Poem

W.S.Sonnet 53.French Translation Richard Vallance

by 
Tiré de = from: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.
Victoria, British Columbia: Friesen Press, © 2013 / 

Chapitre 2 : sonnets en français

Sonnet 53

d’après le Sonnet LIII (53) de William Shakespeare

Alexandrin

Laquelle serait l’essentielle à te définir,
Des ténèbres innombrables qui te poursuivent ?
Parmi ces pénombres qui veulent se réunir
À toi, à qui est la mine plus inexpressive ?
Décrire Adonis, et son image dans la glace
Veut te contrefaire aussi bien qu’il t’affaiblit ;
Les beaux-arts, auraient-ils, Hélène, autant de grâce,
Que la frise hellénique, elle qui t’embellit ?
L’on voit au beau printemps s’épanouir l’année,
Dont la foison est trop exquise et un atout,
Mais elle a moins d’abondance que ta Beauté ;
Te voilà donc bénie et reconnue partout.
   Qu’elle soit prévisible, la grâce t’appartient,
   Et la constance imprévisible aussi bien.

Richard Vallance

Le Sonnet 53 de Richard Vallance a été publié dans le vol. 7, numéro 3, été 2007, page 18 de Sonnetto Poesia ISSN1705-4524= was previously published in Sonnetto Poesia ISSN 1705-4524.Vol. 7 No. 3 summer 2007, page 18

Dit-il : Cette nouvelle version du sonnet que j’ai composé en français ne constitue 
pas du tout une simple traduction.  C’est en effet ma création originale du sonnet 53 
de William Shakespeare (1564-1616).  My version of  William Shakespeare's Sonnet 
53 is simply not to be construed as a running translation of the original. It is in fact 
my own original creation.

Sonnet LIII 

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
   In all external grace you have some part,
   But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Commentaires sur la recréation du sonnet 53 de William Shakespeare par Richard Vallance = 

Comments on Richard Vallance’s recreation of William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 53 into French:

Ta recréation du sonnet de Shakespeare, fort réussie, me touche d’autant plus que... 
passim...  [j]e viens de comparer d’un peu plus près ton sonnet 53 avec l’original...
 passim... et les traductions d’Henri Thomas et Armel Guerne. Si tu t’éloignes parfois 
délibérément de la lettre, tu saisis l’esprit des Sonnets de Shakespeare, en particulier 
la musicalité et les antithèses, dont celle de la chute. (Thierry Guinhut, France.) 
http://www.thierry-guinhut-litteratures.com/)

Translated: Your recreation of Shakespeare’s sonnet, a success in itself, affects me all 
the more when I compare it with the translations of Henri Thomas and Armel Guerne.  
If you occasionally stray from the letter, you never stray from the spirit of Shakespeare’s 
sonnets.  Your French faithfully reflects the  musicality, the play on antithesis and the 
surprising twist of his rhyming couplet.

Had Richard Vallance only carried the images of Sonnet 53 safely across the pond to lay 
them down in new  Alexandrine accommodations, his achievement would have been notable; 
but he has done something rarer... by reminding us of the Sonnet’s intentions.  He has given 
us a love poem: one that no Dark Lady would easily resist.  (Becca Menon, Becca Books, NYC)

I read your translation/adaptation of sonnet 53 and enjoyed it ― a strange effect of translations 
is sometimes one understands an aspect of the original better in the translation; Shakespeare’s 
already moderately remote from us, that is our use of the English. So your translation brings 
several aspects of the original to light which are perhaps a bit opaque in the original.  
(Howard Giskin, Department of Modern and Classical Languages, University of  Connecticut, Storrs)

Vraiment la traduction du sonnet 53 de W.S. est excellent. Je peux te dire qu’en français ça coule avec une douceur infinie. C’est de toute beauté. Gilles Le Chasseur (Rimouski, Québec, Canada)

Translated: Your translation of W.S.'s Sonnet 53 is excellent.  I can honestly say
 that it flows with infinite grace in French. It is a thing of beauty.


We urge readers of these sonnets in Poetry Life & Times pre-published 
from The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendes. 
Victoria, B.C., Canada, Friesen Press, © June 2013  300 sonnets in English, 
French, German, Chinese & Farsi, http://vallance22.hpage.com/, to visit the
site. Readers may also contact Richard  Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at:
vallance22@gmx.com for further information. 



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Doors. Sonnet.Poem. Ma Li. Translated Chinese Tang Yao. Howard Giskin
		

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门与门


 


我一直注视着一个人，一个陌生人


我在楼梯口遇见过他，他打开了一道门


正是冬天，我正在浴盆中洗澡的时刻


这个人从某一个方向朝我走来，破门而入


这个人的眼睛在一开始的时候就装满了


关于门的故事，医院的门，公墓的门


这个人走遍了黑夜，站在一个小镇安静的门外


这个人左手藏着一把西班牙小牛角刀


右手握着一卷爱伦坡式的恐怖小说


身上有酒，还有心爱女人的照片


我与这个人匆匆一瞥，他招呼我开


我不慌不忙地去开门，门被推开了


但我醒了，门把我从现实推向幽蔽的梦境


门又把我从梦境扯回现实的一个角落


 


Doors


 


I have been watching a man, a stranger


I met him at the stair-head, he opened a door


In wintertime when I was in the tub


He came to me from somewhere entering


Eyes filled with doors; hospital doors, cemetery doors


Passing the night standing outside the 


Quiet door of a small town, hiding a Spanish 


Horn knife in his left hand, horror story in the right 


Bottle of wine in his pocket and a photo of a beloved woman


I caught a glimpse of this man who asked 


Me to open the door; in no hurry, door 


Pushed open from reality I woke into 


Dreamland confined when again a door pulled 


Me from dreamland to a corner of reality.


 


***


Ma Li is a contemporary poet, painter and essayist. She is also the chief editor of the writing column of South Weekend, the most famous and widely issued weekly newspaper in China. She was born in the seaside town Zhanjiang in 1960. She began to write poems in the 1980’s, and essays in 1990’s. She is a member in the Chinese Writers Association. She has published several poetry collections, like “Ma Li Poetry Collection,” and “Ma Li’s Golden Sonnet,” the latter which won first prize in the “Chinese New Classic Poem Award” competition in 2007. In addition, she has published several essay collections and held her own art exhibition.


 


Tang Yao comes from Xuzhou, China. At present she lives in Nanjing. Her area of specialization is foreign and applied linguistics. She focuses on translation both from Chinese to English and from English to Chinese, and has co-translated two books from English to Chinese. She has also done research on the translation of ancient Chinese poems.


 


Howard Giskin has taught in the Department of English at Appalachian State University since 1989. He works mainly in the area of World Literature, with particular interest in Asian culture, literature and philosophy, as well as Latin American literature. He has co-edited An Introduction to Chinese Culture through the Family (SUNY Press, 2001), and has edited a volume of Chinese folktales (NTC / Contemporary, 1997), as well as written articles on Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges, and published poetry. His interests also include the intersection of the sciences and humanities. He has taught in Asia, Africa, Europe and Latin America, and lives with his wife Vicki in Millers Creek, North Carolina.


 

Phoenix  Book Image

 

 Ma li’s Sonnet Doors in its original Chinese text together with its translation by Tang Yao and Howard Giskin appear in 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 –at Friesen Press. ISBN: Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 eBook: 978-1-4602-1702-3. 

http://vallance22.hpage.com



 


 


 


 


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Fireworks. Sonnet.Poem.Candice James
		

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Bold fireworks splashed against a blackened sky
Flared up to burn night down to raw red dawn.
We travelled light with broken compass nigh,
With nothing left of value we could pawn.
We trusted in the knowledge of the wind,
And drifted on the wet silk of her lip,
Until our vows of love became unpinned.
Untangled heartbeats.  Unjoined at the hip.
An ancient masterpiece now out of fashion,
We spun beneath the axis of the moon.
Two star crossed lovers in a web of passion,
We witnessed midnight crashing into noon.
Erased, we’re the collision of two comets;
New ink stains blurred on antiquated sonnets.
 
 
IMAG0706
 
Candice James was born in New Westminster, BC and is a poet, artist, musician, and 
singer/songwriter. 
She is currently serving her second  three year term as Poet Laureate of the City of 
New Westminster.
 
CANDICE IS ALSO
President of Royal City Literary Arts Society
Advisory Board Member Muse International (India)
Advisory Board Member of the Federation of BC Writers
Past President of the Federation of BC Writers
 
Author of 7 poetry books:
”A Split In The Water”; 
“Inner Heart – a journey”; 
“Bridges and Clouds”; 
“Midnight Embers – a Book of Sonnets”
“Shorelines” – a book of villanelles 
“Ekphrasticism – Painted Words”
“Purple Haze” 
 
Awards Received
Writers International Network “Distinguished Poet 2013”
Pentasi B – Phillippines  “Woman of Prestige 2013”
Honorary Professor International Academy of Arts (Greece)
 
Keynote speaker/panelist at
“Word On The Street” Vancouver, BC
“Black Dot Roots Cultural Collective” Vancouver, BC
“Write On The Beach” White Rock, BC
“Writers’ Etc” Los Angeles, CA
 
Phoenix  Book Image
 


 
This Sonnet Fireworks appears in the 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. 
Vallance, Richard, Ed-in-Chief. Victoria, British Columbia: Friesen Press, ©
  
Some 300 sonnets and ghazals in English, French, Spanish, German and Farsi 
―published at 
Friesen Press, and now available.   
   
Friesen Press will do all the marketing and distribution. 
   
To be available in major bookstores & through all major online order channels 
such as Amazon.com, Alibris.com, Smithsbook's, Ebay and Barnes & Noble: 
For more information on the anthology, please visit our site. 
The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres 

http://vallance22.hpage.com/ 


 

editor@artvilla.com

robin@artvilla.com

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com




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Sometimes I Can’t be Arsed with Poetry.Sonnet.Poem.David Seddon
		

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Sometimes I can’t be arsed with poetry
and syllables that crash when they should dance
like marionettes pulled by industry
or inspiration due to muse or chance.
And what’s the point of words however good?
Does anyone read them and fall in love
or curse them, gut them, spill or drink their blood?
Save poets and critics, who gives a shove?
I tell you, some days I would rather think
myself a man moved more by luck than verse
or plumb pipes together than words that stink:
at least dignity’s there in fuller purse.
And what’s a sonnet but weight round your neck?
An afternoon’s work or a lifetime’s check?

David Seddon

David Seddon has been writing poetry and sonnets for over 30 years. 
He is from Liverpool in the North West of England and is a member
of various poetry groups in that area. Among other venues, his poetry
has appeared in various anthologies, and in Ink Sweat and Tears, 
Obsessed with Pipework, Other Poetry, Poetry in the Waiting Room, 
Poetry Scotland, Sonnetto Poesia  and Under the Radar. He has  a BA in 
Philosophy and an  MA and Diploma in Counselling. He works as a person
-centred and existential counsellor in private practice.

Sometimes I Can’t be Arsed with Poetry' appears in 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. -now in galley production stage at Friesen Press
scheduled for release June 2013. ISBN: Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 
Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 eBook: 978-1-4602-1702-3. 



 


We urge readers of these sonnets in Poetry Life & Times pre-published 
from The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendes. 
Victoria, B.C., Canada, Friesen Press, © June 2013  300 sonnets in English, 
French, German, Chinese & Farsi, http://vallance22.hpage.com/, to visit the
site. Readers may also contact Richard  Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at:
vallance22@gmx.com for further information. 



 


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RMS Titanic Centennial   Sonnets 7 & 8.  Poem. Richard Vallance.
		

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7

The Dusk Casts Shadows

The dusk casts shadows on the drowning sun,
Titanic's lights ablaze.  She cleaves the sea,
a mirror to the stars, her maiden run 
serene success by some divine decree.
The falling swell has passed, the past astern.
The last two days will spell “The Promised Land”
each Steerage soul must face with some concern, 
with little else but landing grant in hand.
In First, astern the barren promenade,
the after-mast casts light in frosty arcs
on Ida Straus *, her furs, her pale pomade,
and Isidor, in arm, as she remarks,
before retiring to the plush saloon, 
“The sea’s like glass this Sunday night.  No moon.”
***

***
8
“Iceberg dead ahead!”
[11:40 p.m. April 14 1912] 

         “The sea is calm tonight, 
          The tide is full, the moon lies fair 
                         Upon the straits; …”

          Matthew Arnold, Dover Beach (1867)

The sea’s like glass this Sunday night. No moon
casts light upon the ice-pocked sea, where stars
are cast in bituminous black, in tune
with Ages Past. Titanic flat-out scars
the glassy sea her raking bowsprit cleaves:
her splashing wake’s so cold her passengers 
must flee the promenades the starlight leaves
in livid darkness.... where nothing stirs,
and nothing stays the artificial breeze
that snakes along the hull, and takes its pulse
on brittle rivets, frozen; so they seize
upon the berg Titanic can’t repulse.
   Fleet * alerts the bridge, “Iceberg dead ahead!”
   “Astern!”  Propellers lash.  The iceberg 's fled. 

***

***




RMS Titanic Centennial Sonnets 7 & 8.  are excerpts from Richard Vallance's  
Garland of Sonnets due for later publication, in - 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 -now in the galley production stage at Friesen Press, scheduled 
for  release June 2013. ISBN: Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Paperback: 
978-1-4602-1701-6 eBook: 978-1-4602-1702-3.  




We urge readers of these sonnets in Poetry Life & Times pre-published from 
The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendes. 
Victoria, B.C., Canada, Friesen Press, © June 2013  300 sonnets in English, 
French, German, Chinese & Farsi, http://vallance22.hpage.com/, to visit the
site. Readers may also contact Richard  Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at:
vallance22@gmx.com for further information. 



 




 


 


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Near and Far.The Teratogen Sonnet Series. Poem. Video. Norman Ball
		

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“The death camps were not built in the Gobi Desert. And when barbarism challenged, the humanities, the arts, philosophic thought proved not only largely impotent but often collaborative with despotism and massacre,”


–George Steiner, from ‘A New Literacy’, The Kenyon Review, 24:1, Winter 2007, 10-24


 


Teratogen 1: Sex on the Brain


 


“Thy nakedness shall be uncovered,


yea, thy shame shall be seen…”—Isaiah 47:3


 


This mission is a sin. What kind of spaz-


tic draws vigor from pornographic veins


or penis-headed parodies of ass?


 


But you’re no baby, Baby. Holy weans


alive, I could not diaper your fine mess.


You soil all metaphor. I’ll author blame:


My labs, my country tis of thee. My shame


is writ uncovered on your face. No less


you’d scare Sears’ portrait guy.


 


And yet I’m drawn


to parse the prick that promenades your head.


They told us, Horus, Set, the Golden Dawn:


 


a Third Eye—neither naked, neither dead


of shameless form would, near the end, arrive


commending those whose fear brought it alive.


 


Teratogen 2: Cabbage Patch Moll


 


“Hence world picture, when understood


essentially, does not mean a picture of the


world but the world conceived and grasped


as picture.” –Martin Heidegger


 


You vandalize distress at no small cost


through nylon skein and cabbage patch


disguise. This manhunt though is long since lost.


All have been found. First paparazzi snatched


 


unguarded moments. Then we watched gray puffs


televise precision. Your face


is pixelated aftermath that stuffs


everything in the close-up. Common place


 


covers all bases. Where’s the intimate


to hide? The convict is a partial judge


on all subjects of visual merit. Split


my screen and your forehead suggests a smudge-


print. We share the mounting headcount’s ripe bruise.


For I no longer feel eyewitness news.


 


Teratogen 3: Thumbelina, Dance


 


“…advanced forms of biological warfare that can ‘target’ specific genotypes may transform biological warfare from the realm of terror to a politically useful tool.” –from Project for a New American Century (PNAC) Manifesto, 2000


 


We vet foot bills. Are pissed-on borders worth


a mongrel birth? doG gone us Pentagon.


Hotdog Girl rolls so we might rule the earth?


 


Our barking men of outrage are all gone.


Lassie’s come home to her unleashing hour.


Stream? I cannot stream out into the streets.


Fluoride neutered all my upright power.


I’ll litter no more dog-days in these sheets.


 


Poor pup, you play dead well. No, we’ll not lift


you up. One burp and you could well explode


across complicit shoulders. To the swift


life opens up. As for an honest road


with cars to chase, let’s first define your legs.


Right now you are a thumb. How motion begs.


 


Teratogen 4: Waterboy


 


“No, you people are drinkin’ the wrong water.”


–from The Water Boy, the movie (1998)


 


 Suffer this baby floating on the earth


amphibious. Grace alone can mend


fluidic pustules. Please make haste. No berth


so wide of God, nor time-belabored End-


 


time should deflate ascent. Prospects look grim


for god-speed. Though we tire of boils and sore


feet.


 


Oh procrastinating seraphim,


whitewash no more. These mutants wash ashore.


Our amniotic seas now euthanize.


 


Please hear, oh Lord, water-boy’s gurgled cries.


His isotopic lungs cannot advance


beyond collapse. How does he stand a chance


of reaching Heaven, waterlogged on Earth?


The New Disorder liquefies at birth.


 


Teratogen 5: Burpee Girl


 


“Satan said: ‘I am not the one to prostrate


myself to a human being, whom You created


from sounding clay of altered black smooth


mud.” –Quran 15:30-35


 


Christian soldier, you battle your mortgage


with Abd al-Chuckee puppet-strings away,


sculpted like a Mujaheedin porridge


from amber waves of O, so gamma ray.


 


Our acronym-cadavers cyphered this.


The Pentagon got wind of ill-wind skies.


Re-baseline victory. All vectors miss


these eyesores too contained to leak out cries.


 


Children, don’t play! The cradle robs the grave


before the grave has time to rob your wild


unripened stares. Uranium defiled


His altered mud. God’s breath we, breathless, waive.


 


Dead verse tomatoes horror. Who’ll baptize


the Burpee Girl with ovulating eyes?


 


Teratogen 6: Improvised Existential Denouement (IED)


 


Up close you could be anybody’s child-


care scandal. Hamburger Hill limps beside


your fresh pink meat. While no one looked, life filed


your backstroke down to blisters. They will hide


your books in study hall. Who will arrest


 


this mutant form now terrorizing cells?


Without a clear and sewn-up threat the West


cannot hold the line. Deformity spells


 


doom. No tight-knit group of key advisors


props up your bloated puppet-string regime.


Sit up. Exude malevolence. Your sores


must find themselves else war will lose its steam


 


pressed irony. Don’t make us make Big Macs.


Cater our events. Weather our attacks.


 


Teratogen 7: Baby Skeletor (Brought to You by ‘Masters of the Universe’)


 


“Skeletor’s face accidentally got splashed with acid and he sacrificed his face to


survive.” –from ‘Masters of the Universe’, a Mattel media franchise


 


Before ill-winds impinged on faultless weather,


I had a barrow glazed with rain for you.


I’d wheel you to the bus-stop, but why lever


a father’s guilt atop your unhinged glue?


 


I’m loath to hold you up for God to see,


nor shower you with blue comforts. Why not flee


my too-short arms, your wails so out of key?


You scream small monster none the least at me.


 


I’ll prop you up at school if you insist.


But stand-up kids are cruel. They will resist


the womb’s last weapon, shrunken in their midst.


The universe won’t stoop. You are the grist


for chemistry swept under bazaar rug,


a Hazmat spill, the morning-after drug.

 

This series first appeared in The New Formalist, then Cinemension. Teratogen sonnets 5 and 7 will appear in ‘The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium Friesen Press, Victoria, B.C., Canada, 2013.

 

normgarage2

 

NORMAN BALL (BA Political Science/Econ, Washington & Lee University; MBA, George Washington University) is a well-travelled Scots-American businessman, author and poet whose essays have appeared in Counterpunch, The Western Muslim and elsewhere. His new book “Between River and Rock: How I Resolved Television in Six Easy Payments” is available here. Two essay collections, “How Can We Make Your Power More Comfortable?” and “The Frantic Force” are spoken of here and here. His recent collection of poetry “Serpentrope” is published from White Violet Press. He can be reached at returntoone@hotmail.com.

 

 

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com

 robin@artvilla.com

editor@artvilla.com

 

 

http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm

http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop

www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop 


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Coral Reveries (3).Poem. Audio. Ian Irvine (Hobson)
		

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Tree of Life


Image: ‘Darwin’s Tree of Life’ [from public domain image, drawn by Darwin]


 


ThreePoems:CoralReveries. 


Ian Irvine Hobson. Audio Version.






Poems: (3.)


 


 (i.) Their Massive God


(ii.)The Noble Love of Freedom


(iii.) To Inhabit the Fields of Time


 


 Poems by Ian Irvine (Hobson), copyright all rights reserved. 


 


Please Note: many of these poems meditate upon or, in some cases rework/recombine, random phrases appearing in the 2nd edition of Charles Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle. The first edition of the work appeared in 1839. I hope I have done some justice to the natural lyricism evident in Darwin’s relaxed prose style.


 


 


Their Massive God


 


Whether I killed their God,


 one and massive.


book-tombed, with chiselled words


 on granite—his puny reign,


 mere millennia—


was not the issue.


 


Mine was the gambler’s fear, for


the mist-wrapped hull of the new


drifts only slowly into view


 contrasts with the rotting hulk of God


 (as slowly sinking).


How will they endure


this unbearable in-between?


 


 


The Noble Love of Freedom


 


In the forest, 


 with huge butterflies


that float


 among horses and men


such brilliant colours!


 – they flit


 from shade


 to sunshine


I find it dreamy


 to think of her


and ignore the granite hills


 steep and bare


 


They tell a story


 steep and bare


of runaway slaves


and the moon was dim


 (a few fireflies)


and we came upon a desert


 followed by a wasteland


 of marshes and lagoons


heard the sea’s sullen roar


 off in the distance.


 


We tethered the horses


 but they refused to settle.


 


We tethered the horses 


on a sandy plain


next morning, more salt lagoons


 and a few stunted trees.


The nights grew hot, and


 a dim moon on white sand.


 


Became aware


 (the exact moment is not recorded)


of a problem with the horses.


 


We bathed in lakes and lagoons


 traversed pastures ruined by ants’ nests


passed forests with lofty trees.


 


Every morning more horses


 bitten and infected


until one evening


 I saw it in the gloom


suctioned to a horse’s back


 a large vampire bat.


 


I found it dream-like


blatant in the gloom


(How could I ignore the granite hills?)


 


But then I saw it


suctioned to a horse’s back


 


a large vampire bat. 


 


 


To Inhabit the Fields of Time


 


The more I observe


 ‘mother nature’, the less


God I see,


the more in need of a God


(or gods)


I become. Even as I 


refuse to believe their 


broadcast baloney.


 


The idea gnaws. 


 


I came upon a parasite 


in some distant jungle— 


it gives me wild ideas, and though


 the doctors work their alchemy


I still feel ‘inhabited’. Besides


 my son in a coffin.


 


So many blind millennia—


 and still they refuse to see.


But is my vision true—


unencumbered by faith


(my daughter, my daughter)?


 


The clear and terrible beauty


 of aeons of methodical suffering.


He never did intervene. If


 he exists, he’s a patient sadist


or useless as the carnivores


of all ages, thrive and


 evolve.


***


Ian Irvine Photo


Ian Irvine is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, fiction writer and non-fiction writer. His work has featured in many Australian and international publications, including Fire (UK) ‘Anthology of 20th Century and Contemporary Poets,’ (2008) which contained the work of poets from over 60 nations.His work has also appeared in a number of Australian national poetry anthologies, and he is the author of three books and co-editor of many more (including Scintillae 2012, an anthology of work by over 50 Victorian and international writers and poets). He currently teaches writing and literature at Bendigo TAFE and Victoria University (Melbourne) and lives with fellow writer Sue King-Smith and their children on a 5 acre block near Bendigo, Australia.

 

Links related to his work are as follows:



 

http://authorsden.com/ianirvine

 

http://www.scribd.com/IanHobson

 

 

 


robin@artvilla.com

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes


 


 




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There is only love.Poem. Bhuwan Thapaliya
		

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Grasping her hands closely,

 I halt my heart

 at the edge of her lips

 and stare deeper inside

 the lava of passion

 ejecting shimmering

 volcanoes of love.

 I let myself slide

 through her hand,

 easing myself

 deeper into her core.

 With each cuddle,

 the air shakes with joy;

 the clouds of passion

 grow thicker

 – waves of mountain air

 rumble past my soul.

 A whisper

 from beneath her core

 – a rumbling moan –

 fills my ear

 and rolls across

 my soul and beyond.

 And in the tender

 air of love

 – destiny, direction,

 and time seems to

 waft away.

 There is only love,

 – two tectonic lips

 colliding as one.

 The earth shakes,

 She pulls a flower

 from my heart

 and lifts it to the sky.


 


 


Bhuwan Thapaliya works as an economist, and is the author of four poetry collections. Thapaliya’s books include the recently released Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected (Nirala Publication, New Delhi), and Our Nepal, Our Pride (Cyberwit.net). Poetry by Thapaliya has been included in The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry and Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry, as well as in literary journals such as Urhalpool, MahMag, Kritya, FOLLY, The Vallance Review, Nuvein Magazine, Foundling Review, Poetry Life and Times, Poets Against the War, Voices in Wartime, Taj Mahal Review, and more. 

 

 

Bhuwanthapaliya picture

Author

Our Nepal, Our Pride

http://www.amazon.com/Our-Nepal-Pride-Bhuwan-Thapaliya/dp/8182531152


 

 


robin@artvilla.com

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes


 


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