Robin Hislop Reads at University of Leeds His Poetry and Translations. Video Performance.

This video recording was made at University of Leeds on October 10th. 2017, it was introduced and presented by  Antonio_Martínez_Arboleda Principal Teaching Fellow in Spanish and poet.

The initial image can be enlarged to full screen size. The texts and accompanying images can be easily toggled to place according to requirements.

Below the video also is a link that gives a report and interpretation of the performance by students who attended.

The report is live at http://www.leeds.ac.uk/arts/news/article/5108/2nd_cts_professionalisation_talk_2017-18_international_writers_at_leeds

Press Release The Poetic Bond V11 (2017)

PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE
THE POETIC BOND VII

ISBN-13: 978-1978098039, ISBN-10: 1978098030
Publication Date 17 NOV 17

The seventh, annual, international poetry anthology in
The Poetic Bond Series. 112 poems by 50 poets from 17 countries, drawn from new media, professional and social networking, giving a snapshot of 2017 which could be said to capture the zeitgeist of contemporary poetry

Comments on The Poetic Bond Series
“The poetry that fills this book is moving, deep and affirming … A beautiful publication that will rest on top of my favorite books of poetry.”
Nicholas Chiarkas (WI, USA)
“I am very impressed with much of the excellently crafted writing”
Robin Hislop (UK, artvilla.com)

Biographies of the Poets of the year’s anthology available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com/Meetthepoets2017.htm

Pre-order your copy for a 33% discount for £9.99 or $11.99 (RRP £14.99/$17.99) at www.thepoeticbond.com

All poets included in the anthology are now voting for
THE POETIC BOND CHOICE POETS’ CHOICE AWARDS 2017
Poets, this year, get to vote for the three poems in the anthology which they find most engage and inspire them. The poems that win the most votes, in a 1-2-3 preferential voting system, will receive an award of $25. So, TO BE CLEAR, for 2017, The Poets of The Poetic Bond VII will select The Poetic Bond Poets’ Choice Award Winners for 2017.

Full details below and available at www.thepoeticbond.com
Editors’ Notes

1. Press contact Trevor Maynard at poetry@trevormaynard.com on 0 44 7966 079968 or by snail mail at Willowdown Books, 105 Crockford Park Road, Addletone, Surrey, UK, KT 15 2LP

2. The Poets of The Poetic Bond VII (2017) are Amber Jimenez-Flores (US)/ Annel Bell Martin (US)/ April Fallon (US)/ Belinda DuPret (UK) Betty Bleen (US) / Melissa Bird (UK)/ Diane Burrow (UK) / Christine Anderes (US) / Cigeng Zhang (China) / Chris Maynard (UK) / Darrell Wright (US) / Deborah Nyamekye (Ghana) / Denisa Parsons (US) Elaine Battersby (UK)/ Fiona Sullivan (UK) / Bonnie J. Flach (US) / Flavia Cosma (Canada) Gil Franke (US) / Kelli Gunn (Canada) / Pamela Hope (US) / Jane Johann (US) Joseph Simmons US) / Joseph Sinclair (UK) / Karen Henneberry (Canada) / Karen Nurenberg-Rothstein (US) / Kayla Matheson (US) Sajida Khan (UK) / Lee Landau (US) / Lexene Burns (Australia) / Madeline Lipton (US) Lizzie La Pool (UK) / Tatjana Lončarec (Croatia) / Low Kwai Chee (Malaysia)/ Marcia Weber (UK) Mariangela Canzi (Italy) / Marie Youssefirad (US) / Mustofa Munir (US) / Nancy Scott (US) Pedro Cunha (Portugal) / Richard Glen Smith (US) / Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK/Spain) / Suzanne Askham (UK) / Nana Tokatli (Greece) / Tom Sterner (US)/ Trevir Maynard (UK) / Vensa Adriana Arsenic (US) Brian Walker (UK)/ William DiBenedetto (US) / Vi De Vries (Friesian/Canada) / Lynne Zotalis (US)

3. All poems selected for publication will be automatically be put forward for The Poetic Bond Poets’ Choice Award, which will consist of three prizes of $25 for winning poems. The award winners will be chosen by a process preferential voting by the poets who will have been selected for publication in The Poetic Bond VII. Neither the editor, nor anyone connected with the production of The Poetic Bond Series, will have any input into the selection of award winners. The Award Winners will be announced after publication. Further details available at www.thepoeticbond.com

4. Trevor Maynard, UK based poet, writer and editor. He is owner/manager of Poetry, Review and Discuss Group, a major poetry group on LinkedIn. His new poetry collection is GREY SUN, DARK MOON was published September 14 2015. He is also the author of several plays. Further information at http://www.trevormaynard.com

5. Making a Poetic Bond – the ethos behind putting together the anthology
The process of selecting poems for publishing The Poetic Bond series is unlike any other in that there is no set plan as to what will be published. It depends on the themes which emerge from the pool of work submitted, or to put it another way, the poetic energy which comes together at this certain time and place. Where themes emerge, patterns of energy harmonize, form bonds, connections, and these in turn lead to interconnected chapters, and the creation of a holistic volume, deeply connected with humanity, nature, and the universe.

PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE

 

Amazon.com Author Robin Ouzman Hislop
Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop

Hislop’s Cartoon Molecules Collected Poems Reviewed by EM Schorb

Cartoon Molecules is divided into six stoas, or porticos where, safe from the inclement weather of the outer world, the poet, thinking cap on, can walk like the peripatetic philosophers of ancient Greece, his readers following him about, absorbing the wisdom he is imparting, and occasionally, though sometimes without full comprehension, repeating it like rhapsodes. In short, the organization of the book invites one in, each stoa like a carnival tent, magical and intriguing to the starry-eyed reader. One pulls a flap and wonders, “What’s in here?” and is never disappointed. But at the same time. the ultimate subject of Mister Hislop’s extraordinary book is so large, so kaleidoscopic, that, in this reader’s opinion, to do it justice requires much more than a review. Like Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, it should have a skeleton key (as by Campbell and Robinson); like the universe, it should have a space traveller who can explore its endless depths. But don’t get me wrong. We get more than enough of magic and beauty when we just get some of it—like beautiful, unknowable life.

Take this sampler, a favorite of mine:

Dream of the machine

At the top of the stairs, perhaps she’s a person
in three persons traffic in her hair hums
life and intelligence a person
a fixed stair with a parading universe
machine intelligence a person
a ballooning moon
a universe in entelechy a person
or is she a simulation
a cartoon molecule in the dream of the machine
as long as she’s prisoner of an unknown
perhaps she’s a simulation
finite limits in a false eternity
voice of a world collapsing endlessly
a frozen world with only leaning things
lapsing crumbling without memory
a world at an end in frosted shadows that ride
in their depths a wilderness
could a machine swallow a universe
or a universe swallow a machine
at the top of the stairs the locusts come
in her hair the simulacrum

In this work Mister Hislop reaches for the ends of being and, I suppose, though he may not think it, ideal grace. Deep in this Hislop-simulated universe of the cartoon molecule that dances its jig throughout his space-time continuum, he searches, as in “Dream of the machine,” for what might be called electronic love. He sings the body electric at the top of the stairs. Who is she? What is she? Machine or woman; or some combination of the two? Is it possible for the reader to think of it/her as Grace, or at least, as “grace”? Mister Hislop seems to think of it/her both ways; but then, isn’t it pretty well accepted that there are multiple universes? Perhaps in one universe she is the one thing, and in another, another.

      1. Is all that we see or seem

 

    1. But a dream within a dream?

Aside from the centuries, Mister Poe and Mister Hislop are not so far apart, and, do you know, despite the objections that I expect from almost everyone, possibly including Mister Hislop, I say the two poets are partners in the exploration of the Universe. “Eureka,” cried Archimedes; Eureka, wrote Mister Poe; Eureka! Mister Hislop, fare thee well, as you explore the world of deep space.
Amazon.com Author Robin Ouzman Hislop
Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop

E.M. Schorb

 
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

edtor@artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com

 

LIFE AND OPINIONS OF DOCTOR BOP THE BURNT-OUT PROF. A Poem by EM Schorb.

LIFE AND OPINIONS OF

DOCTOR BOP

THE BURNT-OUT PROF

I. Veni, Vidi, Vici
 
My old man was a Moishe Kapoyr if you ever saw one.
This can be proved by the fact that, when I was a kid,
he thought I was a mazik and my brother wasn’t,
but when we grew up and my brother joined the army
and made a career of it, then he was a mazik
and I wasn’t, being around the time of which
I speak a college instructor, and I became a momzer.
How do you figure? Well, my old man respected
education, but, having very little, was jealous
of those who had it. He claimed fluency in five
languages, all of them Yiddish. “Polymath,”
I said, and he said, “I learned to count on the streets
of New York, making change from what I peddled.”
Max was my full brother and, therefore, half Irish too.
Talk about multicultural, we are it. The Irish
side weren’t keen on religion, shame to say,
so the old man had his way with us, and I guess
he forgave God for us every Yom Kippur. My mother,
a pliant woman, converted. My brother,
who is the eldest, was born at St. Vincent’s
in Greenwich Village, but I was born at Maimonides,
which may suggest a few things I won’t go into.
My brother took my mother’s Irish name into the army,
where he remains, a Captain now, I think. A mazik?
A career man in the army? And not a professor?
My old man was a Moishe Kapoyr if you ever saw one.
 
From such an unpromising background
how do you get started as an academia
nut, and end up having tenure? In those days,
you join the army, of course,
to get the G.I. Bill. 1947:
over a million vets enroll
in colleges under the G.I.
Bill of Rights. Illinois
wins Rose Bowl over U.C.L.A.
45-14, and, in fashion,
the “New Look” comes in,
flat tops, long skirts.
I’m way too young yet,
not even Bar Mistva’d,
but eventually I take advantage
of my country’s liberal
generosity, for which I thank
the truly great Harry S.,
et. al., and join up.
The Korean armistice was signed
at Panmunjom on July 27, 1953.
Have I got mazel! I get the
benefits without the pain.
My old man, who was drafted in the
Great War to end all wars,
sat reading “The Jewish Daily Forward,”
moving from Yiddish to English,
back and forth, back and forth,
learning. He said, “See, you did it again!”
He was pissed because Max,
my truly fabulous big brother,
came home wounded and
deciding to make a career of it,
and I got a vacation in Japan
and Hawaii and came home ready
to “take advantage of the taxpayers,”
like himself, the old batlan.
He dies in a conniption fit in ’65,
overweight and over Lyndon Johnson’s lies,
joining my mother, an angel.
 
When I was taking my masters at Columbia,
my old man, the meshugge maven, said:
“What do you care for a guy like that?
You said he was a pirate once. I bet
he would come and pull the pale and
take the whole shtetl away with him.
And then you say, Dean of St. Paul’s—
what would he care for the likes of us?”
“What do we care for the likes of us,”
I said, “you even failed in the rag
business, with eighteen relatives to help.”
“I had no mazel. It’s you who’s had the luck.
The grants and scholarships you’ve won!”
“Hard work,” I said, “not luck.” “Not brains,”
he said. “Your grandfather, he had brains.”
“I suppose you mean the Rabbi not the Priest.”
“Wise off, wise guy! A sober fur-cutter is better
than a drunken bootlegger.” “So why not
cut fur and get as rich as you?” I said.
“I didn’t have the eyes for it,” he said.
“You got the eyes for anything, and look at you:
John Donne Takes a Holy Shit and Writes a Poem.
Even your drunken Irish bootlegger grandpa
would be royally pissed at that!”
 

II. Grooves of Academe
 
At the Modern Language Association,
the trees are bending down and going bare, the halls
are getting knee-deep in rusty leaves, and everyone
is pointing a withered finger-stump at everyone else.
The Burnt-Out Prof is a liberal, but God, a true one.
This is one of the reasons that the Bop is burnt-out:
He finds today an atmosphere of the Inner Circle
of the old Kremlin, where “normal” means what anyone wants it to.
It is like the old days when Political Correctness meant
the Party line of the week, sometimes posted in “Pravda,”
or telephoned to London, Paris, and New York, to
prepare for diplomatic divagations, on the weekend.
This week sexy is sexist, so I don’t know how to explain myself.
I can tell you, it’s getting tough to say much of anything.
1736: Patrick Henry was born. That was also the year
that Fahrenheit died and Hogarth produced his “Good Samaritan.”
None of these things seem to have had much “impact,”
(now there’s a word that I would ban) and,
while I wend my way through this historic traffic,
toward an historic college that no longer
recognizes history as a legitimate subject,
I notice that the leaves are down and tumbling
in the wind along the road to higher learning.
 

Taking by storm the bastions of conditioned reflex,
I sat down to reflect on the mystery of life,
but found myself instead considering whether to refinance
the old adobe of my dreams, now that the rates were lower.
The school had found my house for me—the school’s my mother.
I had a real mother but the school’s a better mother: Magna Mater.
(One keeps thinking of Magna-Matergate, but so far so good.)
Along the treelined drives . . . etc. Lateral thinking impinged,
and before you could say, “Peter Piper picked,”
I considered the deconstruction, not of all the texts in the school,
but of the school itself, slate by slate and brick by brick.
I could start at the highest point—was it the flagpole
or the tower clock? In an augenblick a Hamlet’s confusion befell me.
The other day I asked our professor of Medieval History a question
only to learn that her expertness (or “tise”) was restricted
to the period between when Constantine reigned alone
and St. Vladimir became prince of Kiev, with everything else
outside her field. To our professor of Medieval History
the rest of life is a mystery
; no generalist, she. Life is not her field.
The middle-aged scribes on the staff correct the English
of the professors and fund-raisers alike, that no embarrassment
befalls these ivied halls. They are made of substantial stuff,
the staff, the grade- and high-school grads of yesteryear,
like Hemingway and Faulkner.
1899: John Dewey, “School and Society.” Tunc pro nunc.
Another new building is going up on the green.
 

I am Anarchus, King of Academe,
tenured to bring chaos to your campus.
I can say any goddam irresponsible fucking thing.
I am a regular irrepressible intellectual Wild Bull of the Pampas.
 
I’ll be your peripatetic in the feeble rain.
I’ll corrupt you with my Socratic questions.
When God commanded Hosea to associate with a whore,
wasn’t that a command against the Decalogue?
 
Aquinas said No, because in so commanding,
the whore became Hosea’s wife.
Everything fits, you see, Pangloss-like.
Just when we think something has gone wrong
 
it has come up right. How sure are you
of anything? The skeleton of Cro-Magnon man
was found in France in 1868.
Who moved it, and from where? And why?
 
In 1871, Adolf Nordenskjöld explored the interior
of Greenland. There was no there there, as Gert Stein put it,
but he did it because it was there, as Sir Edmund Hillary put it.
Hath the rain a father? Where is love?
 
Principles are never provable
in the order which they substantiate,
they are evident and intuitively given.
That should be some help with regard to love.
 
In 1805, Hosea Ballou wrote “A Treatise on Atonment.”
Mobile perpetuum. You who are young
will soon be old and walking with the young.
The “Treatise” will await you in “La morgue littéraire.”
 
Young Sirs, Bruno proclaimed the spatial and material infinity of
the world.
Ladies, Descartes attributed positive infinity only to God.
Newton was cautious. Einstein certain. Planck confusing.
Maybe we should just make love and listen to the music of the rain.
 

When Chips left the Old School he wore its tie
and was carried out with his Wellingtons on.
But no way Mister Bop, the burnt-out prof.
Things definitely ain’t what they used to be.
Bop gets to retire on something like a 401(k);
but not yet, as St. Augustine put it, not quite yet;
I’m not ready for retired sainthood yet!
The syllogisms from which Aristotle deduced the valid
are not complete. In American institutions
we fail upward to glory, and I expect
to be the mad head of the English Department before
I wallop my last tennis ball to cardiac arrest,
or do my last imitation of Johnny Weissmuller.
“Thanotopsis” is not my favorite poem.

 
III. A Speed of Semesters
 
“Coleridge did dope,” she said.
“So one day, when he was socked out,
dreaming up this poem about Xanadu,
along came this person from Porlock
on some business and shook him out of it.
After about an hour he couldn’t remember
anything but the first part of the poem.
Has that ever happened to you? I mean,
that poem of yours in the ‘American Scholar’
seems unfinished, you know?” A very
finished young lady, and this is what
I get! I give them some Biographia
Literaria
, in a vague hope . . .
“Fancy and imagination!” I roar,
and point to someone else.
“Fancy is only memory and produces
only a sensational product.
Imagination transcends time and
makes contact with higher reality.”
Something occurs to me: “No,
I don’t do dope, and the poem
is finished because it says
what it started out to say
in the way it started out to say it.”
“I only meant, have you ever been
interrupted when you were writing
a poem, so that the unfinished part
transcends and makes contact with
a higher reality, like that one
in the ‘American Scholar’?”
And suddenly I realized how very quick
she was, and nice, and pretty too.
 

The Greeks measured Earth by its shadow on the moon.
I measure it by travel, which always brings you home;
therefore, Thomas Wolfe was wrong. Good news, though—
Pascal was probably right. I’d be willing to bet on it.
I had an uncle in the numbers racket, himself a gambler.
Thoreau said, Time is a stream I go fishing in.
Ford said, History is the bunk. Sumerian writing
done on clay tablets, shows about 2000 pictographic signs.
The moon is a bad woman because she is very romantic.
We all know the trouble that can get you into. I
am romantic tonight. How many leaves lay scattered?
I guess millions, and I have a study that agrees with me.
When you pay for a study, you get what you pay for.
Therefore, all studies are romantic and have a dark side.
Humankind pays for everything it gets. Theodora,
the Byzantine empress, died in 548, one of a kind.
Her death was a big relief to some of her subjects.
Five years later disastrous earthquakes shook the entire world.
I offer no comment, but think about it.
The house I live in was built much later. I leave the
actual count to you. Do not use a calculator.
The first water-driven mechanical clock was
constructed in Peking in 1090, the wrist watch
around the turn of the twentieth century.
I’ve got a digital that I can read in the dark.
I can also read the chained and sailing moon from here.
Shaw said, give him a slate and a piece of chalk
and he’d give you the wrong answer in under five minutes.
A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step,
so I lift my gouty foot and lean forward. Good counting!
 

“Look at you,” said Müller,
who taught psychology,
and later committed suicide
when implicated in war crimes.
A vegetarian, he picked
at his salad and eyed me
with distaste. I was drinking
a whiskey sour. “You have ashes
down the front of your shirt.
It is a dirty habit, smoking.
And I see you always drinking
in that cocktail bar by the
lake. You must take better
care of yourself, my friend.”
 
“Worry is what kills you.
I grade papers there. It’s
very pleasant—a beautiful view,
even in winter, when the lake looks
like a bowl of liquid iron. You
know, in 1496, Romano Pane,
a monk who accompanied Columbus,
became the first person to
describe the tobacco plant
to the old world. Tobacco
was brought from America
to Spain in 1555. In 1560,
the tobacco plant was imported
to Western Europe by Jean Nicot;
hence, nicotine. It brought
pleasure and pain, as all things do.”
 
“How do you know such things
—dates like that, I mean?”
 
“I look them up. They’re
comforting, definite.
Very little is.” “You appear
detached.” “Not detached.
Perhaps transcendent. Sir
John Hawkins introduced
tobacco into England
in 1565. That was the same
year that pencils began
to be manufactured there.
Also, Sir Thomas Gresham
founded the Royal Exchange
in London, same year. And
the Knights of St. John,
under Jean de La Valette,
defended Malta from the Turks.
The Turkish siege was broken with
the arrival of Spanish troops.”
 
“What’s the difference?”
“Exactly! Erskine Caldwell
published Tobacco Road in 1932.
Jack Kirkland’s play version
of TR opened to a long run
in New York in ’33. But
at the end of the century
I have to go outside to smoke,
and the autumn wind blows
the ashes all over me.”
 
“I should like my ashes
to be scattered over the lake,”
Müller said. I lit another
cigarette, watched the smoke
scurry off in puffs and strands.
“I’ll see to it,” I said.
 

The true task is to trace the phenomena
back to the hidden Logos, i.e., spirit and reason.
The two ways of looking at this, though,
cause trouble. Is God in or not in Nature?
Have the monotheists got hold of the right end
of the stick, or have the Hindus and Buddhists;
are the Pantheists right or are the Christians?
But infinity does not exclude its middle.
God, however, can make an infinity.
1941: Étienne Gilson: God and Philosophy;
Reinhold Niebuhr: The Nature and Destiny
of Man
; and Bergson died. I played war
at my grandmother’s house in New Jersey.
On July 16th, the first atomic bomb
was detonated near Alamogordo, N.M.
On August 6th and August 9th, the U.S.
dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and
Nagasaki. On her back porch, my grandmother
told me that no one would be able to live
in those cities for a hundred years to come.
Nine years later I was there. The thousand-
year Reich had lasted twelve years. The Logos
is deeply hidden. Near the end of the war, bebop
came in. People would sit along a bar and move
their heads side to side, idiotically. The modern
school believes we must assert nothing
but “essence” and “meaning.” I read
Kon-Tiki on the ship that took me to Japan.
Heyerdahl believed in the probable colonization
of Polynesia from South America around 1100.
I remember reading and looking at the water,
reading and looking at the water.
 

You know how it is when you feel sure
of something, maybe a date,
or a fact of some kind,
and then you find out that you were wrong
and you feel like your brain’s
turned into camel-shit and got
spread across the Sahara, well,
I made a bet with a faculty member
that I knew the exact date,
there and then, and where and when,
of the invention of the thermometer.
The faculty member teaches pre-
med, and we were at a table
in the school cafeteria. She shoves
a five-dollar bill out, and triumphantly
I assert: Santorio Santorio
measured human temperature
with a thermometer in Italy in 1628.
“But he did not invent the thermometer,”
she says, and picks up her five-spot.
“Fahrenheit initiated mercury as a heat-
measuring medium. R.A.F. de Reaumur
used alcohol. And then there was
Celsius.” I had got a hold of
the wrong end of the thermometer, and
out dropped my brain from one camel’s ass,
stepped on by the big hoofs of the next, and
dragged across the desert by the caravan.
I should have learned a long time ago
about never being entirely certain
of anything. God may not play tricks,
as Einstein insisted, but life does,
with a little help from human
arrogance, of the kind I displayed,
and the endless capacity of the
human mind to misconceive and
misperceive, and the plain simple
strangeness of life itself, and
that must be the case. Maybe.

 
Is the peripatetic part of the meaningless goo
this autumn that is being trounced by the rain,
one with the fallen beaten leaves? Camus
and Sartre would insist on seizing pain
by the throat and giving it a throttle,
being that we are all alone with it
like a drunk in a rented room with a bottle
and not a ’toon in which to spit.
Up to us, they would say, to do something about it,
be a “Renegade” or find “No Exit”
or become one’s own kind of Mister Fix-it,
but of its ultimate use, I doubt it,
doubt we can do it alone,
doubt it to the bone.
 

IV. Sabbatical
 
If the word of the creator is itself creation,
as in “Let there be light,” and since the birth of the world
is linked to the birth of the word, isn’t it so
that the essence of language is in the spirit, the Logos?
Then the rants of the mad and the speakers in tongues
are holy and creative rants and speakers and poets
of portmanteau words and nonsense rhymes are makers
of the solidly new and true, and are meant to be translated,
paraphrased or whatever can be done to understand them.
 
I have the distinct honor to know several people who are mad
and who do not mind sitting across from me and spewing
out their hearts and minds. 1533: First lunatic asylums
(without medical attention). Freud taught us to listen.
But we know now that schizophrenia is a kind of brain rot,
an actual physical condition, and is already treatable
with chemicals. Listening would not have helped the insane;
but it might have helped the sane, if they were able to interpret,
for the words were palpable. My friend shouts, “Mother ate me!”
and I get his drift; “Father buried me alive,” and I dig.
“It isn’t the dream but the words you use to describe the dream,”
wrote Freud in The Interpretation of Dreams in 1900. Blake:
“The lost traveller’s dream under the hill.”
I myself dreamed of being in a long queue behind Princess Di.
I suppose everything is in there—royalty, sex, and death.
 

Shall we become public figures,
sharing the thin metaphorical blood of fraternity?
Shall we be the Family of Man (and Woman, of course)
or shall we be a flesh and blood family
at war and peace with ourselves and the State?
We can’t love what we don’t know.
We are asked to stretch fraternity’s blood
until we become anemic, pale pretenders
to emotion, vampires of passion.
It is paradox. If I keep my brother,
I become his keeper, and he the kept,
not free, not equal, not his own.
And if I turn in surrender to my vision,
I must master others, keep my brother,
and I must rob him of his vision
as my vision dominates his, oh Abel!
If I lead, he must follow whither.
He must wither following. He must say:
But where is my vision of home and hearth,
where wife, where blood-rich children?
If his children are my children,
where are his children?
Is my avuncular blood as rich
as that of his and his wife’s?
Fraternity’s blood runs thin and thinner
until it is water and we are bound by water
alone, ice water, not the sticky rich blood
of consanguinity, the stuff of passionate caring.
Would a watery world be better?
Remember how many vows have been broken.
Remember the blood oaths of children,
your blood-brothers and -sisters who are
gone with your childhood, how each
cut a finger enough for blood and
stuck them together, and how gone
is an event where you can only recall
what you did and not with whom
in a dark corner of the Kabbalah.
 

If you stop to think about it,
the twenty-six point-whatever miles back from Marathon
never did anyone much good. I used to believe
what Santayana said, but the generations are too far apart,
and one lost one will put us back to square one again.
I live near the second largest artificial lake in America,
and all my less sedentary colleagues are boaters and campers,
and they are always trying to get me into a boat or a camp;
but when I was young I spent a lot of time on ships and boats
and beaches, like Ulysses, and I tell them a cocktail bar
is the most civilized place on Earth. You go in and sit down
and order a Gibson, light up, and wait
for some intelligent conversation to break out.
Of course you are costing the public a fortune because none of this
is good for your health—it obviously killed George Burns, at
age 100, before his time—but I’m with the Sun King and his
“Après moi, le déluge.” I’m a sort of professorial sociopath,
I guess, always thinking that if I have one life to live
I’ll live it my way—so I go over and plug “My Way” on the jukebox.
I hope I’m a bad influence on my students, just like Sinatra and Socrates, and I intend to spend the rest of my life as a Clairol blond,
asking plenty of pointless questions of the vacuous sky.
 

1913: The Armory Show introduced cubism to New York.
The Nude Descending a Staircase left us exhausted.
Her energy was obvious but we were drained by her élan.
In 1918 we lay there smoking and wondering who had been super.
In 1929 we lost faith in money, in ’42 safety.
And now the last securities and guarantees have disappeared.
Living with the bomb has made tragedy impossible.
“Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Live with the Bomb,”
is a comedy. No deliberate war was possible,
because leaders were targeted and are cowardly,
but accidents are inevitable. The little girl picking flowers
in Lyndon Johnson’s ad, 1964: then his big lie.
The cup of our political faith became a sieve, too. Johnson had
done for American politics what Planck did for particle stability.
I can only understand myself in my hereness now.
I step forth in fact but my whereness is a mystery.
I wait outside the seasons for a cue.
 

V. Commence Fire!
 
The question of the truly real
has metastasized in me,
like the spread ambition of a runner
whose toes are fat with it.
The central emotional tumor
of desire to know what is behind the
screen of existence is devouring me.
It has reached Faustian proportions with
increasing age. Sometimes I must dull
the ache of it with booze and music,
sometimes with what comedy I can find
in the happenings around me. Calling
life a game is a withdrawal symptom,
a relief from the wracked nerves of wonder,
by which I have been attended since I was a child:
wonder and wondering. I could get sick
with it, when young, and did. The doctors
wondered too, and my poor father paid them.
It’s a kind of ontological hypochondria,
which has turned me, slowly, but ever so surely,
into an intellectual valetudinarian.
 
A poem is a posit, an assertion, an act,
and in action we forget fear: respite
in creation, the maker takes a stand, in making,
but is it a stand no better than gimmick-makers make?
Well, poetry possesses the virtue of being a record,
at least, and you can date a poem, if you wish,
thus giving it the merit of a worldly fact
contained in a system of time, which, admittedly,
is a system which is perhaps pseudo-fact itself,
or will become so as matter completes its withdrawal
upon itself to revisit its beginnings in a black hole in space;
and yet, until then, something like a fact,
a fact in the sense that Sherlock Holmes is almost real
and lives in Baker Street in a fictional series
in a real world that may exist only in a dream
that is being dreamed elsewhere, perhaps—dare I say—
by Yahweh; and so poetry becomes an actual little stab
and, poets hope, rip in the black sheet
that covers the deserted, haunted mansion.
 

If you expect happiness you get misery,
but just when you learn to live with misery
the cat comes back and wants to be fed,
so you feed the cat and that makes you feel better.
Expressionists always bring the problem of death forward,
demanding an “authentic death,” an act of dying
that is peculiarly one’s own (as in Rilke:
Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge).
What good does it do to say that you are an expressionist
or for that matter an existentialist, or any ist?
“Poetry is of graver import than history,” said Aristotle.
Why? Because good poetry doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t try
to tell anyone else what to do. True, Yeats made a system,
and Blake before him, but they did it for scaffolding,
to shoot darts of insight from and toward, not
to believe in, not to insist upon—monkeybars
to climb in and to swing through. If you expect
happiness you get misery, but then the cat will come home,
expecting to be fed, and that makes you feel much better.
 

2300 folding chairs on the lawn,
relatives with an actuarial average
of 30 years left in them,
fathers less, mothers more,
and grandmothers more than ever
(I hasten to add, non-smokers
more than anyone), myself
hot on a warm June day:
commencement socializing:
1888: Lover’s Leap and
Hold-Me-Tight buggies: today
expensive sports cars
for the kids, up to limousines for
the relatives. The campus
is crowded with vehicles, gleaming
colors abound: chauffeurs
stand in clusters of uniforms, smoking.
I envy them. Grads with an actuarial life
of 50 years ahead of them,
maybe 60, sweat with heat
and excitement, caps and gowns,
and in anticipation of booze,
dancing, prancing, and romancing
tonight: but first, ROTC
commissioning, Baccalaureate
Service, Supper with the
school President and his wife
(parents and their students are urged
to remain on campus for Supper),
Open Houses, faculty and staff
homes, a concert by the college choir,
a Jazz ensemble. There won’t be a
hotel or motel room empty
for a radius of 50 miles.
I scan young faces in the hope
that some of them know
the difference between fancy
and the imagination,
between a Baccalaureate and
a Bacchanalia, between
an apposable behind and
a prehensile tail, etc.
Orator fit, poeta nascitur.
Poeta nascitur, non fit.

I’m halfway into the wrong racket.
I’m quitting school to write:
retiring from the fray,
I’ll go to Innisfree.
 
Bon voyage, and
vaya con Dios, my darlings!
 
 
 

 
 
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

 
 
Amazon.com Author Robin Ouzman Hislop
Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
 
edtor@artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com

Escape. A Poem by M. A. Schaffner

 
 

Back to its roots the goose rambles

through the brambles to the golf course

and beyond. A green pond beckons

with an iridescent sheen it can smell.
 
 
It moves past. A twisting wooded road

goes up and down between the farms

that surround the camps and lodges

and empty lots where someone planned

to spend a life and then forgot.
 
 
Mottled with bottles the pond lies

forlorn between the secret parties

that every teen knows all about

and the goose waddles through, sensing

a river past barbed wire fencing

where the rest of the flock awaits —
 
 
the ghosts of a past predating

the clipped wings and special diets,

the tube between its liver and its mouth.

Its final dream is flying south.
 
 
 
 
MAS at the Furnace

 
 
M. A. Schaffner has had poems published in Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, Agni, and elsewhere — most recently in Former People, Raintown Review, and Rock River Review. Long-ago-published books include the poetry collection The Good Opinion of Squirrels and the novel War Boys. Schaffner spends most days in Arlington, Virginia juggling a laptop, smart phone, percussion caps, pugs, and a Gillott 404.
 
 
 
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

Transforming with Poetry. Owen Turner and Siobhan Mac Mahon

 
 
Transforming Finale with Owen Turner and Siobhan Mac Mahon at the Inkwell Arts Centre Leeds UK read their works in the final part of the evening November 12th 2016. https://www.facebook.com/siobhan.macmahon
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

Announcement. The Poetic Bond 6 Release.

PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE

POETRY THAT BINDS, POETRY THAT BONDS

THE POETIC BOND VI

ISBN-13: 978-1539334682 

The Only

ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL POETRY ANTHOLOGY

actively sought specifically from

New Media, Social and Professional Networking

 

Publication Date 5 November 2016

Making a Poetic Bond – the ethos behind putting together the anthology
 
 
Available at The Poetic Bond
&
Amazon.com The Poetic Bond VI
 
 
The process of selecting poems for publishing The Poetic Bond series is unlike any other in that there is no set plan as to what will be published. It depends on the themes which emerge from the pool of work submitted, or to put it another way, the poetic energy which comes together at this certain time and place. Where themes emerge, patterns of energy harmonize, form bonds, connections, and these in turn lead to interconnected chapters, and the creation of a holistic volume, deeply connected with humanity, nature, and the universe.

 

37 poets from 12 Countries

Canada, China, England, France, Greece, Hungary, Israel, Malaysia,

Netherlands, Scotland, Spain, USA, and Wales

“Poetry, both reveals and shares our humanity”

(Trevor Maynard, editor The Poetic Bond Series)

THE POETIC BOND VI

 

  1. Trevor Maynard, UK based poet and writer, manager of Poetry, Review and Discuss Group, a major poetry group on LinkedIn. His new poetry collection is GREY SUN, DARK MOON was published in 2015. He is also the author of several plays. Further information at http://www.trevormaynard.com

 

  1. The Poets of The POETIC BOND VI (2016) are; Amanda Eakin (Ohio, USA), Rebecca Behar (France), Belinda Dupret (West Sussex, England), Betty Bleen (Ohio, USA), Bonnie J. Flach (California, USA), Bonnie Roberts (Alabama, USA), Carey Link (Alabama, USA), Christine Anderes (New York, USA), Cigeng Zhang (Beijing, China), Diane Burrow (Oxfordshire, England), Diane Colette (Florida, USA), George Carter (London, England), George C. Robertson (Dundee, Scotland), GK Grieve (England), Greg Mooney (North Carolina), Hongvan Nguyen (Virginia, USA), Ian Colville (Bedfordshire, England), Jill Angel Langlois (Illinois, USA), Joseph J. Simmons (Maryland, USA), Jude Neale (British Columbia, Canada), Kwai Chee Low (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia), Lawrence W Lee (Arizona, USA), Linda Mills (Oregon, USA), Madalena Fine (West Sussex, England), Marli Merker Moreira (Sao Leopoldo, Brazil), Miklos Mezosi (Budapest, Hungary), Michael Melichov (Israel), Nana Tokatli (Greece), Neetu Malik (Pennsylvania, USA), Trevor Maynard (Surrey, England), Pushpita Awasthi (the Netherlands), Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK & Spain), Rowland Hughes (Bridgend, Wales), Swaizi Vaughan (Texas, USA), Wendy Joseph (Washington, USA), William DiBenedetto (Seattle, USA) , and Will Walsh (Florida, USA)

 
The Anniversary
 
The hand cocked at an effeminate angle
Holds the ashen tipped cigarette
This embering appears soft
It teases one to touch before it falls
Pompeii comes to mind
 
His hair is dirty white and cumulus grey
Accent Portuguese, hooded eyes
That famous olive skin bleached by
English pastures and pub lunches
“Zespezilly,” he intones “Thiz day!”
 
Another paper on the table, Shag available
His companion lilts ole Suffolk
“Truth is, I’s bored…”
He cusses, in that way that twists words
When they are not your Mother Tongue
“Every ******* day now”
 
She twirls her wedding band
He wears none; no tan marks either
“Do you agree?” He asks, leaning,
His shoulders rise and fall, ash burns her skin
“Does any of it matter?”
 
Vesuvius looms in their memory
Their betrothal, their wedding
But their emotions remained frozen in ash
Inevitably to drop like old skin
Fine idea it was, however familiarity bred
 
The hand cocked
The accents devilishly hinted passion
Loving not wisely but too well
Thirty years to the day
The innocence of youth left
 
“Can we remain friends?”
Sympathy undermines her sincerity
They both know this is so
But he is the more hurt, meaner
“Damn you and your English reserve!”
 
You see, it had simmered
Their intolerance of each other
Their mutual exoticism, passion
But in the end, hate is easier
It needs fewer syllables, less imagination
 
The last cigarette drops
They go to the hotel to fuck
Splitting up sex, divorce. He signs
The papers and leaves her sleeping
Too well in death and paper cuts
 
© 2009 GK Grieve. Published in The Poetic Bond III © 2013
 
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

 

 

 

AMRITA SHERGILL MARG, DELHI & Poems by Deepanshi Balooni

I.
Laburnum blooms whisk sanity
away from the wind; past
is a shifting
cloud.

summer
is pastel yellow-green,
picking purples from jamuns
shedding over the jaded footpath.

II.

Colours descend at
night,
fragrance is a whore.

III.

Moon becomes all the words,
where there is no language.

You are the silence I seek.

IV.

Memories drizzle
in times of drought,

monsoon is still far away.

V.

There is no walking on this street.

Minds float like lighted lamps in the
river that desires,
transposing myths and reality.

VI.

The quest is for eternity,
yet time throws things
either changed or hewed,

for instance, that

proud, naked-branched tree
which used to be the muse
of our conversations;

a year is a testimony enough

MEDITATION

A bird circumambulates a cloud
in the distant sky,
like a solemn pilgrim
with obscure prayers
Noises become limpid, like those of
the vehicles clattering on the road, or
the air swooshing between flimsy curtains
and the adjacent window pane
I put my high-heeled shoes back
into the drawer,
withdrawing myself from becoming
and repose into being
The mind marvels at the flawlessness
of the blank page-
unblemished by the words and
sketches of past or future
Noises grow into a pious silence
May be, every moment is an epiphany,
if lived in the present

RAINS

Outside,
it rained all night.
Inside,
there remained a desert
of breaths and voices
and their sentiments, thereof.
The distance to the window
becomes irreconcilable;
some rains can’t get you
drenched.

HOW TO BUILD SANDCASTLES

The sand should be slightly moist,
like the remnants of the innocence
in your heart
and every touch of your hand
maneuvering between grip and tenderness,
just as those words that become
whispers in the acts of love
Do not care for the weather,
care for what you can do;
weather only loves to play
Pray for mind to imbibe endurance,
the task loses track of time
and toil; as for I can tell you
not all sandcastles are built on the beach
Some gets built in the dreams,
while others on the claimed or
unclaimed bodies of the people

 

jpg-file-deepanshi

 

 

Deepanshi Balooni is a development professional from New Delhi. She runs a poetry blog-https://unacquaintedsilhouettes.wordpress.com

 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

The Negro River Cries. A Poem by Author: Renee’ B. Drummond-Brown

The rivers run
through our veins
like the over flowing
blood
O’
Calvary stains.

Home of the Indian brave
land
plowed by slaves,
‘dawgs’
‘scent’ US
swimming for ‘dayze’
crocodiles
had their way
mosquitoes
were A OK.
Just had to wade,
wade in ‘dem’ waters’
‘children’s’
for ‘daze’
years,
months,
minutes.
seconds,
an
unto
this very day.
But
fo sho
‘we’ze’
‘KNOWS’
‘HOWS’
to wade!
(In His waters ‘chillins’)

One river flows
divided
into four,
for our blood shed
out of Eden
she watered
our garden
forever
and a day
no-more.
Pison
gave us that increase
to do His will
not as we please
for
she flowed
the whole land
of Hav’ilah.
Bdellium,
onyx
and stones
oh my~~~
Yeah
‘den’ ‘dear’
‘wuz’
‘sum’
rivers gold,
cries,
of ancient old.
True ‘dat’…
‘Dat’ escape route
‘wuz’ well-to-do
as foretold.
For certain,
THIS
we do know
‘cos’
‘dat’ word
say’s it ‘AIN’T’ so

Two rivers flowing
divided into four
for our blood shed
out of Eden
she watered
our garden
forever
and a day
no-more.
Secondly,
Gihon
flows
bursting forth
around
the grounds
of Cush
make no mistake
‘bout’ it~~~
hush,
hush,
they’re here
an
can hear
us
just the same
just
shhhh~~~
Someone’s ‘callin’ OUR name???
(It ain’t Jesus)

Three rivers flowing
divided into four
for our blood shed
out of Eden
she watered
our garden
forever
and a day
no-more.
The Tigris
flows eastward
like that babe’s Star,
we’d come
to later see
as we stride
rapidly
along side
‘dem’
‘nats’ an fleas.
Father forgive us
‘cept’
do not pass us by
PLEASE!!!
(Pass US not O’ gentle Savior)

Four rivers flowing
divided into four
for our blood shed
out of Eden
she watered
our garden
forever
and a day
no-more.
Euphrates
tarry on
till we come.
Sojourn
our waterways,
channel
fruitfulness
for our
children’s;
children’s
children’s
absolute bliss
gators ‘n’ snakes
share no tree o’ knowledge
‘bout’ this
an
no shadows to follow
‘wit’ a death
kiss
or
kiss of death
whichever it is

NO MORE
rivers flowing
divided into four
for our blood STOP shedding
out of Eden
when He watered
our gardens
forever
and a day
but He waters it
no-more.
(Edens tamper-proofed for sure)
We ‘gotta’ wade in the water children;
like never before.

A B.A.D. poem

Dedicated to: We ‘gotta’ wade in the water children; like never before.

“And a river went out of Eden to water the garden;
and from thence it was parted,
and became into four heads.
The name of the first is Pison:
that is it which compasseth the whole land of Hav′ilah,
where there is gold;
And the gold of that land is good:
there is bdellium and the onyx stone.
And the name of the second river is Gihon:
The same is it that compasseth the whole land of Ethiopia.
And the name of the third river is Hiddekel:
that is it which goeth toward the east of Assyria.
And the fourth river is the Euphra′tes”
(Genesis 2:10-14 KJV).

Please support my write(s) by sharing this post and ordering my e-Book, Hardback and soft back books on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and/or on my Face Book Page.
(Authored: “The Power of the Pen”

“SOLD: TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER”
and
“Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs”

No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author.
All Rights Reserved@ October 21, 2016.

 
 
renee-i
 
 
I, Renee’ B. Drummond-Brown, am the wife of Cardell Nino Brown Sr. and from our union came Cardell Jr., Renee and Raven Brown. I am the offspring of Mr. and Mrs. Peter C. Drummond of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. My siblings are Delbert D. Drummond and the late Pastor Shawn C. Drummond. I was born in North Carolina, at Camp Lejeune US Naval Hospital. I am a graduate of Geneva College of Pennsylvania, and my love for creative writing is undoubtedly displayed through my very unique style of poetry, which is viewed globally. My poetry is inspired by God and Dr. Maya Angelou. Because of them I pledge this: “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”
 
“Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight” is flown across the seas by God’s raven. There are several Scriptures that I love; however, this one speaks volumes during this ‘season’: “And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth.” (Genesis 8:7 KJV)
 
 
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

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

 
 
guadalupe-grande-2001
 
 
GUADALUPE GRANDE 
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.http://guadalupegrande.blogspot.com.es/

 
 
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
 
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-portrait-july-sotillo-2016-by-amparo
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Motherbird.com, Artvilla.com & 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 Aquillrelle.com and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

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

all-the-bable-of-the-souk-image-with-tony-martin-woods
 
https://martinezarboleda.wordpress.com/
 

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.
 
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All 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
final_mom
 
 
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
http://www.janetcaldwell.com/

 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All 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.
 
www.janetcaldwell.com/
www.innerchildpress.com/janet-p-caldwell.php
www.facebook.com/JanetPCaldwell
 
 
(i.)
 
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
 
 
(ii.)
 
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
 
 
(iii.)
 
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
 
 
(iv.)
 
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.
Everyday.
 
And I will
I promise.
All the way to the grave.
Can you help me now???
 
©2002 – 2014 Janet Caldwell
 
 
(v.)
 
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
one-two-three-four-five
 
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
 
 
(vi.)
 
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
 
D
O
W
N
 
Going once, going twice.
Gone, I peed. Release.
 
Janet Caldwell 2001-2014
 
 
(vii.)
 
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
comatose,
 
Daddy grabbed a butcher
knife and ambled over to
her chair.
(1-2-3-4-5)
 
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
fist.
 
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
comfort.
 
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 www.iaminnerchild.com/, which includes Inner Child’s Ning Social Site innerchild.ning.com/, Inner Child Newspaper paper.li/1innerchild/1326347159, Inner Child Magazine www.innerchildmagazine.com/, Inner Child Radio www.blogtalkradio.com/inner-child-radio and The Inner Child Press Publishing Company www.innerchildpress.com/.
To find out more about Janet, you may visit her web-site, Face-book Fan Page and her Author page at Inner Child Press.
 
 
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

My Sun is Orange. A Poem by William S. Peters, Sr.

my morning Sun is orange
The yellow is stained
with the Blood of my People
for that is what we
are reminded of
each day

 

when it rises from the East
to greet the world
i see my world
clearly

 

we once lived with a hope
that the atrocities of Hate
War
and indifference
would go away
but it did not

 

my hope has been misplaced
somewhere
and i can not remember
where i have set it down

 

it might have been that day
i lost my arm
or that day
when my Father was jailed
or that day
when my Sister was killed
she was only 3

 

no, i think i lost my hope
the day
my Mother no longer cried

 

her eyes have been dry
for many a year now
and somehow
by some grace
she still has enough love in her
to hug me
once in a while
through that pained smile
that still adorns her face
just so she won’t completely break

 

there is a noise i hear
it is a loud silence
that stays with me
through my callousness
for the gunfire
and the bombs
and the screams
i can not hear them

 

they have long ago
assaulted and killed
the dreams of my Family
my village
my people
and it is now working on
Humanity

 

where is the sanity
in this methodology
to be found

 

every day is “Ground Zero”
where i live
every where i look
i see Ground Zeros
and we have lost count
of those who
are no more
because of what you call War

 

but you and i
never had a dispute
that i know of
If so, please tell me what i did wrong
to cause you harm
that you should exact such wretchedness
upon me
and others like me

 

i know not of the Politics
of it all.
i have never met a Politician
are they so different
than we the people ?

 

if it’s Oil
i give it to you
if it’s right
take it freely
i will not raise nor put my hand
against that
of my Father’s children

 

there was a time
when all i thought of
was simply
finding Joy in my life
i have since given up that quest
for i see far too much
of that other stuff
which deserves not a name

 

my Sun is no longer Yellow
but i do pray my Brother
that yours is

 

my Sun is Orange

 
 

This is dedicated to all the Villages, Peoples across our Globe who must endure

the Politics and Sickness of War.

Bill Utah Summer
 
Bill is an avid Writer / Poet who has been committed to this path since 1966. He currently has to his credit over 70 Published Books as well as a myriad of Newspaper and Magazine Articles. Bill supports the venue of Creative Expression regardless of form. He also is an activist for the progression and evolution of Humanity and its Love of each other.
 
Recently (September 2015) Bill was honored to be named the Poet Laureate at the Kosovo International Poetry Festival where his book The Vine Keeper was showcased. He was also awarded The Golden Grape Award.
 
Bill currently serves as the CEO of Inner Child Enterprises, ltd., Managing Director of Inner Child Press, Executive Producer of Inner Child Radio and Executive Editor of Inner Child Magazine. His life partner Janet P. Caldwell stands by his side in support of the Inner Child vision
 
For more of Bill, visit his personal web Site at : www.iamjustbill.
 
for Inner Child . . .
 
www.iaminnerchild.com
www.innerchildpress.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
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop