Songs of a Clerk. Review(Press Release) & Poems of Gary Beck

 
Poetry That Sheds Light On Daily Monotony
 
A Spotlight on Real Life
 
For Immediate Release
 
Sacramento, CA – Songs of a Clerk, another gem by author and poet Gary Beck shows us a unique perspective on life, hope, and our too-often faded dreams. Through his gifted poetry we are pulled in and touched by his relatable and powerful words. A poetic must-read.
 
With so many of us compelled to work under oppressive treatment for low pay, our dreams of a better life for ourselves and our families have faded under the denial of opportunity, education, and advancement. Songs of a Clerk expresses the anguish and frustration of people trapped in sterile jobs, toiling away in our futureless menial positions in the dehumanizing offices of our lives.
 
Songs of a Clerk, is a 132 page poetry volume. Available on paperback with a retail price of $11.99, and eBook with a retail price of $5.99. The ISBN is: 978-1-941058-16-9. Published through Winter Goose Publishing and available now through all major retailers. For more information or to request a review copy, contact Winter Goose Publishing at: info@wintergoosepublishing.
 
Watch the book trailer on YouTube: www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeI295xf6OY

 
POEMS EXCERPTS FROM SONGS OF A CLERK
 
(i.)
 
Clerk’s Plea
 
Should I fall upon my sharpened pencil,
No. 2 lead?
Should I leap upon my desk and scream?
Terrify everyoneuntil they yell:
“You’re fired!”
Help me.
What shall I do to escape
the tedious, soul sucking
office.
 
 
(ii.)
 
The Clerk’s Song
 
Hidden in the only ally, unbiased sleep,
the sudden summons rips my exile’s cave.
The clock that serves employers cries:
Arise! Dazed, apologetic, I mumble:
“Five minutes.” Silence the insistent nag,
my wife of passing ticks.
Stir awake. Oh, no. Overslept.
Fast wash, dry shave, yesterday’s suit,
breakfastless rush to the bus,
the guilty fears of lateness.
“Will he see me sneaking in?
“Will he fire me?”Off the bus,
following the tardy hips of typists
to the subway of suffering.
The brief pause in daylight,
the radiant sun gleams unnoticed,
scurry through revolving doors,
“Good morning,” to the elevator man,
archbishop of boredom.
My floor, entrance, trying to look
as if I just stepped out for coffee.
The potent eye of accusation falls on me
and I take refuge at my desk.
Sightless, I stare at my papers
(my face my maask of concentration)
dreaming time’s faster passage,
yet fearful of its passing.
 
Gary Beck
 
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. Published chapbooks include: ‘Remembrance’, Origami Condom Press; ‘The Conquest of Somalia’, Cervena Barva Press; ‘The Dance of Hate’, Calliope Nerve Media; ‘Material Questions’, Silkworms Ink; ‘Dispossessed’, Medulla Press, ‘Mutilated Girls’, Heavy Hands Ink and ‘Escape to Cyberspace’, Writing Knights Press . His poetry collection ‘Days of Destruction’ was published by Skive Press; ‘Expectations’, Rogue Scholars Press; ‘Dawn in Cities’, Winter Goose Publishing; ‘Assault on Nature’, Winter Goose Publishing. ‘Songs of a Clerk’, Winter Goose Publishing and ‘Civilized Ways’ will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His novel ‘Extreme Change’ was published by Cogwheel Press; ‘Acts of Defiance’ was published by Artema Press. His collection of short stories, ‘A Glimpse of Youth’ was published by Sweatshoppe Publications. 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. He currently lives in New York City.

Old Bod. Poem by Leland Jamieson

 
 
Reflecting on Chapter 43 of
Paramanhanza Yogananda’s
Autobiography of a Yogi.
 
 
When these old lungs have finally heaved their last,
what happens to their animating soul?
The body’s struggles — character — have passed
and all that’s left is bone grit in a bowl.
What then? Do Hindi yogi sages troll,
by way of meditation, cosmic truth?
Is Yogananda’s Yukteswar our sleuth?
 
Sri Yukteswar said every soul is dressed
in three bodies — a nesting Russian Doll!
Once soul’s released from Flesh & Bone, it’s pressed
to fill an Astral body. (They’ll enthrall
us — mental telepathy’s shared with all!)
Inside the Astral lies the Casual body.
It’s realm? Ideas! Souls — Illuminati . . . ?
 
Given: My salty blood’s the salt of seas.
My six bucks worth of minerals are theirs too.
When tide’s outbound and there’s an off-shore breeze
I’ll trust my children, with little to-do,
to pour my ashes and my point of view
into retreating surf — returning earth
to Earth — and me, at last, to Astral Mirth?
 
 
Leland Jamieson
 
 
Leland Jamieson lives and writes in Monroe Township, New Jersey, USA. His three collections of poetry — 21ST CENTURY BREAD (2007), IN VITRO (2009), and SOONER (2014) — plus a handbook for self-taught poets-to-be and teachers-to-be, HOW TO RHYME YOUR WAY TO ‘METAPHOR POEMS’ (2012), can be found, with texts and video readings, at www.jamiesonspoetry.com. where you can also check out his latest book there, Sooner: A Crown of Sonnets & New Post-9/11 Poems.

 
 

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In a Waiting Room. Poem by Valentina Cano

 
2ddd
 

Legs like marionettes,
shuffling with feet made
of cotton balls and lead paint.
She swings them up and down
against the counter
and turns herself into a metronome.
No more than senseless rhythm
and tired wood.

 
 
Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals, A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, A Narrow Fellow, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling, Popshot, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Rem Magazine, Structo, The 22 Magazine, The Black Fox Literary Magazine, Niteblade, Tuck Magazine, Ontologica, Congruent Spaces Magazine, Pipe Dream, Decades Review, Anatomy, Lowestof Chronicle, Muddy River Poetry Review, Lady Ink Magazine, Spark Anthology, Awaken Consciousness Magazine, Vine Leaves Literary Magazine, Avalon Literary Review, Caduceus,White Masquerade Anthology and Perhaps I’m Wrong About the World. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Web and the Pushcart Prize. Her debut novel, The Rose Master, was published in June 2014. You can find her here: carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com
 
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En dépit de la lamentation. Poem by Jim Dunlap with English Translation

moi(1)

Authors comment:
Writing it in French was a lot easier than trying to translate it into English since the languages are so different. I had to stop and think numerous times about how to say the same thing in English. I don’t envy translators in the least.
 
 

En dépit de la lamentation
par Jim Dunlap

 
Si l’on croit qu’on est à même de boire à sa vie
à quatre reprises comme boire à même
autant de bouteilles de vin rassi, tout de travers !
on serait si bouleversé par telle une idée
qu’on se mettrait à se trouver
pris en tout désespoir – et le temps
aurait semblance de passer bien trop rapidement
dès cet instant-là.
 
Mais moi, je crois bien que la vie
dure juste assez longtemps sans ce qu’on se soucie
de petits trucs comme ça.
Car ce monde en fait trop des soucis…
pourquoi donc perdre son temps à s’inquiéter
de ce que les jours ont une limite finie.
Chacun cherche à sa façon de se faire riche et sage,
mais personne n᾿y est jamais arrivée
tout en se fiant naïvement au calendrier
pour démarquer ses accomplissements.
 
Que les années sont peu nombreuses !
… en dépit de tout ça, l’on doit (sur)vivre… …
de jour en jour ni sans perdre le temps
ni nous inquiéter que la vie s’écoule
comme un fleuve au précipice
vers un avenir … incertain…
 
…and the English. I didn’t try to turn it into a poem really. I just translated it.(Jim Dunlap)
 
 
In spite of Lamentations
 
If one were to believe that one might devise in one’s life
a time-frame which would be equivalent
to comparing life to four bottles of old wine …
viz a viz the baby bottle to the IV bottle,
one would be nonplussed by such an idea
to such an extent as to be overwhelmed by despair,
and time would seem to pass far too quickly
from that moment on.
 
But myself, I believe totally that life
passes in such a way that it’s unnecessary
to dwell on such minutiae …
Simply put, life contains far too many worries;
why then waste one’s time worrying
since our days are numbered but we don’t
know how, when or why.
 
Each of us would hope in his own way
to be rich and wise, but one doesn’t arrive there
by naively checking days off on a calendar
and tying them to life’s accomplishments.
 
The years of our lives run out quickly.
In spite of that, we must survive and live
from day to day without losing time
in worrying that the minutes flee
like a river dropping over a precipice
towards an uncertain future.
 
 

Jim Dunlap’s poetry has been published extensively in print and online in the United States, England, France, India, Australia, Switzerland and New Zealand. His work has appeared in over 90 publications, including Potpourri, Candelabrum, Mobius, Poems Niedernasse, and the Paris/Atlantic. He was the co-editor of Sonnetto Poesia and is currently a Content Admin for Poetry Life & Times. www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes He is also the chief proofreader for the On Viewless Wings Anthologies, published out of Queensland, Australia. In the past, he was a resident poet on Poetry Life & Times and the newsletter editor for seven years with the Des Moines Area Writers’ Network.
 
You may find him here:
 
http://www.thehypertexts.com/Jim%20Dunlap%20Poet%20Poetry%20Picture%20Bio.htm
 
Here: http://www.whoislog.info/profile/jim-dunlap-poet.html
 
Homepage: http://mindfulofpoetry.homestead.com/index.html
Here: http://www.pw.org/content/jim_dunlap_1
 
Here: http://www.artvilla.com/plt/currentoct06.html
 
Here: http://allpoetry.com/contest/2602767-Poems-for-Jim-Dunlap-
 
Here: http://classicalpoets.org/fairy-dust-anarchy-and-other-poetry-by-jim-dunlap/
 
Here: http://classicalpoets.org/fairy-dust-anarchy-and-other-poetry-by-jim-dunlap/
 
Here: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/109492
 
Here: http://allpoetry.com/column/9188321-Book-Review-The-Spirit-of-Christmas-in-Poetry-by-Jim-Dunlap-by-WandaLeaBrayton

 

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Oasis. Poem by Neal Shetty

 
 
at the birth of your sister

you paid the nurse with

pesos, sat the newborn girl

on a lotus and called her the buddha.

 
i swore you were insane

but you said that’s alright

solstices always come in groups of three-

 

: : : : : :
 

the first is the summer

when the sun is at its highest point and you

are manic and we are stuck in the highest

gear, the gears of this bicycle stopped

working when you stopped pedaling–

your kickstop is broken and you fall onto

the highway but at least the white woman

across the street with the crooked nose was not

a doll.
 

because in the morning you hope you’ll wake up

next to one and snatch an alka-seltzer;

set the child down at the baby chair in the

korean restaurant where you

order bibimbap and burn your tongue. snap a picture.

the beach is empty from the chemical spill

but you can still walk the dog on the sand.

 
: : : : : :
 

the second is the winter

when the sun is at its lowest point

the single ring around jupiter, the arms

of the girl who does not have a navel

or a menarche

fits so certainly around her neck

like jewelry

or a noose.

 
you can drag yourself

back to the house gods

and prostrate at the feet

of your ancestors.
 

but can you hear the

click of a gun that has run out

of bullets-

moonlight and moon ice

because there is still water in space

so we can swim along

in the galaxy.

 

: : : : : :
 

the third is you–

the dying embers

of a hope long past-
 
 
Nihal Shetty (Neal)

 
Neal Shetty is a 17 year-old writer based currently in the Detroit area, which has provided him with insight into both social and personal paradigms which influence much of his writing. Raised in a library, besides poetry, he also enjoys the study of classical languages and novels told out of order. He hopes that his writing accurately reflects the space that he lives in.

Editors Note: This poet was introduced to PLT by the poet Jim Dunlap see Categories, Many Thanks Jim.

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Piranha. Poem by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

 
 
 
The circus poster featured two beautiful girls
in a tank filled with ravenous piranha
This image appealed to the Sicilian soul
But the woman I was with
who had been on the lam
since the seventies for
being a domestic terrorist
having bombed a police station
told me that the circus manager cooled the water to nearly
freezing to keep the piranha inactive
Still, the women
who were not nearly as beautiful
as the women on the poster
looked terrified
maybe not of the toothy fish
but of the icy exposure
It was winter, which made it worse
They could not step from the tank
into Sicilian heat
 
 
They’d been waiting in a battered trailer
locked in a lesbian embrace
trying to build up some body heat
a futile act
considering how fast it would dissipate
in the icy water
 
 
Maybe the tropical piranha were just as terrified
Each ice bath threatened death
 
 
The circus owners were also scared
because piranha were expensive
They had considered replacing them with
other, less dangerous fish
and calling them piranha
but didn’t think they could get away with it
They would be discovered and ruined
 
 
So the women gingerly descended the
two metal steps from the trailer
 
These women were Rumanian sex slaves
who had to do what they were told
 
I was eating blue cotton candy when my lover
the domestic terrorist
explained all this
 
I could never fully accept that she had
bombed a police station
I couldn’t see her doing it
She was so soft in bed
 
I had met her at a gelato stand
in Agrigento
on Sicily’s rugged south coast
and we talked about flavors while the counter girl
scooped our cones
 
As the women submerged themselves in the
piranha tank
a cold wind whipped down from Mt. Etna
scouring us with pumice
and heavy volcanic dust
ruining my cotton candy
I threw it off the bleachers
then followed—
jumped off
the fifth row plank
I felt something give in my left knee
 
 
I picked up a fist sized rock
like the one the hobo heaved in Ironwood, the novel
by William Kennedy
I wound up
like a big league pitcher
and let fly
shattered the tank
 
All the piranha and the two Rumanian sex slaves
came out in a flood onto the rocky soil
 
The piranha flopped and the women gasped
They bled from minor glass cuts
 
The domestic terrorist and I each grabbed
a sex slave by the hand
and ran

 
 
Mitchell Poet
 
 
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois’ poems and fictions have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He is a regular contributor to The Prague Revue, and has been thrice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for 99 cents from Kindle and Nook or as a Print Edition
 
 

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Where I Live. Sonnet. Poem by RC de Winter

 
 
Alone is not a state, it is a place
With walls unseen and locks on every door,
A barren land devoid of any grace
Where nothing seems to matter anymore.
No music plays, the silence shouts aloud,
The only voice that answers in the void,
A shrill reminder of the cursèd shroud
That wraps you in its sorrow unalloyed.
And knowing there is beauty to be found
If only one could somehow make escape
Makes all the worse the desolate surround
That try as might one never can reshape.
Condemned, but why? I know not for what sin,
I’m always on the outside looking in.
 
 
© 2014 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
1A SPRING EASTER TWIT AVI
 
 

RC deWinter is a photographer, digital artist, poet, essayist and singer-songwriter currently living and working in Haddam, Connecticut. She has been shooting photos for over 25 years, using both traditional and digital SLR equipment. Her digital work is created using a variety of software and includes oil paintings, watercolor sketches and drawings.
 
Her poetry has appeared in print, notably in the New York Times, chosen for publication in the New York City in 17 Syllables haiku competition, Uno: A Poetry Anthology, Pink Panther Magazine, Arts Creation Magazine, The Sun Magazine, 2River View, Poetry Nook, Garden Tripod and The American Muse as well as in many online publications.
 
In addition to her personal online portfolios, Ms. deWinter’s art is exhibited on of several internet-based showcases, including Saatchi Online, ARTbracket, The Art for Cancer Gallery, Copperflame Gallery, b-uncut and Artists, Writers and Photographers in the Raw. ABC has licensed several of her paintings to be used as set decor on the television series Desperate Housewives.
 
Ms. deWinter is honored to be the first digital artist invited to exhibit her work at an October 2011 solo show the Arts of Tolland Gallery in Tolland, Connecticut.
 
 

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Found in an Attic: World War II Letter to a Wife. Poem by Donal Mahoney

 
 

When I get home
things will be the same.
I haven’t changed.
 
The sling
comes off the day
I get on the plane.
 
I’ll be able
to cut the grass,
rake the leaves,
 
shovel the snow,
all the stuff I did before.
And every morning
 
in summer, fall,
winter and spring,
when we wake up,
 
I’ll draw rosettes
with the tip
of my tongue
 
on your nipples,
await your orders to
bivouac elsewhere.
 
Nothing has changed.
I’m feeling fine.
We’ll cleave again.
 
 
FH020020

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Scirocco (Tears of Carthage) Poem By Joseph Armstead

 
Among the stony ruins, the shadows haunting Carthage yet abide…
 
An unforgiving heat, strangling Life
from the very air through which it pulses,
radiates from an ocean of sand, charring
the steel of Heaven’s Gate –
 
there is no romance in this tale,
that would be a fool’s conceit
 
… and this disenchanted heart bleeds for you…
 
this is the bleakness of a dying god,
my lazy, uninspired deity,
slumbering
under baked, dessicated soil
as a nomadic army of ghosts
marches through the long centuries,
the flesh burns, scalded
by the brilliant light
of a star suffering storms…
 
Burning memory onto the retina of the mind’s bleary eye.
 
Something touches my hair. Wind?
Perhaps a Specter, lost, and wandering
the labyrinthine corridors of Time.
 
No greater fool than this, I peer into history’s chaos;
 
Bonifacius fell before the fury of the Vandals,
the Vandal heretic Gaeseric, in turn, fell
and the paretporian prefecture
of the Darkest Continent sundered
the Mediterranean shackles of Empire
until the Muslim Caliphs wrested control
of the warm waters of the vast harbor
 
… and still my misshapen life weeps through this wound I bear…
 
‘Lo, hear the music of regret, my scars are singing.
 
It’s the heat. Always and always, the furious heat.
Blistering. Stifling. A ragged silken gag stretching parched lips.
 
The breezes stir from off the bay
and streak over the rolling waters,
gathering into a rushing, stormy
fireball
 
… searing the wound shut, closing it against the leakage of yet more blood…
 
I see the excavated dinosaur’s remains of this place,
a warped mirrored reflection
laying bare my inner desolation.
Naked, in a shallow puddle
of dried and flaking scarlet
yesterdays.
 

 

BIO

Joseph Armstead is a suspense-thriller and horror author living in the United States’ San Francisco Bay Area. Author of a dozen short stories and ten novels, his poetry has been published in a wide range of online journals, webzines and print magazines. A mathematician, Futurist and computer technologist, Mr. Armstead’s poetry often defies easy description, but frequently includes neo-classical imagery, surrealist viewpoints and post-modern themes.
 
http://redroom.com/member/joseph-armstead

http://www.amazon.com/Condemned-Of-Heaven-Joseph-Armstead/dp/0578013665

 
Uroborus Mike Collins
 

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Orange. A Poem by Belinda Rimmer

 

An orange
sits on top of a tossing sea of apples -
 
outcast.
 
She’s a grumpy grandmother,
aproned in dimpled buckskin.
 
A depressed old lady.
 
Her navel
is a brittle button
in a sagging buttonhole.
 
She waits to be lifted
in hammock hands
and placed like a queen
on a spotless plate.
 
Then an elegant set of fingers
could peel her,
dissect her,
enter the jagged segments
of her heart.
 

belindarimmer(1)

 

I was born in Wiltshire in 1959. My father was a builder and my mother a housewife. I attended one of the first comprehensive schools and loved school life. However, my ambition to be a journalist was viewed by the school as not being a suitable occupation for a woman! It took me a while to decide upon psychiatric nursing as an alternative career. I worked for many years in mental health, mostly with adolescents and their families.
 
After having my children, I enrolled at the local university. As I’d always danced and written poetry, I became increasingly interested in performance arts as a subject which allowed me to use both disciplines. After completing an MA in Fine and Media arts, I worked in a variety of creative roles: lecturer, dance development officer, and dance and drama practitioner for schools.
 
I’ve had poems published in a number of journals (I’m hampered by a tendency to keep my work hidden inside a box).
 
Over the last few years, I have been writing stories for children. This gives me hours of pleasure, but not a wage.

 

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The Golden Lion. Mycenaean Haiku by Richard Vallance.

haikpotniatherolioninthesundeath
 
Press to Enlarge. Editor
 
The Golden Lion linearbknossosmycenae.wordpress.com/2014/06/26/a-blazing-hot-summer-haiku-in-linear-b-the-golden-lion-potnia-mistress-of-the-wild-and/
 
Editor’s Note: it is also advised by the author to visit the site for commentaries on the translation & text.

Richard Vallanc Santorini Greece May 2012

 
Richard Vallance, meta-linguist, ancient Greek & Mycenaean Linear B, home page: Linear B, Knossos & Mycenae, http://linearbknossosmycenae.wordpress.com/
 
PINTEREST Boards: Mycenaean Linear B: Progressive Grammar & Vocabulary, http://pinterest.com/vallance22/mycenaean-linear-b-progressive-grammar-and-vocabul/ and, Knossos & Mycenae, sister civilizations, http://pinterest.com/vallance22/knossos-mycenae-sister-civilizations/ Also poetry publisher, The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire. Friesen Press, Victoria, B.C., Canada. © August 2013. 35 illustrations in B&W. Author & Title Indexes. 257 pp. 315 sonnets & ghazals in English, French, Spanish, German, Chinese & Persian. http://vallance22.hpage.com/
 

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Any Available Exit. Poem by Ian Irvine Hobson



I

In the quiet street an
       unacknowledged jettatore fixes upon
           a passing feline.

II

As the modern cars move
   parallel to grey pedestrians.
I take a strong dislike 
   to a malefic debauchee—he’s
   too shoulder-close at the newspaper stand.

III

Out and about after the airline trip
   I radiate ojas—apparently the women
of the city like treacle 
   (thankfully I do not smell 
    like the corpse of hatred).

IV

Though I have not met 
    the approaching academics, their
undulatory waves press me
    breathless against a concrete wall—
I almost drop the morning paper.

V

In the hotel lobby, whilst savouring 
    breakfast odours, a passing porter 
attempts to mesmerise me with potent od—
    I dodge the fluid emotion
make for the lift 
    and a workaday shower.

VI

Those aesthetic goldfish, multicoloured
    creatures of coral, frenzy up
as I pass—I experiment: my hands
    comfort or incite
at random, at toss of a dollar coin.

Seems 
    I am naturally beneficent—
    they will not need the fish-food
for six times seven days.

VII

Though diseased guests are
    locked in luxury suites
I am forced to brave the un-medicinal air
    of their corridor jaunts—right here:
the excrescent energy of a lover
    stifling to his beloved.
I’m exhausted as I reach the door
    of my own room.

VIII

Having showered I sleep
     to alleviate the tiredness, notice
     in the sprawling that
this hand 
     soothes the solar plexus
this other 
     draws living juice
from the liberated heart—the transfer 
           is intense
 a three hour dialysis.

IX

Over-looking
     dim-lit rectangles
solid with brick and concrete, 
     cold steel and mathematical, I feel 
a rush of love—this I direct,
     squeeze gently from the tea-bag
     (comes rich aroma)—then collapse
among conference paraphernalia, all
     strewn upon the double bed—
and know for the first time, with relief, 
    that your tumor will be benign
    (will heal itself).

X

It is the same day
     in a different city, and
the evening undresses, 
     opens the temporal gate
          wide enough ajar, that I
can place my foot in the door.

As I do, I clasp the relic
      you gave me—makes vivid
our charmed purpose.

You know that stone?
      I remember it
about your neck. 

As I imagine
     it positively glows
and I know 
     that you like me to think 
     about you, even
from a great distance.
 
 
Ian Irvine Photo


Ian Irvine is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, fiction writer and non-fiction writer:
 
His work has featured in many Australian and international publications, including
Fire (UK) ‘Anthology of 20th Century and Contemporary Poets,’ (2008) which contained the work of poets from over 60 nations. His work has also appeared in a number of Australian national poetry anthologies, and he is the author of three books and co-editor of many more (including Scintillae 2012, an anthology of work by over 50 Victorian and international writers and poets). He currently teaches writing and literature at Bendigo TAFE and Victoria University (Melbourne) and lives with fellow writer Sue King-Smith and their children on a 5 acre block near Bendigo, Australia.


Links related to his work are as follows:

 
http://authorsden.com/ianirvine

http://www.scribd.com/IanHobson

 
 

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Moving On. Haiku.Theme Loss & Grief. Nancy May

 
winter sunset
taking your last breath
I am with you
 
winter drizzle
our time has come
for us to part
 
winter night
I come back home
to an empty house
 
winter dawn
I am waking up early
since you left
 
spring dawn
the absence of your voice
I start to notice
 
spring rain
I understand now
we walk on new paths
 
spring sunset
in the passing of time
my heart opens
 
 

nancy may
Nancy May has haiku published in Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, Dead Snakes, Danse Macabre – An online literary magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, UFO Gigolo, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn and Creatrix Journal. Haiku will soon appear in M58.
 
She is a monthly contributor at The Camel Saloon and Poems and Poetry. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.

 
 
robin@artvilla.com
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Smolder. Poem by E.Darcy Trie

 
i

found you

under a buttercup

this sun baby

that spoke in a lemonade language

about how our palms

line up like the

north star
 
*
 
we

slid like butter

against an iron night

flaked and crumbled

a swath of saffron

leaping in leprechaun steps

toward a brimstone morning
 
*
 
you

paused

like a catch

a hiccup

your indian summer voice

confessed

thread is too thin

breakable

and gently explained

that’s not ocher

see?

it’s just

yellow
 
*
 
here

it was agreed to leave

patches of sunlight

cut into sulfur strips

by your turning shadow

those golden bars
 
o
 
 
how they still
 
 
 
smolder
 
 
 
E. Darcy Trie, Nevada, United States of America
 

Darcy Trie-1

Darcy was born in Taipei, Taiwan in 1975, E. Darcy Trie is a Scorpio, Rabbit and matriculated in Little Rock, Arkansas at the age of two. She graduated at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville with a B.A. in Psychology along with Minors in Drama and Asian Studies. Sensing that achieving her Masters would drive her to drink, she wisely opted to tour Asia in her early twenties (thanks to a grant provided by Bank Of Daddy), and in the year 2000, found herself in the heart of Beijing, China where she began writing due to the fact that crocheting was far too complicated and because the voices in her head would not shut up.

By 2004, she had completed two romances, one historical and one modern, and after viewing all nine seasons of the X-Files and three seasons of C.S.I, finished the first two series of the Snow novels and is currently writing the third installment. During this time, she has also had several pieces of her poetry published in various online poetry magazines.

Her passions and hobbies includes writing, reading (anything put out by Neil Gaiman), Disney movies, all divination tools such as Tarot, I-Ching, Runes and is an enthusiastic, although albeit amateur, astrologist/paranormal investigator. She is 5’10, weighs whatever she wrote on her driver’s license, owns a lot of black hoodies and is addicted to It’s A Grind’s Passion Fruit tea.

She is fluent in English, Mandarin Chinese, some French and once took a Zero Hour in Greek in high school. She hates mornings, coconuts, wire bras, and sincerely hopes that this is bio is long enough to fill up an entire page (doubled-space of course).

Ms. Trie currently lives in Las Vegas, NV because she adores $2.99 buffets, Paigow Poker, and that lovely 116 degree August weather. She dreams of writing best-selling novels that will delight and thrill her future fans and because she is tired of being a productive citizen and wants to go back to being a mooching hermit.
 
 
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Pursued Poem by Joan McNearney

My dark dreams scatter across asphalt streets. Rain splashes
ebony ink, winds snarling my damp hair. My mind in knots
and snags. Throat dry and raw as I step over cobblestones.
 
It follows me, this long shadow, waiting to cover me,to encompass me.
 
Now I am passing a field. My worn shoes sink into moist grounds.
The soil offers up scents of mild vegetation, promises of spring.
Gusts tangle trees and calls from lost trains resound through night.
 
It follows me, this long shadow, waiting to cover me,to encompass me.
 
I keep climbing a hill. My mind twisted into knots. How can
I breathe? There is no turning back. White walls meet me head-on.
I feel the rough concrete pressing my fingers as I push in.
 
It follows me, this long shadow, waiting to cover me,encompass me.
 
Finally swallowed whole by this black heart of night.
 
 

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Poet and Geek recognized her work as their best poem of 2013. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses and she has three e-book titles.

Vivitar

 

robin@artvilla.com

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The Daddy Poem Series (i.-vii.) by Janet P. Caldwell.

 
 
Janet P. Caldwell is currently the COO of Inner Child, ltd., Humanitarian, Reiki Master, Poet, Published Author, 5 degrees to separation, Passages and Dancing Toward the Light . . . The Journey Continues, many anthologies, magazines and more. To read more of Janet’s work please visit the links below.
 
www.janetcaldwell.com/
 
www.innerchildpress.com/janet-p-caldwell.php
 
www.facebook.com/JanetPCaldwell
 
 
(i.)
 
5 degrees to separation
 
I learned to count early
Read the bible too
Wrath, punishment
Seemed no absolution
Separate at five
 
In the morning
When I was defiled
Five screams a minute
Five shiny points from
The glass shards
 
Five fingers, to check off
As I calculate
In five minutes I’m clean
and new
Separated by five degrees
 
Five from what I don’t want
To remember, anything green
Black or brown
Make it easier
Five letters/numbers are my friends
 
The ceiling fan;
Wood, glass, white, brown, brass
Another set of quints
A quick escape
When I should need one
 
My rabbit hole with
Back-doors aplenty
Five senses all shut down
I’ve got good and can count
Before what might happen
 
Safe in numbers, hidden
When I separate from myself.
 
©2001-2014 Janet Caldwell
 
 
(ii.)
 
Weep for the Child that Never Was
 
Tears fall down my face
for a child with no name
A child filled with anguish
suffering disgrace.
 
How could they have lied
and treated her so
Why didn’t they love her
just let her go?
 
Buy her new clothes
fill her with song
Mess her up more
you can’t be wrong!
 
She grew up with walls
forever all around
The music you played
she couldn’t hear a sound.
 
You look at her now
with disgust in your eyes
You can’t see her though
she wears a disguise.
 
Hand-made by you
so carefully sewn
With coagulated drops
all her own.
 
You thought that you knew her
but there’s no way that you could
She’s not what you think
behind the mask stained with blood.
 
© Janet Caldwell 2001 – 2014
 
 
(iii.)
 
Daddy # 2
 
I Remember him
 
Glassy blue eyes
Fingertips brown
Black greasy hair
Forehead high
Child killer
Sick bastard
  
I Remember me
Scuttling like a rat
Running from a cat
Scattering across the tile
 
Like a roach on fire
When the lights came on
Better scatter, Daddy’s home!
 
I Remember (séances)
Straddling his head
The Shoulders so high
Calling up the dead
Peering in the sky
Let the dead arise
It’ll stop Daddy’s cries.
  
I Remember Abuse
Dancing to the belt
That beat me blue
Decorated with welts
 
Daddy, I Remember You
 
© Janet P. Caldwell 2003 -2014
 
 
(iv.)
 
Child’s Lament
 
I assume you’d say that I’m
As beautiful as I was when I was six.
I think … (I’m jinxed)
Mother Dear, what do you think of me now?
 
I really must know… I’m lost.
Did I say that I miss you?
I’m sorry if I haven’t.
I feel like Anne. Always have.
 
Did my beauty transpire when, I cooked your
Supper? Was I special when
Your sick fuck of a husband
Molested me? Made it easy for you,
well, answer me?
 
(If only in my mind, for my mind, I’m losing my mind . . . again)
 
Tell me, Mother, I want
To understand. (Significance?)
Myself, a wisp of value
I don’t have far to go.
 
It’s an indistinct trail, but
I try. Just explain it, please.
I forgive you.
Everyday.
 
And I will
I promise.
All the way to the grave.
Can you help me now???
 
©2002 – 2014 Janet Caldwell
 
 
(v.)
 
Sugar & Spice
 
Hey, Pom Pom girl, swingy
Red and blue, shake it
Shake it, cheer so loud
Until the acid bleeds your throat
 
Green eyes glaze and glisten
Smiling through the bile
You pretty little thing
For everyone to see, but
If they only knew, and could
See the scars beneath
 
The make-up, the crafted image
They wouldn’t be jealous
Now would they Blondie
Surely not of you?
 
You’re all grown now
If you believe a calendar
Hiding in a house, in plain
Sight, an icon for everything nice
And all that spice, so spice that nice
 
But tell me, what the
Hell happened to you?
A funny thing, frequent
Thoughts of suicide
A whispered middle-aged craze
Still hip, staying in style
 
You’re still pretty, my silly girl
Even with your head
Crammed in the toilet bowl
 
When did it stop being easy to cheer?
As you count the vomit chunks
Regurgitate love, empty
Your soiled soul.
 
Feeling better now?
No, I didn’t think you would
How about a pill? You know
That you can’t drink
Too many calories to consume
Remember? Pissing in the sink
 
I’ve been around, seen
Everything you’ve done
The things that you can’t handle
I saw you scrub and scrub.
 
Wipe at the dingy stains
From his dirty love, that stench
Perfume won’t hide.
 
You had to find a way
To survive the attentions
Of an unconvicted felon
That uncircumcised bastard
Who brought dinner home
 
You do it still you know
Those little tricks and games
Recount the vomit chunks
one-two-three-four-five
 
Hurry, hurry, hurry
That filthy secret’s visible
Flush, flush, flush!!!!!!
 
Tidily out of sight, out of mind
Your filth is in the sewer
A safe-deposit box
For unwanted truths
 
So you can facade the day
 
© Janet Caldwell 2002-2014
 
 
(vi.)
 
Father Figure
 
When Daddy bellowed, I couldn’t hear.
The octaves were past my recognition,
decibels too strong for understanding,
all finer points disappeared.
I recall being tired, taking care of the family.
I was ten and close to breaking, didn’t
need his yelling, or the strap that cut. It’ll
be over soon, bleed girl, just bleed.
 
I was fortunate, so very cared for in
public, what was my problem?
“Nothing, nothing”, I said, needing to
show deference, defiance and not dread.
The piss in my bladder burned, needing release.
 
I reached for the gun, shoved it in my mouth.
The taste of oiled metal gagged me. Why
should I suffer? Twisted the way shit can work.
It’s him, the hateful bastard needs to go
 
D
O
W
N
 
Going once, going twice.
Gone, I peed. Release.
 
Janet Caldwell 2001-2014
 
 
(vii.)
 
First Haircut
 
With her thin lips
she kissed Daddy
good morning.
 
She hated the sight,
the stale smell of him
and abhorred the facade.
 
Madness surrounded those
at 223 Deepwood Drive;
residential death.
 
At seven her mother was
working. Daddy had to get
the girl ready for school.
 
Cursing, he broke a comb,
trying to get it through
her waist length hair.
 
With a movement
that would startle the
comatose,
 
Daddy grabbed a butcher
knife and ambled over to
her chair.
(1-2-3-4-5)
 
She faced the wall, lined up the tiles,
attempting purple dreams.
Throttled screams, burgeoning walls
she could direct into tile accounting.
 
She closed her eyes tight now,
continued keeping ceramic book,
and waited.
 
Terror filled like before,
would he kill her
or beat her this time?
 
Her mind raced and flashed
to past images.
When spittle flecked her face,
welts and blood
decorated her ass.
 
An old waltz…
A dance that never ended pleasantly.
Grabbing her blond swirls in his nicotine
fist.
 
He muttered and sawed her spirit,
and hair, up to
Janet’s tiny neck.
 
Her tresses had been one of the few things
she liked about herself. The hair
once wrapped around her like satin
comfort.
 
It made her feel safe at 3AM.
Count girl count. (1-2-3-4-5…)
Another piece of the child died,
piled on the kitchen floor.
 
Janet Caldwell 2001-2014
 
 
janet caldwell (i)

Janet P. Caldwell Bio
 
Janet wrote her first poems and short stories in an old diary where she noted her daily thoughts. She wrote whether suffering, joyful or hoping for peace in the world. She started this process at the tender age of Eight. This was long before journaling was in vogue. Along with her thoughts, poetry and stories, she drew what she refers to as Hippie flowers. Janet still to this day embraces the Sixties and Seventies flower power symbol, of peace and love, which are a very important part of her consciousness.
 
Janet wrote her first book, in those unassuming diaries, never to be seen by the light of day due to an unfortunate house fire. This did not deter her drive. She then opted for a new batch of composition journals and filled everyone. In the early nineteen-eighties, Janet held a byline in a small newspaper in Denton, Texas while working full time, being a Mother and attending Night School.
 
Since the early days Janet has been published in newspapers, magazines, and books globally. She also has enjoyed being the feature on numerous occasions, both in Magazines, Radio and on Several Web Sites. She has gone on to publish three books. 5 degrees to separation 2003, Passages 2012 and her latest book Dancing Toward the Light . . . the journey continues 2013. She is currently editing her 4th book, written and to be published 2014. All of her Books are available through Inner Child Press along with Fine Book Stores Globally.
 
Janet P. Caldwell is also the Chief Operating Officer of Inner Child www.iaminnerchild.com/, which includes Inner Child’s Ning Social Site innerchild.ning.com/, Inner Child Newspaper paper.li/1innerchild/1326347159, Inner Child Magazine www.innerchildmagazine.com/, Inner Child Radio www.blogtalkradio.com/inner-child-radio and The Inner Child Press Publishing Company www.innerchildpress.com/.
To find out more about Janet, you may visit her web-site, Face-book Fan Page and her Author page at Inner Child Press.

 
 
 
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Alzheimer’s and the Soul of Man. Poem. Sara L Russell.

 
 
Bright colours in a pool of crystal clarity
reflecting all the spectrum of our days
slip down into a quagmire of nonentity
with nothing left to sully or erase.
 
This cold disease that strips a man of human soul,
is worst of all the ravages of time;
behold those eyes, devoid of everything you stole,
yet blissfully unknowing of your crime.
 
This bright man, worn away to barest minimum,
this one-time writer and great raconteur,
this poet – will not travel to Byzantium;
his world is fading to a senseless blur.
 
 
sara russell
 
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 www.artvilla.com/plt. She is currently founder and Editor of the daily paper.li journal Poetry Lifetimes, paper.li/pinkyandrexa/1321389290# ; which is a sister publication to Poetry Life & Times. 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 Daily Mirror, in October 1999. (Picture link for Mirror article)www.angelfire.com/realm3/saralrussell/srmirror2.jpg

 
 
 
robin@artvilla.com
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Paris Haiku by Virginie Colline.

 
 
after the rat race
chasing clouds and field mouses
on the Butte Montmartre
 
the Leica clicks
the right scene at the right time
no doubt in his mind
 
caress and murmur
the cat is asking for more
like the rest of us
 
Prévert_by_Izis
​ 
Jacques Prévert by Izis
 
​Originally published in Dagda Publishing.​
 
Virginie Colline lives and writes in Paris. Her poems have appeared in The Scrambler, Prune Juice, The Mainichi, Frostwriting, Prick of the Spindle, Mouse Tales Press, StepAway Magazine, BRICKrhetoric, Seltzer, Overpass Books, Poethead, Silver Birch Press, The Bangalore Review, Creative Thresholds, Storyacious and Yes, Poetry, among others
​ 
 
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“How Dali Painted Us” Poem by Ty Drescher


 
 

I turned my back, defeated,
destroyed, cold-shouldered
and colder-hearted.
 
In solace my broken pieces returned
to a “puzzled” whole, locking itself
inside the safe of my chest (its code
lost in translation between sciences
of language and mathematics)
 
– like a thought, understood
but impossible to articulate
(maybe for a good reason).
 
You crack the combination;
a virus changes DNA,
slithering up spiral ladders
where clarity confronts obscurity.
Should I self-diagnose cancer?
Or is your etching into my identity
the continuum, the upgrade?
Your wit has taken over me.
 
So far I’m the best game you’ve played
but I’m getting brave, I took you out;
it’s my turn to swing (pitch it fast)
– lips to lips, make this moment last,
fire’s ablaze, blasting frozen past.
 
I melt like my soul’s the most
persistent of time,
my mind’s liquefied over the wishing
that someday your heart will be mine –
knees on concrete to propose,
could anyone really want me
for eternity?
And how did you feather hope
from ashes?
My Imagination takes flight
with that very phoenix.
 
Thoughts spin-spin
like a fast-ticking clock,
zooms through space,
then it brakes, halts,
stopped at the wall:
I’m studying your face,
mesmerized by those eyes
as we stand in line
for a haunted house
– yet the true fear is you
reeling me into your arms
and I smile, as bubbly
as wielded glass lava.
 
(But I like how you shape
without changing me.)
 
 
Ty Drescher
 
 
Bio:
 
 
Tyler Drescher (commonly known as “Ty”) is an aspiring entrepreneur, full-time co-manager of a local pizzeria and part-time student at Daytona State College, residing in the eastern suburbs of Orlando. Despite busyness, Ty finds time to write, his style a mix of “slice of life” and metaphor with a surreal touch. Although he writes mostly poetry, at heart he hopes to compose a novel for publication someday, exploring themes such as action-adventure, science-fiction and dystopian future. Along with writing, he enjoys playing and watching soccer and going to the gym after work. Born February 27th in 1992, he is 22 years young, still learning the ropes of adulthood, identity a work in progress. Ty hopes to be a great leader of his own business (likely in the food industry) and, at the same time, hopes to inspire others through his writing.
 
 
If you would like to get in touch with Ty Drescher:
 
 
E-mail: tydrescher@gmail.com
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/ty.drescher
Poetry: http://allpoetry.com/mica
 
 
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EARLY MORNING HAUNTING.Poem by Candice James

 
 

Through the foggy lens
Of an early morning haunting
The ghosts of summer,
Windblown voices
And hazy dreams
Still linger
In the blue shadows
Of a dying star
 
A pearl scarf of frost glistens
Under a red rising Sun
A lone gull cries to the wind
Leaving its imprint
In the thick atmosphere
Of a muted October sky
 
My footsteps crunch and crackle
On a scatter of pebbles and leaves
That whisper secrets
Into the outstretched palms
Of this early morning haunting.
 
I watch the sun rise;
Ash to ember to flame.
I listen to the wind;
Silence to whispers to voices
 
I’m alone, but not alone
I walk with ghosts
In the blue shadows
Of this early morning haunting
Haunted
 
© 2013 Candice James
 
Candice James (i)

 

2 Poets Laureate — New Westminster Poet Laureate Candice James and Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate Fred Wah at Royal City Literary Arts Society Setp 22, 2013 membership drive
Candice James
 
 

Poet Laureate, New Westminster, BC

President, Royal City Literary Arts

Honorary Professor International Arts Acadamy, Greece

Board Advisor, Interantional Muse, India

Board Advisor, Federation of British Columbia Writers

Candice James is Poet Laureate of New Westminster, B.C. and President of Royal City Literary Arts Society. She is a poet, musician, songwriter and author of six poetry books A Split In The Water (Fiddlehead 1979);Inner Heart―A Journey; (2010), Bridges and Clouds (2011); Midnight Embers–A Book of Sonnets (2012); Shorelines-A Book of Villanelles (2013); and Ekphrasticism (2014). Websites: http://saddlestone.shawwebspace.ca and www.candicejames.com

 
 

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Hypnotic Dreams. Video. Poem by Anca Mihaela

 
 

 
Between brief interludes and hypnotic sensations,
Your name orbits around all temptations… 
 
Lost between the verbs and all translations, 
Your fingertips orchestrate my own salvations…
 
Like a karmic explosion imbued with incantations, 
You came to show me the quantum fascinations…
 
(Anca Mihaela – 15th February 2014)

 
Anca 14

 

Anca Mihaela Bruma – Short Bio
 
My name is Anca Mihaela Bruma, I am Romanian living in Dubai/UAE. My love for poetry started when I was just 9 years old, when I registered myself to some creative poetry writing group. It was a turning point for me as I started to discover the mysteries of the written word and its impact on the readers. Since that early age, I have always viewed writing poetry as the perfect medium which is able to depict profound unfathomable complexities of someone’s life or life itself, to render into words that which is unsayable, that ineffable, which can be truly deeper than the language itself. Through my writings, as well years of readings, I always looked to seek something beyond that which was apparent to others! I was fascinated to see how different aspects of truth were transfigured by different emotions, how experiences were poetized. I pursued seeing beauty expressed in all forms of art, not just poetry; creating a “thirst” within me to explore more and more for the knowledge of the mystery beneath and beyond it, as a symbol of something greater and higher with its own power to immortalize the expressions over the years.
 

Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCvjpEzx0_-IEhf2-JjBSIJw
 
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AncaMihaela16
 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Anca-Mihaela/317866078233812
 

 
 
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Ruins After Math. Poem by Tess Durkin

 
 
 
 
Ruins After Math*
 
 
One thinks of numbers,

of thousands beneath each wane.
 

blowing candles,

each flicker of light

under ground …
 

broken and torn

in an hourglass …

yesterday.
 
 
Editors Note: This poem was contributed by Jim Dunlap(see categories)on behalf of Tess Durkin.
 
 
Teresa Durkin photo courtesy of Jim Dunlap
 
 
Tess Durkin is a member of the Iowa Poets Association (2010-2011), and the Second Saturday Poets Society 2010-2014. Poetry Coordinator of Iowa Poets for Dart Buses and Poetry reading at Des Moines , Iowa, Main Library (2012), Coordinator for Poets and Edges of Iowa for the John Heizman Book Store and Beaverdale Books in Beaverdale and Valley Junction, both in Des Moines, IA., coordinator of poetry and plays for National Poetry Month, an annual venue for poets both national and international (now defunct) where poets such as Sharon Olds and many others came to read their poetry. and for poems presented by various businesses in Des Moines.
 
Tess obviously lives in Des Moines, IA in the United States. Her native language is not English, but she only writes in English.
 
 
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A River Run… Poem by Sullivan the Poet.

 
 
Bubbling, taunting, time’s dark tide,
each eddy swirled,
in sagging flesh;
In days, in hours, speeds our slide,
our being hurled,
to tomb from crèche.
No sooner fecund than denied;
Disdain time’s breakneck, lethal ride.
 
Crack boned, withered, stooped and bent,
each moment run,
folds ‘pon its mate;
Life’s blood, creeping, near to spent,
each rising sun,
adds yet its weight.
And thus each second ‘thout relent;
In crushing, marketh man’s descent.
 
Weak’ning, feebled, sinews strain,
to beg their frame,
once more erect;
Wanting, trying, through the pain,
to brief reclaim,
lost self respect.
How vengeful gods make years our bane;
When potent youth’s spent wraiths remain.
 
Mirrored, frowning, lines portray,
each furrow ploughed,
without consent;
Scribing deep each steel edged day,
In veins stood proud and wrinkles lent.
Thus revelling in man’s decay;
Does time our swift’ning span display.
 
Knowledge, hard won, weights its worth,
‘gainst failing mind,
that scarce recalls;
Wisdom, harboured, from man’s birth,
To nought consigned,
wets where he falls.
A lake of tears, a cup of mirth;
To silent slake some acrid earth.
 
Hard life, hard passed, fades to grey,
consigned to dust,
all trials borne;
Each pain endured, cold away,
each love each lust,
cut down like corn.
No mem’ries triumph o’er decay;
None worthed above another’s fey.
 
Living’s harvest, loving stored,
lays doomed to soil,
to rank decay;
Each ear, each grain, scant reward,
all life’s cruel toil,
passed dark away.
No bellies filled with living’s hoard;
Its sum from nought, to nought restored.
 
Conq’ring, lacking, coined the same,
no winnings pays,
nor debt foregoes;
Dies cast, random, call the game,
Yet not one day’s,
their falling owes.
Sham spoils the cheated victors claim;
When whispers time the Reaper’s name.
 
Comes the darkness, comes the why,
we pain to live,
for naught but this;
To bear each blow, breathe each sigh,
our all to give,
for one cold kiss.
In death’s embrace from womb we lie;
Each moment lived to naught but die!
 
 
© Sullivan the Poet 2008
 
 
A River Run…’is an excerpt from:
In A Mirror Darkly..
 
Published by Sullivan Publishing
ISBN 978-0-9568876-3-4
Copyright: © Sullivan the Poet
Printed in the USA by Lulu.com
 
 
Sullivan(iii)
BIO:
Sullivan The Poet
Born a British subject of an English mother and Irish catholic father in the late January of ‟53; „Sullivan‟ spent his early years with his family in the Far East. Returning with his parents to England in the late fifties where he was subsequently educated.
 
Thereafter pursuing what could perhaps be best described as a broadly colourful career; with callings as diverse as gun dealer and consultant, freelance journalist, magazine editor, commercial photographer, publican, fleet limousine operator, lecturer and an unpaid „Special Needs‟ tutor: To name but a few – even a brief spell under the flag enjoying the Queen‟s shilling!
 
Throughout which the only truly common thread has been his writing, an enduring passion never completely abandoned; Fuelled by his lifelong fascination with not only the beauty of the English language and its literature in general, but the richness and diversity of its poetry in particular. A fascination well illustrated in the almost perverse multiplicity of styles and subject matter contained within this slim volume and others…
 
Widely published in mediums as eclectic as his work, from poetry anthologies to text books; wall hangings and mixed media fine art works: „Sullivan‟ is seemingly content to share, with anyone and everyone, and in whatever poetic medium takes his fancy; His works, his philosophies, his passions…
 
Dave ‘Hoppy’ Bennett
 
http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk
 
 
robin@artvilla.com
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Shiva’s death. Poem. Bhuwan Thapaliya.

 
Then the dream came back again.
It often comes these days.
 
Manjushree with a sword in his hand,
rushing toward Chobar.
 
Men, working in the farm,
complementing each other.
 
Colourful streets, women wearing bright red saris
dancing, bear a resemblance to the festival of Teej.
 
Thundering moan of Kali Gandaki
and the concentration of dazzling mountain peaks.
 
Salubrious aroma of incense sticks
and the burning earthen lamps.
 
Snow roosters and the barking deer’s
walloping here and there.
 
Then, all of a sudden…..
Brutal wind meandered
through the serene forests of time.
 
Then someone, may be a priest,
showed a black shirt, belonging to the God himself.
But not a single drop of rain fell on it.
 
Someone then shouted,
“Machchendranath is angry, Nepal has lost her fertility.”
 
I saw Lord Shiva standing in front of me,
blood dripped like tears down his forehead.
 
I saw dead body of Lord Shiva floating on the
Lake Gosainkund. Saw Nagkunda, Bhairavkund,
 
Saraswati Kund and Suryakund clad in fabric white,
with shaven heads, mourning the Lord’s death.
 
 
Bhuwan Thapaliya works as an economist, and is the author of four poetry collections. Thapaliya’s books include the recently released Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected (Nirala Publication, New Delhi), and Our Nepal, Our Pride (Cyberwit.net). Poetry by Thapaliya has been included in The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry and Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry, as well as in literary journals such as Urhalpool, MahMag, Kritya, FOLLY, The Vallance Review, Nuvein Magazine, Foundling Review, Poetry Life and Times, Poets Against the War, Voices in Wartime, Taj Mahal Review, and more.
 
 
Bhuwanthapaliya picture
Author
Our Nepal, Our Pride

http://www.amazon.com/Our-Nepal-Pride-Bhuwan-Thapaliya/dp/8182531152

 
 

robin@artvilla.com
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Graced. Poem. Scott Hastie (Audio Video Mathew Toffollo)

 
 

Graced with the chance to be here,

Even if only fleetingly,

Embrace whatever comes your way

And, in so doing,

However enchanting

Any treasures you uncover

Might be,

Their loss should never be your concern.
 
 
In this matter

Make your heart your queen

And follow her as faithfully

And bravely as you are able,

Just as swelling fruit

Hurries towards its own sweetness,

Shine whilst you can,

Without fear,

For nothing is as inevitable

As it seems here.

No, not even the fissures

Of loss and decay

We are oft led to expect

In this temporal world.
 
 
For whilst we fuss and fudge

The lines we are given,

Above, below and all around us,

Lingers the energy of countless others

Who already know for sure

That, just as it was long, long ago,

When they first found themselves

Enraptured,

So it is for them, again and again…

And now with only a dark empty hollow,

A feeble space of earth left in between.
 
 
Such is true joy’s absolute certainty,

Its slow lit fuse that burns holes

In the shabby shroud of death forever.
 
 

Scott Hastie Poet
 
Scott Hastie is a successful British born poet and writer, who has been has been commercially published in the UK for over twenty years now. He currently has seven titles in print, including a novel and three collections of poetry. In recent years, the spiritual tone in his maturing poetic voice is starting to draw increasing acclaim from a worldwide audience, especially in the U.S. India & the Middle East.
 
 
Scheduled for global release, in both e & print editions this September, Angel Voices which includes featured poem ‘Graced” is by far his most substantial collection of poetry to date, featuring over 40 brand new poems never before seen, either in print or on the net. This title builds much more on the mature poetic voice that first began to emerge in Scott’s previous title Meditations and also features ALL readers recent favourites, as showcased on his popular website. For much more info, some spectacular advance reviews for Angel Voices , , as well as pre-pub order options , also go to www.scotthastie.com
 
 
Other links:
 
Official twitter account: @scotthastiepoet
 
Facebook fan page: www.facebook.com/scotthastiespiritpoet
 
Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scott_Hastie

 
 
robin@artvilla.com
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Anxious Words. Poem. Dane Cobain

 
 
Remain calm,

I’m a marketing professional –

I am not a follower but a leader,

an influencer who tells you what to buy

and when to buy it.

Are you buying this?
 
 
I have no idea how my career came to this,

I was going to be a rockstar or a Great Writer

but if I’m honest,

it’s easier to get a job than a book deal.
 
 
Please remain calm,

we are all of us anxiety-ridden

and we deal with disorders in our own special ways,

only I can’t remember where my lighter is.
 
 
Anxiety is neither a disorder nor a state of mind,

it is a natural response to the world around us –

if you ain’t scared sometimes

then there’s reason to be worried;

your secondary school education was a scam,

purely controlled exposure to stress and prejudice

‘cause the school of hard knocks is a real place baby

inside our heads, inside our hearts,

inside our minds.
 
 
Millions of years of deterministic natural selection

coupled with the sexual behaviours of the human female

and the one bad gene passed down through generations

have all come to this, this world, this life,

these living legends trapped on the dole

trying to monetise art through nice online communities

but let me tell you this my friend,

you can’t crowdsource a cure for cancer

and your country’s budget is wasted on the arms race,

why don’tcha blow a few heads off before the banks collapse?
 
 
These anxious words are a unique celebration

never before seen in the annals of human existence,

just words that any man could write

and so why shouldn’t I?

Every soul on earth is complicit

and this indictment brings shame on us all –

we are killing the planet through our sheer stupidity,

we are destroying our most precious resources

just to watch them burn;

when the world reaches its eventual destruction,

who, then, will lead the applause?

 

dane
 
Author Bio:
 
Dane Cobain (High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK) is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he’s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found working on his book review blog or developing his website, www.danecobain.com
 
 
 
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A Little Wisdom. Audio Video Poem by Robin Marchesi

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me

http://www.amazon.com/A-Small-Journal-Heroin-Addiction/product-reviews/0743300521

http://www.illywords.com/2011/09/down-the-rabbit-hole-a-glimpse-into-the-wonderland-of-barry-flanagan/
http://robinmarchesi.com
 
 
 
 
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Black Dog. Poem. Richard Lloyd Cederberg

BLACK_DOG

This black dog follows me-
Relentlessly
Passing as a shadow
Amongst shadows
 
For when I am
Particularly vulnerable,
Incisors snap rhythmically;
Primal blood-hunger seeking
Satisfaction in its quest to
Find the easiest part of
Me to tear into
 
“Its cunning
Is wolf cunning,”
(London wrote) and
There is nothing I can do
To appease the brooding
 
As it lies in wait
For strength to falter,
Or for a cessation of defenses,
Or for weary eyes (fixed on surviving)
To lose their joyful glimmering
 
This black dog follows me-
Relentlessly
Passing as a shadow
Amongst shadows,
Watching doggedly
For an open window,
Or some doorway,
Unlatched,
To allow it ease of entry


 

AUTHOR PIC

SHORT BIO
August 2007 Richard was nominated for a 2008 PUSHCART PRIZE. Richard was awarded 2007 BEST NEW FICTION at CST for his first three novels and also 2006 WRITER OF THE YEAR @thewritingforum.net … Richard has been a featured Poet on Poetry Life and Times Aug/Sept 2008, Jan 2013, Aug 2013, and Oct 2013 and has been published in varied anthologies, compendiums, and e-zines. Richard’s literary work is currently in over 35,000 data bases and outlets. Richard’s novels include: A Monumental Journey… In Search of the First Tribe… The Underground River… Beyond Understanding. A new novel, Between the Cracks, was completed March 2014 and will be available summer 2014.
 

Richard has been privileged to travel extensively throughout the USA, the provinces of British Columbia, Manitoba, Alberta, and Saskatchewan in Canada, the Yukon Territories, Kodiak Island, Ketchikan, Juneau, Skagway, Sitka, Petersburg, Glacier Bay, in Alaska, the Azorean Archipelagoes, and throughout Germany, Switzerland, Spain, and Holland… Richard and his wife, Michele, have been avid adventurers and, when time permits, still enjoy exploring the Laguna Mountains, the Cuyamaca Mountains, the High Deserts in Southern California, the Eastern Sierra’s, the Dixie National Forest, the Northern California and Southern Oregon coastlines, and the “Four Corners” region of the United States.
 

Richard designed, constructed, and operated a MIDI Digital Recording Studio – TAYLOR and GRACE – from 1995 – 2002. For seven years he diligently fulfilled his own musical visions and those of others. Richard personally composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions during this time and has two completed CD’s to his personal credit: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Both albums were mixed and mastered by Steve Wetherbee, founder of Golden Track Studios in San Diego, California.
 

Richard retired from music after performing professionally for fifteen years and seven years of recording studio explorations. He works, now, at one of San Diego’s premier historical sites, as a Superintendent. Richard is also a carpenter and a collector of classic books, and books long out of print.


www.richardlloydcederberg.com
www.authorsden.com/richardlloydcederberg

 
 
robin@artvilla & http://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

For My Son. Poem. Charles Bane, Jr. Spanish translation by Sacramento Roselló and Marcela Tietjen

 

I will not waiver or protest
that the wait is hard to bear;
The parent-to-be is patient
for the child he cannot see, knowing
that eternity is rounding unknown
seas to fishing nets. My
beloved, I wait. I stand upon
the beach, my arms are wide, you
must swim to the sound of me
and lights undreamed. We shall be
coins of sides alike and sleep together
in the shade. You are the growing
length of me that lays
upon a floor of leaves
and says, there is no end to light
or closing of the day. There are only
clarions that pierce the dark
with mirror songs like these.
 
 

Para mi hijo
 

No renunciaré ni me quejaré
de que la espera es difícil de soportar;
El futuro padre es paciente
ante el hijo que no puede ver, sabiendo
que la eternidad rodea de
mares desconocidos las redes. Querido
mío, yo espero. Estoy de pie
en la playa, mis brazos extendidos,
debes nadar hacia el sonido que emito
y hacia las luces inimaginadas. Seremos
como monedas de caras similares y dormiremos juntos
en la sombra. Tú eres una extensión creciente de mi
que yace
en una manta de hojas
y dice, no hay fin para la luz
ni se acaba el día. Hay solo clarines
que penetran la oscuridad
con canciones especulares.
 

Spanish translation by Sacramento Roselló and Marcela Tietjen
 

Photo: Charles Bane Jr. with his son. Credit: Capehart Studio
Charles Bane & Son

Charles Bane, Jr. is the author of The Chapbook ( Curbside Splendor, 2011) and Love Poems ( Aldrich Press, 2014). The Huffington Post described his work as “not only standing on the shoulders of giants, but shrinking them.” A contributor to The Gutenberg Project, he is a current nominee as Poet Laureate of Florida.

 

robin@artvilla & http://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

Poetry Life & Times Photo Gallery

They Smile With Stiletto Eyes Poem by Joseph Armstead

 

something twisted and brittle
grows imperiously
under the burning glare
from a distant dying sun
 
crippled souls swimming
orange panoramic skies, open and vast,
the high frontier
streaked with thin purple scars
and elongated, julienned cuts
of flashing metallic azure,
 
the bloom reaches towards
the ruins of Heaven
 
in the perfume of its rosy musk, the voices of ghosts…
 
They smile with stiletto eyes at tomorrow.
 
Dialogue:
 
Her — “It’s the sound of the telephone,
don’t you see, that electronic bleating,
that sudden, startling interruption
of your thoughts, its the absence
of THAT
which is the thing that makes me saddest…”
 
Him — “Black coffee fills my leaden limbs
with the acid from my numbed mind,
I’m just tired sometimes, weary,
lethargic,
and it helps me summon the energy
to face the dragons beckoning me
from the wasteland at the edges of the map…”
 
Narrator — “They converse in an alien tongue,
their out-of-synch voices pitched
just beyond the range of human hearing,
but they speak volumes to one another
through the staring bleakness of their eyes.
A disjointed exchange of discontent,
it is a gift of unwanted predestination.”
 
The audience is confounded.
Their ennui is as solid
as the bars to a prison.
 
Her — “I can’t stop crying,
knowing I’ll never
feel that way again.”
 
Him — “They won’t break me.
I won’t let them. I owe it
to all the wounds that mark me.”
 
The audience blinks and remains unmoved.
Vision is defined as hypercompetence
in
discernment
or
perception.
And if they see anything, they see dissonance.
 
They smile with stiletto eyes at the image of a strangled eternity.
 
in ashes, the gnarled flora hungers,
seeking nourishment
in the crumbs left
from a banquet of the dead,
and an entrepot of melody
releasing its goods,
an unfinished symphony
from an alienated, tone-deaf
orchestra pouring in
through the colorful, ragged tears
in the fabric of unstable Reality,
washes like the ocean tide
across a celestial Sahara
 
starlight feeds the thirteenth rose of hell
 
and the velvety carmine blossom
unfurls its bloody petals to catch
tainted brilliance
cascading
onto the specters
of a concrete and steel
anthill,
staring
 
They smile with stiletto eyes at weeping nothingness.

 

BIO

Joseph Armstead is a suspense-thriller and horror author living in the United States’ San Francisco Bay Area. Author of a dozen short stories and ten novels, his poetry has been published in a wide range of online journals, webzines and print magazines. A mathematician, Futurist and computer technologist, Mr. Armstead’s poetry often defies easy description, but frequently includes neo-classical imagery, surrealist viewpoints and post-modern themes.
 
http://redroom.com/member/joseph-armstead

http://www.amazon.com/Condemned-Of-Heaven-Joseph-Armstead/dp/0578013665

 
Uroborus Mike Collins
 

robin@artvilla.com

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Wave Function. Poem. Amparo Arrospide

 

 
A chair
a carbon copy of a chair
in this instant void of presence
a mirroring echo
your solitude
 
you gaze on persons absent, not things
you listen for a whisper in the dark
a moon sits on a chair
you are watching that reflection
 
in an instant suspended in no time
like a Schrodinger´s cat
you are vanishing
 
**
 
Your vanishing might be an act of faith
what then is your awakening to this side
where things recover their temperatures
molecules, particles and atoms
their specific weight,
you are petrified in time
no wonder you prefer the other side
 
**
 
No musician has come to awake you
no unspoken words of a charm
silence knows how to weave the cobweb
of your slumber
if you would only let me breathe gently
on that side of the whisper
 
to tenderly lie by your side

 

 
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
 
Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish writer and translator. She has published four poetry collections Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines, such as Cuadernos del Matemático, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, Linden Lane Magazine, Espéculo, Piedra del Molino, Nayagua. She has received awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a webzine, and coordinated the Spanish sonnets section for the international anthology The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (ed. Richard Vallance, 2014).
 

robin@artvilla & http://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

Bring Back Our Girls. Audio Poem. Kwame Write Aido

Kwame Write- Bring Back (w Iwan Gronert)Kwame Write- Bring Back (w Iwan Gronert)

 

kw2kw1
***

kwame 1 Kwame11 kwamewrite 1

***

BIO:

Strategic multidisciplinary event manager, poet/spoken word artist, blogger and content creator with the passion for writing; poetry, children’s literature and documentaries mostly. Kwame’s word art has earned him several online publications like http://www.artvilla.com/plt/thats-why-i-write-poem-kwame-write-aidoo/, http://www.kalaharireview.com/fictionpoetry/2013/6/25/not-just-dream.html and http://thejrshow.net/2014/03/06/motion-of-destiny/, , a nomination for International Best Amateur Poet by World Poetry Organisation in 2003, an award from the Scrabble Association of Ghana and the stage name “Write”. He believes that poetry is an underestimated tool for education, passing down history, entertainment and inspiration for/by his generation.

Born on the 25h of October, 1986, Charles “Kwame Write” Aidoo earned a BSc in Biochemistry and Biotechnology from Kwame Nkrumah University of Science & Technology in 2009, and currently runs Inkfluent; a poetry/writing event, record production and social media hub which produced Vocal Portraits I: https://soundcloud.com/vocalportraits; a spoken word compilation that brought together 3 continents and currently working again with spoken word artists across the globe on the soon to be released Vocal Portraits II. He also works as a co-ordinator of Ehalakasa; Ghana’s mother poetry movement/platform. A fufu addict though open to try new dishes, he’s learning to use a few instruments and languages.

***

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Burning on the Stiff Mast of her Bones. Sonnet. Poem. Luis Fores. Translated by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Her body flamed like fiery wings
burning on the stiff mast of her bones,
whilst the nights were rendered to waltzes
by the sweet tame words of her kisses.

Now her womb fluctuates obsessive echoes,
echoes where once a life’s blood was lighten…
and that in the flesh of her day is frozen
now in her ruins, as the burden that weighs.

It was a female’s dream of its seed
of torrential moons upon the shores
lovingly healed the wounds of destiny.

She sows the word with its deed,
she loved with the love of spring waters,
drowning as thus her light and her way.

 
Translated from Luis Fores Quemando el duro mástil de sus huesos
by Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
Quemando el duro mástil de sus huesos

 
Quemando el duro mástil de sus huesos
un fuego de alas en su cuerpo ardía.
Y a una danza de noches se rendía
el dulce y dócil verbo de sus besos.

Su vientre ahora vacila ecos obsesos,
ecos de viva sangre que prendía…
Tan gélida es la carne hoy de su día
que todo es peso en ruina de sus pesos.

…Fuera semilla el sueño de la hembra
a la orilla de lunas torrenciales
que amando cierran llagas de destino.

Entraña de palabra que se siembra
amó con el amor de manantiales,
ahogando así la luz y su camino…


 
Luis Fores (España)

 

This sonnet together with its translation appeared in The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Exciting new sonnet anthology edited by Richard Vallance now available on Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF BN ID: 2940148833628 Publisher: FriesenPress Publication date: 11/20/2013 Sold by: Barnes & Noble
 

0
 

Luis Fores (1960) is a poet, philosopher and arts anthropologist, as well as a devoted practitioner of plastic arts. He has completed practice and theory studies at the Escuela de Artes Imaginarias de Madrid (TAI), and in the Faculty of Arts at the Complutense University of Madrid. Following research in modern and contemporary arts, he achieved his Ph.D. in Philosophy of Art from the same University. In addition, he has achieved his Master in Arts Aesthetics and Theory, by the Autonomous University of Madrid and a Bachelor´s degree in Arts Anthropology by the Complutense University. He has worked in the fields of photography and design for both books and magazines. To his various creative activities, he adds poetry writing, arts theory and teaching as a philosophy professor. He has published essays (research) on arts and philosophy, as well as poetry collections and photography in Spanish and foreign publications.

 
WIN_20140415_213447
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.

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

Series. Poems by Andres Fisher Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop


CASTILLA X

i.
Grandes segadoras trabajan en los campos mientras aviones cruzan el cielo, lentamente, sobre ellos.

ii.
Las mismas montañas se alzan en lontananza sin embargo otros vehículos ruedan por los caminos.

iii.
Donde antes fue la bestia, hoy es el motor mientras el hombre es el mismo que siembra, cosecha y muere.

CASTILE X

i.
Large harvesters crop the fields as aeroplanes slowly cross the skies above them.

ii.
The same mountains rise in the distance even though other vehicles run the roads.

iii.
Where it was the beast before, now it’s the engine, whereas man, who sows, reaps and dies,
remains the same.

CASTILLA XI

i.
Campos de amapolas en los llanos de Castilla.

ii.
Como islas rojas en medio de la marea verde que los circunda.

iii.
Primavera muy lluviosa. Resplandece el llano en el trigo y los cultivos.

iv.
En las flores silvestres, que siguen creciendo junto a los castillos.

CASTILE XI

i.
Poppy fields on the plains of Castile.

ii.
Like red islands surrounded by a green tide.

iii.
A very rainy spring. The plains glisten through the wheat and crops.

iv.
As well as the wild flowers, that still grow beside the castles.

CASTILLA XII (*)

i.
Aun se siembra el trigo en los márgenes de la gran ciudad.

ii.
Que refulge y palpita, confundiendo sus luces con las del ocaso.

iii.
Ya no es la mano del hombre la que siega el trigo.

iv.
Que sin embargo sigue creciendo, enhiesto, en dirección al cielo.
____
A José Viñals, in memoriam.

CASTILE XII (*)

i.
Wheat is still sown on the outskirts of the big city.

ii.
Gleaming and palpitating it mixes its lights with dusk’s.

iii.
Now it’s no longer the hand of man that harvests the wheat.

iv.
That nevertheless still grows straight towards the sky.
_________
(*) To José Viñals, in memoriam

***

CASTILLA XIV

i.
Día nublado en el verano de Castilla:

ii.
inusual como los aviones, de los que ahora solo existe el sonido.

iii.
Gentes van y vienen por las plazas de los pueblos:

iv.
que languidecen o reviven, según desde donde se los mire.

CASTILE XIV.

i.
A cloudy day in the summer of Castile:

ii.
as unusual as the aeroplanes, whose sounds now only exist.

iii.
People come and go through the squares in the small towns:

iv.
that wilt or revive according to the point they’re observed from.

CASTILLA XV

i.
Aun pastan ovejas en los prados de Castilla.

ii.
Y en los campos de rastrojos, ya en la meseta o circundados por colinas.

iii.
Suenan los mismos cencerros que los castillos han oído desde nacer.

iv.
Que oyeron antes las ruinas romanas, hoy circundadas por los nuevos molinos de metal.

CASTILE XV

i.
Sheep still graze on the pastures of Castile.

ii.
And in the bundle stacked fields, whether on the flatlands or the surrounding hills.

iii.
The same sheep-bells heard by the castles ever since their birth still sound.

iv.
Heard before the Romans and their ruins now surrounded by new steel mills.

CASTILLA XVI

i.
La disciplina del cereal y del olivo dotando de su rigor a los campos de Castilla.

ii.
Las sierras no formando mares sino alzándose como cuchillos que dividen las llanuras.

CASTILE XVI

i.
The discipline of the cereal and the olive tree endowing the fields of Castile, its rigour.

ii.
Ridges not forming seas but rising like knives dividing the plains.

***

CASTILLA XIX

i.
Es invierno y nieva en las sierras de Castilla.

ii.
El manto blanco, sin embargo, no llega a cubrir el pardo que domina en el paisaje.

iii.
En el llano, no obstante, las cepas son apenas vestigios en la superficie de una gruesa capa blanca.

iv.
Y en la autopista, los quitanieves trabajan a destajo para abrir un solo carril.

CASTILE XIX

i.
It’s winter and it snows on the sierras of Castile.

ii.
It’s white shroud, however, fails to cover the grey that dominates the landscape.

iii.
On the plains though, stumps of vine remain as vestiges capped in a thick white .

iv.
And on the motorway, snow ploughs work without respite merely to open a single lane.

 

*

 

 

LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO IV

i.
Aun existe el ocaso en los espejos retrovisores.

ii.
Delante, la luna se alza sobre un cielo azul oscuro.

iii.
Es el mismo vehículo el que rueda por la autopista y la carretera comarcal.

iv.
Y el que conduce, a bordo del coche y de sí mismo.

 

 

THE ICE POEMS IV

i.
Dusk still exists in the rear view mirrors.

ii.
Moon is rising on a dark blue sky ahead.

iii.
It’s the same vehicle that rides the motorway and the byway.

iv.
As is the driver who boards both car and himself.

 

*

 

 

 

VARIACIONES SOBRE UN POEMA SIN TITULO DE DAMSI FIGUEROA.

i.
Tres toros blancos corrían por tu sueño.

ii.
Golpeaban tu mejilla con arena.

iii.
Florecían cardos en una pradera amarilla que llegaba hasta el mar.

 

 

VARIATIONS ON AN UNTITLED POEM OF DAMSI FIGUEROA

i.
Three white bulls ran through your dream.

ii.
Beating your cheek with sand.

iii.
Thistle bloomed in a yellow prairie ending in the sea.

 

*

 

 

 

AEROPUERTO

i.
Se incendia el cielo en los ventanales del aeropuerto.

ii.
Mientras, aviones van y vienen apareciendo y desapareciendo entre las nubes.

iii.
Autobuses, furgonetas y pequeños tractores bullen en las pistas.

iv.
Mientras, los viajeros caminan y desaparecen al entrar en las pasarelas.

 

AIRPORT

i.
Sky burns in the airport windows.

ii.
Meanwhile, planes go back and forth appearing and disappearing amidst the clouds.

iii.
Buses, trucks and small tractors bustle in the tracks.

iv.
Meanwhile, travellers walk and disappear entering the ramps.

 

AEROPUERTO I

i.
Cae la noche en los ventanales del aeropuerto.

ii.
Ahora los aviones son puntos luminosos en un cielo negro y uniforme.

iii.
Gentes y vehículos mantienen su actividad cíclica e interminable.

iv.
Mientras, los altavoces emiten mensajes no siempre comprensibles.

 

AIRPORT I

i.
Night falls in the airport windows.

ii.
Planes now are luminous spots in a dark and motionless sky.

iii.
People and vehicles maintain their cyclical and endless routine.

iv.
Meanwhile, speakers deliver not always understandable messages.

 

*

 

 

 

***

THE PICKAXE AND THE WORM (*)

The pickaxe can cut the worm but chooses not to do it, putting him gently aside.

(*) Almost from William Blake

***
 

 

 

Escenas. Scenes.

i.
Un hombre solitario, camina en línea recta mientras un incendio, a sus espaldas, calcina su presente;

su presente que se elonga, calcinado, mientras los pasos se repiten, rítmicamente, ajenos a toda sensación térmica o corporal.

i.
A solitary man proceeds in a straight line whilst a fire behind him burns to ashes his present,

a present that as it stretches is burnt to ashes, whilst his steps rhythmically repeat themselves, detached from any thermal or corporal sensation.

ii.
Una mujer, a lo lejos, realiza el trayecto mas lento entre el horizonte y las nubes de sus ojos;

nubes a medio camino entre el horizonte y la bruma, cerebral, que impregna de amarillo el espacio entre el horizonte y sus propios ojos.

ii.
A woman in the distance travels a slower trajectory between the horizon and the clouds in her eyes,

clouds halfway between the horizon and the cerebral haze which impregnates yellow space between the horizon and her own eyes.

iii.
La visión de un gato, absorto, tenso en la potencia que lo habita:

que dibuja una ventana en cada muro; que convierte en hipotenusa cada movimiento del gato, tenso, absorto en la visión de su propio movimiento.

A Juan Luis Martínez.

iii.
The cat’s vision, absorbed, tense in the power that inhabits him:

a vision that draws a window on each wall; and that turns into hypotenuse each movement of the cat, tense, absorbed in the vision of its own movement.

To Juan Luis Martinez.

iv.
Un automóvil, abandonado, viaja sin pausa por una larga carretera;

una costanera interminable por la que el automóvil vaga, ensimismado, con dos soles sobre el horizonte como testigos oculares.

iv.
An automobile, abandoned, travels non stop the long motorway:

an endless esplanade, where the automobile roams engrossed with two suns on the horizon as ocular witnesses.

 

 

 

Escenas 1 Scenes 1

i.
Un hombre, a la distancia, pareciera caminar en círculos mientras a su espalda, las huellas dibujan un trazado ortogonal:

trazado que se extiende, circular, mientras sus pasos se alejan, ajenos a toda intención geométrica o lineal.

i.
A man, in the distance, would seem to walk in circles, whilst at his back his tracks draw an orthogonal sketch:

a sketch that extends circularly as his steps walk away, oblivious to any geometrical or linear intention.

ii.
Una mujer, entre la bruma, pareciera dibujar el horizonte con sus pasos sobre la arena:

trayecto lineal, hipnótico, donde los ojos son un recuerdo borroso que tiñe de amarillo cuanto existe en la memoria.

ii.
A woman amidst the mist would seem to draw the horizon as if with her steps on the sand:

a hypnotic linear trajectory, where the eyes are a blurred memory tinting in a yellow haze all what can be remembered.

iii.
Un gato, absorto, se solaza con la visión de su propio movimiento.

desplazamiento lineal que elimina muros, obstáculos, oxidando en su fuerza cuanto se interpone entre el gato y su visión.

iii.
Absorbed, a cat takes pleasure in the vision of its own movements:

a linear displacement that eliminates walls and obstacles, oxidising in its strength,
all that stands between the cat and its vision.

iv.
Un barco, a la deriva, se deja adormecer por la trama rítmica de la marea:

secuencia de olas a medio camino entre la costanera y el horizonte, entre los que el barco agota sus posibilidades de existir.

iv.
Lulled by the rhythmic weavings of the tide, a boat drifts drowsily:

wave sequences, midway between the esplanade and the horizon, where the boat exhausts its possibilities to exist.

 

 

 

Escenas 2 Scenes. 2

i.
Un hombre, bajo la lluvia, camina sin detenerse hasta que el agua, gota a gota, moja su mirada:

mirada húmeda que ve cargado de amarillo el espeso cielo gris del centro del invierno

i.
In the rain a man walks non stop until the water drop by drop wets his gaze:

a wet gaze that sees charged by yellow the dense grey sky of the winter’s core.

ii.
Una mujer, bajo el cielo del invierno, no detiene sus pasos que la acercan a las nubes:

sucesión de nubes grises entre las que la mujer se detiene, con sus pies sobre la arena

ii.
A winter’s sky doesn’t stop a woman’s footsteps beneath bringing her closer to the clouds:

a succession of grey clouds that stay between the woman with her feet on the sand.

iii.
Un árbol, desnudo en el invierno, enseña al viento su estructura:

a un geómetra, que encuentra en ella el sentido de la vida.

iii.
Stripped by winter, a tree shows the wind its structure:

to a geometrician, who finds in it the meaning of life.

iv.
Las luces de su arboladura son los únicos puntos visibles de un barco, entre la niebla de la bahía:

luces que se confunden con las del tendido eléctrico de la ciudad, apenas unos metros mas arriba.

iv.
Rigging lights are the only visible points of a ship in the fog of a bay:

lights which get confused with a city’s electric lights suspended just a few meters above.

 

 

 

Escenas 3. Scenes. 3

i.
Un rostro, desvaneciéndose, aun conserva rasgos que lo vinculan a la especie:

pertenencia laxa, cuya disolución a la luz de la tarde pone en jaque a la especie, que lo ignora, embotada en su rutina.

A Foucault

i.
A fading face still retains traits that link it to its specie:

a lax belonging, whose late afternoon dissolution checkmates the specie, which, dulled by routine, it’s unaware of.

To Foucault

ii.
Los anos del hombre desintegrándose, espasmódicamente, mientras sus huellas se acercan a los dominios del arquetipo;

territorio geométrico, sin edad, que encanta la consciencia y troquela los anos del hombre.

ii.
The years of man disintegrate in spasms as his footsteps approach the domain of the archetype;

in an ageless geometrical territory delighting consciousness and indenting the years of man.

iii.
Una calle dando tumbos, ebria, entra en el vértigo de un viaje circular:

que desorienta a las puertas, psicoactivándolas, haciendo lineal el trayecto de pajeros y peces que deambulan por la calle, delirante, en el cenit del periplo

iii.
A street staggers along inebriated entering the vertigo of a circular journey:

disorientating, psychoactivating doorways, turning lineal the trajectories of birds and fish that roam the street deliriously in the zenith of the trip.

iv.
Un espejo, al fondo de un pasillo, es desbordado por los destellos de una imagen triangular;

triangulo equilátero, evanescente, que entrega su identidad al espejo aferrándose, difusamente, a un vago anhelo de eternidad.

A Borges

iv.
A mirror at the end of a corridor is overwhelmed by the glimmers of a triangular image;

an evanescent equilateral triangle surrendering its identity to the mirror clutching dimly a vague desire for eternity.

To Borges
 

 

 

LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO. THE ICE POEMS.

i.
El cielo solo existe en los espejos retrovisores. Delante, el asfalto se extiende sin fin aparente troquelado por el ritmo hipnótico del trazado discontinuo.

El sol es un detalle. Solo uno más para el que rueda por el asfalto mientras el cielo sigue existiendo únicamente en el cristal de los espejos.

i.
The sky only exists in the rear view mirrors. Ahead, the asphalt extends without apparent end indented by the hypnotic rhythm of the continual broken road lines.

The sun is a mere detail to he who rolls on the asphalt as the sky goes on existing only in the glass of the mirrors.

ii.
La carretera solo existe en la retina del viajero. Fuera, rueda y asfalto son una unidad que constituye en sí misma el movimiento.

El ojo reconoce apenas borrosas señales de ruta mientras la retina vaga por otros campos. Por otros áreas de la conciencia en movimiento.

ii.
The motorway only exists in the retina of the traveller; outside wheel and asphalt are a unit, which constitutes itself as the motion.

The eye recognises only blurred route signs, as the retina wanders in other fields, other areas of consciousness in motion.

iii.
El silencio sincopado del habitáculo de un coche define la existencia del conductor, cuya presencia otorga sentido a la maquina.

Un sentido que se entremezcla con el trazado discontinuo, con el sol que incide sobre el y con el conductor, definido entre el silencio y la sincopa.

iii.
The syncopated silence of the car’s compartment defines the existence of the driver, whose presence gives sense to the machine.

A sense that blends the continual broken road lines, the sun on them and the driver defined by silence and syncopation.

iv.
La mirada del conductor de un vehículo que rueda. Su extensión en un área delimitada por el horizonte y el trazado discontinuo.

Por el sol al fondo. Vórtice que define la existencia del conductor, de su mirada y la del vehículo que rueda.

iv.
The driver’s sight in a rolling vehicle, its range on the area marked by the horizon and the continual broken road lines;

by the sun, afar, a vortex that defines the driver’s existence, his sight and the rolling vehicle.

v.
El asfalto de la carretera como requisito necesario del movimiento. Su existencia
pétrea definiendo a un individuo.

Sujeto que viaja, insomne, consciente de deber su existencia al movimiento engendrado por la interacción del asfalto y de la rueda.

v.
The asphalt of a motorway being a necessary requirement for motion, whose stony surface defines an individual.

A sleepless subject, who travels aware it owes its existence to the motion engendered by the interaction of asphalt and wheel.

vi.
El movimiento de un vehículo solo existe entre el trazado discontinuo y el sol, que define la presencia de lo visible.

Movimiento materializado en la consciencia a través de la retina, en le que el sol troquela cuanto tiene posibilidad de existir.

vi.
The motion of a vehicle only exists between the continual broken lines and the sun defining the presence of what is visible.

A motion materialised in consciousness through the retina, in which the sun impresses all possibilities of existence.

vii.
La noción de un conductor y de una máquina. De su desplazamiento sobre el asfalto blando de una carretera.

Incisión de una marca en el asfalto. Huella que definirá la presencia de conductor, maquina, asfalto y carretera.

vii.
The concept of a driver and a machine. Their motion over the soft asphalt of the motorway.

Incision of a mark in the asphalt. A trace that will define the presence of the driver, machine, asphalt and motorway.

viii.
La mirada de un sujeto en movimiento sobre la luz, que materializa la presencia de lo real.

La conciencia del conductor que debe su existencia al movimiento y al sol: atravesado en el horizonte por el trazado discontinuo.

viii.
A subject’s sight in motion on light materialises the presence of the real.

The driver’s consciousness, which owes its existence to motion and the sun: crossed on the horizon by the continual broken road lines

 

 

 

VARIACIONES SOBRE FRAGMENTOS DE LA HISTORIA VERADERA DE LA CONQUISTA DE NUEVA ESPAñA, DE BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO

 

VARIATIONS ON FRAGMENTS OF THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF NEW SPAIN BY BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO.

i.
Tanta vara y piedra y flecha nos arrojaban, señor, que todo el suelo estaba cubierto de ellas y aun el cielo oscurecían cuando peleábamos de día.

Y derrocaban nuestras murallas, señor, y aunque arremetiéramos reciamente matando treinta o cuarenta de ellos en cada embestida, tan enteros y con mas vigor que al principio acometían.

i.
So many spears, rocks and arrows they hurled at us, my liege, that the ground was covered and even the sky darkened by them as we fought throughout the day.

They knocked down our walls, my liege and though we retaliated stoutly killing thirty or forty at each onslaught, yet as a whole they stormed us with even more vigour than before.

ii.
Sesentiseis de los nuestros nos tomaron en aquel desbarate, señor, y nos herían a todos, tanto a los de a caballo como a los de pie.

Y veíamos como los subían a lo alto del gran templo para sacrificarlos, señor, y los ponían sobre unas piedras delgadas y con grandes navajones de pedernal, les aserraban los pechos y le sacaban los corazones bullentes para ofrecerlos a sus dioses, que allí tenían

ii.
Sixty six of us, they took from that disaster, my liege, both those on horseback and those on foot.

And we saw how they climbed to the top of their great temple to slaughter them, my liege, to lay them on thin stone slabs and with great flint shards sever their breast to draw forth their pulsing hearts as an offering to the Gods they had there.

iii.
Desde lo alto del templo, señor, hacían sonar un gran tambor que se oía en dos leguas, que tenia el sonido mas triste, como instrumento de los demonios:

Y venían muchos escuadrones a echarnos mano y cerraban con nosotros tan reciamente que no aprovechaban estocadas ni cuchilladas; ballestas ni escopetas y daban en nosotros, señor, llenos de heridas y corriéndonos la sangre.

iii.
From the top of the temple, my liege they made a great drum roll you could hear from two leagues, it had a most sad sound, as though an instrument of demons:

they came in many squads closing us in at hand so that neither neither slash nor thrust, shotgun nor crossbow was of avail, and so they struck us, my liege, full of wounds and running in our own blood.

 

***

andres fisher

Andres Fisher was born in Washington DC in 1963. At an early age he moved to Chile where he was raised. In 1990 he moved to Madrid, Spain, where he got his PhD and started publishing poetry and related work. Since 2004 he’s back in the US where he teaches at Appalachian State University, Boone, NC, and he still spends 2 or 3 months a year in Madrid. His last book of poetry is Series, collected poetry 1995-2010 (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica, 2010). In 2009 appeared his bilingual anthology of Haroldo de Campo’s poetry, Hambre de Forma (Ed. 27 letras, Madrid) and in 2010 Caballo en el Umbral, anthology of Jose Viñals’ poetry done collaboratively with Benito del Pliego (Ed. Regional de Extremadura, Mérida). In 2013 appeared Entremilenios (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica), a translation into Spanish of Haroldo de Campo’s posthumous book. Also in 2013 was released Círculo de Hueso, translations into Spanish of the poetry of Lew Welch (Varasek eds.) done with Benito del Pliego and recently in 2014, they have published Objetos y Retratos. Geografía, translations into Spanish of a sample of Gertrude Stein’s poetry (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica)

***

Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 

 

WIN_20140415_213447

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes for a new Religion presented as a poem — A Little Girl of Long Ago by Joe Ruggier

 

First issued in Lady Vancouver, 9 poems by Joe Ruggier, (1997), A little girl of long ago was re-issued in Lamplighter most Gracious, col­lected poems and selected prose, (1972-2009), in the original length of 2 pages — now expanded to 7. Baude­laire’s version of pacts with Satan con­ceals wicked humour directed against the hypoc­risy of So­ciety. The critics let him get away with it because it is both humorous and candid. The Devil is far more sensitive than human beings, to the Arts and to the insult he suffers: it is equally true that he is converting. You do not have a right to snap with an insult as you please not even a poor devil. You are not an Angel so privileged. The only pur­pose of this Author’s ver­sion of a pact with a devil is Salvation. His intentions are not even as tendentious as Baude­laire. All he is asking is that readers will judge him with an open mind and let him get away with it as the critics allow Baudelaire.

 

A little girl of long ago

a testament for True Religion, old and new

 

 A Wise Man sat upon the Seat of Honour

  in ancient China, and said unto His Daughter:

“I love you much, Beloved, heed what I say!

Know that before your birth I knew about thee,

that you have lived before and I have read

your work which in your last existence flourished,

and I, thy Padre, loved your terrible beauty,

the divinity concealed in your sorrowing spirit.

Knew also of your tragic end and how,

as a good Man sayeth to me, you went

down to the shades below, which made me weep,

My Love, tears that I would weep had my

own little child been lost. Heed what I say!

A little child thou art but you can read,

and when this book which earnt me fame I wrote

to celebrate my marriage vow, I said

these words to thee alone with all my heart,

though you forgotten were. In your spiritual

ear I whispered aery verse the lines

of which concealed my grief and secret love

and with my verse I tempted thee and made

with thee a pact that you my daughter shall

become and may one day rejoice as you

deserve, Thou beautiful, tragic, troubled spirit —

the only poor devil I ever made a pact with —

and never said unto a single soul

a single word within my bosom buried!

Know then, my little one, you’re old and wise

enough to be your mother’s Blessed Mother!

Let no one then teach you, my troubled Queen,

facts of your life which with my faltering verse

I have said unto you far better than

your teachers can.

 From years before Thy birth

 I felt for Thy misfortune sorrow intense

and painful, flesh torn from My flesh, without

relief from pain. I ask of Thee a favour:

feel for Thyself the pity and the sorrow

that I felt for Thee. Admire the beauty of

such overpowering, tragic pathos —

but save Thy dear Soul: Salvation is

egoism as God wanteth, Damnation not.

Love and untold riches shall be Thy portion

for bearing with Me the most cruel insult.

I am reborn just as Thou art. Kirin ’s

Incarnation is Kirin ’s Reincarnation.

He and His Mother chose each other just

like Me and Thee. I was choked and knowing not

how best to say it! I am poor as Lazarus,

but Thy reward is the Honour of Thy dreams —

a gift of beautiful imagination

to bring Thee Joy in Solitude, whenever

Thy Honour shall flash upon Thy inward eye —

and being a Genius at school, as Padre was.

The time shall come when I shall make Thee rich:

for suffering with Me the cruel insult

You deserve the Jackpot!

 Beloved Daughter, know

 that I have chosen Thee out of a Book

just as the great Kirin did choose His Mother,

two poor devils who could not be consoled

without each other! Were they not all of them

little children once upon a time?

no guile? nor malice in their eyes? misled

by the World? by untold temptations scatter’d?

by fast ones led away to endless ruin?

Thy brows with roses red forever crown’d,

I declare herewith the Reincarnation of

poor souls in need a dogma of the Faith

which with My Sacred Heart inscribe on Thine,

high, divine Priestess of future Culture,

around Whose Honour all the Creeds of Earth

have been united in one common effort

to win Mercy for all Mankind, though lost

throughout the Centuries — born again Christians

as Buddhists teach and Hindus, and the great

Confucius, through a dogma of Rebirth

as majestic as of Resurrection!

 

 

God loves dearly the faithful of old Religion

who live Its mourning and mortification

without making anyone insults too great to bear.

They did to Me, and I deserve truer Religion.

True Religion is pregnant with new Religion,

and new Religion calls all Mankind to Mercy —

save a fiend to win Thyself God’s Mercy!

Unless We have Compassion on the damned

nobody shall, and We may still be lost

and in despairing need for such a Miracle,

and no one heed Our hoarse, despairing cry,

and no one have Compassion on Us either.

To save Thy Soul save a poor devil, such as

Thou art; Thou art not Angel so privileged!

God may still abolish Hell forever. Instead

He may establish the Reincarnation of

poor souls in need as the alternative,

postpone the Judgment through a Faith like Plato’s,

and charge, perhaps, the bill for many lives,

demanding pact and truth of countless lovers —

just one more way of saying: “Purgatory!”

To say once more that God is not a sadist!

 

 

What do some Humans think they are? — to feel

so privileged, though they be not, as to make

some others demons just because their Padre,

because He loves them, gives them second birth,

because He wishes them a second chance?

Do not fear, gentle Daughter, I boast

a history just like Thine, and I accept

the Judgment with Thee in writing. Repent of all

the faults of Thy past Life. Real Glory

lieth in freedom from the cycle of

Rebirth. Pray for Salvation only. Pray

for Resurrection. Rebirth is but a Purgatory,

which God allows the worthy for real reasons only!

 

 

Only the wicked do not acknowledge Hell:

we must, if Truth, affirm its Truth! Rebirth

is but a viable alternative

for all poor Souls who need rehabilitation:

God is not a sadist! We all implore Him

to consider this well-made suggestion … that all

may be allowed to earn Salvation, proving

to God Himself how merciful they are!

 

 

No living Man or Woman is owned by Demons.

Let all Mankind take turns, with works of Art,

and with their Love, to save poor souls in need,

and save them well, one fiend at a time!

Old Faith and New vaunt equal power to save you:

God respects entirely your freedom to Choose!

Call it Thy own pro-choice Philosophy —

You have a right to choose the Child You bear,

but You must love and cure Her as I did,

or ‘twill be worse twice over for that poor Devil!

Prescribe Your wish to God Himself in prayer,

allowing God to offer You the Choice!

 

 

Be good to Thy poor devil. Devils care

for works of Art. They shall prove sensitive

to Thy creations, concerned as these should be

with the harsh blow They suffer. Help Them bear

Their insult with a well-intended honour,

to save their face and show them that You care —

and Thy reward shall be Salvation, Thine Own

and all You love, for all of Whom Thou shalt

win Mercy. Thou shalt become a beautiful

Artist, as Thy recompense for boasting heartfelt

Mercy, and shalt be paid with money made

of silver, gold, jewels and precious stones!

 

 

I have no evidence but intimations.

Throughout My sixty years, since early childhood,

My recollections brought Me but one Story.

I was a Poet in My native tongue,

most minor, though I took pride I was the first

to grace with verse My language. All My life

My Aunt encouraged Me, and I believed her

because I loved her — Conchita was her name.

But I lay dying and I told My Aunt:

“Surely You will give Me the honour, when

I’m gone, just as You did in Life!” She said:

“Do you not know how musical, how complex

the foreigner’s Art all is? What theories It

conceals between the lines? How can I give

the Honour to a Poet such as You?

John Anthony? You are too small for words!” It was

the Gospel Truth: John Anthony was most minor —

but all she did was to revenge herself

and stoke Me in My dying minute! She should

have left Me up to God — Who doth not hate Me!

I did not die well and I lost My Soul,

galled and bedeviled in My dying Hour,

and told the Gospel Truth with wrong intent,

but still recall Kirin , gently talking

to Me in Hell: “You suffered a gross injustice,

John Anthony, and I shall give Thee birth again.

I shall make Thee a Poet famous with

the foreigner, writing in another tongue —

a chance to save Thy Face and make the point

that Thou art capable, not as Auntie said!

protecting Thee from false compliments like hers!

Beware the Falsehood of parading as

great Artist if Thou be not the real thing!”

 

 

Though I was born again, incarnate just

like God, though but a poor, defenceless Babe,

My memories all fled and wiped out clear,

by Recollection of past Life deserted …

the Priests laughed up their sleeves at Me, saying:

“There is no other God but God, nor any

other true Religion except for Ours,

which states Reincarnation is not true,

and therefore We baptize this Child a fool,

and in top secrecy murdering his daemon,

and hold him up to scorn with aftertime

for claiming Reincarnation as his door to Fame!”

 

 

Figlia, Kirin’s Secret and His Beata Madre’s

hath blossomed in Our Heart like a blossoming Flower.

My Cause and Thine is just as any Priest’s:

a Man and a Woman deserve truer Religion –

their true Religion is bust who with true Religion

can only bust us! Scoundrels who, neither Saints

nor Artists, neither here nor there, still love

to dominate and lay it down as if

they were Church Doctors — but their skull is thick

and heart not tender: their true Religion alone

is beyond criticism, and any other

enjoys no sense in which it is true also!

 

 

Figlia, I was healing — with Thee against

My Heart, but Thou wert snatched out of My arms!

Figlia, a Woman has no right to fight

the Man who loves Her for their mutual Honour:

either You love Your Man sincerely, and He

shall honour You, or You may be sent packing

where Kirin Himself in Your past Life did send You!

 

 

 Figlia, the pact We made was crystal clear:

Thy Padre went to Hell to bring Thee back

upon His shoulders, on condition only

that Thou wilt save Thy Soul. He doth not wish

to go to Hell for Thee again. Salvation

is in good taste, but not Damnation. If

Thou wilt not save Thy Soul, We shall both lose

the argument, a pact with Satan gone sour

and not Our way, and Thou shalt but incur

Thy sorrowing, heartbroken Father’s deadly Wrath!

 

 

Know also, Thou tragic, sorrowing, troubled Spirit,

discussing facts of life is then for Thee

forbidden fruit, for in such trivial truths

much lying is and all things seem, and many

little ones like Thee have gone astray

by fast ones lost and slain, and been denied

the beautiful Sun, the terrible claire de la Lune,

and starlight shedding balm on secret Love,

by trivial truth incullionated. Forget it then,

My Beautiful! Touch not forbidden fruit!

Be happy with what you know and seek no more

save for the useful skills you learn at school;

and keep thy word same as thy Father did!

The eyes of little children, my Beloved:

the art-show there is all I wish to see –

Lady Aphrodite born from the Ocean;

professor visiting del al di là!

 

 

Drink of the good Honour which I have given,

My little one, whom I have given fame

for ever for the effect We both produced!

We were but two poor demons, but are not

the Bastard’s property, to snap in two

with insults as He pleases, though He was never

Angel so privileged! True though it may be

I was a poor devil, confounded in My thoughts,

I prayed with You and felt Compassion, and prayed

for Your Salvation: I was never ever

the real Satan! You are such a poor devil —

with a straight face, lecteur, which God Himself

gives All, that They may not be caught as long

as They admit! If anyone feels the need

to take revenge, let him pray to Saint Michael,

Whose privilege it is! Thy Padre wishes only

to give Thee Honour like the Queen of Heaven’s,

unique and unrepeatable with God’s Secret,

like Hers, but different from Hers. Strew on her

roses, roses, and never a spray of yew!

Woman I chose out of a Book: “salve

alla Regina vestita con il Sole!”

Thee and Thy Padre shall dine at Journey’s End

with Kirin and with His Madre, with a just revengaunce

upon the prime foundation of Heaven and Hell.

 

Copyright © Joe M Ruggier

26th February 1997 – 26th September 2013

JR-Portrait

Copyright © Joe M Ruggier 11th September 2000

portrait of Joe Ruggier executed by Vancouverite visual artist Virginia Quental (born in Brazil)

Joe M. Ruggier was born in Malta in 1956 and has written and published poetry in both Maltese and English.  He currently resides in Richmond, British Columbia, where he manages a small press, Multicultural Books.  Multicultural Books publishes poetry, poetry leaflets, sound recordings, fiction and literary fiction.

Joe Ruggier has sold over 20,000 books, many of them door-to-door, including over 10,000 books he wrote and published himself.  There are over 5,700 copies in print of his book Out of Blue Nothing.  Information on Joe M. Ruggier’s books, cassettes and poetry journal:

Intelligible Mystery (1985)
Out of Blue Nothing (1985) ISBN 0-9694933-0-4
The Voice of the Millions (1988)
In the Suburbs of Europe (1991)
Moods for Lovers (1993 ) Cassette
This Eternal Hubbub (1995)
regrets hopes regards and prayers … (1996)
Lady Vancouver (1997)
A Richer Blessing (1999 ) ISBN 0-9681948-3-4
The Poetry of George Borg Translated from the Maltese by Joe M. Ruggier (2000)
The Eclectic Muse, a poetry journal edited by Joe M. Ruggier

To order any of the above, please write or call first for availability and prices.  Please make checks payable to Joe Ruggier.

Multicultural Books
Suite 307
6311 Gilbert Road
Richmond, B.C., Canada V7C 3V7

Telephone:  (604) 277-3864

 

The HyperTexts

The Eclectic Muse

 

Managing Editor
Joe M. Ruggier

Board of Academic Consultants
Professor LeRoy D. Travis
S. Warren Stevenson (Professor Emeritus, UBC)


“There are many mansions in Parnassus!”

 

The Eclectic Muse has published poets and writers from Canada, Malta, the United Kingdom, the United States, and elsewhere. The Eclectic Muse publishes poetry and prose of various styles, but always reflects the passion of its Managing Editor, the acclaimed poet, essayist and critic Joe M. Ruggier. Mr. Ruggier’s passion is for poetry that sings and moves, for poetry that embraces rather than denies or defies the traditions of English poetry. If you believe as he does–that there is a revival of traditional poetry, and that the world is better place for it–we think you’ll find The Eclectic Muse well worth the price of a subscription.

***

robin@artvilla.com

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 

 

Venus Cult. Poem by Jay Houska

1465132_10200657370311496_1126369218_n

today’s sunrise was uploaded from a floppy disk,
and the wharf carried the same smell of fish
from the Mississippi,
decaying in splendor as their guts
replaced graffiti in the gulf.

it was an old Tuesday,
the kind where God hanged meat from the hooks of His Butcher Shop
and Eddie smoked his last cigar.

we, too, can marry, he said.

i recall the dawn of that day, tucked amongst the bricks
of the slaves’ quarters,
masked behind the draping ivy,
the lone bird of paradise that stood so proudly erect
in the gardens
of The Madame.

we were shipmates,
we were playboys.

the sun’s first rays elongated like a spirit
and soon the drapery was covered in light’s blood
like a shadow.

i am awake now.

//

it was true,
we were here to worship Venus;
her hands pale with indifference ,
her eyes

worried like the size
of Pompeii, the day that it
was swallowed.

beyond her stone, grey stare
she knows that we are biding time in this city
with whiskey and old cologne

overthrowing the holy men and scribes
who have long since traded their shrouds
for automatic weapons,

who have long since forgotten the scent
of Gethsemane,
her hollyhocks and poppy
breath.

instead, there is the stale putrid air
of fish, and the meth labs
down the road.

we were fools’ gold.

the lights of the neon strip bathed our faces in the
shameless glow that emits
from computer screens, late each night
when no one Else is
watching.

their faces contorted,
their bodies contorted,
all to the rhythm and
pulse

of the Venus Cult.

so sensuous, the way we staggered through the streets,
laughing with anchors tied to our limbs
and hearts,

each
so narrowly escaping.

——

Biography:

Born to a family of Bohemian poets in the outskirts of Chicago, Jay Houska is a poet, artist and photographer who explores the spiritual realm of art through themes of southern gothic Americana and Plath- like dreamscapes that cause the reader to immerse themselves in his own vision of the world. He plays the character in many of his poems, though often told from an outside, observant perspective, establishing his own mythology that anchors itself in his earlier works.

Houska’s poetry may be found in his published collection, “Sainthood” (2010), that features the life cycle of an era, and the lucid shadow of dreams in which it was lived. His sophomore effort, due in late 2014/ early 2015 sees the maturation of this initial collection through poems such as “Venus Cult,” who carries off the prophetic images cast in his 2009 work.

With over ten years of writing behind him, Houska attempts to delve deeper into his own aesthetics and publish pieces that are only driven by what he believes to be a manifest, spiritual pulse alive in every work that was meant to be written. Anything short of this nature is to be discarded, and left in the multitude of journals that litter his closets. The end product? A poem that has its own breathe and perspective, and is a living entity of its own.

  robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com
 

 

Haiku Poems Janet Kuypers

“out”

spirits inside you
want to come out and scream their
story to the world

“of his thirst”

of my dead Scotsman,
they spoke of his drinking, but
never of his thirst.

“close”

death’s an animal
perched under your bed, waiting for
you to close your eyes

“floor”

Writhing on the floor,
bruised, she cried, begged for an end.
I had to kill her

“extinct”

when they go extinct
do we study the mistakes
or just study bones

“last”

But I have to drink
more. The burning doesn’t last
as long as you do.

“scorches”

Take the final swig.
It burns it’s way down your throat.
It scorches your tongue.

“organs”

I have to take showers,
scrub skin, rip out organs, to
rid myself of you

“choke”

Trapped, she felt a chill,
like a goose walked on her grave.
She chokes with his touch.

“explosions”
 
(bonus line haiku)
 
“H-bomb explosions”
 
reach temperatures as hot
as the first second
of the Universe

“fit”

amazing how much
of your life you can fit in
a single suitcase

“feel”

I feel nothing but
the intensity you feel.
Your thoughts cut my face.ant”

“Pant”

waves are crashing, and
the moon’s phases are changing
to a rhythmic pant.

“Civil”

a civil war is
raging in me, and I want
a revolution

“need”

I need to record
these things to remind myself
that I am alive

“kill”

they tried to kill me
but I survived. Lucky me.
But, what have I won

“John’s Mind”

human beings are
the only creatures with thought.
that’s why we have gods.

“run”

although I hate you
I’ll never let go, so you’ll
have to run faster

“mirror”

I look and see all
that you’ve affected. The world,
this house. The mirror.

“keep”

you work harder than
men for less pay, so keep up
the good work, ladies

“timing”

just when you feel hope,
then they take it, quickly. it’s
all in the timing

 
“Two Not Mute Haikus”
 
I
 
Just sit quietly.
Rapes, beatings, torture and pain.
We can beat you down.
 
II
 
You can’t be quiet.
Try to fight the world’s evils —
Even with just words.

“free”

I ain’t got money
and what do you mean to me
when nothing’s for free’

“groove”

Records? I’m vinyl.
Your needle’s been in my grooves;
through every ridge, pore.

“console”

canned condolences
were all I heard when I lost
the love of my life

“form”

if we’re cast in stone
I’d watch your form forever,
frozen by your side

“knowing”

fallen to my knees,
I can feel my chest cave in
knowing it’s my time

“oil”

flowers on the water
broke the oil seeping up from
the submarine grave

“cage”

this pain in my chest,
pounding, heaving, throbbing, like
it’s trapped, in a cage

“evil”

like cream in coffee,
evil explodes into a
mushroom cloud and spreads

“difference”

when putting same clothes
on angels and demons, you
can’t tell them apart

“blood”

left with you there, I
watched us become blood-
thirsty animals

“fog”

fog envelopes me
it’s a thick, powerful force
that doesn’t let go

“upturn”

with blurred eyes, hollow
upturned tortoise shells look like
battle casualties

***

Janet Kuypers 1

Janet Kuypers is a professional performance artist, and is a writer, an art director, webmaster and photographer. She was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister is even the reverend.

She sang with the acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase” and “Weeds and Flowers”, and on occasion she still performs in “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers has over 70 books published and close to 40 audio CD sets released, and is published in books, magazines and on the internet around thousands of times for her writing and art work in her professional career, has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, and has also appeared on television for poetry repeatedly.

She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups, and ran a monthly Podcast of her work for years, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (radio stations ran 2005-2009, and there are plans to start the radio stations again in 2011). She ran the Chaotic Radio show through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org (2006-2007). She has performed spoken word and music across the country – in the spring of 1998 she embarked on a national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 performed quarterly performance art. Starting in 2010 Janet Kuypers also hosts the weekly Chicago poetry open mic at the Cafe (http://www.chaoticarts.org/thecafe), where she also runs a weekly poetry podcast.

You can see video links and short poems as tweets at http://twitter.com/janetkuypers, and all of her book releases and video releases from the Cafe and her performance art shows can be seen at http://www.facebook.com/janetkuypers, but to ever learn more about her you can see her publishing organization, Scars Publications, on line at http://scars.tv, or you can learn about her at http://www.janetkuypers.com.

***

SPRING RITUALS. Poem. Steve de France.

Dogs baying, howling. Men in a jeep.
Drinking beer. Pointing guns.
Shrubs cracking under wheels.
I’d seen them earlier today. Sitting in
their jeep. Shooting squirrels out of
trees. Blew ‘em all apart. But I ran
till the forest was quiet.

Resting here beside a clump of dead
branches I hear dogs baying. They’ve
found me. They’re close. I hear shells
rattling into rifle breaches, bolts
jamming shells into firing position.
I’m running again.
Behind me a bolt slams down,
the popping crack of a gun,
the side of the tree next to me explodes.

I run hard.
Run with all my strength.
I leap over my trail & crash into
tree cover. But the jeep is rattling,
jerking itself through underbrush behind
me.

When I hit the stream
the coldness of water tears breath from
me. I stop for a second to regain
direction. A 30 bore bullet smashes my
flank, it’s like being clipped by a
truck. I’m down, then up and running.
Over there,
I see my fields golden in the sunset,
it’s my spot. I have to try for it.
Wildly with total concentration,
I run
Over bushes, brush past trees, knock
branches down, in my thirst to escape.
I’m moving now. Flying over earth,
my mind afire with the pain in my flank.
Now breathing coming hard.
What’s this? A strange taste.
Choking. Blood in my throat.
The ground rushes toward me.
Something going down.
I’m on the ground.
Breathing blood & foam from my mouth.
More burning, body going numb.
laughter.

Try to get up. Can’t.

Someone standing next to me.
A boot rolls my head over.
Didja hit em?
Twice.
Dead?
Yeah, deader ‘an hell.

He didn’t hit me. He couldn’t have.
No.
I’m still running, still alive.
I see my spot now.
It’s here. Tall grass. That good smell.
So tall.
All the way up to my shoulders.
But I don’t remember it being
so dark.

little Steve

Steve De France is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in
America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary
publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales,
Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a
Pushcart Prize in Poetry in both 2002, 2003 & 2006. Recently, his
work has appeared in The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American
Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, Clean Sheets, Poetry Bay, The Yellow
Medicine Review and The Sun. In England he won a Reader’s Award in Orbis
Magazine for his poem “Hawks.” In the United States he won the Josh
Samuels’ Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem: “The Man Who
Loved Mermaids.” His play THE KILLER had it’s world premier at the
GARAGE THEATER in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has
received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his
writing. Most recently his poem “Gregor’s Wings” has been nominated
for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity.

***

  robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com
 

 

The Recirculation of the Minimal. Poem. Sonnet. R.W. Haynes.

The name of the play was Don’t Say You’re Here
When You’re Not All There, and it starred, I believe,
Lillian Fish, King Kong, and Lassie, that year
Drawing raves, if memory serves to deceive,
But we didn’t go—there was something about a hat
Or a color, and then World War Three arrived
To gray our heads in weathering all of that,
But though that tempest bellowed, we survived,
And now we stand in line again to see
The same play, this time with Lash LaRue,
A washed-up whale, and Pauline Parlez-Vous,
Newly-dealt ghosts, clear cards where we
Read past and future, as though the present cared,
Or the future somehow knew, or the past had dared.

***
On the Savannah River 2013
***

R. W. Haynes has taught literature at Texas A&M International University since 1992. His recent interests include the early British sonnet, and he is completing a second book on the Texas playwright and screenwriter Horton Foote (1916-2009). In his poetry, Haynes seeks to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness without sounding any more dissonant notes than he has to. In fiction, he works toward grasping that part of the past which made its mark on his generation. He enjoys teaching drama, especially the Greeks, Ibsen, and Shakespeare, and he devoutly hopes for a stunning literary Renaissance in South Texas.

***

 
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com
 

 

…Whose Name Was Writ in Water. Poem. Neil Ellman

(after the painting by Willem de Kooning)

It is his whose name
was writ in the calligraphy
of swirling, arching waves
without the eyes and ears
spurs and tails
of word or sound
in human alphabets
where no one heard him speak
the language of the sea
his sermon on the mount
of turbulence
whose name is lost—
he proclaimed dominion
over tide and time
then sank alone into a sea
of disregard.

Whose Name was Writ on Water

Biography: Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, Neil Ellman writes from New Jersey. More than 850 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. His first full-length collection is Parallels: Selected Ekphrastic Poetry, 2009-2012 (Omphaloskeptic Press).

***

editor@artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com

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Mongolian Limericks. Vera Rich & Marie Marshall

mongolia

Five years or so ago, the late Vera Rich, poet and translator, let slip some ‘Mongolian’ Limericks just for fun. I replied in kind and tickled her. Here’s an exchange or two between us.

Vera:

A Mongolian dealer in koumiss
Told his daughter: “I’m angry with you, Miss!
Last night’s supper was spoiled,
For the tea was not boiled,
And the dumplings were sticky as glue, Miss!”

Me:

His daughter’s voice came from the yurt:
“To say the least, you’re very curt!
No need to be cocky -
Those dumplings were gnocchi,
Green tea is drunk tepid – I’m hurt!”

Apparently Vera wrote a whole series of these as a divertissement at a Mongolian Studies Conference in the 1980s – a far cry from her serious work translating Ukrainian and Belorussian poetry. Here’s some more.

Vera:

Said a PR man in Ulan Bataar,
“I really don’t know what’s the mataar!
But that cursed foreign press
Writes of us less and less,
Saying it has too much else on its plataar!”

Me:

The cleaner (whilst shoving her Huva)
Said, “No Mongol is the prime muva
Of things international.
Anonymity’s rational…
It could be worse – this could be Tuva!”

It does you good to let your hair down once in a while. Vera is very much missed by those of us who knew her and worked with her.

***

Vera Rich(1936-2009)

Educated at St Hilda’s College, Oxford and at Bedford College, London, Vera Rich, a respected science journalist and a tireless campaigner for human rights, was a fine poet. Her wits were quick, her memory prodigious and she had a wonderful sense of humour.

During the 1960’s she had three books of her own poems published, and founded the poetry magazine, Manifold. This ran with some success for 28 issues before publication was suspended in 1968, when Vera became Eastern European correspondent for the science magazine, Nature.

Once asked to translate some Ukrainian poems, she learned the language to do so. For the next three decades, she travelled extensively in eastern Europe, becoming the foremost translator of both Ukrainian and Belarusian poetry into English. She reported on the activities of dissident Soviet scientists, the Chernobyl disaster, psychiatric abuse and AIDS in the Soviet Union. Her anthology of Belarusian poetry, Like Water, Like Fire, published by UNESCO, was subsequently withdrawn under pressure from the Soviet Union.

Manifold, which she revived in 1998, regularly published foreign-language poetry with parallel text in Engtlish and, occasionally. foreign poetry untranslated. In 2006 Vera travelled to the Ukraine to receive the Ivan Franko Award for her 40 years service to the translation of Ukrainian poetry. While on a visit to the Ivan Franko Homestead she gave an emotional reading of Shevchenko’s poem “Testament”. On her next visit in 2007, she wore her medal, the Order of Princess Olha, which had been presented to her at the Ukrainian Embassy in London. Vera could fairly be described as a Ukrainian patriot, an unusual distinction for an Englishwoman.

In 2006 Vera underwent treatment for breast cancer. But she always insisted her illness was an inconvenient obstacle to her work. On 18 December 2009, her doctor advised her to go into hospital, but even then Vera gave priority to her translations. On 20 December, 2009, she died peacefully in her bed. She will be greatly missed, not least for her kindness and the support she gave to so many. Alan Flowers (UK)

***

Marie Marshall (1957 — ) is an Anglo-Scottish author, poet and editor. Her first collection of poems, Naked in the Sea, was published in 2010 and reviewed in Sonnetto Poesia that same year, and her second collection, I am not a fish, in 2013. Since 2005 she has published over two hundred poems, mainly in magazines and anthologies, but the most extraordinary places in which a poem of hers has appeared include on the wall of a café in Wales, and etched into an African drum at the New Orleans Museum of Art. Her first novel, Lupa, was published in 2012. She is well-known in Scotland for her macabre short stories. Her web site can be found at mairibheag.com. Of writing poetry and sonnets she says, “I did not start writing until 2004, so I am very much a twenty-first century writer. I write anything, any kind of poetry that I feel the urge to tackle ― sonnets included.”

 
http://mairibheag.com/2014/03/18/mongolian-limericks
 
 

The Song Bird. Video.Audio.Poem.Randal. A.Burd.Jr.

Randal Snapshot 2

Randal A. Burd, Jr. is a teacher, freelance writer, poet, and family historian. He teaches English to grades 7-12 in a juvenile residential facility in Southeast Missouri. He previously taught Dual-Credit English through MSU and Freshman English for two years and spent four years at an alternative high school teaching English and Art while mentoring at-risk students. In 2012, he was elected Secretary of the Department of Missouri, Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War. Randal was President of the Ozark Patriots Chapter of Sons of the American Revolution from 2011-2012 and is Camp Commander of Sigel Camp #614 of SUVCW. He was commissioned a Kentucky Colonel in April 2013.

Randal published his first poetry chapbook, “Leaving Home,” in 2008. He received his BA in English cum laude with minors in Art, Psychology, and Writing from the Missouri University of Science and Technology and his Master’s Degree in Curriculum and Instruction from the University of Missouri. While enrolled at Missouri S&T, Randal was Editor-in-Chief of The Missouri Miner, the campus newspaper, from 2000-2002, and Editor-in-Chief of Southwinds Magazine, “Missouri S&T’s Only Literary Magazine,” from 1997-2001.

L’Amour En Rêve, Reveries Of Love Poem by Jim Dunlap

moi(1)

I toss in strangely troubled dreams
of rolling hills and woodland streams –
of soft, pale skin, so smooth and fair,
and moonlight glancing off her hair.

What can I say? What can I do?
Sad to say, she’s just not you.
True love calls …”Come, please be mine …
we’ll drink to good Saint Valentine.”

and if, perchance, you choose to stay,
we’ll leave her there and go away,
to roam the world, to wander far ..
beneath fair Venus, morning’s star.

For fate could never put asunder
bonds of love, entwined in wonder…
though our souls should dare to brave
a bright new land beyond the grave.

Why waste one day, one minute more?
Let’s bite the apple to the core,
and while the years and seasons fly,
our love will grow … and never die.

 

***

 

Jim Dunlap’s poetry has been published extensively in print and online in the United States, England, France, India, Australia, Switzerland and New Zealand. His work has appeared in over 90 publications, including Potpourri, Candelabrum, Mobius, Poems Niedernasse, and the Paris/Atlantic. He was the co-editor of Sonnetto Poesia and is currently a Content Admin for Poetry Life & Times. www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes He is also the chief proofreader for the On Viewless Wings Anthologies, published out of Queensland, Australia. In the past, he was a resident poet on Poetry Life & Times and the newsletter editor for seven years with the Des Moines Area Writers’ Network.

You may find him here:

http://www.thehypertexts.com/Jim%20Dunlap%20Poet%20Poetry%20Picture%20Bio.htm

Here: http://www.whoislog.info/profile/jim-dunlap-poet.html

Homepage: http://mindfulofpoetry.homestead.com/index.html
Here: http://www.pw.org/content/jim_dunlap_1

Here: http://www.artvilla.com/plt/currentoct06.html

Here: http://allpoetry.com/contest/2602767-Poems-for-Jim-Dunlap-

Here: http://classicalpoets.org/fairy-dust-anarchy-and-other-poetry-by-jim-dunlap/

Here: http://classicalpoets.org/fairy-dust-anarchy-and-other-poetry-by-jim-dunlap/

Here: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/109492

Here: http://allpoetry.com/column/9188321-Book-Review-The-Spirit-of-Christmas-in-Poetry-by-Jim-Dunlap-by-WandaLeaBrayton

***

editor@artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com

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Half Past Eight.Poem.Video.Guadalupe Grande.

OCHO Y MEDIA

I

No lo comprendo.
No sé
          por qué hay que ir tan deprisa.
No entiendo
         por qué hay que caminar tan rápido
ni por qué es tan temprano
ni por qué la calle está tan enturbiada y húmeda.

No entiendo
qué dice este rumor en tránsito
        (este siseo infatigablemente frágil)
ni sé
         a dónde llevan tantos pasos
con la obstinada decisión de no perderse.

II

Estoy en la puerta de mi casa:
desde aquí puedo ver,
tras los cristales,
               un copo de cielo,
un harapo azul sin horizonte,
un fragmento de distancia,
un tragaluz de lejanía.

Cierro la puerta
               y no lo entiendo,
pero hago un gran esfuerzo en retener
ese jirón azul en la pupila
      y pienso en la corona de espuma del ahogado
      y en los clavos grises que me aguardan.

Sin embargo, ya sé que no hay coronas:
estamos muy lejos del mar
y yo llevo los ojos llenos de bruma y humo
como si los cubriera la sombra de una lágrima
que aún no he sabido llorar.
                Digo que lo sé, pero no estoy segura:
tan solo
cierro la puerta de mi casa
como si cerrara la puerta de mi alma
o de algún alma
que se parece demasiado a la mía.

III

Parece temprano,
parece pronto,
quisiera decir: la ciudad se despierta
o nace el día
o empieza un día más.
Pero no lo entiendo,
no consigo entenderlo:
he bajado las escaleras
y he llegado a un lugar
que dice llamarse calle;
desde luego, no veo náufragos coronados
ni distingo a los viajeros de los comerciantes
ni a los habitantes de los ciudadanos
ni a los abogados de los turistas
ni a mí de mí.
En este momento,
tan solo reconozco mis zapatos
y su exuberante y urgente necesidad
por incorporarse al ajetreo de la vía.

IV

Es pronto:
no sé a dónde,
pero hemos llegado pronto.
Por lo demás, todo sigue.
Aunque yo no entienda lo que dice la palabra prisa
aunque no sepa lo que nombra la palabra ruido,
aunque no comprenda lo que calla la palabra calla,
los zapatos silenciosos,
en su obstinada decisión de no perderse,
lo entienden todo por mí.

HALF PAST EIGHT

I

I don´t understand.
I don´t know
      why one has to go about in such a rush.
I don´t get
      why one should walk so fast
nor why it´s so early
nor why the street is so muddy and wet.

I don´t see
what this transitory whisper in transit says
      (this restlessly fragile hiss)
nor do I know
      where all these steps are heading
in the obstinate decision not to lose themselves.

II

I stand in the doorway of my home:
from here I can see
                a streak of sky behind the glass
a blue rag without horizon,
a fragment of distance,
a skylight of distance.

I close the door
                and don´t understand
but I try with great effort to keep
that blue strip in my pupil
      and I think of the foamy garland of the drowned
      and the grey nails awaiting me.

Yet I know there are no garlands
and we´re far from the sea;
I lift my eyes and they´re full of fog and smoke
as if covered by the shadow of a tear
a tear I haven´t yet wept.
                I say I know, but I´m not sure:
I just close the door of my house
as if I ´d closed the door of my soul
or someone else´s soul
too similar to mine.

III

It seems early,
apparently too soon,
I would like to say: the city awakens
or the day is born
or another day begins.
But I don´t see it,
I can´t understand:
I have gone downstairs
to a place supposed to be called street;
obviously I see no garlanded shipwrecks,
I do not distinguish travellers from merchants
nor inhabitants from citizens
nor lawyers from tourists
nor myself from myself.
At this moment
I recognize only my shoes
and their exuberant urgent need
to join the teeming throng.

IV

It´s soon:
I don´t know where,
but we have arrived soon.
Otherwise, everything goes on.
Even though I don´t understand what the word hurry means
even though I don´t know what the word noise names,
even though I don´t grasp what the word hush hushes,
my silent shoes
in their obstinate decision not to lose themselves
understand everything in my place.

***

(Translated from the Spanish original by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide)

***

 Guadalupe

Guadalupe Grande was born in Madrid in 1965. She has a Bachelor degree in Social Anthropology. Published poetry books: El libro de Lilit, (Renacimiento, awarded the 1995 Rafael Alberti Award, 1995), La llave de niebla (Calambur, 2003), Mapas de cera (Poesía Circulante, Málaga, 2006 and La torre degli Arabeschi, Milán, 2009),  Hotel para erizos (Calambur, 2010) and Métier de crhysalide (an anthology, translated by Drothèe Suarez y Juliette Gheerbrant, Alidades, Évian-les-Bains, 2010).

As a literary critic, she has published in cultural journals and magazines, such as El Mundo, El Independiente, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, El Urogallo, Reseña and others.

In 2008 she was awarded the Valle Inclán grant for literary creation in the Academia de España in Rome.

In the publishing and cultural management areas, she has worked in institutions such as the Complutense University of Madrid Summer Courses, Casa de América and Teatro Real. Currently she manages poetical activities in the José Hierro Popular University at San Sebastian de los Reyes, Madrid.

The poems “Ocho y media” (Half past eight) and “Madrid, 1973” belong to La llave de niebla, and have been translated into English by Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arróspide.

 ***

Guadalupe Grande nació en Madrid en 1965. Es licenciada en Antropología Social.

Ha publicado los libros de poesía El libro de Lilit, (Renacimiento, Premio Rafael Alberti 1995), La llave de niebla (Calambur, 2003), Mapas de cera (Poesía Circulante, Málaga, 2006 y La torre degli Arabeschi, Milán, 2009),  Hotel para erizos (Calambur, 2010) y Métier de crhysalide (antología en traducción de Drothèe Suarez y Juliette Gheerbrant, Alidades, Évian-les-Bains, 2010).

Como crítico literario, ha colaborado en diversos diarios y revistas culturales, como El Mundo, El Independiente, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, El Urogallo, Reseña, etcétera.

En el año 2008 obtuvo la Beca Valle Inclán para la creación literaria en la Academia de España en Roma.

En el ámbito de la edición y la gestión cultural ha trabajado en diversas instituciones como los Cursos de Verano de la Universidad Complutense de Madrid, la Casa de América y el Teatro Real.  En la actualidad es responsable de la actividad poética de la Universidad Popular José Hierro, San Sebastián de los Reyes, Madrid.

Los poemas “Ocho y media” y “Madrid, 1973” pertenecen a La llave de niebla y han sido traducidos al inglés por Robin Ouzman Hislop y Amparo Arróspide.

 ***

 

***
WIN_20140415_213447

 

Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published four poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, an E-zine.

Elephant Graveyard – Poem . E. Darcy Trie

Darcy Trie-1

there are mondays that curve up
with sides the color of dead milk
and all the egrets roost over a red hotel
in a town that never stops raining
it finds me
splintered
wintered
and brown

this favorite of barn swallows
and aged floorboards

all around are the echoes of wild dogs
of things springing from snow
straw dust and blood sausages
and heaps that are bornempty
i lie

cowled by green space
sewn within a hump of cream ribs
the graffiti of grass and mud
tickle against the sourdough belly
it is here
that the map of stars
have never been so far away

yet
i would still stay
earth-soaked
as your fiery death
jumps in my memory
looping
scooping
uncoiling like dark hair
released to the night

and the shiver

i know
these are the only bones strong enough
to hold up against this kind of
eternity

Darcy was born in Taipei, Taiwan in 1975, E. Darcy Trie is a Scorpio, Rabbit and matriculated in Little Rock, Arkansas at the age of two. She graduated at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville with a B.A. in Psychology along with Minors in Drama and Asian Studies. Sensing that achieving her Masters would drive her to drink, she wisely opted to tour Asia in her early twenties (thanks to a grant provided by Bank Of Daddy), and in the year 2000, found herself in the heart of Beijing, China where she began writing due to the fact that crocheting was far too complicated and because the voices in her head would not shut up.

By 2004, she had completed two romances, one historical and one modern, and after viewing all nine seasons of the X-Files and three seasons of C.S.I, finished the first two series of the Snow novels and is currently writing the third installment. During this time, she has also had several pieces of her poetry published in various online poetry magazines.

Her passions and hobbies includes writing, reading (anything put out by Neil Gaiman), Disney movies, all divination tools such as Tarot, I-Ching, Runes and is an enthusiastic, although albeit amateur, astrologist/paranormal investigator. She is 5’10, weighs whatever she wrote on her driver’s license, owns a lot of black hoodies and is addicted to It’s A Grind’s Passion Fruit tea.

She is fluent in English, Mandarin Chinese, some French and once took a Zero Hour in Greek in high school. She hates mornings, coconuts, wire bras, and sincerely hopes that this is bio is long enough to fill up an entire page (doubled-space of course).

Ms. Trie currently lives in Las Vegas, NV because she adores $2.99 buffets, Paigow Poker, and that lovely 116 degree August weather. She dreams of writing best-selling novels that will delight and thrill her future fans and because she is tired of being a productive citizen and wants to go back to being a mooching hermit.

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Tilting Ponds.Poem.Excerpt from Serpentrope.Norman Ball


 

 Review of Serpentrope by Norman Ball (Robin Ouzman Hislop)

 

Serpentrope is a small volume of collected poems by Norman Ball, written almost all in formal and classical metrics and for the most part in sonnet form. In an article at the back titled Ouroboros: Why Now? the author cites it as a trope for an emergent archetype of the millennium, – as the turning of an age, our time now is critical. The poems are given a contemporary context, often in current affairs of the last decade in the USA. The style is light, dexterous and pithy, many times coloured by a dark humour akin to the sinister and characterised by a deft turning of phrase. This appears acutely in the sonnets and their final couplets, where it is as if the maw of Ouroborus itself swallowing its own tail.  Editor: robin@artvilla.com

 

serpentrope1

 

ISBN-10: 0615900798 ISBN-13: 978-0615900797

TILTING PONDS

_

The marriage of the swans has been annulled

with an absence of ceremony, she lies graceless and stiff,

a brick by her crushed skull;

an orange meteor hurled by a petulant boy-Zeus.

_

I know him as he runs back to his empty motive,

this orphan of unattended grief,

desperate for a mother’s dead reflection.

A universe of dying nest is all the nurture he allows.

_

Now too, the widower is beside himself

attended by the sag of his reflection,

The banks salve the water’s edge.

My bread of solace floats untouched.

-

There is only one to feed now.

But he leans away without appetite.

The world lies wet to boys and swans

and the mirrored edge of endless tilting ponds. 

 
***

normgarage2

 

 

 ***

NORMAN BALL is a poet, playwright, essayist and musician residing in Virginia. A featured poet on Prairie Home Companion, his poems and essays have appeared in LightQuarterly, The Raintown Review, The Berkeley Poetry Review, Epicenter, Oxford Magazine, TheCumberland Poetry Review, 14 by 14, Rattle, Liberty, The Hypertexts, Main Street Rag, The New Renaissance, The Scotsman, The London Times among dozens of others. His essay collections, How Can We Make Your Power More Comfortable? (2010) and The Frantic Force (2011), both widely available on the web, are published by Del Sol Press and Petroglyph Books, respectively. His recent play SIDES: A Civil War Musical (Inspired by The Red Badge of Courage) is currently being produced for TV by Last Tango Productions, LLC. He has a new book out from Giant Steps Press on television and culture Between River and Rock: How I Resolved Television in Six Easy Payments and a book of poetry Serpentrope from White Violet Press.

 

***

Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

Lines 1-34 of Book 2 of Homer’s Iliad by Richard Vallance

Iliad Book 2 Lines 1-34

Please press to enlarge the text: The following link provides further information concerning references & sources of the translation. http://linearbknossosmycenae.wordpress.com/2014/02/05/the-extreme-significance-of-the-archaic-greek-of-the-catalogue-of-ships-in-book-ii-of-iliad-in-the-reconstruction-of-mycenaean-greek/

Richard Vallanc Santorini Grreece May 2012
 
Richard Vallance, meta-linguist, ancient Greek & Mycenaean Linear B, home page: Linear B, Knossos & Mycenae, http://linearbknossosmycenae.wordpress.com/
 
PINTEREST Boards: Mycenaean Linear B: Progressive Grammar & Vocabulary, http://pinterest.com/vallance22/mycenaean-linear-b-progressive-grammar-and-vocabul/ and, Knossos & Mycenae, sister civilizations, http://pinterest.com/vallance22/knossos-mycenae-sister-civilizations/ Also poetry publisher, The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire. Friesen Press, Victoria, B.C., Canada. © August 2013. 35 illustrations in B&W. Author & Title Indexes. 257 pp. 315 sonnets & ghazals in English, French, Spanish, German, Chinese & Persian.  http://vallance22.hpage.com/
 

 

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Acid Love. 3 Poems. Zayra Yves.

 

(i.)

Acid Love

The taste of you on my tongue
is caustic.

You think I won’t survive.

But you don’t know about flowers
that grow from a sardonic earth:

African Violet, Azalea,
Amaryllis and lovely Gardenia.

I have blossomed through
droughts and hell.

It’s your turn to fight
against dying.

 (ii.)

I Made the Mistake of Loving a God

I made the mistake of loving a God
who appeared stronger than stone.

His skin crumbled in my hands
and I found only the beginning of sorrow
in the broken ruins of our passion.

I discovered a heart made of clay
can be shaped into love once more
but a fractured mind
may never be whole again.

(iii.)

SEPARATION

A grain of sand is not a cliché
because no matter what we write,
we can’t grasp it
unless we compare our life to it,
then we feel the light
as it passes through that small space
which once belonged
to something greater than itself.

***

Zayra Yves Picture

Bio: Zayra’s creative writing is published in numerous print journals, anthologies, on-line e-zines and magazines: The Zimbabwe Situation, Panhandler Quarterly, Voices for Africa, Eyes of the Poet, Kreativ, Reflections IIT Madras (India), Edge Life Magazine, Poetry Life & Times, Astropoetica, Alehouse Press, 34th Parallel, Feeling is First, Memoir (and), Aquillrelle, The Enchanting Verses International Journal and The Cherry Muse.

 

She has appeared as a featured artist and/or guest speaker at: New Sun Celebration; CIIS California Institute of Integral Studies; on Ken Wilber’s Integral Naked (2006 & 2007);OneMindVillage; West Marin Community Radio; SW Radio Africa; North Western University Chicago; Zimvibes; Coolfire (UK); Women’s Radio Network; Perfectly Said; Mazungue Studio One; TWiN (UK); Genpo Roshi and Bill Harris’ Big Heart/Big Mind seminiar in LA; UltraFeel TV; UniVerse of Poetry; BlogTalk Radio, The Awareness Network and Today’s Revolutionary Women of Color.

Awards include:

In 2010 Zayra was the winning poet from the “An African Legend: White Lions and Leopards” contest 2010. She joined the conservation team at Tsau where the White Lions live in Timbavati, South Africa, as her prize, plus publication in the book.

In 2012 she received the World Poetry Empowered Poet 2012 award beside several other amazing International poets at the World Poetry Canada & International Peace Festival 2012.

In 2013 she received the “Woman of Goodwill Award 2013” and “Plaque of Appreciation” for her role as a Panelist at Pentasi B in the Philippines.

Her short story “Exit Ashes, Exit Blues, Exit This Life” won an honorable mention in Francis Ford Coppola’s Zoetrope All Story contest.

Zayra’s fine art collection has appeared from 1998 to present at the following California locations: Dore Dore Gallery, San Mateo; Somar Gallery, San Francisco; UC Berkeley, San Francisco Campus; Body Harmony, San Francisco; Dana Street Cafe, Mountain View; Cafe Libro, Mountain View; Maitri Art Show & Auction, Embarcadero Center; Cad’s Coffee Shop, Los Osos; One World Cafe, San Francisco; The Hive Gallery, Los Angeles; The Artist’s Alley, San Francisco.

She has four audio collections:

1.) Crowned Compassion 2.) Sleep in the Sea Tonight with Me 3.) Retrograde Motion 4.) Lanterns

In addition, she is the author of four books:

1.) Empty as Nirvana 2.) Ordinary Substance 3.) Color Me Pomegranate 4.) Leaving You Unpainted 5.) Floating in the Dark

You can purchase these collections directly on line or for more information send an email to:  express.positive@gmail.com

Currently she is producing a new audio recording and a fine art collection.

www.zayrayves.com

***

 

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The Skiff. Poem. Joe Ruggier

 JR-Portrait

 

My skiff – with which no ships compare -

has weathered storms of Ocean:

in blackest night the beacon’s flare,

in steep commotion,

 

is but the one, consoling Sense,

the verse that shakes my Heart;

for Food the Ocean’s Providence

beneath the curb of Art!

 

Thou reddening Glow! Thou blood-red Core

upon the Wild neglected,

that ghastly Shadows casts ashore

by Time collected -

 

within the Flame upon the Wick

I dream that I behold

my Genius dance, my Fortune click

with cards of Gold!

 

Hail, holy Fire! through whate’er

perilous Seas – the Raft -

oh Thou! Thou burnest everywhere,

but not as daft

 

as Thou art faithful what Thou wilt!

I love the drift and sound:

Thou reachest but to Castles built

on solid Ground!

 

The Critic thought he haughtily steers

top-heavy, mighty Ships,

but with the Spirit interferes

from holstered hips!

 

Likewise the pious Rationalist

but clouds the faultless Feeling -

with Reasons fine as fog or mist -

that subtlest Reeling

 

which in my Heart of Hearts is burning!

Ah but my Life-raft’s light,

and the vast Ocean’s overturning

bury it quite

 

may never, and only upward bobbing,

throbs like my Adam’s apple,

and Vision brings the Joy of sobbing

and makes me grapple -

 

where in the Flames She smiles and dances,

her hair blown by the breeze,

where my Beloved counts the chances

and me strip tease!

***

Copyright © Joe M Ruggier 11th September 2000

portrait of Joe Ruggier executed by Vancouverite visual artist Virginia Quental (born in Brazil)

Joe M. Ruggier was born in Malta in 1956 and has written and published poetry in both Maltese and English.  He currently resides in Richmond, British Columbia, where he manages a small press, Multicultural Books.  Multicultural Books publishes poetry, poetry leaflets, sound recordings, fiction and literary fiction.

Joe Ruggier has sold over 20,000 books, many of them door-to-door, including over 10,000 books he wrote and published himself.  There are over 5,700 copies in print of his book Out of Blue Nothing.  Information on Joe M. Ruggier’s books, cassettes and poetry journal:

Intelligible Mystery (1985)
Out of Blue Nothing (1985) ISBN 0-9694933-0-4
The Voice of the Millions (1988)
In the Suburbs of Europe (1991)
Moods for Lovers (1993 ) Cassette
This Eternal Hubbub (1995)
regrets hopes regards and prayers … (1996)
Lady Vancouver (1997)
A Richer Blessing (1999 ) ISBN 0-9681948-3-4
The Poetry of George Borg Translated from the Maltese by Joe M. Ruggier (2000)
The Eclectic Muse, a poetry journal edited by Joe M. Ruggier

To order any of the above, please write or call first for availability and prices.  Please make checks payable to Joe Ruggier.

Multicultural Books
Suite 307
6311 Gilbert Road
Richmond, B.C., Canada V7C 3V7

Telephone:  (604) 277-3864

 

The HyperTexts

The Eclectic Muse

 

Managing Editor
Joe M. Ruggier

Board of Academic Consultants
Professor LeRoy D. Travis
S. Warren Stevenson (Professor Emeritus, UBC)


“There are many mansions in Parnassus!”

 

The Eclectic Muse has published poets and writers from Canada, Malta, the United Kingdom, the United States, and elsewhere. The Eclectic Muse publishes poetry and prose of various styles, but always reflects the passion of its Managing Editor, the acclaimed poet, essayist and critic Joe M. Ruggier. Mr. Ruggier’s passion is for poetry that sings and moves, for poetry that embraces rather than denies or defies the traditions of English poetry. If you believe as he does–that there is a revival of traditional poetry, and that the world is better place for it–we think you’ll find The Eclectic Muse well worth the price of a subscription.

***

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