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

    . . . so this is luck says Maxine
    you can take your freaking luck and shove it
    Mama says it was the aliens who helped us
    hundreds of flying saucers piloted by
    Elvises in sequined pod suits
    they lifted us off the cliff
    I told you they would I told you
    she’s nuts Buddy we’re dead right now
    dead and floating away Max dispersing smoke
    and just when I thought I was going to heaven
    to God’s bright musical castle
    where I could play the organ
    play Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland
    for all the heavenly days of my death
    O.K. Buddy but what in hell do you think
    I’m travelling for
    we left the other goddamned Disney place
    three thousand miles back
    I want to get away from it all
    that’s my heaven
    every place is the same Max
    every place is Disneyland
    now don’t you start sniveling Mama
    but home is where the heart is
    my heart is with Harry in Orlando
    poor old Alzheimer man
    I loved him so much
    for God’s sake we got all freaking bummed out
    I sent a card back home to tell
    how you’ve acted you son-of-a-bitch you killed us
    and I think you did it on purpose
    you think you can drive through space now Buddy
    still steering Max
    what Mama
    you children are enough to drive me out of my mind
    but the National Star
    and the Pod People keep me sane
    look at all that space
    can you fly this thing Buddy
    an American G.I. can do anything he has to do Mama
    Buddy sometimes you remind me of Harry
    why thanks Mama
    doughboys is what we called G.I.s in my day
    like you he came back full of holes
    but gassed in Belleau Wood
    beautiful name to be so horrible
    I know I don’t tell you very much
    but now that I know we are all going to
    heaven together or somewhere
    well wherever the pod people take us
    I love you both
    we love you too Mama
    don’t we Max
    O.K. so all us suckers love each other
    just keep this smoke floating
    Mama I think Maxine is blubbering up
    crocodile tears Buddy she’s hard as a rock
    no Mama you should see her up here
    shut up Buddy
    she’s had too much beer
    no I think the crash is just now sinking in on me
    but I’m not going to stop drinking my Lite
    I don’t care if I’m dead
    you are dead Max we’re all dead
    Buddy are you sure you can fly are you
    does smoke rise up from a fire
    and finally vanish in the sky
    I keep on truckin’ like I always done Max
    through war and peace Mama
    our flag must still wave
    through hell and high water Max
    I could go on flying this big beautiful
    Winnebago with the eagle wing span of an
    Enola Gay forever across America
    back and forth across this great big
    God bless America country

    E.M. Schorb’s Murderer’s Day, was awarded the Verna Emery Poetry Prize and published by Purdue University Press, and a subsequent collection, Time and Fevers, was the recipient of the Writer’s Digest International Self-Published Award for Poetry and also an Eric Hoffer Award.
    Other works include 50 Poems, Hill House New York; Words in Passing, The New Formalist Press; The Ideologues and Other Retrospec­tive Poems, Aldrich Press; Eclectica Americana, Hill House New York; Manhattan Spleen, Aldrich Press; Last Exit to East Hampton, Kelsay Books; and The Poor Boy, Dragon’s Teeth Press, Living Poets Series. The title poem, “The Poor Boy,” was awarded the International Keats Poetry Prize by London Literary Editions, Ltd., judged by Howard Sergeant.
    Schorb’s novel, Paradise Square, received the Grand Prize for Fiction from the International eBook Award Founda­tion at the Frankfurt Book Fair. A Portable Chaos was the First Prize Winner of the Eric Hoffer Award for Fiction. His latest novel, R&R, a Sex Comedy, has won the Beverly Hills Book Award for Humor. But Schorb maintains that he is first and foremost a poet, and his poetry has appeared in numerous publi­ca­tions, such as Agenda (UK), The American Scholar (US), Frank (FR), The Hudson Review (US), Stand (UK), Poetry Salzburg Review (AU), Queen’s Quarterly (CA), The Yale Review (US), and Oxford Poetry (UK), among others.

    Spike. Poem excerpt from Cartoon Molecules by Robin Hislop

    A runaway on a Singularity slippery slope need not be a despairingly
    Sisyphean slide back but spike upward to an extremely great verticality
    allowing something relatively harmless today start a trend that results
    in something currently unthinkable a – Pandorean pandemonium
    still he didn’t want to kill himself and his crew so he hatched a plan
    that systems possessing the same patterns of causal organization will instantiate
    the same types of conscious states irrespective of whether the organization
    is implemented in neurons – silicon – plastic or any other substrate
    taken to its heart we would vanish into its stronger existence – do the angels
    really only take back what is theirs – what has streamed out of them – or is there
    sometimes – as if by oversight something of our being as well? – do we not see
    the swirling return to ourselves (how should we see it?) the world today being
    as it is a vast unsupervised laboratory – in which a multitude of experiments
    are simultaneously under way
    brain-computer interfaces have already left the laboratory which allows gamers
    to interact directly with their consoles – a high resolution neuro-signal
    acquisition and processing wireless neuroheadset uses a set of sensors to tune
    into electric signals produced by the brain to detect player thoughts feelings
    and expressions and connects wirelessly to most PCs’ — all this for only $299!
    partly this is because we cannot agree on what such purposes are – and even if
    we were to – suddenly he knew that when he heard the music he would be unable
    to resist steering toward the island’s rocks – the problem wasn’t the present
    rational Ulysses – but instead the future illogical Ulysses – the person he’d become
    when the Sirens came within earshot
    but that is the gods’ affair – if only we too could discover a pure contained – human
    place – a strip of fruitful land of our own – between river and stone!- for our own heart
    exceeds us – the curve of the graph grows exponentially steeper – until that spike is
    the Singularity – beyond the veil of the opaque wall – the unthinkable – the horizon
    of the final dawn looms – lanced on the spear of the terrible angel.

    After Rainer Maria Rilke. Duino Elegies
    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) .


    Video Poetry Recital Featuring Arboleda, Arróspide, Crespo, Grande, Hislop. International Writers. Leeds.UK.

    This video recording was made at University of Leeds on October 10th. 2017, it was introduced and presented by Antonio_Martínez_Arboleda Principal Teaching Fellow in Spanish and poet.
    The initial image can be enlarged to full screen size. The texts and accompanying images can be easily toggled to place according to requirements.
    Below the video also is a link that gives a report and interpretation of the performance by students who attended.

    The report is live at

    Key of Mist. The Book & Poem by Guadalupe Grande.

    Madrid, 1965.
    She has written the following books of poetry: El libro de Lilit (1995), La llave de niebla (2003), Mapas de cera (2006) and Hotel para erizos (2010).
    She has been translated into French in the book Métier de crhysalide (translation by Drothèe Suarez and Juliette Gheerbrant (2010) and into Italian, in the volume Mestiere senza crisalide (translation by Raffaella Marzano (2015). She made the selection and translation of La aldea de sal (2009), an anthology of Brazilian poet Lêdo Ivo, together with poet Juan Carlos Mestre.
    Her creative work extends to the territory of photography and visual poetry.


      Key of Mist is an excerpt from the collected poems Key of Mist
                                                                      KEY of MIST


    Behind the fence there´s a ditch
    and behind the ditch
    there´s a chest devastated by the journey.
    Who arrives here and how
    and after perhaps?
    Who arrives and says and names
    and leaves their hands stuck to this fence
    as stamps are stuck to envelopes,
    to return where 
    to return to then
    to return to later, never again?
           The compass rose rolls amongst the rubble,
           rolls on the banks of gravel,
           on the edge of ash,
           and leaves its petals of distance,
           its shipwreck of durum-wheat and pollen,
           beneath the wheels of the car which has just passed.
    Time for the word time
             amidst the rubble of the tower of babel.


    But now there´s the ditches:
           water ditches
           light ditches
           gas ditches
           ditches for words.
    I am spelling
    while telling myself
    that it can´t be today,
    that there is too much rush,
    that life´s a disaster
    or nonsense
    or a useless disquiet,
    and due to that, today there´s no time:
                                                                 time for nothing, time for what.


    I open the door, switch on the light,
    turn on the tap:
    I´d like to know whom to call.
    The sound of traffic enters through the window;
    I hear the rumours of travellers
    I listen to the sound of the inhabitants
             and builders
                               of this language without words.


    I speak in gurgles
    as if a key of mist
    were laid across my throat,
    a key fogged up by noise,
    a key flooded by light,
          a gas key
          a water key
          a doorless key,
          a definitely shadowy key
    buried inside my throat,
    in the ditch of my bewildered throat.


    Behind each fence there is a ditch,
    behind each ditch there is a journey.
             The compass rose crosses
             the city tunnels:
             from its smoky petals it brings
             forth mossy farewells,
             the empire of forget-me-nots,
             paper for unwritten letters,
             humiliated stamps
             and a devastated chest in the building 
             of music
                           or language
                                               or city noise.
    Under the asphalt of these roads
    the tower of babel grows
    sad and useful.


    I turn on the tap in the kitchen
    and while water runs through the sink
    I wonder which words 
    this thread of order and cleanliness is spelling,
    which key I should switch to, to understand
    the language of fences, the language
    of ditches,
    the underground sound
    of migrating birds
    opening without any key this city´s gates,
               without a key,
               at last, 
                                          at last.



    Detrás de la valla hay una zanja
    y detrás de esa zanja
    hay un pecho desolado en el viaje.
    ¿Quién llega hasta aquí y cómo
    y luego tal vez?
    ¿Quién llega y dice y nombra
    y deja sus manos pegadas a esta valla,
    como se pegan los sellos a las cartas,
    para volver a dónde
    para volver a entonces
    para volver a luego nunca más?
    Rueda la rosa de los vientos por los escombros,
    rueda a la orilla de la grava,
    al borde de la ceniza,
    y deja sus pétalos de distancia,
    su polen náufrago y candeal,
    bajo las ruedas del coche que acaba de pasar.
    Tiempo para la palabra tiempo
            entre los escombros de la torre de babel.


    Pero ahora están las zanjas:
            zanjas de agua,
            zanjas de luz,
            zanjas de gas,
            zanjas para las palabras
    que pronuncio
    mientras me digo
    que hoy no puede ser,
    que hace mucha prisa,
    que la vida es un desastre
    o un disparate
    o un desasosiego inútil,
    debido a lo cual hoy no hay tiempo:
             tiempo para nada, tiempo para qué.


    Abro la puerta, enciendo la luz,
    abro el grifo:
    quisiera saber a quién llamar.
    Entra el sonido del tráfico por la ventana;
    oigo el rumor de los viajeros,
    escucho el sonido de los habitantes
               y de los constructores
                        de este idioma sin palabras.


    Hablo a borbotones,
    como si tuviera una llave de niebla
    atravesada en la garganta,
    una llave empañada por el ruido,
    una llave anegada por la luz,
             una llave de gas,
             una llave de agua,
             una llave sin puerta,
             una llave definitivamente umbría,
    enterrada en mi garganta,
    en la zanja de mi desconcertada garganta.


    Detrás de cada valla hay una zanja,
    detrás de cada zanja hay un viaje.
             La rosa de los vientos cruza
             los túneles de la ciudad:
             trae entre sus pétalos de humo
             el musgo de las despedidas,
             el imperio de los nomeolvides,
             papel para cartas no escritas,
             humillados sellos
             y un pecho desolado en la construcción
             de la música
                               o el lenguaje
                                                 o el ruido de la ciudad.
    Bajo el asfalto de estas calles
    crece la torre de babel
    triste y útil.


    Abro el grifo en la cocina
    y mientras corre el agua por el fregadero
    me pregunto qué palabras pronuncia
    este hilo de orden y limpieza,
    qué llave debo abrir para entender
    el lenguaje de las vallas, el idioma
    de las zanjas,
    el sonido subterráneo
    de las aves migratorias
    que abren sin llave alguna las puertas de esta ciudad,
             sin llave,
             por fin,
                                    por fin.


    Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
    Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at, & Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk & Key of Mist, a translation from Spanish of the poems by the Spanish poetess Guadalupe Grande, both are published by and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..

    Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk