Photography by Fabrice Poussin

Fire in Her Soul

Rocky Mountains National Park, Colorado.

Sunset are probably a favorite of many around the globe, and it is true that the viewer can find amazing sunsets probably every day. Coming down the road from almost 13,000 feet I had been observing the changes in the sky until I arrived much closer to the bottom of the valley. It seemed very unreal, almost magical. The fiery clouds seemed to be playing with the mountain peak.
From Long Ago

Crater Lake, Oregon

Driving from Idaho to California, I notice this dot on the map and decided that a 300-mile detour was not such a great thing if a trek which took me over 16,000 miles this past summer. I was certainly not disappointed. The West side of the USA is extremely volcanic, and this is great reminder of what was once.
Hope Again

Big Bend National Park, Texas

This park saw temperatures drop from 113 to 72 degrees in just a few minutes as several storms came through. In a land which can be so hostile, yet hope appears from time to time. Lightning in fact started several brushfire as I stood before this beginning of a rainbow.

Valley of the Gods, Utah

This site which takes the visitor on an 18-mile dirt road was fairly unknown two years ago. I was then able to journey through the valley alone. This past summer I traveled there again and was most disappointed in finding campers at every single stop. I am not sure what led to this change, but it was upsetting. One of the greatest things we experience in such locales is the ability to commune with the immensity of the universe. While I, or no one is solely owner of such a paradise on earth, it is good to feel so for but a few minutes. In the quiet of this beautiful desert, on can stand for hours, and discover different vistas at every turn.
Road to Nowhere

Death Valley, California

To say that Death Valley is an eerie site is the east that could be claimed about this place. Silence prevails, vegetation hesitates and those who venture upon these roads may not return.
The Promise

Lake Yellowstone, Wyoming

This image is inspired by the great American landscape painters of the 19th century. As their work did, the photo shows the almost infinite space which stood in front the old pioneers as they conquered the land.
Who Knows

Monument Valley, Utah

The dream of any child who has watched many an old western and played with the made-up stories of the old West, it is with awe that I discovered the place where John Wayne and John Ford worked together with so many dreamers. I have not to this day seen the valley under a clear sky, but seeing it under the rain, or heavy clouds, while a challenge to the photographer allows for unusual, or at last uncommon perspectives to those who are used to seeing this landscape in books or on postcards.
Window to Yesterday

Canyonlands, Utah

A very popular rendezvous for many I was not aware of the existence of this arch at the end of a little hike in Canyonlands. Being able to frame the beauty of the landscape beyond gives the impression of a much more inviting emptiness in these forbidding climates. The colors are true and leave the spectator with a sense of amazement at the pure beauty of an unspoiled earth.

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications. 

The Showdown | Poem by David Michael Jackson

Start writing
don’t look up
feel the click of the keys
Remembering her thumbs
moving like magic on the phone
the screen flashing here and there
so fast
standing there amazed,
Tombstone Poet Standing in the Street
waiting for the showdown,
former whittler and tobacco hand,
stood amazed, cliche’d from the past,
“You sure can work that thing, and you aren’t even looking!”
“You have to message under the desk at school.”

Stone Age Poet, Tombstone Cowboy Poet,
you type your words so slowly above the desk,
Your horse is old and those stones that are your words
tumble down the side of your mountain
to the showdown

How To Make Ceramics

How to Make Ceramics At Home
How to Make Ceramics tutorials and lessons for the beginner by videos.
Ceramics making is easy! When you know the basics, you can create your own pieces in no time. At first it may seem like an intimidating process, but once you have passed the learning curve, it is the city of masterpieces. Here’s all you need to know to get started.
This is very important to do first, because it determines the type of medium with which you will work. Do not exclude clays that need a kiln, if you are serious about this hobby, you can buy a small one for your home. Below are methods and varieties used for each method:


How to Make Ceramics At Home

Artvilla Turns Twenty is 20!
We have:
1551 files and 1226 directories. Some of those directories have thousands of files.
We are have published 2000-3000 pages in our blogs.
We have 530 mp3 files of original music in our mp3 directory and it has 34 directories with 10-50 mp3’s
Our total number of original mp3 files is well over 1000.
We’ve been on the internet since 1998. This is our 20th year.
Our website is almost too big to move.
Thank to everyone who made that possible.

Happy Holidays as the New Year brings 21 years of being the first blog.

Poem “The Fire” by David Michael Jackson was the first poem published at Artvilla.

Reading by Chris Carmichael…..Music by AmJaz

Janet Kuypers’ “Under My Skin” 8/23/17 poetry feature @ Chicago’s In One Ear

Janet Kuypers’ “Under My Skin” 8/23/17 poetry feature @ Chicago’s In One Ear

    Chicago poet and Austin resident Janet Kuypers returned to Chicago for a week in August to coincide with the August 21st total eclipse of the sun (where she traveled to southern Illinois to photograph the event). During her stay she was honored with the opportunity to perform her feature show “Under My Skin” for In One Ear (at the bar next to the Heartland Café, 7000 N. Glenwood, Chicago, IL 60626) Wednesday, August 23rd 2017.

    Because Janet Kuypers knew she was coming back to Chicago the week of the total eclipse of the sun (and because she had no book releases of her poetry for years, ever since she moved to Austin), Janet Kuypers was thrilled that Scars Publications was able to release the first printing (from a U.S. printer) of two new books of hers, of poetry she had written while living in Austin, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (the second book of poems she wrote for features she has had in Austin). Since her return from this trip, Scars Publications has also released the second printing of “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (from an Amazon affiliated printer, with sales from printers in the U.S., the U.K. and all of Europe). Though in the begging of her feature she read her poem about the total solar eclipse that she wrote 12 hours after witnessing and photographing it, everything she otherwise read in her show was from these two books, and she also sold proof copies to audience members after the show.

    Janet Kuypers was also photographed during the live Chicago show, so people can still view the album of 20 photos live 8/23/17. Before the show started, Janet Kuypers also handed out select print copies of the Scars Publications chapbook “Under My Skin”. The chapbook is also available online anytime for viewing or download.

Read the poems from the feature “Under My Skin” (as well as poems performed during the open mic before the feature):

Protecting Peace can Put you in Prison”,
Quivering against the Invading Enemy”,
The Truth Is Out There”,
x-raying metal under my skin”,
X-rays and broken hearts”,
unique noise”,
erasure poem: A Poetic History”,
Just One Book”,
and “Returning to Georgetown)

Junebug Poem by David Michael Jackson

He sang his song and walked along
to the brightly lit shores and brought
fish and berries in a bucket home.
Junebug, junebug you don’t get a break
so you hide behind the blackberry and wait
As he pauses beside the gate,
for the berries to take.

She sang her song and walked along
to the brightly lit stores and brought
shiny ribbons and baskets home.
Junebug, junebug you can’t get a break
so you hide behind the blackberry and wait
to surprise her with your song
as she approaches the gate

Junebug, junebug you don’t get a break
for love comes by choice or happen stance
you bring your surprise along
or leave our lovers meeting, to chance.

Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop

Francisca Aguirre, Premio Nacional de las Letras 2018 El jurado la ha elegido 
“por estar su poesía (la más machadiana de la generación del medio siglo)
entre la desolación y la clarividencia, la lucidez y el dolor"

Francisca Aguirre, National Literature Prize 2018
The jury chose it "because its poetry is (the most Machadian* of the generation 
of the half century) between desolation and clairvoyance, lucidity and pain"

* In the tradition of Antonio Machado

Francisca Aguirre was born in 1930 in Alicante, Spain, and fled with her family to France 
at the end of the Spanish Civil War, where they lived in political exile.  When the Germans 
invaded Paris in 1942, her family was forced to return to Spain, where her father, painter 
Lorenzo Aguirre, was subsequently murdered by Francisco Franco's regime.  
Aguirre published Ítaca (1972), currently available in English (Ithaca [2004]), when she was 
42 years old. Her work has garnered much critical success, winning the Leopoldo Panero, 
Premio Ciudad de Irún, and Premio Galliana, among other literary prizes.  
Aguirre is married to the poet Félix Grande and is the mother of poet Guadalupe Grande.




Translated by Amparo Arrospíde & Robin Ouzman Hislop ***

NANA DE LAS SOBRAS                                                                             A Esperanza y Manuel Rico Vaya

canción la de las sobras, eso sí
                      que era una nana para dormir el hambre.
Vaya canción aquella
                      que cantaba mi abuela con aquella voz
que era la voz de la misericordia
disfrazada de voz angelical.
                             Porque la voz de mi abuela
nos cantaba la canción de las sobras.
                             Y nosotras, que no conocíamos el pan,
cantábamos con ella que
                             las sobras de pan eran sagradas,
las sobras de pan nunca se tiran.

Siempre recordaré su hermosa voz
cantando aquella nana mientras el hambre nos dormía.
LULLABY FOR LEFTOVERS                                                          To  Esperanza and Manuel Rico

Well, a leftovers song,
                    that truly was a lullaby to lull hunger to sleep.
Wow, that song 
                    my grandmother sang with a voice
that was the voice of mercy
disguised as the voice of an angel.
                              Because my grandmother´s voice
sang for us the leftovers song.
                              And we, who did not know bread,
sang together with her that
                              bread leftovers were holy,
bread leftovers shall never be thrown away.

I will always remember her beautiful voice
singing that lullaby while hunger lulled us to sleep.


NANA DE LAS HOJAS CAÍDAS                                                                       
                                                                                                                       A Marián Hierro
Casi todo lo que se pierde tiene música,
                                                             una música oculta, inolvidable.
Pero las hojas, esas criaturas parlanchinas
que son la voz de nuestros árboles,
                    tienen, como la luz, el agua y las libélulas
una nana secreta y soñadora.
                    Lo que se pierde, siempre nos deja
                       un rastro misterioso y cantarín.

Las hojas verdes o doradas
              cantan su desamparo mientras juegan al corro.
Cantan mientras los árboles las llaman
como llaman las madres a sus hijos
sabiendo que es inútil, que han crecido
                     y que se han ido a recorrer el mundo.


                                                                                                                     To Marián Hierro

Almost everything which is lost has a music,
                                                                     a hidden, unforgettable music.
But leaves, those chattering creatures
who are the voices of our trees
                       have -- like light, water and dragonflies --
a secret dreamy lullaby.
                                   That which is lost to us, always leaves
                                           the mysterious trace of its song.
Green or golden leaves
                        sing of their neglect as they dance their ring a ring of roses.
They sing while trees call to them
as mothers do calling their children
knowing it is futile, as they have grown up
                                     and left to travel the world over.


Tienen el olor desvalido del abandono
y el tono macilento del silencio.
Son desperdicios de la memoria, residuos de dolor, 
                                                   y hay que cantarles muy bajito
para que no despierten de su letargo.
En ocasiones las manos se tropiezan con ellas
                                                  y el pulso se acelera
porque notamos que las palabras	
                                                 como si fueran mariposas
quieren bailar delante de nosotros
y volver a contarnos el secreto
                                                 que duerme entre sus páginas.
Son las abandonadas,
                                 los residuos de un tiempo de desdicha,
relatan pormenores de un combate
                                 y al rozarlas oímos el tristísimo andar
de los presos en los penales.



They give off the helpless smell of neglectfulness
and the emaciated tone of silence.
They are memory´s cast offs, residues of pain
                                                   and should be sung to in a low croon
so as not to awaken them from their lethargy.
Sometimes your hands chance upon them
                                                   and your pulse races
because we realize that words
                                                   wish to dance before us
as if they were butterflies
and tell us again the secret
                                                  sleeping inside their pages.
They are the neglected,
                                                  the remnants of unhappy times,
recounting the details of a struggle
                                                  and as we brush them we hear the saddest steps
of prisoners in jails.



La nana del humo tiene muchos detractores,
casi nadie quiere cantarla.
                                            Muchos dicen que el humo los ahoga,
otros piensan que eso de dormir al humo
                                            no les da buena espina,
que tiene algo de gafe.
                                   El humo no resulta de fiar:
en cuanto asoma su perfil oscuro
todo son malas conjeturas:
                                             se nos está quemando el bosque,
aquella casa debe de estar ardiendo.
El humo es un extraño desperdicio,
                                             tiene muy mala prensa.
Es un abandonado,
                                   es un incomprendido;
casi nadie recuerda que el humo es un vocero,
un triste avisador de lo que se nos avecina.
Y por eso, cuando lo escucho vocear con impotencia
yo le canto la nana del silencio
                                   para que no se sienta solo.



The lullaby for smoke doesn´t get many supporters,
almost nobody wants to sing its song.
                                               Many say smoke stifles them,
others think to lull smoke to sleep
                                               makes them queasy, 
that it´s a bit of a jinx.
                                  Smoke is not trustworthy:
as soon as it rears its dark head
it conjures up conjectures
                                                        -- a forest fire,
a house burning down.
Smoke is a weird remain,
                                             it´s got bad reports.
It´s a reject,
                                  it´s a misunderstood thing;
almost nobody remembers smoke is a herald,
a sad forwarner of what looms over us.
That´s why, when I hear it calling out helplessly,
I sing to it the lullaby for silence
                                             so that it doesn´t feel so lonely.


Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published 
seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos 
poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, 
Hormigas en Diáspora and Jaccuzzi, as well as poems, short stories and articles on 
literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines. 
She has received numerous awards. 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include 
All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist 
the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande 
and Carmen Crespo visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. 
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest 
Collected Poems Volume at  Next-Arrivals 

For Darcy by Jim Dunlap | Poem

My heart aches when I think of you;
neither my lover, nor girlfriend, nor wife,
just a good friend, exceptional and true.
I’d never set eyes on you once in my life.
If there’s a God, I’m sure we’ll meet someday;
those mischievous eyes will sparkle and dance.
We’ll laugh, cry, sing and talk the night away.
We’ll not be distracted by circumstance;
Life is too short, but we struggle along.
There must be a reason we’re stranded here
Bob Dylan could likely say it in song.
The boat of dreams drifts though I steer.
It’s as though Fate’s strong inclination
Brings us at last to the same destination,