Withdrawment & Poems by Sanjeev Sethi

(i)
 
Withdrawment
 
Campaigning without connections
is an exemplary pursuit.
To one sans options
this is senseless.
Ideas chassé on the semi-sprung
of choice. I go with inner sequences.
 
To be in sync with similar beats
is the right swing.
Silence draws in contagion
of concepts
some worthy of chase.
In the hush-hush I unearth handles.
 
(ii)
 
Iciness
 
Backer is harpy, recipient always ravenous.
Different show different setup.
 
Like a forsaken sloop led by Pharos
your vowels fuel a balefire to intent.
 
Emptiness scans more meaning than there is:
like a literary egghead evaluating belles-lettres.
 
Boozed up you withdraw from our bull session.
This tells me your endearments are an evasion.
 
On her podcast, the diva inquires of her spouse:
hex to bring back spice? His comeback: role play.
 
(iii)
 
Aberrance
  
Every ply is elbow-grease: when
even an earworm is inert, when I
wish to lam out I garner I hold no
eye-catching selfies.
 
Sacred they will be skewed I seldom
click any. I’m my worst ambassador.
An unlawful being is as unsmudged as
his solicitor. Close-ups soil some of us.
 
(iv)
 
Blackball
 
One may have envied it
had you laid out less:
your sojourns and the whole shebang.
Happiness fulfills inner chinks.
Mailing close-ups suggests other motives.
Is it an end run?
Slainte for something
more special
is a flawed premise.
Lapses are latent.
Errors are acceptable
so are fender-benders.
Manipulating emotions
for a payoff:
a thumbs down.
 
 

 
Sanjeev Sethi is published in over 25 countries. He has more than 1200 poems printed or posted in venues around the world. Wrappings in Bespoke, is Winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux organized by the Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. It’s his fourth book. It will be issued in 2020. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Anagrammed Variations of the American Dream. Poem by Yuan Changming

 
A ram cairned me
In a crammed era [where]
Cameramen raid
 
A dire cameraman [or]
Arid cameramen
 
[Becoming]
 
A creamed airman [or]
A carmine dream
A minced ram ear
[a] maniac rearmed
 
As freedom turns into a dorm fee
Democracy to a car comedy, and
Human rights to harming huts
 

[First published in Kartika Review.]
 

 
Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving his native country. Currently, Yuan edits poetrypacific.blogspot.ca with Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, eight chapbooks & publications in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) & BestNewPoemsOnline, among others.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

War. A Poem by Ken Allan Dronsfield

The Hell where our youth

and laughter were taken away.

 Leaving us the monsters that

 don’t just sleep under your bed;

 now they’re hiding in your head.

 
 
 

 
 
 
Biography:
 
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a 65 year old disabled veteran, prize winning poet and author from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. A proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he has three poetry collections to date; ‘The Cellaring’, ‘A Taint of Pity’, and, ‘Zephyr’s Whisper’. Ken does not have an MFA or Creative Writing classes BUT, he once road his dirt bike on woodland trails from southern New Hampshire into Canada. He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net, 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his family and cats Willa and Yumpy.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

A Mantis’s Prayer A Poem by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

A Mantis’s Prayer
 
In a devout moment
he beseeches Allah
that he not lose his head
over this new woman
 
Yet he knows
he could easily be damned
She’s bigger than him
and stronger
 
He knows the life worth living
that his brain controls inhibition
while a ganglion in his abdomen
controls the motions of copulation
 
Absent his head
he will lose self-consciousness and
consummate his relationship with wild abandon
No more Fuck me! Harder! Fuck me rigid!
None of that will be necessary if she eats his head
 
But Allah has heard his prayer
and has fed his new mate smaller
less significant insects before their
liaison
so she leaves him his head
 
He fucks her royally
and feels satisfied
 
She is also fulfilled
and feels warm glimmers of compassion
 
She snuggles up against him
and they doze together
in the high green grass
that so completely matches their bodies
 
Then, not tempting fate
he slowly and quietly disengages himself
and hurries off
into the vast corn field
 
 

 
 
Work by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois appears in magazines worldwide. Nominated for numerous prizes, he was awarded the 2017 Booranga Centre (Australia) Fiction Prize. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and as a print edition. His poetry collection, THE ARREST OF MR. KISSY FACE, published in March 2019 by Pski’s Porch Publications, is available here. Visit his website  to read more of his poetry and flash fiction.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Press Release Let the Whales Escape Collected Poems by RW Haynes


 
 
Let the Whales Escape R.W.Haynes
 
 
Mona Lisa and the Marlboro Man
 
Not knowing if wisdom would impulsively fly
Or if it dragged its feet when impulse flared,
She had to make the call and suddenly try
To do what an immortal would have dared,
An Aphrodite, ascending in a flying cart
Drawn by fifty gurgling pigeons at a speed
Which matched the speed of her own matchless heart
And the heartbreaking glory of her need.
Later, back in Laredo, she would say
She didn’t know why she’d taken off that way,
Smiling with satisfaction, recalling when
Her best moments flew by delightfully then.
 
He didn’t want anyone saying, “Oh.
This is how I feel,” but people do
Say that, and he said it, sometimes, too,
In unguarded moments, and he would show
How he felt, displaying great disdain
As he lit his pipe, blew blue smoke forth
Delivering himself from aesthetic pain
Incurred by foolish ideas from the North,
And, nodding slightly to appreciate
A tolerable turn of phrase which he
Thought suggested some brain activity,
He let his tobacco counter-obfuscate
Suspicious overflows of raw emotion
Which threatened to undermine devotion.
 
 
On the Balcony of the Palacio de Cortés
 
Madness stands at one elbow. At the other
Various figures in masks take their turns,
And all whisper steadily, one after another,
Syllables whose content one never learns.
The maniac is familiar; one keeps a careful eye
On him night and day, and day and night,
But who are the others who are standing by,
And what are these advisements they recite?
I dream the lonely ghost of love is one
Whose only consolation is to speak of sin,
And when that sad companion is done,
I hear Complacency, Madness’s mad twin.
I listen in patience, fighting back the fear
I’ll never hear the voice I hope to hear.
 
 
Ibsen on the Nile
 
Those monuments are monuments merely
Of themselves; this river of nutrition
And death, inundating Egypt, is clearly
A muddy embodiment of time’s volition.
I saw the Sphinx off in the distance. Today
I purchased an ancient mummified hand
To give to my wife, safely far away,
And I suspect that she will understand.
I met DeLesseps recently. He and I
Have much in common, more than he knows;
My work is lonelier, but there exists a tie
Between what we do as humankind grows.
These monuments record the vanity of ages;
Mine put the outraged human soul on stages.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

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


Biography

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.

PRIZE-WINNING BOOKS
BY E.M. SCHORB
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 , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems,
as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist
and the recently published Tesserae ,a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author.
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

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.
 
ALMOST A NOCTURNE
 
Guilt is an argument
to feel alive, fear
another;
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
alive
outside language.
 
It’s the time when wolves
go out to howl at inhospitable
nature;
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
living
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
stamps.
 
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
blasphemy
error.
 
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
harassed
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.
Darkness
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
knowing
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
(psycho)
for the pleasure of recognizing themselves.
 
Noni Benegas
Translated by Robin Ouzman & Amparo Arrospide
 

CASI UN NOCTURNO
 
La culpa es un argumento
para sentirse vivo, el miedo
otro;
la defensa, cualquier defensa
improvisada ante una amenaza,
otro;
ser más inteligente que alguien
(y que lo digan)
otro;
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
otro,
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
inhóspita;
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
sobrevivo;
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
vivir
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
-sucesivamente-
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
estampillas.
 
Apago,
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
blasfemia
error.
 
Y una asociación es como poner un vagón en una vía
para echarlo a andar,
así la noche con el clic
rueda
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,
enciendo
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
acosado
por las funciones terrestres.
Cuerpo a la deriva,
pero hay demasiada luz
para decirlo
falla la noche y es
retórico.
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
(psico)
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
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Collected Poems Laredo Light by RW Haynes Press Release


 
 
We are pleased to introduce at PLT, RW Haynes recent volume of collected poems hailing from Laredo. It’s been our pleasure to publish a selection of Haynes’ works over the last few years, ( in case of interest view Search or Categories at this site ). He’s a poet with a canny and unique expertise in the craftmanship of the classical sonnet dating from the Renaissance poets and a master of the lyrical mode but absolutely written in contemporary vogue. At times profoundly reflective and self effacing they saunter from the wry and whimsical to the depths of inner movement, whilst harvesting at all times a spectacular vocabulary in accompaniment. Editor’s comment.
 
 
Southern Baptists Sponsor Stormy Daniels Forgiveness Tour
 
“It costs a lot of money to look this cheap.”

      –Dolly Parton

 
 
Brothers and sisters, we all have turned away
From the true path, but in our faith we know
We can return, though bled half-dry, although
In pain and shame for having run astray.
Judas, too, was born a child of light.
His mother saw in him how love arrives.
His kiss would guarantee that it survives
All storminess and darkness, shining bright.
And we also betray our closest friends
And sell ourselves and them with greedy minds
Until amazing grace assures that conscience finds
We have gone chasing after stupid ends.
And now, O brethren, it has come to pass
We’ve put our money on the wrong jackass.
 
 
 

R. W. Haynes, Professor of English at Texas A&M International University, writes various things in prose and in poetic form. His academic specialty is 16th-century England, but much of his work lately has been on the playwright/screenwriter Horton Foote. His poetry collections Laredo Light and Let the Whales Escape are being published this summer. He recently wrote a play titled Never Claim a Kill, and he hopes to complete his novel The Songs of Billy Bonstead before Laredo cools off again. Another project in progress is an academic work currently titled The Struggling Spirit in the Plays and Screenplays of Horton Foote.
 
 
 
 
 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)