Press Release All the Babble of the Souk A Collection of Poetry by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Press Release All the Babble of the Souk published by Aquillrelle on Lulu. by Robin Ouzman Hislop.

Review of All the Babble of the Souk by Richard Vallance
Richard Vallance, writer, author of Canadian Spirit Voices=
If “All the Babble of the Souk” is anything but memorable — as it surely is — it is so because of its sweeping portrayal of the tumultuous market that is humankind. The “babble” of this bazaar is that of all the markets in the world — irrespective of nation, language, culture or race or for that matter, at the symbolic level, of any manifestation of our nature, be it “good” or “evil”, which are not opposing psychological or spiritual states as all too many naïvely imagine, but rather their subtle blending in our psyche. There is no suggestion of the presence or absence of God or a “god”. It is irrelevant. There is just humanity.
The poems, mostly quasi free form, some of them highly reminiscent of haiku, range from very short to a few pages long. Except for one poem and one only, Scale Free, in which we come face to face with some of the most beautiful imagery in the entire collection, and I quote:
A cuckoo taunts
high in the mountain
where are you?

there is not a single question to be found in the rest of the book. All the rest of the poems consist only of statements, some of them brief, others rather too long for my taste and some even downright convoluted. When this approach to poetry composition is carried to its extreme, it can and sometimes does result in the overly prosaic. That is the only real quarrel I have with this collection. Fortunately, there are only only a handful of poems which are painfully prone to the prosaic. Among these are Mannequins, the whole series Maps 1,2,3,4, The Prisoners, Non Linear and in particular Rust (which reads more like a scientific tract than a poem), none of which have any real appeal to me.
The rest of the poems run from agreeable at the very least to the truly amazing. Among those poems agreeable to the mind and/or the ear I count: Passage, At the Party, Here Comes the Moon, Multiverse, The Pine at the Summit and Wind upon a River. Others like these will more or less please the reader. But as everyone knows, we all have our own preferences for the kinds of poetry we like. The poems which appeal more to one person appeal less to another. The aforementioned choices are merely my own.
Next come poems which display remarkable talent, such as: After Dylan on the Ninth Wave (which I for one particularly like), Africa North (haiku-like), A Witch for Halloween (in which we find some of the most striking chthonic imagery in the book), Core (commendable for its brevity, economy of verse & imagery), Entanglements (haiku-like), Sequence 1 & 2 (haiku-like) and Story of a Rose.
I have a marked preference for the poet’s haiku-like poems. Haiku have always strongly appealed to me. In fact, I myself, along with Robin Ouzman Hislop and so many other truly talented haijin, have composed a considerable number of poems of this nature, many of which were published in the print quarterly, Canadian Zen Haiku (2004-2010), which is now out of print. Brevity is the soul of wit, and indeed of the memorable. It is Robin Ouzman Hislop’ s more compact poems which please me the most. There are exceptions, poems which are not haiku-like or are somewhat lengthier. There are some truly memorable lines in these poems. For instance, we have:
from Africa North:
A winnowing canvass tosses corn
... as fireflies in the blazing day.
and finally
In the gloaming a solitary reaper reaps its shadow.
(Reminiscences of Wordsworth’ s, The Solitary Reaper, one of the most astonishingly beautiful poems in English.)
from After Dylan on the Ninth Wave, there are a considerable number of memorable lines, which you can explore for yourself. The poem is not quite up to Dylan Thomas… a very tough act to follow!
and from Core:
reaching my eye’s peninsula

sudden scene, solitary strand
All of the poems in this class pleased me a great deal.
Now we come to the downright brilliant poems, of which there are naturally only a few. I might as well cite them all. They are Scale Free ( a series of haiku-like lines & almost pure haiku), A Split Second Later’s Late, Laminations in Lacquer, Lucky Hat Day and Red Butterflies, all of which had a powerful psychological and spiritual impact on me. Here are just a few of the lines from these truly remarkable poems which really struck me, and I mean really —
from A Split Second Later’s Late:
… a serpent’s spit according to legend.
from Laminations in Lacquer, the gripping lines:
Fireworks like a diaphanous lithograph
print an emblazoned sky
on the craggy mountains of the night
where comets play at kites
& glistening the eerie beak hisses.

and from Red Butterflies, where we find some of the most highly inspired, truly imaginative lines:
but as a collage on shifting sands…

A sword brazed in a fire
that does not distinguish
between the battle
& the field.

I believe we can safely say that the poet has achieved a level of poetic style and content which can hardly disappoint. Some of the poems in in “All the Babble of the Souk” remind me of T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland”. Perhaps the most striking feature of this volume is the poet’s portrayal of humanity, which deprives us of any escape from the darker, more insidious depths of our human condition. The most striking imagery in the entire collection forces itself on the least flattering trait of of our nature, our tendency towards — I might as well say it flat out — bestiality, which leaps to the fore in the poet’s all too frequent comparison between homo sapiens and apes (King Simian, seeking simian), gorillas, baboons and other fierce beasts of that ilk, all the way to neanderthals, Australopithecus and the odious nocturnal lupine, the proverbial werewolf. Lines such as: the hairless ape, go ape, going bananas… all mercilessly zero in on our ape-like nature bedeviling our s0-called civilized veneer.
There is also frequent reference to eating meat, and being eaten (we grow the meat we eat, those she didn’t eat alive, children simply to feed her, how they like human flesh, to be consumed by hell), all the way through to witchcraft and Zombie imagery. The dreadful presence of these creatures of the night inexorably lurks just beneath the thin veneer our blasé urbanity.
To cut to the quick, the most memorable qualities of Robin Ouzman Hislop’s poetic gifts are his penchant for economy of lines and the puissant imagery of the chthonic. Where these features dominate any poem, they impel it towards the nonpareil! Such poems soar. When it works, it works supremely well. As for the rest, there is much to please the reader.
Overall rating: 3.75/ 5
Richard Vallance

Richard Vallance
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.
 All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk


Narrow Passage | Short Story by James Nitz

Narrow Passage Short Story by James Nitz

Narrow Passage
Davis Ryan’s eyes were two thin slits across his face as he stared down the empty immortal road. They bobbed from the windshield to the steering wheel like a buoy in restless waters, sinking down onto the black wheel only to be picked up seconds later by a nervous kick shooting through his tired body. But when the adrenaline faded, his head drooped, resting on the warm leather. Seconds turned to tens of seconds, and the 16-wheeler lurched over the dotted white line of the highway towards the median. The rough treads on the brink of the shoulder cried out in warning and Davis jerked the wheel right, sending the 50 ton behemoth back onto the road.
Davis’s hands shook as he grabbed a cigarette from its pack, steadied it in his pursed lips, and lit it. He breathed deep and filled his lungs with rich, soothing smoke. He exhaled and took another drag as if it was what his body needed.
After his nerves settled, he dug his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. If he stayed at his current pace, he’d make it to Knoxville in seven hours. Then he’d be home to watch Annabel cross the stage, shake her principal’s hand, and accept her diploma.
Davis had spent most of her life on the road. He’d come back every few weeks and discover she was taller, smarter, and more beautiful than before. She was his life, and he hated being gone, but it was for her. He explained that to Annabel dozens of times during her childhood, but she still cried whenever he had to leave.
Davis reached underneath the leather seat and poked around the metal frame until he heard the familiar crinkle of a plastic bag. He pulled at it, never taking his eyes of the road, till it slipped free. The bag held two pills. They were tablets, eggshell white with a small divot running across the middle. Davis brought the bag up to eye level and sighed.
He bought them from a trucker before leaving Syracuse. He had been clean since Sherrie got pregnant, but figured an occasional pill was better than falling asleep at the wheel. He picked one out and washed it down with the cold, bitter remains of his coffee. He was told they took 45 minutes to kick in, 30 on an empty stomach. Davis knew he could make it. His hands still rattled with residual fear and adrenaline from the near wreck. He leaned over, grabbed the leather wallet laying on the passenger seat, slid a picture of Annabel out of it, and then stuck it in a crevice on the dashboard.
I’ll be there soon, he said.
Davis scanned through the radio channels, finding only static and choppy, garbled rock music. He turned the radio off and thought about what Sherrie’s cousin had told him when he started driving. He said reading could help keep the mind active. It didn’t matter if it was a billboard selling sandwiches or a mile marker.
Davis took a deep breath, readjusted himself in his seat, rolled his bony fingers around the wheel, and settled in for the rest of the journey.
Exit 103A, Davis said enunciating each syllable.
Shell, BP, Citgo. Exit 105. Three miles.
Davis looked up at a tattered billboard.
Hungry? Tank empty? Tired? Need a shower? Dixie Diner: gas station and rest stop, open 24/7. Truck parking and diesel available. Exit 119. Twenty miles.
His stomach groaned at the thought of food, but he hoped the amphetamines would subdue his appetite, and the billboards would keep him busy in the meantime. He looked back up to a worn sign.
Missing since 8/23, Holly Martin. $50,000 reward for any information leading to her return. Contact
The words were written over an enlarged picture of a young girl Davis assumed was Holly. She looked like Annabel did when she was eight. Bright, frizzy blonde hair curled down the side of her head like unraveled rope. Her cheeks were dimpled and peppered with freckles. Her smile was wide and scrunched her eyes, but Davis could still see their color. They were smooth brown like coffee with a splash of milk.
Davis thought about Annabel disappearing. It made him shiver. He wouldn’t let her become another passing face for weary travelers to eye on the dark road. He’d find her, one way or another. He wouldn’t stop searching till he did. He’d quit his job, hire an investigator, sell everything he owned, give up sleep for weeks, he’d do it.
She was an accident, but Davis considered raising her the biggest task of his life. When Sherrie told him she was pregnant, Davis immediately started looking for another job. He spent weeks filling out applications, ironing the one dress shirt he owned, shaking hands, and going through countless interviews. Every time he thought about having a child, his heart raced and he had to light a cigarette just to calm his nerves. But he’d help his child. He wouldn’t let them wander alone, he told himself. He’d be different.
After two months of searching, he was finally hired. Sherrie’s cousin had gotten him an interview for a trucking company driving big rigs across the country. The hours were terrible, the work mind-numbing, but it would pay better than a warehouse.
The blare of a horn shocked Davis back to the road. His truck was swerving across the dotted line. He realigned himself and a white minivan sped past him on the right, its glowing red taillights dissolving into the distant road. It was the kind of car Davis pictured a soccer mom driving, besides the ruined exterior. It reminded him of the moon: pale and riddled with craters.
Davis looked down at the picture of Annabel. Her hair was bursting out from her bright yellow helmet as she rode her new bicycle down the sidewalk. Davis was out of the shot, but he had been right behind her, keeping her centered, ready to catch her when she fell. She didn’t fall though, and with each pump of the pedals, she moved further away from him. Davis lied and told Sherrie how proud he was, but he couldn’t help feeling insignificant. As she got older, he thought of himself as a father less. He knew it was only a few years till she wouldn’t need him for anything, and he’d still be driving a truck.
Davis rolled his shoulders and took three deep breaths. He figured he would be feeling something at this point, but the weight of his eyelids grew. He grabbed the bag and pulled out the other pill. He snapped it in half and swallowed each piece with a buildup of saliva, wincing as the chalky taste crawled through his body.
He passed another sign for the Dixie Diner. It was coming up on the right in 12 miles. His stomach moaned and he realized he hadn’t relieved himself in hours. He needed gas too. I’ll pull over, piss, grab some coffee, fill the tank, and be back on the road in 15, he said to himself. He looked at Annabel.
I won’t be late.
The exit winded off the interstate in similar design to a crescent moon. Davis followed the road until he saw the store’s lights beaming in the dull sky. He yawned and turned into the diner.
The brakes hissed as his truck came to a stop beside a gas pump. Davis checked his phone again.
Fifteen minutes, he said.
He grabbed his wallet and climbed down the metal step attached to the truck’s frame. He stretched his arms above his head, pulling muscles and tendons, and popping joints. He expected his limbs to be stiff and sore, but they were almost numb. He felt weaker, light-headed, and the pump felt heavier. The smell of diesel fuel pouring into the truck made him nauseous. Davis thought it had been too long since his last smoke, and headed toward the buzzing lights and faint music of the diner.
The hair on his arms stiffened in the early morning air as he thought about the tablets digesting in his stomach. He lit a cigarette, drew on it, blew smoke out of his nose then mouth, and spit onto the pavement. The energy and focus he had been promised was a lie. He didn’t blame the trucker who sold him the bad pills though. Davis figured he was no different than himself. He was just trying to make some money like everyone else.
Out front, cars were lined across the parking lot, packed close to the diner. He watched a father stretch outside his car as the mother trotted hand-in-hand with her children into the restaurant. Davis envied them. He never had the luxury of a road trip as a child, and couldn’t provide one to his family as an adult. He imagined the father was some executive at a company who decided the fate of thousands beneath him and could still make time for a vacation. His kids probably looked up to him.
Another car pulled into the lot as Davis was finishing his cigarette. It was a white van with dents along its body. A woman was driving. In the passenger seat was a girl sleeping, using the seatbelt as a pillow. The woman stared at the girl then Davis before stepping out and locking the van. She gave the parking lot a quick glance before heading towards the doors. Davis tried not to stare, but she mesmerized him, and he felt like he’d miss something if he looked away. She wore a wrinkled blue shirt, jeans, and her black hair was pulled back into a messy bun.
Morning, Davis said.
Davis pulled the door open and the woman thanked him as she walked in. After a moment, he realized why the woman captivated him so much. She reminded him of his mom. Davis puffed on his cigarette and took a deep breath.
For a long time after his mom left, Davis thought he hated her. He’d get so tense thinking about her he couldn’t sleep at night without stealing one of his dad’s cigarettes. It wasn’t until he graduated high school that he realized what really bothered him. He had been rejected. She didn’t talk to him, or apologize, or even say bye. She just left.
He peeked in at the woman through the glass doors. The golden hoops dangling from her ears swayed as she walked through the half-aisles. She looked back and Davis jumped away from the door. He took a final drag, flicked the cherried butt into the parking lot, and walked in.
The droning fluorescent lights made his eyes ache, and music, entwined with the voices of the nearby restaurant, engulfed him. The sound filled his ears with the same fury as a gunshot. He took another deep breath. He would’ve lit a cigarette if he could. He squinted and headed towards a sign that read restroom. With each step his legs felt weaker. The woman was waiting outside the lady’s room. Davis gave her a mechanical nod and walked into the men’s room.
After relieving himself, he washed his hands and looked in the mirror. His brown hair was greasy and matted, his face was pale and shined with oil, and his pupils were two black marbles. He leaned over, splashed water in his face, and dried himself with a handful of brown paper towels before staring back at his reflection.
I’ll get through this, Davis said to the mirror. I just have to stay calm. I’ll be fine. Just a few more hours and I’ll be home. I’ve handled worse. I can do this.
Davis cupped his hands and lapped water from the faucet.
The woman was gone when he came back out. Davis sighed and hurried to the coffee pot. Steam fogged the top of the glass and beads perspired down its side. He had to concentrate to keep his hands from shaking as he poured. He put a lid over the cup, peeled back the plastic tab and let coffee spill down his throat, but he could barely feel the heat. He fixed the tab and walked to the woman behind the register.
$2.87, she said.
Davis pulled a wrinkled five dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to her without making eye contact. The register dinged and coins sloshed in the till. The woman plopped two bills and change into his outstretched hand. Davis stuffed the money into his pocket.
Have a good morning, she said.
Davis nodded and headed for the door, fishing a cigarette out of his pack.
Before he could pull a lighter out, he saw the white van’s cabin lights flip on as the passenger door opened. The girl came stumbling out of the car and started running towards Davis. Her sobbing seemed to echo across the parking lot. Davis held out a hand and motioned for her to stop, but she wrapped herself tight around his leg, shuffling him back and sending coffee splashing onto the ground behind him.
Help, help, she said. I don’t know where I am. Please. I just want my mommy, she said, but her words were muffled by Davis’s jeans.
Davis stared down at the body squeezing his leg, then looked around, praying for someone to come help. He slid the cigarette back into its pack.
Everything’s going to be fine, he said with a stutter. I think your mom just ran inside to use the restroom. She’ll be back out in a moment.
He grabbed her shoulder with his empty hand like he wasn’t sure if she was hot, and peeled her off his leg. She looked up at him and his heart dropped. She had curly blonde hair, freckles, and eyes the color of his coffee.
Holly? Davis said.
Before she could answer, the door behind Davis swung open and the black haired woman raced through. She scooped the girl up as if Davis wasn’t even there.
Don’t you ever leave the car without me again, you understand? the woman said. Something could’ve happened to you. Would you like that? Would you like to get hurt?
The girl pushed away, but the woman forced her closer to her chest.
Is that your daughter? Davis said.
The woman looked at Davis and turned her shoulder, sheltering the girl from his view. Her eyes sharpened and she took a few seconds before speaking.
Of course she’s my daughter. Who else would she be?
The woman looked around the parking lot like she was expecting turmoil.
Thanks for not letting her get far, but we’ve got to get going.
The woman hurried back to her car, scolding the child the entire way. Davis looked around again.
Was that her? he thought. Was the billboard old? Why would someone treat their daughter like that? Why did she threaten her? Why was the girl so scared?
Before he could ask himself any more questions, the van’s engine sputtered to life and started to roll away. The sight of the taillights against the dawn made Davis anxious and Annabel entered his mind.
He’d want someone to help her. He’d want someone to bring her back to him. He thought about the billboard’s reward. If this really was Holly then he was watching 50 grand drive off. He didn’t need money, but Annabel would. She’d get accepted to every college she applied to, but she couldn’t pay for it. Neither could he. Even with scholarships, she’d be paying student loans for years. But he could save her. She’d realize how important Davis was in her life and that he’d always been there for her. He’d know just how much he meant to her, and she’d never let him forget it.
Davis stumbled back to his truck. He ripped the pump from the truck’s tank and slammed it back into its holster, his arms strengthened by adrenaline. He climbed back in and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine roared as he feathered the pedal. He choked down half of his coffee and put the cup in the slot on the dashboard.
There wasn’t anything else out here beside small towns. She’d have to be on the road for a while, he thought. She couldn’t be too far either.
Davis looked at the picture of Annabel.
I’ll still make it, he thought. It’s for her after all. I’ll still make the ceremony. I just need that license plate. Then I’ll let the police handle it. I’ll be there.
Davis shifted the truck into drive.
It’s for her.
Davis crushed the pedal with his foot and the truck roared, accelerating into the budding morning. He turned onto the interstate as the diner shrank to nothing more than a glare in his mirrors. The cabin shook and the picture of Annabel fell to the floor mat, but Davis didn’t notice. His eyes were focused on the road. There was no sign of the van or its taillights in the distance. Davis pushed the pedal down further. The truck howled and picked up pace.
Davis’s eyes shut and he saw Annabel’s crib. He watched her pudgy limbs squirm, her tiny fingers grasping at nothing.
Davis snapped forward in his chair. He had only been out for a second. In the distance he saw a faint glow. As he got closer, he realized it wasn’t attached to a car. It was the start of a neon red river, like the van had left two visible tracks of light to be followed. Davis knew the tracers were a hallucination, but they had an origin. He crossed to the left lane, chasing the brilliant rails of light.
His hands felt weak gripping the steering wheel. His arms were numb and he twitched his fingers, but they lagged behind his mind.
Davis cried out into the morning, damning whatever drug he had taken, but he couldn’t stop now. Every inch of the glowing trail taunted him. He felt Annabel’s money slipping away as the sun crept out from the rolling hills surrounding him. He plunged the pedal down. His eyes scanned the road, desperate for the beginning of the twin blazes.
The truck sped up an incline, still locked on the fine red course. At the hill’s peak, Davis saw the light’s source. It was small in the horizon, but Davis recognized its shape. Relief washed over him. He could still see Annabel graduate, and have her tuition. His whole body ached with exhaustion and his eyes were now just black specks, but he didn’t stop.
He was sure he could overtake the van. He looked for his picture of Annabel, but couldn’t find it. It was now underneath his left foot. Davis yawned and shut his eyes for a moment. He saw Sherrie, scrunched next to him in a crowded row of gymnasium bleachers. His eyes flashed open, then shut again. He saw a line of figures, clad in crimson and moving towards a stage. His mind returned to the road, but his vision blurred. He heard scattered applause fill the truck’s cabin. He leaned forward and his eyes met the black leather wheel. A woman’s voice announced Annabel Ryan, but Davis couldn’t see the stage. A final surge rolled through him. Davis sat back, his body shaking, and tried to lift his eyes, but they continued to descend.
I’m sorry, he muttered.
His eye lids fell again, became stone, and neither Davis’s will nor his love of Annabel was enough to budge them. He fell back into his chair, but his foot remained planted on the pedal. His body swayed back and forth, held up only by the seatbelt.
The truck veered towards the median. It roared over the tread, but that would no longer be enough to wake Davis. The truck collided with the concrete median, recoiled, and barreled towards the metal railing to the right. It tore through the metal and crashed into the valley below. The sound of crunching metal echoed through the forest, scattering a nearby herd of deer. The engine died and smoke billowed from the truck’s hood. Emergency vehicles would arrive in 30 minutes.
Davis’s body was mangled. Color drained from his face as he made a final convulsion, still wrapped tight by the seatbelt. Organs pierced by shattered ribs poured blood into the recesses of his body. Blood trickled down a steel girder jutting out from his chest. The blood pooled onto the floorboard, eventually floating the crumpled picture of Annabel between his crippled legs.


All was quiet when the woman finally arrived. She had watched through her rearview mirror as the truck careened off the road, and in a panic that had woken the girl, looped back around. The police had told her to stay and wait for them. They would arrive in about 15 minutes. She ran her hand across one side of the gnarled railing now hanging in air like an old branch. She moved closer to edge, gripping the cold metal, and watched for any semblance of life. Nothing stirred below. As she stood in the wrenched threshold, the girl opened her door and looked back at her.
Mommy, the girl said. Come back, she said.
The woman turned and walked back to the car. She kissed the top of the girl’s head.
I’m sorry baby, the woman said. Everything’s fine. I’ve got you. Don’t worry, we’ll be home soon.

Robert Fitterman the poetry of ‘Found Language.’

Fitterman extrapolates found language, viz – language without expression, edited via inter net ads or TV soaps etc., words that plagiarize without copyright, together with those few of his own, that provide a poetic dimension to a world cast in its urbanity. In his epic poem Metropolis, we see here at Artvilla’s Poetry Videos, excerpts from Sprawl, exactly that. The subject matter of consumerist urban landscapes, the mall, through found language, as monotonous, as the experience itself, but striking, even humorous in its take on popular culture raising the low brow to a level of highbrow. Editor Robin Ouzman Hislop.

[tubepress mode=”tag” tagValue=”Robert Fitterman Poetry” resultsPerPage=”24″ orderBy=”viewCount” perPageSort=”relevance”] All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop

Janet Kuypers’ poetry feature/show “Like a Lamb to the Slaughter” September 2nd 2015 at “Live at the Gallery Cabaret”

Like a Lamb to the Slaughter

Like a Lamb to the Slaughter

Janet Kuypers’ “Live at the Gallery Cabaret” poetry feature/show “Like a Lamb to the Slaughter” September 2nd 2015Janet Kuypers’ poetry readings of new & classic poems, at Chicago’s Poetry At the Gallery Cabaret of her last scheduled Chicago feature (while living in Chicago), which included background music, props and costume changes.

See YouTubevideo of Janet Kuypers in her 9/2/15 show “Like a Lamb to the Slaughter” in her feature at Poetry At The Gallery Cabaret in Chicago (filmed with a Canon fs200 video camera), with her poems
Entering the Lake of Fire,
unless it happens to you,
Open Book,
electromagnetism, an edited version of the poem
Everything was Alive and Dying,
Death Takes Many Forms, and
Under the Sea.

SeeYouTube video of Janet Kuypers in her 9/2/15 show “Like a Lamb to the Slaughter” in her feature at Poetry At The Gallery Cabaret in Chicago (filmed with a Canon Power Shot camera), with her poems
Entering the Lake of Fire,
unless it happens to you,
Open Book,
electromagnetism, Everything was Alive and Dying (edited),
Death Takes Many Forms, and
Under the Sea.

Download poems in the free chapbook Like a Lamb to the Slaughter of the NEW poems read 9/2/15 at the Café Gallery show in Chicago

Like a Lamb to the Slaughter

(photos from show below are by Avrom Litin)

PRESS RELEASE. The Poetic Bond V.

Willowdown Books is pleased to announce the poems
A Split Second Later’s Late and The Split
Robin Ouzman Hislop

have been chosen for inclusion in the international poetry anthology
ISBN 978-1517783808
Publication Date 21 October 2015
Available from and across all AMAZON Channels
Summary Review
A Split Second Later’s Late “Hangs brilliantly on the edge, visually stunning, there is a breadth to the language that is very satisfying.”
The Split “A challenging piece, revealing the debates of Wu Ch Eng En and Chuang Tze, and prompting the reader to research. The tone of philosophical enquiry is well held giving a feeling of profound truth.”

(Trevor Maynard, Editor, The Poetic Bond Series)
Robin Ouzman Hislop is the Editor of the online journal Poetry Life and Times (see Artvilla navigation bar above) & Facebook Pages of Poetry Life and Times and (see links below) – which are extensions of the website .He’s published in a variety of international magazines and a recent Anthology of Sonnets: Phoenx Rising from the Ashes. 
Previously Robin has appeared in The Poetic Bond Series with his poems “Red Butterflies”, “From Here to Silence”, and “Far from Equilibrium”
The Poetic Bond V
1. Thirty-six poets from 11 countries were selected through a submission process in which there were no restrictions on form, style, length of subject; instead the choices made were on the basis of emergent themes and congruency in the pool of work; a snapshot of the poetry of new media NOW, seeking to capture the zeitgeist of the moment.
2. Trevor Maynard, UK based poet and writer, manager of Poetry, Review and Discuss Group, a major poetry group on LinkedIn. His new poetry collection KEEP ON KEEPIN’ ON (published in 2012). He is also the author of several plays. Further information can be found at our Artvilla site Poetry Life & Times (see navigation bar above)
3. The Poets of The POETIC BOND V (2015) are; Amanda Judd (Virginia, USA), Belinda DuPret (West Sussex, UK) Betty Bleen (Ohio, USA), Bonnie Flach (California, USA), Bonnie Roberts (Alabama, USA), Brian McCully (Victoria, Australia), Caroline Glen (Queensland, Australia) , Christine Anderes (New York, USA) Cigeng Zhang (China), Claire Mikkelsen (Alabama, USA), Clark Cook (British Columbia, Canada), Diane Wend (Dorset, UK), Rhona Davidson (West Yorks, UK), Frances Ayers (New York, USA), Freddie Ostrovskis (Derbyshire, UK), Gilbert Franke (Texas, USA), GK Grieve (London, UK), Ian Colville (Bedfordshire, UK), James Sutton (IOWA, USA), Jill Langlois (Illinois, USA), Joseph Simmons (Maryland, USA), Julie Clark (Kent, UK), Kewayne Wadley (Tennessee, USA), Leander Seddon (New South Wales, Australia), Linda Mills (Oregon, USA), Marli Moreira (Brazil), Nana Tokatli (Greece), Neetu Malik (USA), Peter Alan Soron (Cheshire, UK) Pushpita Awasthi (Netherlands), RH Peat (California, USA), Robin Ouzman Hislop (Spain), Sonia Kilvington (Cyprus), Trevor Maynard (Surrey, UK), Wendy Joseph (California, USA), William diBenedetto (Seattle, Washington, USA)
PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop

Without imitating self…A Poem by Richard Lloyd Cederberg

For writers there is a perpetual flow of ideas; a few are original, most are not. There is a good argument that originality loses its spark if one’s efforts are contrived, or done to gratify personal needs, are overly-influenced by another’s work, or become too intellectualized. Following are some darting thoughts about the process and what, I’m convinced, embodies creativity’s most valuable aspect of being able to think and act independently:
Those who strive for originality…
who purpose
to remain vibrant,
or vigorously focused
without succumbing to some
caricature-of-self; resolving
more as a guileless
germane, perhaps,
without looping or lapsing
into mannerism or affectations;
a personal challenge to remain original
without contention, or imitating self, or passing off
an old model-of-self; some contrived effort
to be seen with favor, (or)
to relive the
warmth and joy of
past seasons and victories
by re-hashing what once worked
pulling ideals
out from the ruts,
figuring the perfect-fitness
of what is shared while
defying branching
(in which)
penned inventions
reflect only the sniveling drivel
of a writer’s beleaguered life…
…..luminous light
achievement in a false nimbus
invariably forces the greatest achievers
to their knees (temporarily) to reveal (to them)
(and to all those watching) that no human
is the full-bottle on anything…..
It’s wearying
(at times) finding
health in an art-form
where opinions are like weeds;
where arrogance becomes a shield
(to keep hidden all pecking-insecurities);
where the ceaseless cacophony of ‘me-noise’
refuses to understand why another’s hopeful face,
glowing from within, decays day-after-day,
or why a philosophic man is
obliged to mull a
lake’s health
in winters savagery, or
why faith causes the steadfast to
pause – momentarily – admitting they are
fully content to die in fields of common grass…
every epoch
has its makers,
as every masterpiece
has (hidden in its guts) some
awful struggle; or perhaps some loss,
or life-altering circumstance, which
addresses the human-condition
with heedful strength as
bears an ongoing challenge to
palliate human-suffering and – if somehow
blessed to do so – (if only briefly) becomes
more archetypal than all originality
pawned-off with only
the faded colors
of worn-out dollar bills…
“When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.” John Fitzgerald Kennedy

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