Press Release. Key of Mist. A New Volume of Poems Translated from Spanish

Madrid, 1965. 
She has written the following books of poetry: El libro de Lilit (1995), La llave de niebla (2003), Mapas de cera (2006) and Hotel para erizos (2010).
She has been translated into French in the book Métier de crhysalide (translation by Drothèe Suarez and Juliette Gheerbrant (2010) and into Italian, in the volume Mestiere senza crisalide (translation by Raffaella Marzano (2015). She made the selection and translation of La aldea de sal (2009), an anthology of Brazilian poet Lêdo Ivo, together with poet Juan Carlos Mestre.
Her creative work extends to the territory of photography and visual poetry.

Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at, & Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk & Key of Mist, a translation from Spanish of the poems by the Spanish poetess Guadalupe Grande, both are published by and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..

Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

A madman dreams of being reborn as a flower. A Poem by Anurag Verma.


The days were passing like
random herds of pigs
passing into the butchering machine,
killed, proceed and taken out in a basket
only to make space for the next pig.
Those days madhouses were filled with
people with wisdom and
some of the dim people
were there in schools
colleges, offices;
teaching people things
which were of
as much importance to them
as Michael Jackson
to white bears of the north pole.
One young man in the madhouse escaped
and started running naked on a crowded street.
Not a single person
took any notice of him
and he raided the wine shops,
kissed and burnt all the bras,
clothes, shoes, creams, flowers and sunglasses
which were out on display, for sale.
He drank himself into oblivion,
laughed hard at everyone
and started jumping with joy,
while his head burst
in an explosion of this sudden joy
but instead of blood streams,
few butterflies came out of his head
flying randomly and sitting on the
beautiful girls wearing
cream colored skirts
with red nail paint on their toe.
While he was lying on the street,
with his head open like
a small roof top restaurant,
he shouted with joy,
“in this life,
I murdered my days
like stray cockroaches,
but, next time let me be born
like flowers which shine,
fresh and bright,
everyday with
the light of
yellow sunshine.
Short bio
I have done my Masters in Arts and Aesthetics from Jawaharlal University ( JNU , Delhi ) , India . I completed the Filmmaking course FTII, Pune, one of the most reputed film school in Asia. . In past I has assisted experimental filmmakers .Some of my have been shown to various film festival across the world.
I have a deep interest in poetry writing/reading . Mundaneness of life and finding the sense of humour in tragedy is something which interests me and is something which I try to reflect in writing. Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

All the Babble of the Souk. Antonio Martínez Arboleda ~ Reinventing


Before I provide my views about All the Babble of the Souk (Aquillrelle, 2015), I must declare my admiration for its author, Robin Ouzman Hislop. He is a person of great intellect, determination and generosity, a combination of traits that is unfortunately not so common in our world. In his work as an editor Robin promotes literary quality and innovation whilst helping hundreds of artists to feel and become part of a global community of equals which expands through Poetry Life and Times. He has demonstrated his commitment to grassroots, popular and digital poetry by supporting Transforming with Poetry and Poesía Indignada, two of the platforms I run. Knowing him personally makes this review a pleasant experience. I think the reader is entitled to be aware of the subjectivity of my views and I wish people were more open about declaring all the reasons informing their personal preferences when they write about other’s work. Our “professional” world is polluted by a false duty of objectivity which often takes away the most valuable information one can provide about the work of someone else: the human qualities of the author.
In his work All the Babble of the Souk, Robin takes us through a fascinating journey into the painful complexities, and the beauty, of the universe, with a very honest, informed and uncompromising cosmovision. Robin’s poems are enlivened with very opportune geographical, physical, scientific and human ingredients, including what seems to be autobiographical references. These are also the stepping stones for Robin’s insightfully critique of our constructed social reality and our species. But make no mistakes: the reader will not find a political programme in the poetry of Hislop. Instead, he offers an impressionistic yet refined understanding of what is wrong, and what is right, with humanity: we humans are an indistinguishable and intertwined part of the matter that surrounds us. We are as immense as the galaxies we dream with, as little as the atoms that sustain us and as problematic as the viruses who kill us. We struggle in our lives with the symmetries and asymmetries that underpin nature and the universe.
Robin’s work is an invitation to discover the necessity and expressive value of sometimes relatively uncommon words that reveal the richness of the world he encounters. Words for him are the commotion of the intellect, a statement of fiery consciousness where signifier and signified can often melt. But the reader should not be afraid of this. The poems are very enjoyable and thought-provoking, even if one feels inclined to consult the dictionary now and then. The use of occasional rhymes and repetitions or the combination of monosyllables in some poems is very effective. With no exception along the whole book, the pace of Robin’s prosody is light and elegant like the walk of a playful Arab horse.
Overall, a very recommended read. Thank you for your poetry, Robin!

tony republic
Tony Martin-Woods started to write poetry in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada (Transforming with Poetry), an online publication of political poetry that he edits. Tony is a political and artistic activist who explores the digital component of our lives as a means to support critical human empowerment. He is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his non-literary name. He writes in English and Spanish and has published his first volume of poetry Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess) 2016. Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

The Cultivated Ones. A Poem by Janet P. Caldwell.


Editor’s Note: Janet recently deceased Sept.27th 2016. Writer/Editor/Poet she was a good friend & will be greatly missed
The pampered roses are are all bred
much like step-ford wives to look alike.
From seedling to flowering
with abundant care, they do survive.
The gardener making sure they lay in measured mulch
are properly watered, holding the moisture
to prevent unwanted weeds from drinking and growing.
Halting the choking of a prized dressing of a cultivated lawn.
Unaware they are slaves to man’s idea of beauty
and never serving themselves.
Now, look at the daisy, some say she’s ugly,
just a wild, uncultured weed.
I say she’s a beauty, bending with the wind
growing sturdy through arid ground, so wild and free.
She’s the clever one, she’s cast off conformity.
Janet P. Caldwell December 16, 2015
Janet P. Caldwell is an American poet from the USA. Her books are available on her website, (see below) Amazon and Inner Child Press. Janet says the poem is about many things, racism, politics, rebellion and not being “the good little soldier or carbon copy of the uninformed” that she was supposed to be. Once a poem is in the world, it belongs to the reader for interpretation. Please enjoy.
“our words change the world”
Janet Caldwell Web-site, Books and Poetry Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

The Daddy Poem Series (i.-vii.) by Janet P. Caldwell.


Editor’s Note: Janet recently deceased Sept.27th 2016. Writer/Editor/Poet she was a good friend & will be greatly missed
Janet P. Caldwell is currently the COO of Inner Child, ltd., Humanitarian, Reiki Master, Poet, Published Author, 5 degrees to separation, Passages and Dancing Toward the Light . . . The Journey Continues, many anthologies, magazines and more. To read more of Janet’s work please visit the links below.
5 degrees to separation
I learned to count early
Read the bible too
Wrath, punishment
Seemed no absolution
Separate at five
In the morning
When I was defiled
Five screams a minute
Five shiny points from
The glass shards
Five fingers, to check off
As I calculate
In five minutes I’m clean
and new
Separated by five degrees
Five from what I don’t want
To remember, anything green
Black or brown
Make it easier
Five letters/numbers are my friends
The ceiling fan;
Wood, glass, white, brown, brass
Another set of quints
A quick escape
When I should need one
My rabbit hole with
Back-doors aplenty
Five senses all shut down
I’ve got good and can count
Before what might happen
Safe in numbers, hidden
When I separate from myself.
©2001-2014 Janet Caldwell
Weep for the Child that Never Was
Tears fall down my face
for a child with no name
A child filled with anguish
suffering disgrace.
How could they have lied
and treated her so
Why didn’t they love her
just let her go?
Buy her new clothes
fill her with song
Mess her up more
you can’t be wrong!
She grew up with walls
forever all around
The music you played
she couldn’t hear a sound.
You look at her now
with disgust in your eyes
You can’t see her though
she wears a disguise.
Hand-made by you
so carefully sewn
With coagulated drops
all her own.
You thought that you knew her
but there’s no way that you could
She’s not what you think
behind the mask stained with blood.
© Janet Caldwell 2001 – 2014
Daddy # 2
I Remember him
Glassy blue eyes
Fingertips brown
Black greasy hair
Forehead high
Child killer
Sick bastard
I Remember me
Scuttling like a rat
Running from a cat
Scattering across the tile
Like a roach on fire
When the lights came on
Better scatter, Daddy’s home!
I Remember (séances)
Straddling his head
The Shoulders so high
Calling up the dead
Peering in the sky
Let the dead arise
It’ll stop Daddy’s cries.
I Remember Abuse
Dancing to the belt
That beat me blue
Decorated with welts
Daddy, I Remember You
© Janet P. Caldwell 2003 -2014
Child’s Lament
I assume you’d say that I’m
As beautiful as I was when I was six.
I think … (I’m jinxed)
Mother Dear, what do you think of me now?
I really must know… I’m lost.
Did I say that I miss you?
I’m sorry if I haven’t.
I feel like Anne. Always have.
Did my beauty transpire when, I cooked your
Supper? Was I special when
Your sick fuck of a husband
Molested me? Made it easy for you,
well, answer me?
(If only in my mind, for my mind, I’m losing my mind . . . again)
Tell me, Mother, I want
To understand. (Significance?)
Myself, a wisp of value
I don’t have far to go.
It’s an indistinct trail, but
I try. Just explain it, please.
I forgive you.
And I will
I promise.
All the way to the grave.
Can you help me now???
©2002 – 2014 Janet Caldwell
Sugar & Spice
Hey, Pom Pom girl, swingy
Red and blue, shake it
Shake it, cheer so loud
Until the acid bleeds your throat
Green eyes glaze and glisten
Smiling through the bile
You pretty little thing
For everyone to see, but
If they only knew, and could
See the scars beneath
The make-up, the crafted image
They wouldn’t be jealous
Now would they Blondie
Surely not of you?
You’re all grown now
If you believe a calendar
Hiding in a house, in plain
Sight, an icon for everything nice
And all that spice, so spice that nice
But tell me, what the
Hell happened to you?
A funny thing, frequent
Thoughts of suicide
A whispered middle-aged craze
Still hip, staying in style
You’re still pretty, my silly girl
Even with your head
Crammed in the toilet bowl
When did it stop being easy to cheer?
As you count the vomit chunks
Regurgitate love, empty
Your soiled soul.
Feeling better now?
No, I didn’t think you would
How about a pill? You know
That you can’t drink
Too many calories to consume
Remember? Pissing in the sink
I’ve been around, seen
Everything you’ve done
The things that you can’t handle
I saw you scrub and scrub.
Wipe at the dingy stains
From his dirty love, that stench
Perfume won’t hide.
You had to find a way
To survive the attentions
Of an unconvicted felon
That uncircumcised bastard
Who brought dinner home
You do it still you know
Those little tricks and games
Recount the vomit chunks
Hurry, hurry, hurry
That filthy secret’s visible
Flush, flush, flush!!!!!!
Tidily out of sight, out of mind
Your filth is in the sewer
A safe-deposit box
For unwanted truths
So you can facade the day
© Janet Caldwell 2002-2014
Father Figure
When Daddy bellowed, I couldn’t hear.
The octaves were past my recognition,
decibels too strong for understanding,
all finer points disappeared.
I recall being tired, taking care of the family.
I was ten and close to breaking, didn’t
need his yelling, or the strap that cut. It’ll
be over soon, bleed girl, just bleed.
I was fortunate, so very cared for in
public, what was my problem?
“Nothing, nothing”, I said, needing to
show deference, defiance and not dread.
The piss in my bladder burned, needing release.
I reached for the gun, shoved it in my mouth.
The taste of oiled metal gagged me. Why
should I suffer? Twisted the way shit can work.
It’s him, the hateful bastard needs to go
Going once, going twice.
Gone, I peed. Release.
Janet Caldwell 2001-2014
First Haircut
With her thin lips
she kissed Daddy
good morning.
She hated the sight,
the stale smell of him
and abhorred the facade.
Madness surrounded those
at 223 Deepwood Drive;
residential death.
At seven her mother was
working. Daddy had to get
the girl ready for school.
Cursing, he broke a comb,
trying to get it through
her waist length hair.
With a movement
that would startle the
Daddy grabbed a butcher
knife and ambled over to
her chair.
She faced the wall, lined up the tiles,
attempting purple dreams.
Throttled screams, burgeoning walls
she could direct into tile accounting.
She closed her eyes tight now,
continued keeping ceramic book,
and waited.
Terror filled like before,
would he kill her
or beat her this time?
Her mind raced and flashed
to past images.
When spittle flecked her face,
welts and blood
decorated her ass.
An old waltz…
A dance that never ended pleasantly.
Grabbing her blond swirls in his nicotine
He muttered and sawed her spirit,
and hair, up to
Janet’s tiny neck.
Her tresses had been one of the few things
she liked about herself. The hair
once wrapped around her like satin
It made her feel safe at 3AM.
Count girl count. (1-2-3-4-5…)
Another piece of the child died,
piled on the kitchen floor.
Janet Caldwell 2001-2014
janet caldwell (i)

Janet P. Caldwell Bio
Janet wrote her first poems and short stories in an old diary where she noted her daily thoughts. She wrote whether suffering, joyful or hoping for peace in the world. She started this process at the tender age of Eight. This was long before journaling was in vogue. Along with her thoughts, poetry and stories, she drew what she refers to as Hippie flowers. Janet still to this day embraces the Sixties and Seventies flower power symbol, of peace and love, which are a very important part of her consciousness.
Janet wrote her first book, in those unassuming diaries, never to be seen by the light of day due to an unfortunate house fire. This did not deter her drive. She then opted for a new batch of composition journals and filled everyone. In the early nineteen-eighties, Janet held a byline in a small newspaper in Denton, Texas while working full time, being a Mother and attending Night School.
Since the early days Janet has been published in newspapers, magazines, and books globally. She also has enjoyed being the feature on numerous occasions, both in Magazines, Radio and on Several Web Sites. She has gone on to publish three books. 5 degrees to separation 2003, Passages 2012 and her latest book Dancing Toward the Light . . . the journey continues 2013. She is currently editing her 4th book, written and to be published 2014. All of her Books are available through Inner Child Press along with Fine Book Stores Globally.
Janet P. Caldwell is also the Chief Operating Officer of Inner Child, which includes Inner Child’s Ning Social Site, Inner Child Newspaper, Inner Child Magazine, Inner Child Radio and The Inner Child Press Publishing Company
To find out more about Janet, you may visit her web-site, Face-book Fan Page and her Author page at Inner Child Press. Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk