Catherine Chandler (1950 ― ), an American-born Canadian poet, teacher and translator and graduate of McGill University, is winner of the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award 2010, and nominee for six Pushcart Prizes, the Griffin Poetry Prize and the 2013 Poets’ Prize. She is the author of five books of poetry, the latest, Glad and Sorry Seasons, forthcoming from Biblioasis Press. Her poems, translations, essays, reviews, interviews and podcasts have been widely published in print and online books, journals and anthologies, including The Alabama Literary Review, Orbis, Quadrant, Iambs and Trochees, Measure, Able Muse, Raintown Review, Sonnetto Poesia and The Centrifugal Eye. Catherine writes sonnets because it is her way of trying, as she writes in her sonnet “Sonnet Love”, “to modulate unmanageable grief”. Her website, The Wonderful Boat, welcomes visitors at cathychandler.blogspot.com
“Coming to Terms” by Catherine Chandler, is the winner of the 2010 Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award. It now 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.
Some 300 sonnets and ghazals in English, French, Spanish,German and Farsi―publish at Friesen Press. Canada 2014. ISBN: Hard-cover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 eBook: 978-1-4602-1702-3. Available at Amazon & Barnes & Noble
We urge readers of these sonnets in Poetry Life & Times from The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant deses cendes to visit the site http://vallance22.hpage.com/
Readers may also contact Richard Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at: firstname.lastname@example.org for further information.
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.
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
Bold fireworks splashed against a blackened skyFlared 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.
Candice James was born in New Westminster, BC and is a poet, artist, musician, and
She is currently serving her second three year term as Poet Laureate of the City of
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”
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
Sometimes I can’t be arsed with poetryand syllables that crash when they should dancelike marionettes pulled by industryor inspiration due to muse or chance.And what’s the point of words however good?Does anyone read them and fall in loveor 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 thinkmyself a man moved more by luck than verseor 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 SeddonDavid 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.
7The Dusk Casts ShadowsThe 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 arcson 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.”
“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 mooncasts light upon the ice-pocked sea, where starsare cast in bituminous black, in tunewith Ages Past. Titanic flat-out scarsthe glassy sea her raking bowsprit cleaves:her splashing wake’s so cold her passengers must flee the promenades the starlight leavesin livid darkness.... where nothing stirs,and nothing stays the artificial breezethat snakes along the hull, and takes its pulseon brittle rivets, frozen; so they seizeupon 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.
“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
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.
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.
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 email@example.com.
Jim Dunlap’s poetry has been published extensively in print and online in the United States, England, France, India, Australia, Switzerland and New Zealand. His work has appeared in over 90 publications, including Potpourri, Candelabrum, Mobius, Poems Niedernasse, and the Paris/Atlantic. He was the co-editor of Sonnetto Poesia and is currently a Content Admin for Poetry Life & Times. www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes He is also the chief proofreader for the On Viewless Wings Anthologies, published out of Queensland, Australia. In the past, he was a resident poet on Poetry Life & Times and the newsletter editor for seven years with the Des Moines Area Writers’ Network.
These cloudless nights, the sky becomes a wheel where suns revolve around an axle star … Look there, and choose. Decide which moon is yours. Sink Lethe-ward, held only by a heel.
Advantage. Disadvantage. Who can tell? To see is not to know, but you can feel the tug sometimes: the gravity, the shell as lustrous as damp pearl. You sink, you reel
toward some draining revelation. Air: too thin to grasp, to breath. Such pressure. Gasp. The stars invert, electric, everywhere. And so we fall, down-tumbling through night’s fissure:
two beings pale, intent to fall forever around each other—fumbling at love’s tether … now separate, now distant, now together.
Originally published by Sonnet Scroll
Michael R. Burch’s poems, translations, essays, articles and letters have appeared more than 2,000 times in publications which include TIME, USA Today, Writer’s Digest and hundreds of literary journals and websites. His poetry has been translated into Arabic, Czech, Farsi, Gjuha Shqipe, Italian, Macedonian, Russian, Turkish and Vietnamese. He also edits www.thehypertexts.com.