A Spillage of Singularity. A Poem by Antonio Martinez Arboleda

Two burnt effigies

flank the dry dirt track,

one of Greta Thunberg,

another of Mad Max

Just one road,

one direction,

across a dessert

that has no end:

A traffic jam

in tomorrow’s land

(vending machines

are empty)


All that trade

All that plastic

All those soldiers

All those Laws


Tell me why

they all speak

the same Language

of water Addicts

in that Oasis

of tin and oil

of heavy metal

of guilt and sweat.


All that Science

All those prayers

All those poems

All that Love


Premium seats

in Noah’s Coach

Chorus of Crickets

orphans of trees

A yellow Finale

of gravity sour

of Mass unaccomplished

of Time that won’t be


All those flowers

All that Music

All that laughter

All that Sex


The story ends when blood becomes so thin that it evaporates, forming clouds that would suffocate the melting mirage in the Monopolitan Globe.

Time to return home from Utter Space, and invent a better fable.

(August 2019, Mad Max: Fury Road and Abu Dhabi)

Antonio Martínez Arboleda:
Antonio (Tony Martin-Woods) started to write poetry for the public in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada, an online publication of political poetry. He runs the poetry evening Transforming with Poetry at Inkwell, in Leeds, and collaborates with 100 Thousands Poets for Change 100tpc.org/. Tony is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his real-life name, Antonio Martínez Arboleda at the University of Leeds. His project of digitisation of poetry, Ártemis, compiles more than 100 high quality videos of Spanish poets and other Open Educational Resources. http://www.artemispoesia.com/ .

He is the delegate in the UK of Crátera Revista de Crítica y Poesía Contemporánea , where he also publishes his work as translator from English into Spanish. He published his first volume of poetry in Spanish, Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess), in 2015, as a response to the Great Recession, particularly in Spain. His second book, Goddess Summons the Nation PaperbackGoddess Summons the Nation Kindle Edition , is a critique of the ideas of nation and capitalism, mainly in the British Brexit context. It incorporates voices of culprits, victims and heroes with mordacity and rhythm. It consists of 21 poems, 18 of which are originally written in English, available in print and kindle in Amazon and other platforms. Editor’s note: further information bio & academic activities can be found at this link: https://ahc.leeds.ac.uk/languages/staff/91/antonio-martinez-arboleda

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 Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals

Pollock. A Poem by EM Schorb.

here my dream would color truth like roaches bleeding crimson bitter
poison    leading ahead to inspiration   love    questions      accusations
gunshots   brain-wreckage   misdirected footprints    prison   shackles
a thousand promises & quiet penance                  opening sad pretense
regularly burning a familiar promise   simple scribbled dreams perpet-
uate observance   remembrance   hard commandment   rearrange me
buried beneath      torment       please       you        my clinician analyst
disconnect merry poetry       our better wine & recite certain darkness
eyes   fist     weapon pretending freedom   care     more like powerless
whispers we have against least-left morning    low nights    life     time
if driftwood love claim me     I slide matter    marking empty alabaster
moon like long winter there      isolation     thinking:     look           feel
treading them    they almost quiver feel KNOW days    here too swept
on     not stuck     brought off     not seen     felt        thoughtless
how softly lightly   now I bear grace  past will   all built burden
hovers awaiting clamor     the coming night     splintered recollections
will you own certain recesses of dedicated brass?     you          opening
small whispered entry................................................?Pollock,51


E. M. Schorb attended New York University, where he fell in with a group of actors and became a professional actor. During this time, he attended several top-ranking drama schools, which led to industrial films and eventually into sales and business. He has remained in business on and off ever since, but started writing poetry when he was a teenager and has never stopped. His collection, Time and Fevers, was a 2007 recipient of an Eric Hoffer Award for Excellence in Independent Publishing and also won the “Writer’s Digest” Award for Self-Published Books in Poetry. An earlier collection, Murderer’s Day, was awarded the Verna Emery Poetry Prize and published by Purdue University Press. Other collections include Reflections in a Doubtful I, The Ideologues, The Journey, Manhattan Spleen: Prose Poems, 50 Poems, and The Poor Boy and Other Poems.

Schorb’s work has appeared widely in such journals as The Yale Review, The Southern Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, The Chicago Review, The Sewanee Review, The American Scholar, and The Hudson Review.

At the Frankfurt Book Fair in 2000, his novel, Paradise Square, was the winner of the Grand Prize for fiction from the International eBook Award Foundation, and later, A Portable Chaos won the Eric Hoffer Award for Fiction in 2004.

Schorb has received fellowships from the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center and the North Carolina Arts Council; grants from the Ludwig Vogelstein Foundation, the Carnegie Fund, Robert Rauschenberg & Change, Inc. (for drawings), and The Dramatists Guild, among others. He is a member of the Academy of American Poets, and the Poetry Society of America.

Books available at Amazon.com

Dates and Dreams, Writer’s Digest International Self-
Published Book Award for Poetry, First Prize

Paradise Square, International eBook Award
Foundation, Grand Prize, Fiction, Frankfurt Book Fair

A Portable Chaos, The Eric Hoffer Award for Fiction,
First Prize

Murderer’s Day, Verna Emery Poetry Prize, Purdue
University Press

Time and Fevers, The Eric Hoffer Award for Poetry
and Writer’s Digest International Self-Published Book
Award for Poetry, each First Prize


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 Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author.  
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest 
Collected Poems Volume at  Next-Arrivals 

Rabbit Gone. A Poem by Kushal Poddar


Brothers find purity in war.
In my safe house, hiding, I encounter a rabbit.
Together we watch the boys beat the bush-
muddled bees, flowers turned into petals,
fallen in fragments.
If you ask me what the fear smells like
I’ll say- small mammal, wasp and sting, Jasmine.
Sun traverses the field, nears the volcano of shadows, trees.
Clouds shape a bear, bear tundra, shower on my everything.
I turn. The rabbit’s gone. The rabbit’s gone.


Edited the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’. Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), A Place For Your Ghost Animals (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), Understanding The Neighborhood (BRP, Australia), Scratches Within (Barbara Maat, Florida), Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems (BRP, Australia) and Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems (Hawakal Publishers, India) and now Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel (Alien Buddha Press)
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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 Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals

Almost A Nocturne. A Poem by Noni Benegas Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arrospide and Robin Ouzman Hislop

Editor’s note: this poem is a lengthy text, the translation is given first & then the original follows & finally the relevant bio info.
Guilt is an argument
to feel alive, fear
any defense
improvised from a threat,
is another;
being told you’re smarter
than someone else
is another;
the best argument is perhaps
to remember
how we had prepared everything
to write without guilt
instead of loafing about
not to sleep a wink
and feel life slip by.
To worry about distant friends
who do not call, not knowing
if they’ re still alive
yet another.
But the maximum argument
to feel alive is to feel
that you’re wasting your time.
Any incentive,
drug or dressing that heals
the “malheur de vivre”
is, in short, a force driving the
guilt of being alive
but insufficiently.
To think that nobody cares,
that there is no friend
aware of you
makes us prone
to experience guilt
which in turn lets us
experience being alive.
I refuse to speak in the first person
because I don’t know
if I’m an individual
outside language.
It’s the time when wolves
go out to howl at inhospitable
I barely feel my toes
scratch the edge of the bed
rub each other
like sticks on distant drums;
their percussion reverberates
through my body with waxed ears
of a mummy
but more alive,
than Clarice’s clock
pounding at dawn.
Nothing makes sense,
Would it, if I’d lived with you,
X, H or J of my past, present, or future?
And here, I survive
without a dog or cat
or a clock.
But even so
even so if
I waste time on this
my mental calculator
catches on
and condemns me
with such lucid argument
to experience
the guilt that makes me feel alive
in a bad way.
In this uncertain
existence, to the friend who feeds us
to reinforce their vitality
while feeding ours,
I reply with warmth
but no tea,
because it keeps you awake
and makes you think
which prevents
as something natural.
Living is natural
like this light coolness
on my back
and this slight discomfort
of a quilt too warm
making you successively
put off and on
words of life
with their doubts, meanderings:
live, living, surviving.
Little by little
an appetite is born;
I continue living
as I begin to wake up
turning in bed
-left right-
wanting day to come
promising “ficar bonito”.
I begin to understand
St John Perse’s list of posts,
it must have been
at dawn,
scattered like a man’s crumbs
through his long lined verses
whose sum: one over one
make the poem.
And I’m already awake,
while tire wheels roll
out of my cotton filled ears
like waves on the sidewalk,
behind a closed glass
behind my life
with a drawn curtain
already standing
already rhetorical.
Haven’t you ever thought of having children
friend ?
you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night
for their screams,
but a part of you can do it
because of it…,
although another’s life
isn’t an argument
to lose sleep over
or recover it,
there are borders between us,
jagged boundaries as between
I turn off
and on
the coolness on my back persists
as if after so much searching
my back was the dark side of the moon
my feet explore
at the bottom of galaxies
through black holes
tunnelling under the quilt
at the edge of the bed.
Between turning on and off
there is a photogenesis of night
that appears
at will.
Click, clack
René Daumal
click, clack
Lota Macedo
click, clack
Oscar Manesi
click, clack
A. Pizarnik
click, clack
me you him
An association is like placing a carriage on a track
to set in motion,
thus night rolls
with a click
like Clarice’s clock;
the clock is a camera filming
passing time.
What a big animal
in the dark!
I don’t know my limits,
I turn on the light
for the shameful life
of that autonomous hand
filming outside myself
on paper, with pencil,
the pretensions of the poet writing
as a movie shot
in which I’m absent;
only the coolness
and the instep of my right foot
as it molds my left leg’s calf
gives me back my limits.
How disgusting life is
when you want to go to the toilet
but it’s just a plane traversing
your hollow belly over the Gulf of Mexico
before the storm
is unleashed,
taking into account
that being alive
is a way of being
by terrestrial functions.
Body drifting,
but there is too much light
to say so
night fails
and is rhetorical.
Rhetorical, the warp and woof
of a gem illuminated tapestry
from another age.
orders and disorders the world
at the same time
and now everything
feels like my back;
I want to be hungry
or pee to stand up again
not this coolness without limits.
She/he lied to me
and now they pay the price
by losing the meaning
of their lie.
The only reason
for being alive
is to whisper these things
in my ear.
Night is a field
of phosphenes and barbed wire
that starts in
the frontal lobe;
as long as my mouth
pours this fluidity
from above
I will believe in a soul,
click, clack.
In Madrid
I switch on
the light
in my Paris room
through this motion
I exist
click, clack,
at dawn.
I want to roll myself up in the quilt
in an interspatial rocket
riding the coolness of galaxies,
not this earthly
red light
but the dust of stars
precipitated suddenly blue.
How relative
language is…
Little by little I recover
to form a notion of reality,
to breath for my frontal lobe
so it becomes night once more.
My only privacy
is with myself,
at times I’m so far
I don’t recognize myself,
but they talk to me, watch me
and there I am,
at times I’m so close
I can spare knowing me.
In the morning I will recover
my identity
like one who puts her toes
inside the quilt’s capsule
so that they form a whole,
so that they complete a whole.
To the traitor/ess
I do not know you
as a person,
you’re not on my path
or maybe yes, as one more mask.
This I know now.
I don’t know if I’ll know later
when the various layers
of myself overlap
and I fly over the cosmos
in the space capsule
of my quilt.
I’m not me
but my balance is so delicate
that I can try to be me,
and some do try again
for the pleasure of recognizing themselves.
Noni Benegas
Translated by Robin Ouzman & Amparo Arrospide

La culpa es un argumento
para sentirse vivo, el miedo
la defensa, cualquier defensa
improvisada ante una amenaza,
ser más inteligente que alguien
(y que lo digan)
recordar cómo habíamos preparado todo
para escribir sin culpa
en vez de haraganear,
el mejor, quizás,
a fin de no pegar ojo
y sentir la vida pasar.
Preocuparse por los amigos lejanos
que no llaman y se ignora si aún viven
pero el argumento máximo
para sentirse vivo es sentir
que se está perdiendo el tiempo.
Cualquier aliciente,
droga o apósito que cure
del “malheur de vivre”
es, en definitiva, un
propulsor de la culpa
del hecho de estar vivo
sin estarlo lo suficiente.
Pensar que a nadie le importa
y no hay ninguna amistad
que se interese,
nos hace proclives
a experimentar la culpa
que a su vez permite
experimentar la sensación
de estar vivos,
y me niego a hablar en singular
porque no se si yo,
fuera del lenguaje,
estoy viva
en particular.
Es la hora en que los lobos
salen a aullar a la naturaleza
apenas percibo los dedos de mis pies
que arañan el borde de la cama
y se frotan entre si,
como palillos sobre lejanos tambores;
su percusión reverbera
en mi cuerpo con oídos encerados
de momia
pero más vivo,
que el reloj de Clarice
palpitando en la madrugada.
Nada tiene sentido,
¿lo tendría si viviera contigo,
X, H o J de mi pasado, presente, o futuro?
Y aquí,
sin perro ni gato
ni reloj alrededor
pero aún así,
pero aún así,
si pierdo el tiempo en esta comprobación,
la calculadora mental
barrunta la falta
y me condena
con ese argumento lúcido
a experimentar la culpa que me hace sentir viva
de mala manera.
Al amigo que nos da de comer
para reforzar su vitalidad
mientras alimenta la nuestra,
le replico, en esta incertidumbre
de existir, con simpatía
pero sin té,
porque quita el sueño
y te hace pensar,
lo cual impide
como algo natural.
Vivir es natural
como este ligero frescor
en la espalda,
y la leve molestia
del edredón demasiado cálido
que hace que te quites y pongas
las palabras de la vida
con sus dudas y recovecos:
vivo, viviente, sobreviviente.
De a poco nace
el apetito;
sigo viviendo
a medida que despierto
y volteo sobre la cama
-izquierda, derecha-
con ganas de que venga el día
y pueda “ficar bonito”.
Empiezo a entender
la enumeración de oficios en St John Perse;
tiene que haber sido
de madrugada,
mendrugos de hombre
desparramados en el versículo
cuya suma: uno más uno
hacen el poema.
Ya estoy de pie,
mientras ruedan
fuera de mis oídos algodonados,
ruedas de neumáticos
como olas en la vereda,
tras el cristal cerrado
tras mi vida con la cortina
echada, ya de pie
y ya retórica.
¿No has pensado tener hijos
amiga ?
no podrás dormir de noche
por sus gritos,
pero una parte tuya sí podrá hacerlo
a causa de esto…,
aunque no es argumento
la vida ajena
para perder el sueño
o recuperarlo,
hay bordes entre nosotros,
límites dentados como entre
y enciendo,
y sigue el frescor en la espalda
como si después de tanto buscar
fuera ese el lado oscuro de la luna,
que los pies investigan
al fondo de las galaxias
por los agujeros negros,
-túneles bajo el edredón-
hacia el borde de la cama,
y entre encender y apagar
hay una fotogénesis de la noche
que aparece
a voluntad.
Clic, clac
René Daumal
clic, clac
Lota Macedo
clic, clac
Oscar Manesi
clic, clac
A. Pizarnik
clic, clac
yo, tú, él
Y una asociación es como poner un vagón en una vía
para echarlo a andar,
así la noche con el clic
como el reloj de Clarice;
el reloj es la cámara que filma
el tiempo que pasa.
¡Qué animal tan grande
en la oscuridad!
No conozco mis límites,
para la vergüenza de vivir
de esa mano autónoma
afuera de mi filmando
sobre papel, con lápiz,
el paripé del poeta que escribe
como una toma de película
en la cual no estoy yo;
sólo el frescor
me devuelve mis límites
y el empeine del pie derecho
cuando moldea la pantorrilla de la pierna izquierda.
Qué asco vivir
cuando tienes ganas de ir al baño
pero es sólo un avión que atraviesa
la oquedad de tu vientre como el golfo de México
antes de desencadenarse
una tormenta,
sin perder de vista
que estar vivo
es una manera de estar
por las funciones terrestres.
Cuerpo a la deriva,
pero hay demasiada luz
para decirlo
falla la noche y es
Retórico es un retor luminoso
de carbunclos de otra época.
La oscuridad –y ahora todo
es una espalda-
desordena el mundo a la vez
que lo ordena;
quisiera tener hambre
o pis para reincorporarme
y no este frescor sin límites.
Me mintió
y ahora paga su mentira
con la desaparición del objeto
de su mentira.
La única razón
de estar vivo
es poder dictarme estas cosas
al oído.
La noche es un campo
de fosfenos y alambradas
que empieza a partir
del lóbulo frontal.
Mientras la boca
siga derramando
ésta liquidez de arriba
creeré en el alma,
clic, clac,
y aprieto el interruptor
de mi cuarto en París
en otra lámpara
en Madrid,
y sé que existo
por este tacto
clic, clac,
en la madrugada.
Me quiero enrollar en el edredón
con forma de cohete interespacial
para surcar el frescor de las galaxias,
no esta luz colorada
de la tierra
sino el polvo de estrellas,
precipitado súbitamente azul.
Cómo relativiza
el lenguaje…
De a poco me recupero
y cobro noción de lo real,
respiro para mi lóbulo,
para que sea de noche otra vez;
no tengo intimidad
más que conmigo misma,
y a veces estoy tan lejos
que no me reconozco,
pero me hablan y miran
y ahí me encuentro,
aunque a veces estoy tan cerca
que me eximo de conocerme.
Por la mañana recuperaré
mi identidad
como quien mete los dedos de los pies
dentro de la cápsula del edredón
para que formen un todo,
para que completen el todo.
Al traidor/ra
No te reconozco
como persona,
no estás en mi camino
o tal vez sí, una máscara más.
Esto que sé ahora
no sé si lo sabré luego
cuando diversas capas de mi
se superpongan
y en la cápsula espacial
de mi edredón conmigo
sobrevuele el cosmos.
Yo no soy yo
pero mi equilibrio es tan delicado
que yo puedo ser yo,
y algunos vuelven a intentarlo
por el placer de reconocerse a sí mismos.

Noni Benegas, born in Buenos Aires and resident in Spain since 1977, is the author of seven books of poetry; a selection is collected in El Ángel de lo súbito, Ed. Fondo de Cultura Económica, (Madrid, 2014). Burning Cartography, Ed. Host, (Austin TX, 2007 and 2011) is a selection of these poems in English, and Animaux Sacrés, Ed. Al Manar (Séte 2013) in French. She has won the Platero Prize from the UN in Geneva; the Miguel Hernández National Prize for Poetry, as well as Vila de Martorell award, the Rubén Darío Prize from Palma in Mallorca, the Esquío Prize in Galicia. She is the author of the influential anthology of contemporary Spanish women poets Ellas tienen la palabra, Ed. Hiperión (Madrid, 2008, 4th edition) whose introductory essay, with a new prologue, articles, interviews and an epilogue has been recently collected by Ed. Fondo de Cultura Economica in 2017 with the same title. Ellas Resisten. Mujeres poetas y artistas (1994-2019) is a selection of her essays on women writers and artists published by Ed. Huerga & Fierro
Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop

Monsters. A Poem by Richard Lloyd Cederberg

Throughout history, in every culture; monsters continue to prevail, horrify, and fascinate. Syllable format – (4-4-6-8-6)
The life he led
one day (he said)
was boring dull and scant,
but using scary images
he found a stimulant

Such awes (he said)
imbue the brain
with such a special dread,
the Balrog or the Jabberwock,
the Yeti and the dead

Avoid the dark
(he said) dismayed
hearts icy depths perturb
there’re strange and twisted creatures there
it’s best not to disturb

My heart could fail
(he’d weep and wail)
there’s so much discontent,
but Grendel and Medusa still
he found were scintillant

The Giant Squid
of Jules Verne
for certain fuels a fright,
the Minotaur and Wendigo
stand strong in fearsome might

The Nephilim
an evil race
worst monsters in the lot
are known for eating anything
such wickedness they brought

and Fenris too
new horrors they conceal
that keep us wond’ring if at all
they’re fake or if they’re real

Those in my head
that day (he said)
seem diff’rent than the rest
but never did that stop his pen
or lessen all his zest

And so, he wrote
with hearts delight
of monster’s blood and gore
and all the crazy fears they’d bring
that kept some wanting more…

© Richard Lloyd Cederberg

BALROG. The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien
JABBERWOCK. Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
YETI. Folklore
GRENDEL. Beowulf
MEDUSA. Greek Mythology
GIANT SQUID. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Jules Verne
MINOTAUR. Greek Mythology
WENDIGO. Algonquian Mythology
NEPHILIM. Holy Bible. Genesis. Numbers. Ezekiel.
LEVIATHAN. Holy Bible. Job
FENRIS. Norse Mythology

Biography – Richard Lloyd Cederberg
RICHARD was born in Chicago Illinois. He is the progeny of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants. Richard began his journey into the arts at age six. For twelve years he played classical trumpet. Then… the wonderful incursion of British music influenced him to put down the trumpet and take-up acoustic and electric guitar. Richard began writing songs and lyrics and poetic construct. He performed in 17 professional bands. He played clubs, halls, cabarets, and concerts in Europe, Canada, across the USA, Alaska, and even Whitehorse in the Yukon Territories. Richard’s band SECRETS was one of the top four Pop-Jazz bands in San Diego for 5 years. In 1995 Richard was privileged to design and build his own Midi-centered Recording Studio ~ TAYLOR & GRACE ~ where he worked until 2002. During that time, he composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions. Only two CD’s were compiled: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Richard retired from music in 2003…. RICHARD’S POETRY uses various inspirations: nature, history, relationships (past and present), parlance, alliteration, metaphor, characterization, spirituality, faith, eschatology, and art. He relishes the challenge of poetic stylization: Rhythmical, Poetic/Prose, Triolets, Syllable formats, Story-Poems, Freeform, Haiku, Tanka, Haibun, and Acrostic. Richard has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.

PUBLISHED BOOKS: The MONUMENTAL JOURNEY SERIES integrates adventure, mystery, and historical fiction. Journey on the schooner Heimdall with Dr. Gabriel Proudmore, John, Helga, Betsy, Garrett, Captain Olaf Amundsen, Rorek Amundsen, Anders Vildarsen, and Rolf the Wolfhound…
5. BETWEEN THE CRACKS… a spinoff from the MJ Series…

NEW BOOKS being written or compiled:
A NEW RACE OF HuMAN’S… an eschatological drama that takes place just before the translation, during Daniel’s 70th Week, and into the Millennium.
UNDER SILENT BRIDGES… a diversified collection of Richard’s poetic invention, short-stories, essay’s, and Michele’s digital photography.
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 Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals

Disruptions. Poems by Gary Beck

‘Disruptions’ is an unpublished collection that examines the various interruptions to the daily struggle in this difficult life. Author’s Comment.
The days get cooler,
the nights colder,
more and more grey days.
Some say climate change.
Others say nay.
It is difficult to tell
what is or is not normal,
allowing many to ignore
the need to reduce
polluting fossil fuels.
Many governments
build housing for the poor
often a benefit and curse
at the same time,
since social services
rarely accompany relocation
leaving residents adrift
with insufficient resources
to cope with new conditions.
The Chinese government
has built entire cities
for several millions
uprooting them
for a new way of life
completely unprepared
for a foreign environment
confining them to hi-rises.
Freedom State
Whether alone
in public space,
isolated in a crowd,
or solitary confinement,
we are only prisoners
when we stop thinking
about the issues
of our times.
Primordial Response
Fear of the machine,
by the growing loss
of fear of Nature,
except when propelled into panic
by flood, fire, hurricane,
since for urbanites
the natural world
generally seems benevolent.
Our primitive selves
require something to dread
so we select the machines
that abused so many,
replaced so many,
forgetting that men
make the machines,
operate the machines.
News Reports
The President says:
Russia didn’t interfere
with our elections,
so of course it must be true.
The new E.P.A. head
is firing the scientists
who believe in climate change.
More and more men are guilty
of harassing women.
Road rage incidents
end in shootings.
A puppy in a pet shop
is stolen by a couple.
And endless amounts of sports,
all kinds for all tastes.
These tidbits just a hint
of what goes on daily
that we never hear of,
suggesting to some of us
we have no idea
what really goes on
in this complicated world.

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. His poetry collections include Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press), Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings and The Remission of Order (Winter Goose Publishing). Conditioned Response (Nazar Look), Virtual Living (Thurston Howl Publications), Blossoms of Decay, Expectations and Blunt Force (Wordcatcher Publishing). His novels include Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing), Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pig Productions), Sudden Conflicts (Lillicat Publishers). Acts of Defiance (Wordcatcher Publishing). His short story collections include A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications), Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). Feast or Famine and other one act-plays will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of magazines. He lives in New York City.
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 Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals

The Sap Declaration of Independence. A Poem by Amparo Arróspide. Translated from Spanish

Editors Note: this piece is an extract and translation from the larger work of Valle Tietar a volume of poetry written in Spanish – here we can only provide a taste & glimpse of its originality, a work in defence of fauna & flora & to those for whome the Spanish tongue is available, where the book may be purchased, if so desired. www.elsastredeapollinaire.com

CUBIERTA Tan cerca de ningún lugar V2

      Cast: Representatives and Chorus

To the people of Pain and to all peoples in the world
Today the SAP nation restores its lost and long-desired sovereignty, after centuries of trying in vain to coexist with the Spanish Sapiens

    Apiens Apiens Apiens

The SAP nation, its languages and cultures have a most ancient history. For millennia it has exercised self-government in fullness, with the Stone being the highest expression of historical rights. During periods of freedom, granite gneiss has been,the column where our non-institutions were crystallized

    Llized Llized Llized

Justice and individual and collective non-human rights are the basis for the constitution of the SAP REPUBLIC
Since the times of the Copious Mounts, the SAP policy has played a key role with an exemplary, loyal and democratic attitude

    Ude Ude Ude

and with a deep sense of non-State
This allegiance has been met with the denial of recognition to the SAP and with a slave driver and herbicide discrimination. Millions of creatures, millions of creatures were and are tortured and killed
The non-human citizenship Statute could be a new stable and lasting framework for a bilateral relation between SAP and PAIN. But it is an agreement again and again broken by the Spanish Sapiens

    Apiens Apiens Apiens

After listening to our non-citizens, the Stone, the Forest and the uncivil society called a referendum. Despite brutal arson fires to prevent it, a majority vote was cast in favour of the constitution of our REPUBLIC

    Ublic Ublic Ublic

And NOW we, democratic representatives of the non-people, freely exercising our right to self-government and complying with the mandate granted by the non-citizens
WE CONSTITUTE the REPUBLIC of the SAP, as an independent and sovereign non -State, constitutional, democratic and antisocial
WE START the greening process
WE URGE the supra and subterranean international community, infernos and supernos, to intervene to stop the violation of law in progress and to witness the process still under negotiation
WE APPEAL to non-States and to human organizations to recognize our Republic

    Ublic Ublic Ublic

WE URGE the Stone to adopt any necessary measures to implement this Declaration
WE APPEAL to each one of the non-citizens to make us worthy of the freedom we grant ourselves and to build a non-State that translates our collective desires into flight and whirlwind!
We, the Legitimate Representatives of the No People (signatures)
In Tietar Valley, on the 11th Maw (former October), 2033.

Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos 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. Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop

GRIEF COUNSELOR . A Poem by Brian Rihlmann

We sat at the bar
sucking back beers
in that smoky roadhouse,
and you went on about it,
and finally said,
“I mean, where is he?
Where did he go?”
Your father, gone,
three months ago
in a freak accident,
his pickup winding up
on its roof in a ditch
for no apparent reason.
You looked at me,
and my lame answer
limped out,
“I believe that
when you’re gone,
you’re gone.”
Spoken like a good
and faithful atheist.
My truth telling
a matter of principle.
You stared at me, nodding
and biting your quivering lip,
Adam’s apple working
as you tried swallowing
the bitter fruit
of my honesty.
I saw it, and quickly said,
“But what the hell do I know?”
And some years later,
I remember you
angrily saying
that when we die
we just rot in the ground,
and I winced
at how you spit
those words out,
and wished I’d lied
way back then.

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse. Folk poetry…for folks. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Poppy Road Review, Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry
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 Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals