Venus Cult. Poem by Jay Houska


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

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

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

of the Venus Cult.

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

so narrowly escaping.



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.


Haiku Poems Janet Kuypers


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.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

(bonus line haiku)

H-bomb explosions
reach temperatures as hot
as the first second
of the Universe


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


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


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


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


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


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.


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


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


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


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

“Two Not Mute Haikus”

Just sit quietly.
Rapes, beatings, torture and pain.
We can beat you down.

You can’t be quiet.
Try to fight the world’s evils —
Even with just words.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Janet Kuypers

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 and (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 (, where she also runs a weekly poetry podcast.

You can see video links and short poems as tweets at, and all of her book releases and video releases from the Cafe and her performance art shows can be seen at, but to ever learn more about her you can see her publishing organization, Scars Publications, on line at, or you can learn about her at



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

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.

Try to get up. Can’t.

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

He didn’t hit me. He couldn’t have.
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.



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.



…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).



Mongolian Limericks. Vera Rich & Marie Marshall


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.


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!”


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.


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!”


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 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.” …




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


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. 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:











Half Past Eight.Poem.Video.Guadalupe Grande.



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.


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.


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.


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.



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.


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.


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.


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 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.



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
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

i would still stay
as your fiery death
jumps in my memory
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

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.


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:



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,
      he is an arc of distraction and freshly hatched solitude.
      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. 


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, The Cumberland 
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 



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.

Richard Vallanc Santorini Grreece May 2012

Richard Vallance, meta-linguist, ancient Greek & Mycenaean Linear B, home page: Linear B, Knossos & Mycenae,

PINTEREST Boards: Mycenaean Linear B: Progressive Grammar & Vocabulary, and, 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.




Denia – San Antonio Ferry. Video Poem. Robin Marchesi.

The boat I was waiting for,
Now rides the waves;
People on their journey
Wholly Ghosts
Pertinently shiver,
Like the white bows wash
Under a slither of silver sun.
A staging post
Bequeathing worlds;
Crying out of action
In an inactive state.
The Ferry rides,
The sea’s a part
Of a ceaseless swell,
A gap, a gyre.
Oh heart of mine!
Be true to the blood ocean,
Keep homeward bound.




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.”






Acid Love. 3 Poems. Zayra Yves.



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.


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.



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:

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









The Skiff. Poem. Joe Ruggier



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.



The End of Everything. Poem. Neil Ellman


(after the painting by Roberto Matta





And when it ended

there was a terrible groan

like the voice of a tree

falling from the weight

of too many seasons of death

and the pain of rebirth.


The ground could not hold.

Rocks heaved a last appeal.

Space filled

with an anarchy of white

shifting to red.


And then a silence

deafening, more profound,

its inevitability told

at the instant of its birth

when the word was everything

green, young and ours

we lived in that moment

not knowing it would end

with none of us to hear.


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).




The Silent Thief.Poem.Sullivan the Poet.Video/Audio.Candice James


The Silent Thief..’



It crept in soft ‘pon velvet feet,

a yesterday to steal;

A birdsong day all summer scents,

fair seasoned and genteel.

So small a day it scarce was missed,

one rain drop lost the brook;

Two dozen hours from all a life,

so easily mistook.

And in its stead did leave discard,

a fogged and dull lit gloom;

All hid behind familiar doors,

a strange and empty room.


I missed that one day not so much,

nor yet the next it stole;

A dirty day all damps and blows,

that scarce but left a hole.

Or bare the next, if truth be told,

or was it one before?

When sly it took a friend’s kind face,

from out an unlocked drawer.

And with it neatly enveloped,

all fastened with a bow;

A sheaf of happy memories,

once held and treasured so…


Til ‘fore I knew each other day,

or least I felt it so;

Fell silent ‘hind a rust hinged door,

through which I could not go.

No care to how I threw my locks,

or latched each window tight;

Another precious jewel was stole,

with each new morning light.

As if I held all of my life,

within these helpless hands;

Which day on day, try as I might,

slipped through like time’s cruel sands.


And so; I roam these labyrinths,

each crueller than the last;

In search some brightly open door,

to window on my past.

Dark corridors within my mind,

all tortured twist and bend;

And wooden troops dressed arms apart,

these doors, on guard, extend.

On, on, to twist each hard seized knob,

test each reluctant key;

To beg a bright familiar room,

that still remembers me.


With arms outspread to take me in,

all fold in its embrace;

Oh! Let me hold between my hands,

one full remembered face.

To know the hearth that embers there,

and bathe within its glow;

Beg gaze upon my grandchild’s face,

and breathe “I love you so..”

Or would that every kindly soul,

that smiled with love on me;

Might not, all gaoled, ‘hind dead-locked doors,

forever strangers be…


When in that demon’s maze I found,

all in his khaki suit;

My dearest love made young again,

my daring young recruit.

Rose young from under Flanders’ field,

and home the dreadful war;

Come steadfast ‘cross these work worn years,

to free my mind’s locked door.

So know you when I sightless stare,

my senses, thoughtless, flown;

Though lost your vale of tears my love,

that I am not alone…


"Verse - Perverse & Obverse.."

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:   and

















CREME BRULEE. Poem. Paul Strohm.



I’m going to Paris!

Can you believe it?

Paris, France of all places.

It’s where the French people live.

Mister Tom says I’m to become a chef.

That’s the French word for cook.

Think on it,

I am going to be a fancy cook.

Mister Tom says I make a good cup of coffee,

Now I am going to make cafe!

Mister Tom says I’m to get money for my work.

I have read his garden book.

Yes I can read! When?

Since I was a child.

Mister Tom thinks his people should be educated up.

And now I’m to Paris,

Going to Paris with Mister Tom.

I’m going to be a Chef.

I’m going to Paris, France.


Paul in Army Dress-1

Paul Strohm is a free lance journalist  working in the Houston, Texas area.  His poems have been published in a number of print and online literary journals. He is married to a HS English teacher who hates contemporary poetry,which makes for a happy meeting of the two  minds.  Paul has only one full frontal photograph of himself on his IMAC.  He loves this photograph because it symbolizes the constraints of the culture he lives in.  The hat was one size fits all.  So everyman had to use it for his official military ID photograph. However, the wife says Paul has a big head.


Lord’s Player. Poem. Phillip Larrea


(from the title “At Play in the Fields of the Lord”- Peter Mathiessen)

Often times, I am stuck sitting
For hours and hours on end
In between meetings
On which the day’s success depends.

Some odd spot, no amenities.
Maybe a coffee
In a parking lot
Descending to serenity.

This ridiculous pilgrimage
Not between temples dark.
More like an amusement park where
Madcap harlequins pillage plots.

She asks, “How did it go today?”
Oh, fine… bad… okay.”
The best part, I can’t really say,
Was spent in the Lord’s field- at play.


Sacpoetry pic green shirt


Bio: Phillip Larrea was born and raised in Sacramento, CA., lived in N.Y.C. and Northern New Jersey most of his adult life, but has since moved back to Sacramento “where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me.” (Paul Simon- The Boxer”). He studied poetry with Thom Gunn and Karl Shapiro at the University of California at Davis during the late seventies, and then all but abandoned writing until 2011. Since 2011, Phillip has had poetry published in over sixty journals and anthologies, is the author of Our Patch (Writing Knights Press), We the People (Cold River Press) and hundreds of non-fiction essays about the economic conditions of the average working household.




Riding Dark Horse Nightmare(3).Poems.Joan McNerney



to prison library

where sewer

backs up flooding

cages of books

my brains are washed

by a short scientist


 detectives trail me

arrested by police

giving up to

handcuffs  ether


now on train

calendars peel

off cars

1942   1962   1982

2198   1892   1294

passengers screaming

screaming off track

burning 3rd rail


in swamp struggling

to reach green reeds

i   am   a

fixed target

paper duck

*pull trigger*fire pin*thru barrel*into muzzle*

b u l l e t                 s h o t

paper duck

mowed down.



an executive


showed me in

i, shy

as an orphan


her charming face

thru sewing room

viewing beige cabinets

bolts of silk

tactical prints

her life in threads

swatches impressive



discerning glances

make me hurry

out the rear

but she invited

me only to see

her material things

& feel them



all handsome houses

have well guarded gardens

lush chrysanthemums

smothering me





“A” train

brassy blue



close eyes

watch points

like stars


think now

how insignificant

compared to train

speaking for itself


stars known

in no language

burn shoot


tiger’s eyes


brain in

constant action



to what we do not know

plans of distant stars

galaxies floating as


“A” train

silver worm

slides under

big belly

of city


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.





My Cumbria.Poem.Lulu Gee


Oh!  My heart’s in Cumbria,
That for so long I’ve missed,
The blue grey hills and valleys
Of early Autumn’s kissed.
For not since young I’ve seen it
Beneath a northern sky,
When at dawn in soft grey mist
I watched the clouds race by.

The lakes ‘neath mountain summits
Are deepest peacock green,
With trees aflame in Autumn,
The like you’ve never seen!
For colours rich in texture
Are painting gold the hills
While heathers bathe in purples,
Ahead of winter chills.

All through this golden silence
By silver tarns aflow,
The low-land sheep are grazing
Where tangled breezes blow
And o’er beyond in Keswick,
You’ll see the ospreys there,
Among the blue of shadows
Where sights of them are rare.

Yet should you walk yet higher
To climb the tallest peak,
There’s snow as white as crystal
Where clouds will brush your cheek.
My heart so loves this landscape
That Autumn’s long desired,
The lakes and fells and mountains,
Where poets are inspired.

The bronze and gold this season
Will nestle on the brink,
Of shores beside pearl waters,
Where trout and salmon slink.
Oh! My heart’s in Cumbria,
That for so long I’ve missed
But hope prevails I may return
To keep an Autumn tryst.


  Lulu Gee lives on the south east coast of England.
She’s had a varied working career starting at a theatrical shoemakers designing and making shoes for most of the west end shows in London, then as a hotelier and finally in finance for a corporate cryogenic company until she retired, and now is a proud published author of three poetry books.
She now writes full-time with her two dogs Teddy and Dolly never far from her side in her newly acquired cottage in the Kent countryside, known as the garden of England.
Her first book, ‘Dolly’s Wonderful New Life’ is a story in verse of the rescue and re-homing of her beloved border terrier, Dolly Daydream, while the second and third were both written in conjunction with the poet Dan Lake.
Her latest character Miss Twizzy is about to be published and hopefully be in the shops for Christmas 2013
At the moment she is working on a collection of fantasy poetry that will appeal the child in all of us.


Her diverse poetry can also be found at





Boot at Bald Hill. Poem. Robin Ouzman Hislop


Yesterday he’d gazed at it, it was a landmark.

A scalp, a boney skull cap.

How the locals saw it.

Those of that vicinity, who’ve since passed on.

The shepherd who grazed goats there,

& those who lived on the other side,

who didn’t share that point of view.


Nowadays there are Ariel views as well.

That bald cranium: tufts on the outline.


The moon’s a waning slither over it this blue afternoon

and everything down here has changed and if

the dead were to arise from that skull

they wouldn’t recognise this plane of observation.


Only the worms variegate the contours of its mound.

Shifting, like the rest of the scenery.

A haunted meme.

This make believe fragmentary sense of reality.

I am a loop.

No man steps into the same river twice,

for it is not the same man or the same river,

the very idea that experience is repeated is theory,

the future some reach, the past some reach,

her hair shone like gold in the hot morning sun,

a worm’s eye view, turn, turn, turn,

and left me here to die like a fox on the run,

this threshold, so nebulous,

childhood dust in the blue, here now,

the beginning in the unreachable reach of it, startles.


And suddenly there is end,

suddenly there is no more before,

only the spawn in the dust, the feathers and the stones,

and every moment the price of sufficient state,

the anonymous multitudes that swarm in the intestines on an insect,

the sovereign sunrises and sunsets wearing a hat,

this special pattern of entrapment,

where we must yet fail better.


1st Italics:Heracalitus (italics mine)

2nd Italics: Fleetwood Mac (italics mine)

3rd Italics: Samuel Beckett. (italics mine)


Robin Fredriksburg

Robin Ouzman Hislop was editor of the online monthly journal Poetry Life & Times, which he took over from Sara Russell in 2006 and which now features at this present site, where he is also Co Editor at He has been published in various poetry journals and online journals including . Recent publications include “Voices without Borders Volume 1”, “Cold Mountain Review”, Appalachian University N Carolina, “Post Hoc” installed at Bank Street Arts Centre and “Uroborus Journal” 2011/12 Sheffield. S Yorks and “The Poetic Bond 11 & 111.” His Spanish sonnet translations appear together with his own sonnets in an anthology for sonnets 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.―published by Friesen Press Ontario Canada. At present he is engaged working on the translation of contemporary Spanish poets with the poet Amparo Arrospide with a view to publication in the USA in 2015.


From A to B. Poem. Robin Ouzman Hislop.


From chaos to drift,
the inhuman landscape,
snatches of music,
ensnared in the fiction,
the inescapable illusion of our being.
The dream returns,
half remembered, half forgotten,
False flick, false form, but falseness close to kin,
From the rubble of artifice,
The wreckage of the day long gone,
But things must go their own way
Reborn as myth from the commotion its left,
Beyond our controle,
Where humans must enact their fate
From chaos to drift.
From A to B
stomping between being 
it is what it is not
& is not what it is,
the big arsed hairless baboon
from what it's left to what it will be
A to B the myth of it's morality,
the memory of what it's forgotten,
what it should be, at play with the day.
A to B, in the transit shift of the scene,
closes the world where we belong,
without belonging in it all, 
at that point beyond fiction,
the nothingness which is everything.

Notes towards a supreme fiction. Wallace Stevens.(italics mine)
Being and Nothingness. John Paul Sartre.(italics mine)


Robin Fredriksburg

Robin Ouzman Hislop was editor of the online monthly journal Poetry Life & Times, which he took over from Sara Russell in 2006 and which now features at this present site, where he is also Co Editor at He has been published in various poetry journals and online journals including . Recent publications include “Voices without Borders Volume 1”, “Cold Mountain Review”, Appalachian University N Carolina, “Post Hoc” installed at Bank Street Arts Centre and “Uroborus Journal” 2011/12 Sheffield. S Yorks and “The Poetic Bond 11 & 111.” His Spanish sonnet translations appear together with his own sonnets in an anthology for sonnets 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.―published by Friesen Press Ontario Canada. At present he is engaged working on the translation of contemporary Spanish poets with the poet Amparo Arrospide with a view to publication in the USA in 2015.

Season of Black. Poem. Sara L Russell

Sara Russell pic

For winter I wear black.
not one spark of colour
shall break my mourning for this
season of death.
It speaks of the way I feel inside;
the chill stab of sorrow,
the darkness of hurt long concealed.

There will be no yellow
until daffodils appear;
no blue until the bluebells,
no pink until the cherry blossoms
scatter their petals
over the long-thawed land
to make way for the coming of the goddess of spring.

Black is the opposite of white,
of the flat white snow;
black’s like a sheltered cave.
Let me hibernate in shadow
draw the curtains
close my eyes.
Wake me only when springtime finally arrives.


Sara Russell Thanks Robin, Rebekah, Rab & Val… this poem was originally written in 2011 because I never liked the season of winter and suffer from S.A.D., but since the tragic death of my sister this year (early December) it seemed to fit my mood, to post it again online. Trying my best to have a normal Christmas… of course you never know when things are really actually OK until suddenly they’re not, and someone special is gone forever.


AKA @pinkyandrexa Poet, Artist, Cartoonist, Goth, Time Traveller. Friend of cats everywhere. Former Editor of Poetry Life & Times. … See also plus over a million poetry links online.


Sara Louise Russell , whose internet name is “PinkyAndrexa”, is a UK poet who has earned a well-deserved reputation as a highly respected twenty-first century poetry publisher and poet. She was the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Poetry Life & Times, one of the world’s premier poetry E-zines, which ran monthly from 1998-2006 under her tutelage. She has always been in on the scene with graphic design, animation, 3D art, web design, sign writing, photography, film and poetry recital videos. Sara is founder and current editor of Paper Li. Poetry Lifetimes.

Her poetry has been published in Artvilla, AuthorsDen, Hello Poetry, The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry (Describe Adonis Press, Ottawa, © 2005), Sonnetto Poesia, Word Machinist and more, as well as in several e-books by Kedco Studios Inc. (USA). Her skills as a sonneteer are particularly remarkable as featured in the recent publication of the anthology of sonnets Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. Friesnen Press Ottawa Canada Edited by Richard Vallance.

World by the Arse (A Sermon).Poem.Karen Springer.


–and they certainly do!
Now listen up,
I did not say “ass”
so this isn’t a vulgar poem
but we are talking
an ancestral home
(O.K., thirty-eight years
is close enough)
almost totally rehabbed,
hers and his caddies
with matching vanity plates
(Yes, there IS a doctor
in the house.
“What kind?” folks ask.
Who the hell cares
besides other insecure doctors?)

Moving along,
Social security is their pin money
And, you’re right,
their place at the shore
is in the cheap seats
but it’s on the water,
in the woods
and twenty years paid for.
The unintelligent and lazy
are wary of them.
Still, they are admired
by reasonable, hardworking individuals
because they are the validation
of what is fair and good.

Indeed, they are
a fine and generous couple.
Her weaknesses
are his strengths
and, of course,
vice versa.

For so many years
they struggled
through the vagaries
of her semi-profitable career,
hung in there
when the stock market
went ever so way down
took, and are taking, care of their
senile old moms,
(and ten stray cats)
as they
secularly humanistically
hug trees
and subscribe to
Mother Earth.

You bet,
those sweet bastards
have a tight hold on
the glutei maximi
of our great planet
and they deserve
that firm, unrelenting grip.
Amen, my friends.

Karen R. Springer


Karen has been writing poetry since the age of ten. She has three, as to date, unpublished anthologies:
101 Speakings of the Giddy Gypsy, High Noon and My Pistol’s Smoking, and Getting There.
Much of her energy for the past forty years has been devoted to her career as an administrator in
several southern New Jersey school districts where she served as superintendent and/ or principal.
Her degrees include a BA and MAT in Music; as well as an MA and Ed.D in Public School Administration.

After her formal “retirement” from public education, Dr. Springer served as Senior Director of Academic Affairs at thecollege level, an award winning after school/summer administrator in an urban setting; as well as Head Master of a private school. She is currently an education consultant who lives happily with her husband of 41 years. They both enjoy their rustic summer home in the woods at the Jersey shore. She also loves going to the opera; as well as singing it. Karen has recorded a CD of her original song entitled, “Bipolar, Brite, and Blue”.

This feisty lady summarizes herself in the opening quatrain of her poem, “The Good Ol’ Girl”:

I’m just a simple good ol’ girl
who drinks her coffee black
Sips scotch as strong as iodine
and drives a Cadillac.


Killing the Tigers. Poem. RC de Winter


there are not many
like me left in the world
fierce loners
wishing only to be
free to live the life
we are meant for

not long ago
we roamed
scorned by some
ignored by most
but free - free!
wandering at will
on the periphery
of homogenization
able to live
by our talents
and our wits

then quietly
the roundup began
the truthtellers
first followed by
the crazy the poor
the sick the old
and all the others
who could not be cogged
into the great machine
built by the
worldwide worshipers
of mammon

my glorious fur
matted and dull
from being confined
in this small space
(prescripted by
bureaucratic souls
in bespoke costumes
paid for in blood
sucked from slaves)
with ragged claws
i tear at invisible bars
that separate me
from my natural terrain

if i were free to find
the empire poachers
who boxed me up
it would be
a fierce quick end
for those abductors

but dawn comes
and with it
great gray tumbrels
to carry us

useless scribblers and daubers
dangerous malcontents
prophets and nonbelievers

© 2013 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved


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 work has appeared in print, notably in 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 additionto her personal online portfolios, Ms. deWinter’s art is exhibited on of several internet-based showcases, including The Trillium Gallery, 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.



Transitus Veneris. Poem. Audio. Howard D Moore.

Author Notes

Hear it read by the author- Soundcloud


the calculus of certainty

upon a rotational spin,

a speck in space and time

such vast circumstances

reduced to the precision of man-made clocks;

we see beyond sight

reckon beyond our reach, measure

vague ponderables–

reason is a lever, long enough

to heft the weight of time


and Venus


so few days apart after so many years in wait

love and loss, heart filled, heart empty

when life is a day glowing like the Sun

from rise to setting , to the spike of light

wisped away,  last hiss of a candle

pinched to blackness by the sea.

When you sit near stars that love us from afar

when you are Love, when I want you near

yet you are distant and the end of day

comes to clear the slate I have been given.

When you travel across the space of my heart

and life lifts away, into the space of

mysteries without solution

when you are yet Love, and I

am soon gone; 


and Vee-nus!


a name so old, it brings the face

of forgotten Gods, when

ruins were young, when an ancient word

finds new dark-skinned divinity, those curved stone

statues blush envy.

On pavement filled by busy feet in day,

quicker steps in neon red night and

Latin beats, rappin’- booty shakin’

blue jean seams stretched to the point

of sheeeeer delight!

When a smile is a deep invitation, ohhh so fine

in the haze of wine and smoky laughter

She is Love in store-bought hair, half a skirt

deep mascara stares and flirts, a stroll

that melts the Saint within man

and waist moves that mans-up the boy

Muse-ic makes the hips roll, waist

revolve- an orbit of bends and side- to- side  slides

a blouse that wears only part of her…

She is a certain kind of Love for few who dare

for every wish of  tropical air without cares

oblivion becomes  a thing far, far beyond

some hours, some sweet sweat,  heavy breaths,

and wanting…“Venus…Baby…”


“come cross the flo’ with me…”


New year 2012



Howard D.Moore resides in Detroit, MI., USA.  He is a writer and government relations  consultant. His professional, educational  background is in law and public policy. He writes poetry, political and social commentary blogs,  literary styles in fiction, poetry, prose,and Eastern forms . He has published two books of prose, and several magazine articles  and anthologies. His current projects include a novel, and a book of poetry expected in January, 2014.

Nothing moves so fast as your future becoming your past

An ideal of absent beat. Poem.Sonnet.Laura Lamarca


When once would I conform to such a state
as to confine such audible mistakes
than whence I came admiring this fine art,
no more a whim–thy splendor to impart.
And though thou preach in education’s name
do I become less potent or more sane,
to pander to thy utmost vantage point…
nay…I attempt thy scorn to then disjoint.
For credibility has drawn an air–
a feel as fine as grandeur, such a flare!
Shalt thou surpass this passion for defeat
and shall I sew thy weakness to up-seat.
Do not, say I, feign worth in tower’s gait
till thou hast chewed the bile that doth thee sate.


About The Author

Laura Lamarca is a 39 year old widowed mother of three teenagers originally hailing from the northern county of Lancashire, but now residing on the South coast of England.

Laura is a professional poet and author of three books of poetry and one Chapbook to date, the latest book was released in December 2011 by titled “Donec Alius Diei”.

Laura Lamarca

Laura is also the creator of 18 globally recognized forms of formal poetry, these include “The Licentia Rhyme Form”, the “La`Tuin” and the L`Arora” forms. She has also recently created 3 more forms…these are the “Jordec Verse”, “La Dan Form” and a collaborated and highly technical form with Poet Jem Farmer titled the “LaJemme”.

In her spare time, she teaches the art of expression through the written word to pupils all over the world at no cost to them. She also writes hugely for charity and actively supports charities that raise awareness for cancer, third world plight, dolphins and gun and knife crime.
She has the belief that there is a brighter day for all, given the compassion and commitment of others…one voice can raise a thousand voices, a thousand voices can raise the whole world.  She is of the belief that ultimate truth does not exist, that everything is personal perspective and probable outcome.





The City of Knossos. Haiga. Richard Vallance.

haiga Knossos burnt to the ground

Press to Enlarge:

Linear B, the very earliest Greek script, was used by the Mycenaeans and Minoans from ca. 1450 – 120 BCE for administrative, financial and accounting purposes only, at least so far as we know. No literature as such has survived on the some 6,800 Linear B tablets and fragments.  So Richard’s haiku is in effect the very first poem (or literature for that matter) written in Linear B in 3,500 years.



Richard Vallanc Santorini Grreece May 2012

Richard Vallance, meta-linguist, ancient Greek & Mycenaean Linear B, home page: Linear B, Knossos & Mycenae,

PINTEREST Boards: Mycenaean Linear B: Progressive Grammar & Vocabulary, and, 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.



The Neotenous ET. Poem. Robin Ouzman Hislop.


After a long exodus
wilderness & aftermath

We prepare to disembark 
the prodigal space ship

Having survived long 
on cultivated 

Germinated bacteria
we return to the promise 

Of a 'Retrogression'
strong of jaw

Hair on flesh 
O pelted skin

Red in tooth 
claw & bone

All hail the dinosaur 
& the baboon.

Robin Fredriksburg

Robin Ouzman Hislop was editor of the online monthly journal Poetry Life & Times, which he took over from Sara Russell in 2006 and which now features at this present site, where he is also Co Editor at He has been published in various poetry journals and online journals including . Recent publications include “Voices without Borders Volume 1”, “Cold Mountain Review”, Appalachian University N Carolina, “Post Hoc” installed at Bank Street Arts Centre and “Uroborus Journal” 2011/12 Sheffield. S Yorks and “The Poetic Bond 11 & 111.” His Spanish sonnet translations appear together with his own sonnets in an anthology for sonnets 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.―published by Friesen Press Ontario Canada. At present he is engaged working on the translation of contemporary Spanish poets with the poet Amparo Arrospide with a view to publication in the USA in 2015.

The Words. Poem. Sage Sweetwater.

the words
opened a

those nights 
we wrote
coming out like fine
hairs of a sable brush 
and mine
with the toughness 
of an orange peel well I want 
you to know
I rubbed your words off 
nightly into erotic soft powder screaming

in shades of pastel mixing it up for a day 
when we would have
a likely work to be juried 
by critics too close to ownership but
so far from
the truth
opened a wound
the tension was
so heavy with denial
I could feel it
in the air
what wasn't being said I heard 
so loud until the
silence gave it

the words
opened a




Copyright © Ms. Sage Sweetwater, Celebrity firebrand lesbian novelist



Sage Sweetwater is an American Celebrity firebrand lesbian novelist, poet, storyteller, screenwriter, and business artist who hails from Colorado, USA. Her novels and screenplays are being made into Hollywood High-Budget films. Her complete list of works and bio can be found at



Could I But Show You.Poem.Sonnet.Corey Harvard


Could I but show you how a word can grow

into a thorn that lodges deep within 

the softest places of the hardest men,

you wouldn't be so quick to let one go.

In silences, defenseless and alone,

security and self-esteem descend;

ambitions cease and aspirations bend

in victims of a fatal verbal blow. 


If I could show you how a word can rise —

bring laughter, bring excitement, bring rapport,

bring nations out of poverty and war —

perhaps your speech would seek a different guise.

What problems of this world could be deterred

if we revered the value of a word?


Corey Harvard Image

Corey Harvard  from Mobile, Alabama, (B.A. English & Philosophy, University of South Alabama, 2012), is a young American musician, pianist, vocalist and poet. He began writing verse at age 10 and music at age 12 when his parents bought him a keyboard. He went on to win his 8th grade talent show by performing an original song. Since then, he has published poetry and prose in journals including Tales of the Talisman, Pirene’s Fountain and Sense Magazine, and he has also been featured in Alabama’s prestigious Literary Mobile, an anthology of established (historical and contemporary) southern writers. He has served as associate editor of Sonnetto Poesia and Editor-in-Chief of Oracle Fine Arts Review. In 2009, he was a Pushcart Prize nominee.




Let the Sun set on me.Poem. Bhuwan Thapaliya.


Virgin dry is my throat
and anaemic the veins

that supply my semen
to your embryo.

I cannot ejaculate
a lover’s warmth in your womb

nor can I grab your breast
as they grasp the deity’s forehead.

The lips of the overhead sky bulb
are seeping the blood out of me,

and my tongue
is parched and lonely.

Let the sun
set on me.

Let its crimson sweat of ferocity
spill all over me.

My heart is ready
for the chill of the darkness.

I put my best shirt on
and wait for a bride of the light.

Let the darkness
rise from me,

the darkness that conceals
the bruises of the light.

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 ( 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
Our Nepal, Our Pride



A Hard Rain. Poem. Candice James

A hard rain pelts down
Graying the sky to charcoal
The Quay is deserted,
And somehow out of key.

I stand at the guard rail,
Collar pulled tight,
Staring at the cold river.
The wind whirls and swirls
Inviting the river into its frenzy.
The river resists, then slowly submits.
Small ripples at first
Cresting to waves;
Synchronicity somehow present
In this simple chaos.

A young girl
In a pink fleece Parka
And well worn Mukluks
Passes by;
Her eyes as vague
As fading winter sparks

The day dissolves

Night chews on the last remnants
Of a non-descript twilight.
Appetite sated,
She licks her lips
And the thunder rolls
In the bruised atmosphere
Of a hard, hard rain


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:   and





Downtown Waco. Midnight. Heidegger Looks at the Moon. Poem. Sonnet. R.W.Haynes


The Bush Library really should be here,

For each dead city needs a laugh or two,

A little something so the skeletons can jeer

On nights like this when there’s little to do

And nothing to haunt but the haunting lack of hope

Where words are born to sputter anxiously

Toward brief life in some half-bungled trope

Irrecoverable etymologically.

Is there another cyclone on its way

To re-mix this desperation here?

To make words and deeds mutually obey

A dim correspondence–never more clear

Than the misshapen moon cruising so high

Over the Brazos in the hopeless Waco sky?


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.



Settling City. Poem. John Horvath Jr

A world made from the refuse of a higher world of culture,
a domain of trash, immature myths, inadmissible passions…
City is stench of alewife millions inextricably dead on pebbled
beaches after icebreaks on Lake Michigan. Fisheyes reflecting
beached debris and the latest arrivals arriving amid girder and
concrete Sullivans and Wrights. They as did them who built the
buildings join the city to become steel or slag, oiled machine,
part of the stench
Empty belongings from cars: Packard backseat divans, fruitcrate
end tables, curtains of plastic, crazy quilts, heirlooms, family
icons. On once cobbled streets, children are tribal on the curb–
at the edge of the world–displaying their valorous conquests
of enemies left behind, ancient or old, forgotten–no, in the city
never forgotten.
Work is rock: hard underfoot raucous dance of souls like morning
mists that settle, rise, vanish in the same low empty spaces–like
dunes that wander from waste to waste over farmlands abandoned.
The village known by its brokenness–That friend in the mist
boiled in oils from broken pipelines; The neighbor there in the mist
butchered by ingots thrown from rollers; There in the mist a father
crushed in the presses. Around the dancehall wallflower daughters
painted for paychecks recognize brothers and sons who in the mists
begin to belong to the city.
City is forge: rhythm out of the afternoon cacophone language of traffic-trapped
cousins cursing the ongoing babble of sledges and hammers that encircle their
metallic-tint enclaves of gas dreams. Afraid to unignite engines and escape, leap
the icefloes of autos jammed forever up and down stream–Ford, Dodge, Chevrolet,
Dodge, pimpwagon, Volkswagen, Dodge, druglord Mercedes, turn-about, run.
Who walks here passes into stone unfinished.
There faces are the sculptures of workdays beaten into their souls
over time that begins with the end of their villages, farms, families.
City is history. From Hoosier Dunes to Chicago Loop, then circle
      back again, down Dan Ryan to East-West 90 Interstate, round
      from Kankakee and Little Calumet to the temple of the rich,
      archaeology dreamlit with comers refusing to melt into mist
      later and earlier, 1846, late 80, 1926, 46, 56, today or after,
      maybe another time altogether and around every corner a new
      homeland where it’s always the Springtime and waves roll
      onto the lakeshore leaving new stenches of alewives with
      dead eyes rushing toward Bedlam out of old whoring Babylons
      across dead seas, across rolling vast flatlands.
               Come like belligerent hordes to the mills
      where summer heat sparks from dried loins,
      muscular shapes–like salted meats–boil
      onto asphalt murdering of thought, never
      take home the punishment, trouble, dirt,
      or the danger of workplace. Consumption
      and power in sweet sweaty hands gripping
      hot steering wheels along potted streets
      narrowly leading toward quiet exhaustion
      proud of private slow death for girders,
      rails, and–for the wealthier–appliances
      (sons and daughters desiring such honors
      follow footsteps of foolhardy martyr fathers.
      They dream they will conquer the dragons
      that spat the flames that marked fathers
      who worked in the mills for a living but
      only inherited scars like the slavebrands
      their daddies had carried as birthright).
            father, I love you.
A man hears himself saying what his father had said his son would
say when he looks into his rearview mirror mirroring traffic come
to a halt like Lot’s wife; He hears himself cursing his father’s
curse when he curses that self like himself stalling all forward
movement. In a language of the dead, sinner and saint correspond.
            father, I love you.
      When passion has gone after the work must end
      alone in the heat of coffin-like cars dead in
      the end of shift traffic, ghosts come to say,
      you, you are the father who brought you here.
            father I love you.
      you are the mistaken idea of rescue beyond the village walls
      escape into purgatory of factory days from the hell of knowing
      every valley dweller by name and the dates of their first loves.
This is the city: when you look back on what it was to you when
you were mocked neutered and cowered, primmed for display in it,
bled by it, when you have fled from it, left someone behind in it,
when you are gone from it, when you are gone… the city is yours.
            father, I love you.
            This city is yours.
            It is the village
            It is the valley
            The dried farm
      you sought to escape.
The city is history. Rebuild its monuments. Make way for boulevards;
Leave the façades, the mirroring windows, the pointed roofs, the false
faces of what you’ve made and the chimneys
whose rich dark smoke recall death’s communards.
This city is yours. It is where your child blew her first kiss away,
      It is where your sons blooded their first enemies, where all
      the passions denied you long ago from some false sense of dignity,
      honesty, integrity, the church that held like glue together family,
this city is yours now that all that is past.
It is your country to where the street signs end,
to where garbage is taken and the dead are buried.
a kulfoldi magyarjaihoz
for Hungarian emigres
Cartwrights and sailors and farmers
leaving families, histories, icons,
you came to this blast-furnace city
as if God’s own breath blew through
its chimneys a forgiveness of greed
but you were not the first to come:
Endlessly East moves West,
West moves endlessly East,
toward Calumet drab smoke,
into cauldrons and furnace,
into the moments of common
machine and common labors,
into this moment of common language.
Strangers forged into a new race.
not a slightest movement–