russell aka pinkyandrexa

Sara Louise Russell, aka PinkyAndrexa, is a UK poet and poetry ezine editor, specialising particularly in sonnets, lyric-style poetry and occasionally writing in more modern styles. She founded Poetry Life & Times and edited it from 1998 to 2006, when she handed it over to Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide; Robin now runs it as Editor from Poetry Life & Times at this site.  Her poems and sonnets have been published in many paper and online publications including Sonnetto Poesia, Mindful of Poetry and Autumn Leaves a monthly Poetry ezine from the late Sondra Ball. Her sonnets also currently appear in the recently published anthology of sonnets Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. She is also one of the first poets ever to be published on multimedia CD ROMs, published by Kedco Studios Inc.; the first one being “Pinky’s Little Book of Shadows”, which was featured by the UK’s national newspaper The Mirror, in October 1999. (Picture link for Mirror article) Angel Fire. And the 2024 AI version of The Perils of Norris cartoon, by Sara L Russell using Canva Pro AI, Episode 1. The Perils of Norris featured from this site Poetry Life and Times

When the Messiah Comes poems from Aieka by Daniela Ema Aguinsky Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop

by 

i.

La foto de mi abuela el día de su casamiento

Sé que no lo deseabas
pero lo hiciste.
El buen chico judío asignado
no resultó
tan buen chico.

Pasé tu edad
no me casé con el mío.
Lo deje ir lejos
una noche de luna
en la terraza
tomó mi mano y dijo

no me gustan las chicas
con las uñas pintadas.

Las mías
eran rojas
y dejaban marcas
en las paredes de su intestino.

A veces recuerdo al goy
de la fábrica de máquinas de coser
gritaba tu nombre
en la cueva privada de su boca.

Alegre
soprano de interiores
fósforo
en una caja húmeda
durante un corte de luz

vos empezás a irte
yo recién estoy llegando. 

i.

The photo of my grandmother on her wedding day

I know you didn't want to
but you still did.
The assigned good Jewish boy
did not turn out to be
such a good boy.

I am past your age
I didn't marry mine.
I let him get away
a moonlit night
on the terrace
he took my hand and said

I don't like girls
with painted nails.

Mine
were red
and left marks
on the walls of his intestine.

Sometimes I remember the goi*
from the sewing machine factory
he screamed your name
in the private cave of his mouth.

Cheerful
indoor soprano
a match
in a wet match box
when there is a fuse

you begin to depart
I'm just arriving.


* Goi (non Jewish boy)

ii.

Palimpsesto

Me tiré ácido
me raspé la piel
y me escribí encima.

Abajo quedaron huellas
los textos que no llegaron
al canon de mi existencia.

Que vengan los cabalistas
los estudiantes de Talmud
voy a desplegarme sobre la mesa,
una escritura sagrada.

Desnúdenme con cuidado
rastreen los indicios
discutan el estado original
de esta mujer borrada.

ii.

Palimpsest

I threw acid on myself
scraped my skin
and wrote on it.

Traces were left below
the texts that did not make it
to the canon of my existence.

Let the Cabalists come
students of the Talmud
I'm going to spread myself on a table,
a sacred script

Undress me with care
track the signs
discuss the original state
of this erased woman.

iii.

Las copas están hechas para romperse

Lo sé
desde que mi abuela guardaba la vajilla
de su abuela, en un aparador especial
que nunca se abría
por lo delicadas que eran
esas copitas verdes de tallos finos como lirios
capacidad mínima, brillantes.

Nada ameritaba
perturbarlas
de su estado decorativo
los nietos no le habíamos dado
una jupá, un compromiso, un nacimiento.
No le habíamos dado nada.

Pero mi abuela sabía mejor que nadie
que las copas
están hechas
para romperse:

van a quebrarse
mientras lavás los platos
o estallar contra el piso cuando levantás la mesa
un día que estás sobrepasada
o se le van a caer a tu nieta, dentro de veinte años,
cuando se mude sola a su primer departamento.

Van a resistir
como las personas viejas resisten
hasta quebrarse
un día cualquiera de sol.

iii.

GLASSWARE  ARE  MADE TO BE BROKEN

I know
since my grandmother put away the crockery
of her grandmother, in a special sideboard
she never opened
because of how delicate they were
those little green glasses with thin stems like lilies
bright in miniature capacity 

Nothing was worth
disturbing them
from their ornamental state     
grandchildren hadn´t give her
a chuppah*, an engagement, a birth. 
We hadn't given her anything.

But my grandmother knew better than anyone
that glassware
are made to be broken

they are going to break
while you wash the dishes
or explode on the floor when you ´re clearing the table
stressed out
or your granddaughter will drop them in twenty years´ time
when she moves into her first apartment alone.

They will resist
as old people resist
until breaking
any sunny day.

* chuppah: a Jewish wedding

iv.

                Cuando venga el Mesías van a curarse todos los enfermos
                     pero el tonto va a seguir siendo tonto.
                      Refrán Idish

Cuando venga el Mesías

y reconstruyan el Tercer Templo
no quiero estar arriba
mirando a los hombres rezar
en círculos que cantan y bailan
mientras mujeres charlan
y chicos gritan.

Cuando venga el Mesías
no quiero estar arriba
con el humo de los sacrificios
abajo los sacerdotes entran
y salen como amantes
pronunciando
el nombre sagrado.

Cuando venga el Mesías
y todos retornemos a la tierra
quiero estar en la tierra de este mundo.

iv.

                   When the Messiah comes, all the sick will be cured.
                        but the fool will remain a fool.
                         Yiddish saying

When the Messiah comes

and they rebuild the Third Temple
I don't want to be above
watching men pray
in circles singing and dancing
while women chat
and children shout

When the Messiah comes
I don't want to be above
with the smoke of sacrifices
the priests entering below
and exiting like lovers
pronouncing
the sacred name.

When the Messiah comes
and we all return to earth
I want to be on the earth of this world.

v.

Teléfono fijo

Mis papás me dieron un teléfono fijo
la línea está incluída dijeron
tenelo por las dudas
y quedó en el piso

cuando suena, rara vez
sé que son ellos
(nadie más tiene el número)
me siento en el sillón
espero tres tonos y atiendo

a veces una noticia terrible otras
una invitación para almorzar
lo único fijo este teléfono.

v.

Landline

My parents gave me a landline
the line is paid for they said
keep it just in case
and it stayed on  the floor

when it rings, rarely
I know it's them
(no one else has its number)
I sit on the couch
I wait three rings and answer

sometimes terrible news other times
an invitation for lunch

The only fixed thing this phone.

Daniela Ema Aguinsky (Buenos Aires, 1993) is a writer and filmmaker based in Argentina. She Directed the shorts Virtual Guard, Hurricane Berta, 7 Tinder Dates, and several others. She published Amante japonés, Aieka (2023) and Terapia con animales (2022) in Argentina, Mexico and Spain, book that won The National Poetry Prize Storni in 2021. She is also the spanish translator to the California based poet Ellen Bass; Todos los platos del menú (Gog & Magog, 2021). Twitter: laglu Instagram: laglus

 
 
Amparo Arróspide (born in Buenos Aires) is an M.Phil. by the University of Salford. As well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines, she has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento. The latter is part of a trilogy together with Jacuzzi and Hormigas en diaspora, which are in the course of being published. In 2010 she acted as a co-editor of webzine Poetry Life Times, where many of her translations of Spanish poems have appeared, she has translated authors such as Margaret Atwood, Stevie Smith and James Stephens into Spanish, and others such as Guadalupe Grande, Ángel Minaya, Francisca Aguirre, Carmen Crespo, Javier Díaz Gil into English. She takes part in poetry festivals, recently Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

To kill or not to kill Bill. A Poetry Text by Robin Ouzman Hislop. Excerpt from Cartoon Molecules

by 
To kill or not to kill Bill*										

i

Weary   if it weren’t a country from whose border
the slings and arrows of ardent hope for   die

us   to put up with those of them
put up with those of them   to die

you that   actually   Bill's last bullet to get to this point

the question for him was obscured by reflecting on it
end that we would all or not
unexplored natural miseries    human beings as simple as that
and the consideration that creates the that we don’t know about!

and i the movie advertisements refer to

so an unbearable situation   or to an authority
and the advantage that must make us pause
that must make us pause

 i can tell now   can tell now   the only one left   only one left

that’s us   that follows that first impulse of troubles that afflict one
the great and important plans life    because   who would tolerate
to suffer   we might have been the best   with a naked blade?
oneself with a naked blade?

(woman)

who would continue to exist
and end the dread of the love
the calamity of such a long problem
because in the end our life is a hurry for others
who are diluted to the point of sleep

perhaps thinking about a sleep of death
this mortal body has to endure
is in us all

i went on what hell of a lot of people i wasn't

the whips and scorns
the pain of rejected time
the tyranny against this load   sweating and grunting
the prospect    sweating and grunting the prospect
that confounds us and makes a traveller
return    ay   that’s the thing       ,

looked dead   didn't i?     dead   didn't  i?    well        .,

ii

As to that and the consideration
of impulses of troubles afflicting   grunting
the prospect that confounds rejected time
the tyranny that creates the that we miserable human beings
as simple mortal body have to endure
that would continue to exist and a long problem
because its an unbearable situation

the one I'm driving to right   a coma

or to tolerate   to suffer us to end the dread
of the that we don’t know about
so we wouldn't be in a hurry for others
from whose borders of authority 									
and the advantage plans of life - because
who put up with those of hope for us to die
all or not?

 a roaring rampage of revenge    rampage of revenge  

unexplored natural might have been the best for us
that follows from the first of them
the question for him of love   the calamity of such   the end of our life
with a naked blade obscured by reflecting on a sleep of death
the slings and arrows of ardent whips and scorns
the pain diluted to the point of weary
if it weren’t a country that must make us pause
against this sweating load and the one great important thinking about      ,

the last when I arrive at my destination

iii

Or to tolerate   to suffer us
has been the best for us   that follows us
to pause against this sweating load
and that would continue to exist
even if it weren’t a country   that must make that -

the one i'm driving to     i'm driving to

that confounds rejected time   the tyranny of a sleep of death
the slings of life   because who puts up with arrows of ardent whips
and the scorns in a hurry for others whose such ends our life with?

a hell of a lot of people now    can tell now    i can tell satisfaction    i've killed you that

as to that   and the consideration of end   the dread
of the that we as a simple mortal body have to endure
from the first of them   the question of a naked blade
obscured by reflecting on impulses of troubles
afflicting   grunting the prospect
all or not

actually   Bill's last bullet the movie advertisements refer to as an in for i got bloody last

unexplored natural might have been for him of love
the calamity of long problem   because of its unbearable situation

only one left    only one left

the borders of authority and the advantage plans
pain diluted to the point of  weariness
if we don’t know about it    so we wouldn't be it!

the one i'm driving to    i'm driving to

or not to be   creates the that for us to die   to die

when I only woke up    i went on one left    only one left    i wasn't    people i wasn't    
but put me in a coma – destination    it wasn't from one    wasn't from one more    
only one more    to get to this point   but right a coma     ,



*
To kill or not to kill Bill   text derived extracts from Hamlet’s 
‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy Hamlet Act3 Scene1 taken from the No Sweat Shakespeare Hamlet ebook 
& Uma Thuman’s car scene in Kill Bill 2.

 
 
 
Amazon.com/Cartoon Molecules-Robin Ouzman Hislop Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author.
 
 
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Africa North. An Excerpt from All the Babble of the Souk by Robin Ouzman Hislop

by 
Africa North


Solstice winds, rain return in spells
a moon waxes full, dogs howl as well.

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.

Weather beaten highlands, once passed through.

The river bed, no more like a parched bone
its late autumnal river meanders as a vein
past four reservoirs
a quest that will end in winter´s flood.

Between them are momentary mists
where brightly clad figures of the north, suddenly dim.

On the frontier’s beach taxis come, go
only the stranded remain, together with the seagulls
four men huddled, drenched in pouring rain
dead once more, again, all pathways home
washed away, again.  A broken song

remember me, sung in a doorway
brings the world at large together
as suddenly as it narrows.

Water runs on marble
nakedness revealed, nakedness concealed
form water words, water memories, mists, fates.

Veins wrestle the marble into mangled knots
blemished pearls on an implacable skin
shards leaving fragmentary traces
empty spaces awaiting faces.

Lights dance in the night, picturesque
“casas blancas del pueblo”
appear through the darkness

as the brush strokes of my mind steal the action of the shadow.

Mists cordon the mountain tops
guerdoned crowns  like wreathes.

Ancient fields' still colours surrounded
by burgeoning new lead to the valley below.

Old women , old as aglow, so slow they go
poised aloof in an untouchable world, trapped.

High in kiln firelight they cowl night’s shade
to oversee goats on the hill beneath.

Daughters of necessity naked in the rock
unleashed in white trefoil in the marsh
swamp of night rain, stark where epochs
sleep in their shadows

replication of memories, where the old
becomes the new, a world splits in two
with Morpheus in the breach.  

Beyond control, beyond reach the erratic butterfly
flits bloom to bloom, the intrepid stalker with net
both captured in the mimic mould.

A  knot is tied, a knot that wrestles
embraces, that ravels birth
unravels death & binds its existence.

Her face is as if a moon glazed over
with a less serene ceramic dust that in the end
after its perplexity contains its surety.

She draws her forefinger laterally across
under her eye lid in a smear

nor can you change the image of what you are
in the pupil of her eye.

Babble bodies blur
voices with their echoes down the street
sky high, prices fly

a bird song breaks, a splash charade
Faces in the rain thin
weakness of watery years.

A winnowing canvass tosses corn
as fireflies in the blazing day.

The hag in her rags begs her bag
holding all shadows to account.

You sit in the solitary corner
at the empty dice board
to throw, as the music swells, as strings play.

On the washing line clothes of all shapes
sizes are waiting to be filled
suspended between earth, sky, where white sheets blow.

A twinge of nostalgia flashes
a link between a fluttering curtain
an open window frame, a sun shadow game
a flickering apparition pattern leaving only - strands.

A breeze flutters an open foolscap on the table
as though a phantom reader
should flick with regard through a score of notes
then stops at the first blank white sheets
stays, the moving hand that wrote, wrote no more.

On record, old honky-tonk goes on
amidst the heaps of consumer city sneakers
in the same dust where faces
turn from their spring red lustre to a sun soiled wear

through a beehive of allies
names, aye to fetch them home again
as if where the countless dead resided, you’d said
in a market of women shrouded in shawls.

Berlin falls, Baghdad falls
all the years turn to further tears
further fears to merge with your voyage
the shape of dreams to come
to be only endearments of what has gone before.

A flower opens after a thousand years in a shell of tears
indifferent to its beholders’ sight
who paint it with the colours from the waters of their night
on an unknown shore, to whose sight it opened once before.

Children’s faces like radiant imps
play carefree in the streets below
overhead on red tiles, fat pigeons bicker, coo.

In an internet cafe, an Arab girl discrete in headdress
plays with cartoon molecules of Micky Mouse
Kola bear

nubile women’s faces dream of nudity in their shrouds.

Wonky pinz nez specs, jumble sale clothes
bad teeth, unshaven grin
looking a faded duplicate of a down
out James Joyce with the come on
are you Irish, he asks
perhaps he was once upon a time.

They came through the cleft of the mountain
 - where the river ran
to swim as a blur in the naked purple of the eye

on the mountain face there is a scar
once a sacred place, now extinct, as they are.

Yet wild still she runs, amidst the sheep, goats
toils at the hearth, dutifully bears children
yesterday she knows but not tomorrow
where she hides her sorrow

even as he ploughs the hillside
a photo will steal his soul, but his beasts will do.

Twilight’s girls, girls, girls
throng the bustling street corners eating caracoles.

By day the olive tree green in the blue sky of the window
seems almost immortal enriched with the blood
it’s enriched, now at its roots.
Costa de la playa, white beehives in the sun, all money, no honey.

In the broken lights of the bazaar
the dusky eyes of the beggar sunk in their sockets
maze in crooked cul de sacs embargo amidst
the furls of silk that foil the flickering lantern niche.
In the gloaming a solitary reaper reaps its shadow.
Streets packs ravage carcasses
at dawn, the city wakes to the city’s obedience
to obey its disappearing shadows.

A ghost city of watchers
watched as shadows by a memory that has outlived them
now fragments in an admixture of old, new
- amidst a junk yard of rubble

watcher shadows phased captive to their fading stories.

The street’s mechanics of the day
obey their limits, patterns of parts
where we end only to start in a series of nows

post mortem of the world at large
an autopsy of ghosts on the slab.

Born to see, in the boutiques people seem
like their own mannequins
existence is a mystery with no purpose

only we endow it with a destiny, it does not seek from us.

All the Babble of the Souk.amazon.com

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author.

See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Poesía en Toledo con Amparo Arróspide y Eva Chinchilla

by

 
En el Festival Voix Vives, día domingo 4 de septiembre. Con Javier Gil Martín (Cartonera del Escorpión Azul). Actuación con lectura de los libros “Deshacerse” y “Aventuras de BitBot”
 
 

 
 
 
 
Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) is a poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento , Hormigas en Diáspora , Jaccuzzi, Valle Tiétar , Aventuras de BitBot, Aman y Llá + Cielito Lindo , (1st Certamen Rapallo de Poesía), as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards even though she´s very fond of novel approaches to poetry. A member of Genialogías – the Spanish women poets´Association– and Euraca seminar.
 
Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
 

 
 
Eva Chinchilla, evachin. Poet. Author of Años Abisinios (2011), Verbo rea (2003), and a third poetry book currently in production. Participant in anthologies such as La noche y sus etcéteras. 24 voces alrededor de San Juan de la Cruz (2017), Hilanderas (2006) o Estruendomudo (2003). She is also a board member of poetry magazine Nayagua, which is a publication by the José Hierro Poetry Foundation, where she was a teacher from 2007 to 2016. Member of the Genialogías Association and the 8que80 collective of female poets; co-editor of Diminutos Salvamentos poetry collection. She walks along the haiku and flamenco lyrics paths. A philologist (hispanist), with a degree free master in continuous training and questioning. Born in Madrid (1971).
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is our poetry editor at Artvilla and publisher of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com More of his personal work can also be viewed at https://poetrylifeandtimes.com video & audio poems, translations etc.,

The Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop Audio & Text

by


 

 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, & Moon selected Audio Textual Poems available at Amazon.com as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

A Video Poem by Antonio Martínez Arboleda Interviewing Covid 19

by


 
This video is meant to provoke your thoughts about the nature of living beings, both Human and not Human, particularly as the conflict with each other. Equally, it questions critically Poetry and Journalism.
 
The poem itself was written on 20 April 2020. it has appeared, both in English and Spanish, in different formats in Poetry Life and Times, which is edited by the poet Robin Ouzman Hislop. There is also another interview video in Spanish, published in June 2021, less elaborated than this one.
 
I would like to remind everybody how important is to be vaccinated and to protect ourselves and others against the virus.
 
With thanks to all those who are working to control this horrible pandemic and those who spread quality information, not fake news.
 
Author of the video, texts and poem: Antonio Martínez Arboleda.
 
 
 

 
Antonio Martínez Arboleda:
Antonio (Tony Martin-Woods) started to write poetry for the public in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada, an online publication of political poetry. He runs the poetry evening Transforming with Poetry at Inkwell, in Leeds, and collaborates with 100 Thousands Poets for Change 100tpc.org/. Tony is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his real-life name, Antonio Martínez Arboleda at the University of Leeds. His project of digitisation of poetry, Ártemis, compiles more than 100 high quality videos of Spanish poets and other Open Educational Resources. http://www.artemispoesia.com/ .

He is the delegate in the UK of Crátera Revista de Crítica y Poesía Contemporánea , where he also publishes his work as translator from English into Spanish. He published his first volume of poetry in Spanish, Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess), in 2015, as a response to the Great Recession, particularly in Spain. His second book, Goddess Summons the Nation Paperback , Goddess Summons the Nation Kindle Edition , is a critique of the ideas of nation and capitalism, mainly in the British Brexit context. It incorporates voices of culprits, victims and heroes with mordacity and rhythm. It consists of 21 poems, 18 of which are originally written in English, available in print and kindle in Amazon and other platforms. Editor’s note: further information bio & academic activities can be found at this link: https://ahc.leeds.ac.uk/languages/staff/91/antonio-martinez-arboleda

 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ;
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Pixel. A Video Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop with Paintings by Amparo Arróspide

by

Editor’s Note: Audio Visual Poem with Subtitle Text on the caption box on the bar below the YouTube Video. Paintings by Amparo Arróspide
 

 
 
 

 

 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, & Moon selected Audio Textual Poems available at Amazon.com as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Antonio Martínez Arboleda´s Cosmic VideoPoem. Voyage

by


 
Greetings,
Siblings of the World:
This is Tony,
your flight assistant and prophet for today
 
Welcome to the end of planet earth as we know it
 
The big mass of the rock with water
that we inhabited for thousands of years
is now about to be transferred to another Galaxy
 
Unfortunately,
This is a rather perilous voyage,
but those of you who have been Good
shall be spared from any damage
 
What are the flying conditions for this adventure
we are about to embark upon?
 
Well, according to Office of Cosmical Statistics
and the weather algorithmic authority
we shall have no trouble
 
Please ensure that you have located
all your molecules of H2o
in the designated compartment
Above you
Remember:
during this journey
You will remain seated
inside your containers
until full re-composition is successfully completed
in our lavish destination
 
And now
 
heads up!
the hologram of our savour and patron
is about to be projected
on your virtual reality glasses
 
Let us pray,
each of you,
whatever you want, really,
it doesn’t matter
 
Our Captain, is ready to take off
 
See you at the other end!
 
 

 
Antonio Martínez Arboleda:
Antonio (Tony Martin-Woods) started to write poetry for the public in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada, an online publication of political poetry. He runs the poetry evening Transforming with Poetry at Inkwell, in Leeds, and collaborates with 100 Thousands Poets for Change 100tpc.org/. Tony is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his real-life name, Antonio Martínez Arboleda at the University of Leeds. His project of digitisation of poetry, Ártemis, compiles more than 100 high quality videos of Spanish poets and other Open Educational Resources. http://www.artemispoesia.com/ .

He is the delegate in the UK of Crátera Revista de Crítica y Poesía Contemporánea , where he also publishes his work as translator from English into Spanish. He published his first volume of poetry in Spanish, Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess), in 2015, as a response to the Great Recession, particularly in Spain. His second book, Goddess Summons the Nation Paperback , Goddess Summons the Nation Kindle Edition , is a critique of the ideas of nation and capitalism, mainly in the British Brexit context. It incorporates voices of culprits, victims and heroes with mordacity and rhythm. It consists of 21 poems, 18 of which are originally written in English, available in print and kindle in Amazon and other platforms. Editor’s note: further information bio & academic activities can be found at this link: https://ahc.leeds.ac.uk/languages/staff/91/antonio-martinez-arboleda

 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

A Robin Ouzman Hislop Video Poem Knocking on the Moonlit Door

by

Editor’s note: knocking on the moonlit door is an adaptation & reconstruction of Walter de la Mare’s The Listeners – it experiments with moods, ambience, environments. supernatural allusions,
it can be both present, past or future. Subtitles can be accessed by clicking on the subtitle text switch on the bottom bar of the YouTube Video:
 

 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, & Moon selected Audio Textual Poems available at Amazon.com as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

A Video Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop -Tessellation

by

 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, & Moon selected Audio Textual Poems available at Amazon.com as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

The Poetry of Noni Benegas Read by Robin Ouzman Hislop Translated from Spanish by Noël Valis

by

From BURNING CARTOGRAPHY
The Poetry of Noni Benegas
Translated by Noël Valis

Another Light
For Paul Virilio

Groping through the house, blind steps
of chalk
with the light of dreams
suddenly opaque or radiant
Who shimmers that screen
in the darkened brain?
Like skin withering on the inside
the mystery of that glow persists

Otra luz
A Paul Virilio

A tientas por la casa con pasos
de tiza
con la luz de los sueños
tan pronto opaca o radiante
¿Quién alumbra esa pantalla
en el cerebro a oscuras?
Como la piel se aja desde dentro
el misterio de ese fulgor persiste

**

A Flower
For Ana Basualdo

The camellia sliver in the wake
of the boat at night
when the petal draws back
a trembling universe
like the line of flotation

**

Una flor
Ana Basualdo

La tenue camelia en la estela
del barco nocturno
cuando el pétalo descorre
un universo trémulo
como la línea de flotación

**

Traveling

Travelers who reach Medina de Raj-Kasar
are surprised to see its image repeated
–for instance—in the guide’s
topaz ring or in the pool-encircled moat
or even in the festive fountain’s inner courtyard
Travelers who reach Medina de Raj-Kasar
after crossing between two moons
the desert of Al-Ahmir
sigh before the delicate towers and dream
of filigreed chambers and soothful hookahs
Do travelers reach Medina
or someone reach Raj-Kasar at a precise moment
dusty curious indolent?
Medina de Raj-Kasar traveling toward the Atlas
of travelers
is pleasantly surprised before the fresh-faced passenger
standing intrepid in the middle
of the glittering oasis

**

Viajar

Los viajeros que llegan a la Medina de Raj-Kasar
se sorprenden al divisar su imagen repetida
–pongamos por caso—en el anillo de topacio
del guía o en la acequia que rodea el foso
o aun en la fuente que acoge el patio interior
Los viajeros que arriban a la Medina de Raj-Kasar
luego de atravesar entre dos lunas
el desierto de Al-Ahmir
suspiran ante las finas torres y sueñan
con el salón filigranado y el narguile conciliador
¿Llegan los viajeros a la Medina
alguien arriba en un momento preciso a Raj-Kasar
polvoriento curioso indolente?
La Medina de Raj-Kasar viajando hacia los viajeros
del Atlas
se sorprende gratamente ante el rubicundo pasajero
que se alza impávido en medio
del iridiscente oasis

**

Frida Kahlo
For Jan Lumas

Was it a work of art or her desire? a column
like harvested steel then fangs like jade
careening steeply
It beat with the bold haste
of temples foretold: the wind adrift
in teeth the eyebrows a buffalo bower
the stamp of the sphinx on asphalt
Was it a work of art or her desire? a column
of damp chalk posed day after day beneath the
agile pupil forever flowering

**

Frida Kahlo
A Jan Lumas

¿Era una obra de arte o su deseo ? una columna
de símil de acero segada más una alta carena
de colmillos de jade
Latía con la prisa impávida
de los templos futuros: el viento entornado
entre los dientes las cejas de dosel de búfalo
la impronta de esfinge sobre el asfalto
¿Era una obra de arte o su deseo ? una columna
de tiza húmeda posada día tras día bajo la
ágil pupila en floración perenne

**

Interruptions

Is it true her face keeps the impressions
of wakefulness,
the landscape seen through the train window
fleetingly deciphered;
is it true her face is interrupted?

Seated across from me
was the sacred icon
of an old Hollywood actress
old age stamped in her features,
not definitively decayed,
but very close.

In improbable transit
those features;
an abandoned aerodrome
with grass on the runway and wind
from the ends of the world.

But there is a canal
that boats go up, of liquid
crystal, oars and noises and houses
alive on its banks,

Her face swarms
swirling with malice.
Could she only have seen what she saw?
As if something were suspended
between two canals
in the stagnant waters of her cheek . . .

Is it true her face is interrupted,
what if the interruption isn’t a landscape or a sound
but simply me?


**

Interrupciones

¿Hasta qué punto su rostro guarda las impresiones
de la vigilia,
el paisaje visto a través de la ventanilla
descifrado por momentos;
hasta qué punto su rostro tiene interrupciones?

Sentada frente a mí
era un Buey Apis que era
una vieja actriz de Hollywood
pues anunciaba la vejez en sus rasgos,
no definitivamente añeja,
pero ya próxima.

De tránsito improbable
esos rasgos;
cerrado un aeródromo en desuso
con hierbas en la pista y viento
de techo del mundo.

Mas hay un canal
que las barcas remontan de cristal
fluido, remos y ruidos y casas
vivas en las orillas,

hay un hormigueo en su rostro
hecho de malicia y remolinos.
¿Sólo habrá visto lo que vio?
Si algo quedara en suspenso
entre dos canales
en el remanso de la mejilla . . .

¿Hasta qué punto su rostro tiene interrupciones,
si la interrupción no fuera paisaje o sonido
sino simplemente yo?

**

 

 
Noni Benegas, born in Buenos Aires and resident in Spain since 1977, is the author of seven books of poetry; a selection is collected in El Ángel de lo súbito, Ed. Fondo de Cultura Económica, (Madrid, 2014). Burning Cartography, Ed. Host, (Austin TX, 2007 and 2011) is a selection of these poems in English, and Animaux Sacrés, Ed. Al Manar (Séte 2013) in French. She has won the Platero Prize from the UN in Geneva; the Miguel Hernández National Prize for Poetry, as well as Vila de Martorell award, the Rubén Darío Prize from Palma in Mallorca, the Esquío Prize in Galicia. She is the author of the influential anthology of contemporary Spanish women poets Ellas tienen la palabra, Ed. Hiperión (Madrid, 2008, 4th edition) whose introductory essay, with a new prologue, articles, interviews and an epilogue has been recently collected by Ed. Fondo de Cultura Economica in 2017 with the same title. Ellas Resisten. Mujeres poetas y artistas (1994-2019) is a selection of her essays on women writers and artists published by Ed. Huerga & Fierro
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

A Poem by Sara L Russell Eulogy for Freedom 30th March 2021

by

 
Was it here we used to drink on Saturday afternoons,
on the beer garden decking, under the trees,
you would be talking of funny things that happened
in your student days,
or the woes of working life
and I would find myself looking down at a garden
far below the upper decking,
wondering who lived at the house there
and if they were anything like us…
.
Was it every third or fourth weekend we might
jump on the bus to Tunbridge Wells,
to wander around the Pantiles;
to go treasure hunting
in bespoke jewellery and antique shops,
to dine at The Tunbridge Wells Hotel
on open steak sandwiches, drink
fine Malbec, watch people pass by
outside, and dream, and speak of future plans…
.
DId we really sometimes stay at that hotel in Bath
and visit that spa; did I dream that I swam
in the rooftop pool overlooking the city?
Did our hotel really have two swimming pools
and a sea of lavender surrounding the terrace?
I look at a photo I took through the window
of our room, at the full moon
through a black tracery of tree branches;
it seems worlds away now.
.
Watching a show on TV last night
I could only wonder
did people really
pile into those huge stadiums
swaying, waving, singing along
with the good old boys of rock n roll;
or purveyors of soul, or singers of blues
where everyone was carried away
on magic carpets of music,
with the base jumping, fists pounding
and hearts all bursting with joy?
.
Was it really only a couple of years ago
that friends and relations could still be reunited
with embraces and kisses?
Is the past forever foregone
or is there a place somewhere
which might let us return,
as easily as opening a door?
Just send me the key.
I swear I will stay faithfully indoors
until it arrives.
 
 
Sara Russel latest
 
 
Sara Louise Russell, aka PinkyAndrexa, is a UK poet and poetry ezine editor, specialising particularly in sonnets, lyric-style poetry and occasionally writing in more modern styles. She founded Poetry Life & Times and edited it from 1998 to 2006, when she handed it over to Robin Ouzman Hislop, who now runs it as Editor at this site. Her poems and sonnets have been published in many paper and online publications including Sonnetto Poesia, Mindful of Poetry and Autumn Leaves a monthly Poetry ezine from the late Sondra Ball. Her sonnets also currently appear in the recently published anthology of sonnets Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. She is also one of the first poets ever to be published on multimedia CD ROMs, published by Kedco Studios Inc.; the first one being “Pinky’s Little Book of Shadows”, which was featured by the UK’s national newspaper The Mirror, in October 1999. – (Picture link for Mirror article) – Angel Fire

 
 
 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Ekphrastic Poem Peace and Motion by Shakiba (Yorkshire Arts) and Tony Martin Woods

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Shakiba (a Persian word for a patient, tolerant and gentle person) is an artist based in Leeds, Yorkshire, since 2014. She is self-taught and works with Acrylic Pouring Techniques. Painting helped her to overcome the stress of her PhD thesis in a scientific discipline, which she completed in 2020. Editor’s note: for further viewing of Shakiba’s paintings & bio go to: https://yorkshire.art/directory/artist/shakiba/
 
 
 
tony republic
 
 
Tony Martin-Woods started to write poetry in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada , an online publication of political poetry that he edits & (Transforming with Poetry) see Facebook.com. Tony is a political and artistic activist who explores the digital component of our lives as a means to support critical human empowerment. He is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his non-literary name. He writes in English and Spanish and has published his first volume of poetry Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess) 2016.

Robin Ouzman Hislop Reads Carmen Crespo’s Poem Tesserae

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Tesserae translated from the Spanish award winning Teselas by Carmen Crespo by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arróspide, this is an audio version of the original translated text in Spanish & English, which can be purchased at Tesserae Carmen Crespo Amazon.com
 

 
 
 

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Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, Hormigas en Diáspora and Jaccuzzi, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines.
She has received numerous awards. Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop Her latest work Valle Tiétar is published by El sastre de Apollinaire Poesía,32 www.elsastredeapollinaire.com
 
 
 

 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems. A translation from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae, the award winning (X111 Premio César Simón De Poesía), in November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds. UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020

 

You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

 

Robin Ouzman Hislop An Audio Text Poem Tessellation

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Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems. A translation from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae, the award winning (X111 Premio César Simón De Poesía), in November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds. UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020

 

You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

 

El Cazador An Audio Poem by Amparo Arróspide with Piano by Dave Jackson

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Dave M Jackson is the Admin at Artvilla.com where his works are featured extensively.
 
 

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Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, Hormigas en Diáspora and Jaccuzzi, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines.
She has received numerous awards. Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop Her latest work Valle Tiétar is published by El sastre de Apollinaire Poesía,32 www.elsastredeapollinaire.com

Robin Ouzman Hislop Reads RIP Nicanor Para & Lawrence Ferlinghetti An Audio Textual Poem

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Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems. A translation from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae, the award winning (X111 Premio César Simón De Poesía), in November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds. UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020

 

You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

 

Rotations. A Poem by Gary Beck

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‘Learning Curve’ is an unpublished collection concerned with the decline of Western civilization: Gary Beck

 
We do not know why we are born
because we cannot question
until we have maturity
and relearn curiosity
to seek answers from elders.
And if we do not know wise men
we must search confusing books.
 
The need for understanding
does not affect everyone,
preoccupied with daily tasks
to provide food, shelter, clothing,
to their loved ones, dependents,
while those elected, appointed
to serve the people, the nation
do not always do their duty.
 
In the clash of interests
between the haves and have nots
rulers usually decide
in favor of the privileged,
whose wealth, resources, influence
allows retention of power
for cooperating leaders.
 
When we come into the world
without the means of advancement
we are creatures of coincidence,
nothing assuring accomplishments
except brains, talent, acquired skills,
opportunity discovered
by accident, luck, chance,
a haphazard path to the future.
 
Those dissatisfied with status quo,
demanding comprehension
of the forces that control us
are destined to be exiles
from the comforts of the system,
malcontents identified,
opponents to a sterile life.
 
 


 

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 26 poetry collections, 10 novels, 3 short story collections, 1 collection of essays and 1 collection of one-act plays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order, Contusions and Desperate Seeker (Winter Goose Publishing. Forthcoming: Learning Curve and Ignition Point). Earth Links, Too Harsh For Pastels, Severance, Redemption Value and Fractional Disorder (Cyberwit Publishing). His novels include a series ‘Stand to Arms, Marines’: Call to Valor, Crumbling Ramparts and Raise High the Walls (Gnome on Pig Productions) and Extreme Change (Winter Goose Publishing). Wavelength (Cyberwit Publishing). His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume 1 (Cyberwit Publishing. Forthcoming: Plays of Aristophanes translated, then directed by Gary Beck). Gary lives in New York City. https://www.facebook.com/AuthorGaryBeck
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

YouTube Poets

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Description
We are a group of poets making a TV pilot for a documentary about presenting our poetry on YouTube. We hope to approach a mainstream TV channel with the finished pilot, and may upload a complete documentary after the first few versions have been added here. This channel will be shared with participating poets and those poets who wish to submit work for consideration to be added to the documentary. The poet in the inset photo is Nordette Adams. I am Sara Russell, aka pinkyandrexa, and I will be editing the different versions of The YouTube Poets video until we have a final version that everyone is happy with. Please visit the link below the video to subscribe and send us your on You Tube Poems
 

 
You Tube Poets Channel see also YouTube Poets http://www.twitter.com/PoetsTube to follow

 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

MEDICATING AT HOME. A Poem by Bradford Middleton

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From now on if anyone asks I’ll just say No,
Fuck that I ain’t going to the pub no more. If
You want to get drunk with me call me, say
Hi and beg and maybe I’ll invite you around.
Only on the proviso that you’ll bring the drink
And not moan when I drink most of it down
Before I throw you out.
 
This change of heart has come from my last
Few visits to that place down the road, the
Place that has inflicted so much pain of late,
The place that has felt like home more than
Any other place in an awful long time but
Which now I can’t handle without that desire
To just drown myself in an ocean of booze,
Killing myself slowly.
 
It’s all a case of timing as the nights are now
Ruled by work and full-time hours are difficult
When there’s a lot of writing and drinking to
Get done. The novel remains stuck in progress
But the poetry keeps on coming in those rare
Times when there is any and the drinking is now
More deranged as it happens so very rarely
Causing all my damn accidents.
 
I finally collapsed at work earlier today, pure
And utter total exhaustion as the pains make it
Difficult to sleep and now Monday night
After the Wednesday before I come home at five
Rolled one, smoked it and dropped some legal
Medication. It took me off to my warm
Beautiful cocoon of bed and, with no work now
Until Wednesday, hopefully at last my healing
Process has began.
 

 
 

 
 
 
 
BIOGRAPHY
 
 
Bradford Middleton was born in south-east London during the summer of 1971 and won his first poetry prize at the age of nine. He then gave up writing poems for nearly twenty-five years and it wasn’t until he landed in Brighton, knowing no one and having no money, that he began again. Ten years later and he’s been lucky enough to have had a few chapbooks published including a new one from Analog Submission Press entitled ‘Flying through this Life like a Bottle Battling Gravity’, his debut from Crisis Chronicles Press (Ohio, USA) and his second effort for Holy & Intoxicated Press (Hastings, UK). He has read around the UK at various bars, venues and festivals and is always keen to get out and read to new crowds. His poetry has also been or will be published shortly in the Chiron Review, Zygote in my Coffee, Section 8, Razur Cuts, Paper & Ink, Grandma Moses ‘Poet to Notice’, Empty Mirror, Midnight Lane Gallery, Bareback Lit and is a Contributing Poet over at the wonderful Mad Swirl. If you like what you’ve read go send a friend request on facebook to bradfordmiddleton1.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

HOMELAND. A Poem by Deborah Sfez.

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In my mother’s womb
I arrived at my Homeland.
From the side wall
of her uterus, I heard the waves
crashing.
I, who was nothing
but a five months old fetus,
floated in my private sea, enjoying
the waves’ movement
inside and out,
while she
stood on the deck
her belly, going up and down
underneath her lightweight dress.
When I came into being
I understood
that
I had arrived
at a foreign country
and that its language,
was not
my mother-tongue.

 
 

 
 
 
Deborah Sfez is a multidisciplinary Israeli artist, born in 1964, working in Côte-D’Ivoire and
Israel.
She is a recognized Artist in Israel and internationally and has won several photography and
art awards.
Her work can also be found in the archives of several Museums.
Her tools are photography, moving image, filmed performance accompanied by texts and
music and sound composition.
Her path, atypical, begins with studies of literature and languages and then by learning the
trades of Fashion and Theater Costume.

Today her work mainly talks about the ups and downs of human existence, she talks about
the experience of existence, partnership, how to overcome an illness, the fear of life, the
beauty of to be a woman and the impossibility of being perfect.

Photography, for her, means a creative research.
She started her work with a series of hundreds of self-portraits by transforming her
appearance into many different characters using costumes, make-up and wigs. Later, she
began using these various self-portraits in a more complex way creating photographic
installations or in more constructed videos, including texts that she wrote, and soundtracks
composed exclusively for each work.
Coming from a country like Israel, where cohabit multiple cultures, the main objective
would be to find equality for all human beings, regardless of their cultural background,
because we are all born one day and therefore must die, man or a woman.
 
https://www.deborah-s-artist.com

 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Imitations in the Windows. A Poem by Samuel Strathman

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Several childlike artworks
line the windows
of a bungalow.
 
The drawing that
stands out the most
is the one
of a dog eyed
octopus in a state
of repose.
 
Swimming in the deep
dark ocean must be
onerous for the little chum.
 
It’s a wonder
you don’t see more
of those tired heaps
tamped together.
 
*
 
My favourite shop
removes all the fish
from its counters, relocates
them to the frozen isle.
 
Display counters
make the transition
to imitation seafood.
 
There is a sudden
itch for me
to paint these replicants
right here, right now
before my hands
turn to hooks.
 
Perhaps these models
inspire some artists
more than others.
 
 
 

 

Author Bio
 

Samuel Strathman is a poet, author, educator, and co-editor at Cypress: A Poetry Journal. Some of his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Rejection Letters, The Honey Mag, Ice Floe Press, and elsewhere. His debut chapbook, “In Flocks of Three to Five” was published by Anstruther Press (2020). His second chapbook, “The Incubus” will be in print this fall (Roaring Junior Press, 2020).
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

When The Big Man Blows. A Poem by Phillip Henry Christopher

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(for Ed)

 

When the Big Man blows,
relive those glory days
rockin’ and rollin’ in the back seat of
a beat up old Buick,
an Asbury Park tune,
a hemi-head
double-barrel bass guitar,
wild and innocent
shufflin’ down E Street,
when Adam first raised a Caine
dancin’ in the moonlight Rosie
low tide summer,
and the tilt-a-wheel
caught us by the collar
and we hung on
and went around and around,
when the Promised Land was
clandestine alleyways,
heavy breath moist
air-fogged window
gasp of a woman child
back street September sixteen,
rockin’ back beat crashin’
fifty ton plates,
furious splooshing
ladles plunging into
liquid steel,
skinny silky skin
long-haired boy
trying to flee
the future,
the mill waiting
to turn velvet hands
to sand paper,
skin to leather,
the quick nervous
wrapping of limbs,
bumping of bellies,
then a house filled with silence
and forty years
of punching in and punching out,
of hot molten slag
like hell fire.
No Jersey Shore fantasy,
just the short ride
down Main Street
to the flats.
No sandy beach ocean,
just the Brandywine Creek.
No neon spinning carnival rides,
or stroll down summer boardwalks.
Just plod along under
smoke stack steeples,
clock in and out forever,
but never forget summers
of desperate fumbling
on back street back seats,
of alleyway heat,
of the Big Man blowin’ righteous
saxophone songs of
Sandy, and Rosie
and Crazy Davey,
while you sang a
song of yourself.
 
“When the Big Man Blows” appeared in PiF Magazine, No. 188 (January, 2013)
 

https://www.facebook.com/philliphenrychristopher/
 

 
Poet, novelist and singer/songwriter Phillip Henry Christopher spent his early years in France, Germany and Greece. His nomadic family then took him to Mississippi, Georgia, Ohio and Vermont before settling in the steel mill town of Coatesville, Pennsylvania, where he grew up in the smokestack shadows of blue collar America.Escaping high school, he made Philadelphia his home, alternating between Philly and cities across America, living for a time in Buffalo, New Orleans, Fort Worth, even remote Fairfield, Iowa, before settling in Indianapolis. While wandering America he has placed poems and stories in publications across the country and in Europe and Asia, including such noteworthy journals as The Caribbean Writer, Gargoyle, Lullwater Review, Hazmat Review, Blue Collar Review, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Blind Man’s Rainbow and New York Quarterly
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Floating. A Poem by Fabrice B. Poussin

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Strolling at noon on a precious day
when ghosts hover to a favorite dive
he bumped elbows with a girl in white.

The zenith stood guard above misery
throwing flames into his indecent gaze
for he must not dare to confront the heavens.

Black souls danced arm in arm
walking in a deathly cadence
until the bell again rang for order.

She did not belong in this ghastly crowd
her body smiling with the aura of ideals
a promise she vanished in a private realm.

The absent-minded saunterer attempted to follow her
beyond the glaring windows
a bright world in this indecent nightmare.

Her vision invited the stranger one last time
but he could only remain by the gate of horror
to see her disappear within the world she saved.
 
 

 
 
Fabrice B. Poussin is the advisor for The Chimes, the Shorter University award winning poetry and arts publication. His writing and photography have been published in print in the United States and abroad. He teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, La Pensee Universelle, Paris, and other art and literature magazines, where he has also featured here at Poetry Life and Times & Artvilla.com. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

The Poem. Audio Textual by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems. A translation from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae, the award winning (X111 Premio César Simón De Poesía), in November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds. UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020

You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Tryst. Poem by Despy Boutris

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TRYST
 

The secret to sin is to do it
in secret. We learned secrecy young—
 
two girls taught to swallow our hunger—
so we meet up at nightfall
 
once the last lights have gone out. We walk
down the roads, cursing this town
 
full of coal-miners and farmers and churches,
cursing the way we’ll likely never leave.
 
The air is petrichor-stained, and we’re led
only by the humming streetlights
 
and starlit sky. We find each other
at our meeting place, the lake south of me,
 
north of you, me scrambling over the wet rocks
toward the grove where you’ve lain down
 
the knit blanket. And as soon as we catch
each other’s eyes, we’re each saying Here
 
is my shirt, here is my hair, my hands,
my mouth, take it, take me, right
 
now. Your eyes glow like lightning bugs,
jaw sharp as my pocket knife. As we strip
 
our breaths turn to fog, the cool drizzle falling
onto your curls and half-shut eyelids.
 
Your thighs shear mine—
the seawater taste of skin, the scrape of teeth
 
against lip, fingertips meandering down spines,
tracing mandibles. Breaths a windstorm—
 
some desire to rub ourselves together
till we make some sort of fire. As your mouth
 
latches onto skin hardly anyone has seen,
rosy even in this low light, we gasp
 
like people drowning, and I try to think
of a word for the way I want you—wildly,
 
maybe. Like a monsoon. But what’s at first erotic
erodes: love collapsing like the hills
 
that gave way after so much rain and mud
last winter. And so much want
 
is sinful—I know—so we’re wary
of the fires and floods, lying together
 
only in darkness, water spattering our faces,
swallowing what we can of each other.

 
 
(first published in Prairie Schooner)
 
 

Processed with VSCO with a6 preset

 
 
BIO:
Despy Boutris is published or forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Copper Nickel, Colorado Review, The Adroit Journal, Prairie Schooner, Palette Poetry, Third Coast, Raleigh Review, Diode, The Indianapolis Review, and elsewhere. Currently, she teaches at the University of Houston and serves as Assistant Poetry Editor for Gulf Coast.

 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Millenium. An Audio Textual Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems. A translation from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae, the award winning (X111 Premio César Simón De Poesía), in November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds. UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020

You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

No Place Like. An Audio Textual Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems. A translation from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae, the award winning (X111 Premio César Simón De Poesía), in November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds. UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020

You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

The Tilting. An Audio Textual Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

by

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include

All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.

You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Making the Best of It. A Video Text Poem by Sara L. Russell

by

 


 

Make time for oatmeal
slap it on your face
A mask is always useful
 
Think about Mindfulness
enter the id
explore the more spiritual
 
Get into baking
throw nothing away
cut your own hair
 
A virtual pub quiz
almost the same
as being there
 
So here is Friday
a bit like Thursday
by another name
 
Here is a message
stay home save lives
be good, play the game
 
Here comes a baldy
With cold dead eyes
to tell you again
 
Here’s a comedian
saying the same thing
but makes it a joke
 
There’s good little children
there’s a good housewife
that’s a good bloke
 
Spring is forbidden
summer is cancelled
commerce has died
 
So dance in your bedroom
sing into your hairbrush
Pretend they all lied.
 
 

Sara L. Russell 17th April 2020

 

Sara Russel latest
  
 
Sara Louise Russell, aka PinkyAndrexa, is a UK poet and poetry ezine editor, specialising particularly in sonnets, lyric-style poetry and occasionally writing in more modern styles. She founded Poetry Life & Times and edited it from 1998 to 2006, when she handed it over to Robin Ouzman Hislop, who now runs it as Editor  at this site. Her poems and sonnets have been published in many paper and online publications including Sonnetto Poesia, Mindful of Poetry and Autumn Leaves a monthly Poetry ezine from the late Sondra Ball. Her sonnets also currently appear in the recently published anthology of sonnets Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. She is also one of the first poets ever to be published on multimedia CD ROMs, published by Kedco Studios Inc.; the first one being “Pinky’s Little Book of Shadows”, which was featured by the UK’s national newspaper The Mirror, in October 1999. (Picture link for Mirror article)Angel Fire

 

 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

 

CODA: THE GHOSTS GO HOME. A Poem by EM Schorb.

by
      O lost and by the wind grieved,
      ghost, come back again.
      —Thomas Wolfe

. . . so this is luck says Maxine
you can take your freaking luck and shove it
Mama says it was the aliens who helped us
hundreds of flying saucers piloted by
Elvises in sequined pod suits
they lifted us off the cliff
I told you they would I told you
she’s nuts Buddy we’re dead right now
dead and floating away Max dispersing smoke
and just when I thought I was going to heaven
to God’s bright musical castle
where I could play the organ
play Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland
for all the heavenly days of my death
O.K. Buddy but what in hell do you think
I’m travelling for
we left the other goddamned Disney place
three thousand miles back
I want to get away from it all
that’s my heaven
every place is the same Max
every place is Disneyland
now don’t you start sniveling Mama
but home is where the heart is
my heart is with Harry in Orlando
poor old Alzheimer man
I loved him so much
for God’s sake we got all freaking bummed out
I sent a card back home to tell
how you’ve acted you son-of-a-bitch you killed us
and I think you did it on purpose
you think you can drive through space now Buddy
still steering Max
Maxine
what Mama
you children are enough to drive me out of my mind
but the National Star
and the Pod People keep me sane
look at all that space
can you fly this thing Buddy
an American G.I. can do anything he has to do Mama
Buddy sometimes you remind me of Harry
why thanks Mama
doughboys is what we called G.I.s in my day
like you he came back full of holes
but gassed in Belleau Wood
beautiful name to be so horrible
I know I don’t tell you very much
but now that I know we are all going to
heaven together or somewhere
well wherever the pod people take us
I love you both
we love you too Mama
don’t we Max
O.K. so all us suckers love each other
just keep this smoke floating
Mama I think Maxine is blubbering up
crocodile tears Buddy she’s hard as a rock
no Mama you should see her up here
shut up Buddy
she’s had too much beer
no I think the crash is just now sinking in on me
but I’m not going to stop drinking my Lite
I don’t care if I’m dead
you are dead Max we’re all dead
Buddy are you sure you can fly are you
does smoke rise up from a fire
and finally vanish in the sky
I keep on truckin’ like I always done Max
through war and peace Mama
our flag must still wave
through hell and high water Max
I could go on flying this big beautiful
Winnebago with the eagle wing span of an
Enola Gay forever across America
back and forth across this great big
God bless America country
FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA
 
 
E.M. Schorb’s Murderer’s Day, was awarded the Verna Emery Poetry Prize and published by Purdue University Press, and a subsequent collection, Time and Fevers, was the recipient of the Writer’s Digest International Self-Published Award for Poetry and also an Eric Hoffer Award.
 
Other works include 50 Poems, Hill House New York; Words in Passing, The New Formalist Press; The Ideologues and Other Retrospec­tive Poems, Aldrich Press; Eclectica Americana, Hill House New York; Manhattan Spleen, Aldrich Press; Last Exit to East Hampton, Kelsay Books; and The Poor Boy, Dragon’s Teeth Press, Living Poets Series. The title poem, “The Poor Boy,” was awarded the International Keats Poetry Prize by London Literary Editions, Ltd., judged by Howard Sergeant.
 
Schorb’s novel, Paradise Square, received the Grand Prize for Fiction from the International eBook Award Founda­tion at the Frankfurt Book Fair. A Portable Chaos was the First Prize Winner of the Eric Hoffer Award for Fiction. His latest novel, R&R, a Sex Comedy, has won the Beverly Hills Book Award for Humor. But Schorb maintains that he is first and foremost a poet, and his poetry has appeared in numerous publi­ca­tions, such as Agenda (UK), The American Scholar (US), Frank (FR), The Hudson Review (US), Stand (UK), Poetry Salzburg Review (AU), Queen’s Quarterly (CA), The Yale Review (US), and Oxford Poetry (UK), among others.

Now Even Now. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

by

now even now
it’s like a ghost town now
& O the distant hills

are a more ghostly blue
than before

now even a few stray locals
come & go stranger even now
than they were before &

O the dear police cars patrol
with speakers are more ghostly too

& through my bedroom window
the gable ended stone house wall
grows evermore iconic faces

than before — even now
as daily the days flock by
more than before — now even now

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include

All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.

You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

THE VIRUS MONOLOGUE. Translation from Source: https://lundi.am/Monologue-du-virus by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop

by

THE VIRUS MONOLOGUE
 
 
“I came to shut down the machine for which you could not find the emergency brake. “
 
 
“Silence, dear humans, all your ridiculous calls to war. Lower the looks of revenge you have on me. Turn off the halo of terror that surrounds my name. We, viruses, from the bacterial background of the world, are the true continuum of life on Earth. Without us, you would never have seen the light of day, nor would the first cell.
 
We are your ancestors, just like stones and algae, and much more than monkeys. We are everywhere you are and where you are not too. Too bad for you, if you only see in the universe what is your liking! But above all, stop saying that I’m the one killing you. You do not die from my action on your tissues, but from the lack of care of your fellow men. If you weren’t as rapacious among yourself as you were with everything that lives on this planet, you would still have enough beds, nurses and respirators to survive the damage I do to your lungs. If you did not store your old people in dying rooms and your able-bodied people in reinforced concrete hutches, you would not be there. If you had not changed the yesterday still luxuriant, chaotic, infinitely populated vastness of the world or rather of the worlds into a vast desert for the monoculture of the Same and the More, I would not have been able to launch out a planetary conquest of your throats.
 
If you had not almost all become, throughout the last century, redundant copies of a single and unsustable form of life, you would not be preparing to die like flies abandoned in the water of your sweet civilization. If you hadn’t made your backgrounds so empty, so transparent, so abstract, believe me that I wouldn’t be moving at the speed of an aircraft. I have only come to carry out the sanction which you have long since pronounced against yourselves. Forgive me, but it is you, as far as I know, who coined the name “Anthropocene”. You have claimed all the honor of the disaster; now that it is accomplished, it is too late to give it up. The most honest among you know this well: I have no other accomplice than your social organization, your madness of the “big scale” and its economy, your fanaticism for the system. Only systems are “vulnerable”. The rest live and die. There is “vulnerability” only with regard to control, its extension and its improvement. Look at me carefully: I am only the reverse of the reigning Death.
 
So stop blaming me, accusing me, tracking me down. Stop paralyzing against me. All of this is childish. I offer you a conversion of the look: there is an immanent intelligence in life. You don’t have to be a subject to have a memory or a strategy. You don’t have to be sovereign to decide. Bacteria and viruses can also make rain and sun shine. So see me as your savior rather than your gravedigger. Feel free to believe me, but I came to shut down the machine for which you could not find the emergency brake. I have come to suspend the operation of which you were the hostages. I came to demonstrate the aberration of “normality”. “To delegate our food, our protection, our ability to take care of our living environment to others was madness” … “There is no budgetary limit, health is priceless”: see how I have the language and the spirit of your governors forked! See how I bring them back to their real rank of miserable swindlers, and arrogant with that! See how suddenly they denounce themselves not only as superfluous, but as harmful! You are for them only the supports of the reproduction of their system, even less than slaves. Even plankton is treated better than you.
 
Be careful, however to blame their shortcomings. Avoid wasting your energy. To accuse them of carelessness is to lend them more than they deserve. Ask yourself, how did you find it so comfortable to let yourself be governed? To praise the merits of the Chinese option against the British option, of the imperial-forensic solution against the Darwinist-liberal method, is to understand nothing of either, of the horror of one as the horror of the other. Since Quesnay, the “liberals” have always regarded the Chinese Empire with envy; and they continue to do so. They are Siamese brothers. That one confines you in your interest and the other in that of “society” always comes down to crushing the only non-nihilistic conduct: taking care of oneself, those one loves and what one loves in those one doesn´t know. Do not let those who led you to the abyss pretend to know how to get out of it: they will only prepare you for a more perfected hell, an even deeper grave. The day they can, they will patrol the beyond with their armies.
 
Thank me instead. Without me, how much longer would all these unquestionable things suddenly suspended been regarded as necessary? Globalization, contests, air traffic, budgetary limits, elections, sports competitions, Disneyland, fitness rooms, most shops, the congress and parliament, school crowding, mass gatherings, most office jobs, all this drunken sociability which is only the flip side of the anguished loneliness of metropolitan dwellings: all this was therefore unnecessary, once the state of necessity manifests itself. Thank me for the test of truth for the next few weeks: you are finally going to live your own life, without the thousand loopholes that, year after year, keep the untenable going. Without realizing it, you had never moved into your own existence. You were among the boxes, and you didn’t know it. You will now live with your loved ones. You will live at home. You will stop being in transit to death. You may hate your husband. You may vomit your children. Perhaps you will want to blow up the decor of your daily life. To tell the truth, you were no longer in the world, in these metropolises of separation. Your world was no more livable in any of its points than on the condition of constantly fleeing. It was necessary to be dazed by movement and distractions so much ugliness had gained presence. And the ghostly reigned among beings. Everything had become so effective that nothing made more sense. Thank me for all of this, and welcome to earth!
 
Thanks to me, for an indefinite time, you will no longer be working, your children will not go to school, and yet it will be the complete opposite of the holidays. Holidays are that space that must be furnished at all costs while awaiting the expected return from work. But here, what opens up before you, thanks to me, is not a demarcated space, it is a huge gaping hole. I am here to disassemble everything. Nothing can guarantee you that the non-world of before will return. All of this profitable nonsense may be over. By dint of not being paid, what could be more natural than not paying your rent? Why would he still pay his debts to the bank, the one who can no longer work anyway? Isn’t it suicidal, in the end, to live where you can’t even grow a garden? Whoever has no more money will not stop eating, and the one who has the iron has the bread- as Auguste Blanqui used to say.
 
Thank me: I place you at the foot of the fork that tacitly structured your lives: the economy or life. It’s up to you. The range is historic. Either the rulers impose their state of emergency on you, or you invent your own. Either you get attached to the emerging truths or you put your head on the chopping block. Either you use the time I am giving you now to figure out the next world from the lessons of the ongoing collapse, or it will end up by radicalizing, even more. Disaster ends when the economy stops. The economy is devastating. It was a thesis before last month. It is now a fact. No one can ignore the fact that it will take police, surveillance, propaganda, logistics and telework to repress it.
 
As you face me, do not give in to panic or denial. Don’t give in to biopolitical hysteria. The coming weeks are going to be terrible, overwhelming, cruel. The doors of Death will be wide open. I am the most devastating production of the ravage of production. I come to nullify the nihilists. The injustice of this world will never be more glaring. It is a civilization, and not you, that I come to bury. Those who want to live will have to make new habits, and their own. Avoiding myself will be the occasion for this reinvention, this new art of distance. The art of greeting each other, in which some were short-sighted enough to see the very shape of the institution, will soon no longer obey any label. It will be an agreement between sentient beings. Do not do it “for others”, for “the population” or for “society”, do it for your own. Take care of your friends and your loved ones. Rethink with them, sovereignly, a just form of life. Make good life clusters, expand them, and I can’t do anything against you. This isn´t a call for the massive return of discipline, but of attention. Not for the end of all lightness, but of all neglect. What other way was left for me to remind you that salvation is in every gesture? That everything is in the infinitesimal?
 
I had to face the facts: humanity only asks itself the questions that it can no longer not ask itself. ”
 
Source: https://lundi.am/Monologue-du-virus Original French Version

Laminations in Lacquer. Audio Textual Poem. Excerpt from Moon by Robin Ouzman Hislop

by

http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
 

 
 
In a bright lit night, he lays his bed
deep in hues of Lapis Lazuli.
In the corners sit the winds
dressed like musical chairs.
 
An olive ferments in a pastel saucer
into mossy green minutiae
where a painted flower swallows
against its form, liquid spaces
in lean reflections towards a bottomless well.
 
Veils swim on the verge the flower
defines drawn against
an olive splash of skin
in the glazed lacquer
gloss to the anonymous images.
 
A cock crows cockle doodle do
discrete, concrete, on the fronds
ruffles in the red sprocketed throat
a screech of feathers
stilled in the flower’s passion
in the pool’s hoard.
 
The gibbous mound
a crimson flash in the curtain
through which he passes
beneath the bridges.
A stairway in pastel hue
laps tranquilly cool
to a hole in a wall
a cavernous breach which retains
the scream of the arch
scrawled on a screen
defiant in the stance of plumages
hordes of epiphanies
buried in petrified pastel ripples.
 
Below the rift of its eye
the sealed beak that will open
gleams on the lee.
 
Throughout the entire circumference
can be seen the tilt giving rise
to both translucence, transparency
where the acid, oil separate
only to appear to coalesce
in the almost pure liquid sheen
containing its own light
even in the presence of the vegetative
silt at the bottom of the bowl.
 
At the moment of its brimming
at that line of definition
in a room that roams without corners
he must rise with a chalice of blood for lips of shades
where the vertigo edge of the flower distils the dish
together with the quantities of immeasurable throng
on watery groves billowing with ivy bowers
sprung over hidden lairs of concealed hoards.
 
Night begins and the dogs draw nigh
scavenging for scraps
yapping at the walker’s naked ankles
in the dust of unknown alleys.
 
The broken lights of the bazaar
spangle with glittering promises
the eyes of the dusky beggar
sunk in their sockets maze
in crooked cul de sacs embargo
amidst the furls of silk that foil
the flickering lantern niche
throttled in an olive tray
whilst the flower’s blur does not allow
the stroke that blurs its horizon
and all beneath to return.
 
It is helpless in its light
a camouflage to visitation
to the sigh of the rock’s flow
so few, so few, so few.
 
The olive saturates its wish
outlining monuments amidst the rubble
in momentary musical explosions
and the spell is cast.
 
Fireworks like a diaphanous lithograph
print an emblazoned sky
on the craggy mountains of the night
where comets play at kites
& glistening the eerie beak hisses.
 
 

 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems and translations from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae (the award winning XIII Premio César Simón De Poesía). In November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds, UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020.

A Poetry Prose Story Poem An Epitaph For Charlie Phillips by Richard Lloyd Cederberg

by

 
Poetry-prose Story-Poem
 
AN EPITAPH FOR CHARLIE PHILLIPS
 
As good as talking is,
Silence is better
Now for me…
If you don’t mind,
I’ll just sit here quietly,
Thinking of an old man’s life,
And how, with his great loud eyes,
He would clatter frequently
Of being wrongly seen,
His lessening sentience, and
The joy he’d feel writing piecemeal
Poems for those few who cared…
. 
Intercourse was tentative at first… And
. 
With a certain regard
I’d listen (a bit) cautiously,
To Charlie’s weird ramblings about
How imperceptible he thought his life had started,
But how it had developed into something larger,
And more meaningfully oriented, despite
How hopelessly frayed he felt,
Drifting,
It seemed, from
One issue to another,
He speculated often why (so many)
Efforts of his had sunk (so often) into doom,
And sinking still were sunk despite his best attempts,
And the piety he displayed towards those who
Construed his life with contempt…
. 
As I came to learn;
Something ate at Charlie always…
. 
Possessed
Of vain conceit,
His shifting moods
Began to wear on me,
Particularly those times he
Would lash out, cussing bitterly,
Because of some notion he had that
I wasn’t listening properly…
And always then
I could hear the knot
In his throat quavering as
He yanked-on his old Army boots
And stomp away into the mud, blood,
And urine of another timeworn battle…
. 
Despite all sincerity,
There was seldom any clarity
(With him)
And the same
Behavior played-out
With exhausting regularity…
But always, after his huff, he would find
Me without fail, (no matter where)
And approach me nervously,
At first,
But after a few swigs
(From his tarnished old flask)
He would relax, and
Being more confident then,
I would see (deep in his eyes)
A nub of a thought
Rising up slightly
But it wouldn’t be clear until
The booze had had its effect and then
He would look me in the eyes, apologize, and
Petition Jesus earnestly for words to share…
. 
And when the words came,
(Which they always seemed to do)
He would scribble them down
And speak them aloud,
As his eyes
Glistened with
Newfound joy, and
His heart burst with hope.
But then, always,
(As the effects
Of the whiskey lessened)
A dark gloom would fall upon him,
And he would ramble bitterly about the
Details of his life as if they were vanishing…
. 
Out of the blue one evening
. 
A police officer contacted me;
They’d found Charlie
Unconscious,
And, from all appearances,
Robbed by a thug, on the very
Bench he claimed his own.
So I threw on a coat
And rushed out to see,
If there was something I could do…
Maybe, I thought, he was distraught, or bruised,
Or somewhat confused, and just needed help from me…
. 
But what I’d thought was for naught…
. 
Because
What I was shown,
After being ushered in,
Was a man lying on a gurney–
Drawn and raddled– in a frigid room,
And ‘round his arm the plastic tag read
DOA…
Nodding nonchalantly,
The attendant handed me
A plastic bag with his personals
And a dog-eared notebook of poetry;
Uneasily, with a welling emotion,
I thumbed through
And was shocked to see
The last entry was written for me.
. 
It read:
. 
Our friendship never once decreed
A friend in need a friend indeed
An honest friend who sees a need
Will not impede a friendly deed
To pettiness we won’t accede
An honest friend will force no creed
And so it was for you and me
Your friendly deeds did all succeed.
Remember me.
Charlie…
. 
So let the night sky cover you
Now that you’re gone Charlie, and let
Your poetry weave a bridge to heaven’s gate.
Take heart, old friend, because of what you believed, the
Higher mercies will take both your hands now and usher you
Into the happy life you were never given on this Earth…

. 
richard lloyd cederberg
2019
__ ________________________________________
 
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY 2019
 

 
RICHARD was born in Chicago Illinois. He is the progeny of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants. Richard began his journey into the arts at age six. For twelve years he played classical trumpet. Then… the wonderful incursion of British music influenced him to put down the trumpet and take-up acoustic and electric guitar. Richard began writing songs and lyrics and poetic construct. He performed in 17 professional bands. He played clubs, halls, cabarets, and concerts in Europe, Canada, across the USA, Alaska, and even Whitehorse in the Yukon Territories. Richard’s band SECRETS was one of the top four Pop-Jazz bands in San Diego for 5 years. In 1995 Richard was privileged to design and build his own Midi-centered Recording Studio ~ TAYLOR & GRACE ~ where he worked until 2002. During that time, he composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions. Only two CD’s were compiled: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Richard retired from music in 2003…. RICHARD’S POETRY uses various inspirations: nature, history, relationships (past and present), parlance, alliteration, metaphor, characterization, spirituality, faith, eschatology, and art. He relishes the challenge of poetic stylization: Rhythmical, Poetic/Prose, Triolets, Syllable formats, Story-Poems, Freeform, Haiku, Tanka, Haibun, and Acrostic. Richard has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.

. 

PUBLISHED BOOKS: The MONUMENTAL JOURNEY SERIES integrates adventure, mystery, and historical fiction. Journey on the schooner Heimdall with Dr. Gabriel Proudmore, John, Helga, Betsy, Garrett, Captain Olaf Amundsen, Rorek Amundsen, Anders (the Norse) Vildarsen, and Rolf the Wolfhound…
 
1. A MONUMENTAL JOURNEY…
 
2. IN SEARCH OF THE FIRST TRIBE…
 
3. THE UNDERGROUND RIVER…
 
4. BEYOND UNDERSTANDING…
 
5. BETWEEN THE CRACKS… a spinoff from the MJ Series…
 
.

NEW BOOKS being written or compiled:
 
A NEW RACE OF HuMAN’S… an eschatological drama. Follow the lives of Grant Callarman (the Christian), Peter Pegarian (the plagiarist/conman), Haddon Hathaway (the Humanist), and Professor Wilmington Jonah (the doubting intellect) as they experience the traumatizing global translation of the saints, Daniels 70th Week, and the Millennium, where they all are destined to meet once again.
 
UNDER SILENT BRIDGES… a diversified collection of Richard’s poetic invention, short-stories, and essays. MEC’s photography.