Voyage. VideoPoem by Antonio Martínez Arboleda

Siblings of the World:
This is Tony,
your flight assistant and prophet for today
Welcome to the end of planet earth as we know it
The big mass of the rock with water
that we inhabited for thousands of years
is now about to be transferred to another Galaxy
This is a rather perilous voyage,
but those of you who have been Good
shall be spared from any damage
What are the flying conditions for this adventure
we are about to embark upon?
Well, according to Office of Cosmical Statistics
and the weather algorithmic authority
we shall have no trouble
Please ensure that you have located
all your molecules of H2o
in the designated compartment
Above you
during this journey
You will remain seated
inside your containers
until full re-composition is successfully completed
in our lavish destination
And now
heads up!
the hologram of our savour and patron
is about to be projected
on your virtual reality glasses
Let us pray,
each of you,
whatever you want, really,
it doesn’t matter
Our Captain, is ready to take off
See you at the other end!

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 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. .

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 Paperback , Goddess 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:

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at ; You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

DARK CANZONE. A Poem by E M Schorb.

      Considerate la vostra semenza . . .

From when some wandering primate first discovered
that vocal cords had formed within its throat:
when thorax wind was blown, and it discovered
a modulation of its grunts, discovered
it had a tongue that could articulate
more subtly than it had presumed; discovered,
in fact, its ur-humanity; discovered
that it was different from monkeys, wiser,
and could communicate a plan; was wiser,
one than the other, in this gift; discovered,
in short, itself as special being, poet,
it sang in lamentation for the poet,
O felt itself the oddest ape, a poet,
and, with the weight of what it knew, discovered
the truest nature of itself as poet,
that it must bear the burden of the poet,
harsh bile of truth that rises in the throat
and burns the vocal cords of every poet.
For meaning murders innocence, the poet
learns, word by word; and to articulate
as in a grammar, to articulate
as words demand, and so to be a poet
is to be that most special being, stranger
than any other animal—but wiser?
It felt itself the strangest thing, much stranger
than any other animal—a poet—
for words had made it thuswise stranger.
But was it better being this much wiser?
What had this primate after all discovered?
Who really thinks it’s better to be wiser?
Who doesn’t know it’s sadder to be wiser?
Who envies words blown through a poet’s throat?
What poet hasn’t wished to cut its throat?
If grammar makes for meaning, is it wiser
to be a special being, to articulate
the truth words find—or not articulate?
It may be braver to articulate,
to be an animal, yet strangely wiser,
but is it wisdom to articulate
the grunts of animals, articulate
from them the existential life of poet
among the primates, to articulate—
syntactically commanded—articulate
the place in nature that we have discovered,
the death in nature that we have discovered?
Grunt one last grunt! Enough! Articulate
no more! Oh, envy nothing from the throat
of any poet! Let it cut its throat!
Oh, let the primate poet cut its throat
before it’s forced on to articulate,
by sending lamentations through its throat,
from its self-fabled heart and out its throat,
how truly sad it is to be a little wiser
than other animals that have a throat
but have no vocal cords within that throat
which they can use to make themselves a poet
who sings the lamentations of a poet,
a sadder wiser primate prophet poet,
whose ordered language has at last discovered
what happy animals have not discovered . . . .
What is it animals have not discovered,
which leaves them happier than any poet?
The ordered thought of death! It might be wiser
for nature never to articulate.



Schorb’s work has appeared in Agenda (UK), The American Scholar, The Carolina Quarterly, The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, Stand (UK), The Sewanee Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Poetry Salzburg Review (AU), The Yale Review, and Oxford Poetry (UK), among others.
His collection, Murderer’s Day, was awarded the Verna Emery Poetry Prize and published by Purdue University Press, and a subsequent collection, Time and Fevers, was the recipient of the Writer’s Digest International Self-Published Award for Poetry and also an Eric Hoffer Award.
Most recently, his novel R&R a Sex Comedy was awarded the Beverly Hills Book Award for Humor.




Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at ; You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

For Gregory Corso & poems by Joe Sonnenblick


For Gregory Corso

Dying in the town whorehouse in the old west would’ve been a dream,
No gunshots
No lawmen
Just natural causes.
I’d feel for my horse though
Hoping someone would’ve told her that it was quick,
Out of courtesy.


Spitting into The Wind

There’s a door I know that remains jammed,
It is a pathway with blood spatters
A portal to felonious aggravation
To know this vestibule is to have lived years,
With wounds continually allowed momentary respite
Just to be operated on in jest..
You have no recourse but to build a house around the door
Adjacent to the house you’ll construct a forest,
You’ve survived all these years and have handpicked the one to see this door rejiggered,
Be made into something of value, import, and catharsis
Always getting to the future tense while sitting down and loaded,
Understanding full well that the door will never be open,

That there is no mystery
You’ve just run into another one of us.



Complete Terms And Conditions

I thought on the air I breathed in,
My lungs taking it, and expelling out
The variations of light in my iris, and the feeling of bereavement
Not on loss, but on my own vindictiveness
My own ledger full of the profit and leisure
Hand scribed so there are no tall tales.

The kitchen is cobalt blue
Sinking into the ochre chair
Believing in goldenrod traumas,

I will destroy every town
Every friendship
Every understanding,
Just to not let you know my side of the story
That is how you walk out of a place,
With vigor.

Joe Sonnenblick is a Native New Yorker who was a regular contributor to the now defunct Citizen Brooklyn magazine. Joe has been featured in publications such as In Parentheses for their 6th volume of poetry and The Academy Of The Heart And Mind, and Impspire Literary Review, The Bond Street Review Upcoming publications include: Aji for the Spring 2021 issue, and Ethel for the June/July 2021 issue. He can be at Instagram @JS_Livingpoetrymovement
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at ; You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)


Hidden Pain & Before. 2 Poems by Laura Stamps

Hidden Pain
She sleeps in a tree, the tallest tree
she can find in this dark forest.
Here she feels safe, this place
where she no longer has to smile
and pretend the last three years never happened,
years of chronic trauma caused
by four men, narcissists, who abandoned her
as collateral damage.
How did it feel? Like terrorists
had blown up her life. No time
to grieve. No time to heal.
Too much to do. Too much to clean up.
Yet none of those men apologized.
And one had the nerve to say,
I’m sorry about what I did to you,
but you’re strong. I knew
you’d land on your feet.

Was that the best he could do?
Well, at least now she knew
narcissists are just terrorists in disguise.
I couldn’t tell anyone, she whispered
to the tree. There was no time.
I had to repair the damage. Be strong.
Be strong.
Be strong.
No one knew what had happened.
What it did to me. What they did to me.
No one knew. I should have told someone.
But I didn’t.

Now she spends her nights with a tree.
Two kindred spirits.
Its branches lifted high. Her arms raised.
Both of them reaching for the sky,
as if they might drown. But only
one of them knows
she’s sinking.
Before her life blew sky-high
she had goals, dreams, hope, and a future.
A bright one. Her future.
But that was before four men
entered her world with their drama, mistakes,
destruction, and left her behind
to fix the damage.
In the midst of this, her future vanished.
It’s not that the future looked bleak.
It just wasn’t there anymore.
She couldn’t see it. No dreams,
no goals, no hope. No future.
Her future.
All that remained was a vast blank
space that used to be called FUTURE.
Every day she felt herself slipping, sinking,
deeper into that void. Its emptiness plagued her.
Its hopelessness. It haunted her.
And it hurt.
More than she ever imagined.
Where is the woman who eagerly achieved
her goals, chased her dreams, hoped
in a sunny future?
She vanished, too. Gone.
Go back!
Go back to before.
Before those men. Before their damage.
Go back! Look at the future before.
What nourished her hope? Before, before.
Go back!
What were her goals? What were her dreams?
Pursue them again. Go back!
What were the things that gave her joy before?
Do them again. And again.
And again.
Go back! Go back to before. The future
waits. To begin, to begin.
Maybe then they can be friends again.

BIO: Laura Stamps is a poet and the author of several chapbooks, including IN THE GARDEN and TUNING OUT. Her poetry book THE YEAR OF THE CAT was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize (2005). She is also the recipient of seven Pushcart Prize nominations. Currently, Laura is working on a new chapbook of poems about PTSD and chronic trauma. You can find her & on Twitter at @LauraStamps16.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at ; You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)


Peter Mladinic’s Schaeffer Poems

Schaeffer Is Next
The next vape, the next corner
To turn, the next day, he drove
To Maidenrock. It was a Saturday.
Schaeffer thinks of the adjective,
Then, next, please, please added
To soften the blow that one is next,
Whether one likes it or not. Schaeffer
Thinks, I’m next. He thinks:
The next vampire film, the next
Trip to Walmart, the next bite
Of the apple, the next diver
To leap from the plane and pull
The parachute string to soften the fall.
Don’t sit under the apple tree
With anyone else but Kim Kardashian West
Don’t sit under the apple tree
With anyone but Derek Jeter
With anyone but Taylor Swift
With anyone but a descendent of Clyde
Barrow, with anyone whose surname
Is Lake
Don’t do it, don’t sit there with
Casey Anthony, Susan Smith
Or Charles Manson
The next vape, the next hero
The next vampire, the next banquet
The next moment, who knows
Anything might happen:
A river might flood,
A tree might catch on fire.
There’s the Rita H angle
How she was glamorous in her voice
Her eyes, her long wavy red hair
Her spangled dress that hugged her hips
Glamorous in her walk in how she moved
Back and forth on stage
Under the spotlight in Gilda.
Then, spin the wheel of time forward,
Say, twenty years and find her
Alone in a room. Dementia
Has taken over.
She is cared for, incontinent
Can’t wipe herself or wash her
Once lovely hair. Oh,
The waking nightmare bird
Perches on her shoulder
That was once bare and aflame
With lust, all of her.
Schaeffer’s Notion of Beauty
Bombs turn a building to rubble,
rescuers find
an arm, a leg.
In a mall a maniac fires a rifle,
leaving in his wake
dead children.
Hate manifestos
all over the Internet,
in the world there is danger:
a racist shoots Satyajit Chandra
at a bus stop
and nothing is done.
Still, even now, beauty
is with us.
Shaeffer Wonders
This accident from 1965 astonishes
Schaeffer. He writes: I was far away,
but I can see the broad boulevard,
the side streets of my hometown,
and can imagine the Davis car
blows thoughtless through the Stop
and slams the rear of the Edwards car
so that car spins a quick whirlwind
on this Sunday night of light traffic.
The lethal turbulence in this time
before seatbelts flings rag doll-like
Mr Edwards from behind the wheel
out to the street, his head dashes
the curb, instant dead. Mr Edwards’
going from his house to Lucille
Desaderio’s split-second stopped
on the boulevard, that two mile drive
disrupted with Lucille who sat close
between Mr Edwards and Chris
his son, both passengers still there
in the gold sedan’s front bench.
The sedan’s spinning stilled,
the turbulence quieted, still as death
that intersection. I can hear sirens,
see two patrol cars on the scene,
a yellow ambulance’s red top whirls
in the still night, a badge, his back
to the ambulance, jots with a pen
in a pad. The ambulance’s back door
open, the sheeted dead lifted in
and wonder if Lucille that night wore
shorts, sandals, a thin gold cross
on a chain and at what hour Lucille
unhooked that chain’s clasp and
wonder if a red white Marlboro box
fell from dash to floorboard, Chris’s
cigarettes. Did he reach for one
and with a Zippo light it? Its orange tip
in the dark glows as the badge jots
with a ballpoint and the ambulance
siren sounding leaves the boulevard
and Lucille and Chris leave, and John
Davis, the other driver. I remember
Mr Edwards dove perfectly off a high
board, arrow-straight down into a pool
of blue water rippled with sun rings.
Iron-gray hair, tall and straight, at 47
still athletic, he walks out a door
with car keys in hand, that night.

Peter Mladinic has published three books of poems: Lost in Lea, Dressed for Winter, and Falling Awake in Lovington, all with the Lea County Museum Press. He lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at ; You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)


SHEOL, SHEOL… A Poem by Alisa Velaj Translated by Arben P. Latifi

[A gender-free lament in plural]

Songs sung to our lands. 
Songs of sorrow, screams, or sheer satisfaction, 
sung on our doorsteps.
Songs sung in foreign lands.
To those distant lands. 
Songs sung on doorsteps to those foreign lands, 
or songs of foreign lands on our doorsteps. 
(Everyone will, at some point, live a mental exile)
Songs, songs, songs—endlessly; 
after endlessness, yet another endlessness, 
with different songs, 
even though still with the same screams...
Nobody even thinks of migrating 
away from your catacombs, Sheol... 
Nor away from your songs, either!
*Sheol -the abode of the dead in early Hebrew thought.
Translated from Albanian by Arben P. Latifi

Alisa Velaj has been shortlisted for the annual international Erbacce-Press Poetry Award in UK in
June 2014. 

Her works have appeared in more than eighty print and online international magazines, including: 
FourW twentyfive Anthology (Australia), The Journal (UK), The Dallas Review (USA), 
The Linnet's Wings (UK),The Seventh Quarry (UK), Envoi Magazine (UK) etc., etc., 

Velaj's digital chapbook "The Wind Foundations" translated by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj is published 
by Zany Zygote Review (USA). 

Her poems are also translated in Hebrew, Swedish, Romanian, French and Portuguese. 
Alisa Velaj’s poetry book "With No Sweat At All" (trans by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj) was published 
by Cervena Barva Press in 2019.

Bio of translator

Arben P. Latifi ̶ born in 1961 in Kolonjë, Albania. A graduate of the History-Philology College, State University of Tirana [1985]; MA degree in English Language Arts & Teaching [Graduation thesis: “A Comparative Analysis of the Albanian Translations of “King Lear” and “Richard III” by Skënder Luarasi.”]Postgraduate studies in Diplomacy and International Trade [1987-88]. Teaching career comprises a wide range of locations [Albania, USA, Oman, China] and age groups [from young learners to adults]. Keen to the core principles of the art of translating and poetryspecifics, his distinct style reflects maximum-level accuracy and faithfulness to the original text message, while flexibly and reasonably going the extra mile to add to original merits via enhancement of cohesive interlingual flow, imagery, vocabulary, musicality…

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at ; You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)


The Cold Sunset. A Prose Poem by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

It’s been two days that no bird
has been in the sky, the dooryard
so quiet except for the sound of an
acorn just fallen from the oak tree;
my neighbor so empty-headed she
doesn’t believe a word the scientists
say; this day in 2020 she’d rather
put her faith in what that louse has
to say. She sees him as an ornament,
something full and bright, she doesn’t
see under the surface like me and so
many other people do. I fear the worst,
smell the smoke rising of a growing
civil war or revolution having wound
their way around my head and squeezed
themselves inside. My oldest daughter
doesn’t like it either; this morning she
woke up with sleep marks creasing the
side of her face. And I hate what I just
learned on the radio; I bang my head
on a book trying to dislodge yesterday’s
memory. I stand there outside my home
all by myself staring at the cold sunset
above me with hardly a friend because
I like to speak my mind. No one wants
to listen to me except for my father,
the smartest person I know. I’m no
Nostradamus, but the predictions I’ve
made over the years have always rung

Bobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry has appeared
in a wide variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, The Wayfarer, Helix Magazine, Miller’s Pond, The Tau, Vita Brevis, Cascadia Rising Review, Old Red Kimono, and Woods Reader. Her books of poetry are available at and her work has been nominated for Best of the Net Anthology in 2015, 2018, and 2020 as well has having been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2020. Her website is located at
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at ; You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)


Dead Beat Dad & More Poems by Brian Rihlmann

Deadbeat Dad
my poems are my children
and I’m their deadbeat dad—
I create them, love them,
nurture them for a little while
a few hours…a day…
sometimes a week
if that’s what it takes
until I feel they’re ready
or I’m just tired of them
then I boot them out
I open the door and say—
you’ve gotten all I have to give
so go on now
you’re free
get out there and live
go see what they’ll make of you
just don’t expect too much
sometimes they don’t want to go
they look back at me
from the front steps
they plead with their eyes
and their sad little faces
but I set mine to stone
and shut the door
like any parent
of course it pains me to know
they may be mocked
or laughed at
or misunderstood
they may wind up
rotting in dumpsters
or abandoned in dark
and dusty corners
but there’s always the possibility
of being found by someone
who needs them
someone who hears
what they have to say
and that’s the best
a deadbeat dad like me
can hope for
One Day Much Too Soon
she walks unsteadily as a toddler
and trembles as though terrified
always a nurse by her side
I’ve watched her come and go
from the house next door
diminutive and middle-aged
with pageboy hair and thick glasses
but I haven’t seen her
since the ambulance came that day
and I haven’t heard
the unearthly sound she makes
halfway between a laugh and a cry
I never knew which
maybe she didn’t either
but now as I stand outside, listening…
the absence and the silence
reminds me of all we get used to
and all the strangeness we’ll miss
one day much too soon
One Hand On Her Ass
If a young man
ever sought my advice
I’d tell him this—
don’t kick yourself too much
not over the times
you stumble and fall
not over the time
you think you’ve wasted
lying there
until you’re able to get
on your feet again
and not over all the people
you believe you’ve let down
because the world
couldn’t possibly go on
without you, right?
don’t kick yourself
for any of it
in fact make a habit
of not kicking yourself—
life’s a cranky old mare
she’ll kick you plenty
stomp you when you’re down
she doesn’t need
any of your help
oh—and if you have to walk
behind her
keep one hand
on her ass
and stay as close
as you possibly can


Brian Rihlmann:
Brian Rihlmann lives and writes in Reno, Nevada. His poetry has appeared in many magazines, including The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and The Main Street Rag. His latest collection, “Night At My Throat,” (2020) was published by Pony One Dog Press.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, 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 Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)