Let the Whales Escape R.W.Haynes
Mona Lisa and the Marlboro Man
Not knowing if wisdom would impulsively fly
Or if it dragged its feet when impulse flared,
She had to make the call and suddenly try
To do what an immortal would have dared,
An Aphrodite, ascending in a flying cart
Drawn by fifty gurgling pigeons at a speed
Which matched the speed of her own matchless heart
And the heartbreaking glory of her need.
Later, back in Laredo, she would say
She didn’t know why she’d taken off that way,
Smiling with satisfaction, recalling when
Her best moments flew by delightfully then.
He didn’t want anyone saying, “Oh.
This is how I feel,” but people do
Say that, and he said it, sometimes, too,
In unguarded moments, and he would show
How he felt, displaying great disdain
As he lit his pipe, blew blue smoke forth
Delivering himself from aesthetic pain
Incurred by foolish ideas from the North,
And, nodding slightly to appreciate
A tolerable turn of phrase which he
Thought suggested some brain activity,
He let his tobacco counter-obfuscate
Suspicious overflows of raw emotion
Which threatened to undermine devotion.
On the Balcony of the Palacio de Cortés
Madness stands at one elbow. At the other
Various figures in masks take their turns,
And all whisper steadily, one after another,
Syllables whose content one never learns.
The maniac is familiar; one keeps a careful eye
On him night and day, and day and night,
But who are the others who are standing by,
And what are these advisements they recite?
I dream the lonely ghost of love is one
Whose only consolation is to speak of sin,
And when that sad companion is done,
I hear Complacency, Madness’s mad twin.
I listen in patience, fighting back the fear
I’ll never hear the voice I hope to hear.
Ibsen on the Nile
Those monuments are monuments merely
Of themselves; this river of nutrition
And death, inundating Egypt, is clearly
A muddy embodiment of time’s volition.
I saw the Sphinx off in the distance. Today
I purchased an ancient mummified hand
To give to my wife, safely far away,
And I suspect that she will understand.
I met DeLesseps recently. He and I
Have much in common, more than he knows;
My work is lonelier, but there exists a tie
Between what we do as humankind grows.
These monuments record the vanity of ages;
Mine put the outraged human soul on stages.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
Francisca Aguirre, Premio Nacional de las Letras 2018 El jurado la ha elegido “por estar su poesía (la más machadiana de la generación del medio siglo) entre la desolación y la clarividencia, la lucidez y el dolor" Francisca Aguirre, National Literature Prize 2018 The jury chose it "because its poetry is (the most Machadian* of the generation of the half century) between desolation and clairvoyance, lucidity and pain" * In the tradition of Antonio Machado https://elpais.com/cultura/2018/11/13 Francisca Aguirre was born in 1930 in Alicante, Spain, and fled with her family to France at the end of the Spanish Civil War, where they lived in political exile. When the Germans invaded Paris in 1942, her family was forced to return to Spain, where her father, painter Lorenzo Aguirre, was subsequently murdered by Francisco Franco's regime. Aguirre published Ítaca (1972), currently available in English (Ithaca ), when she was 42 years old. Her work has garnered much critical success, winning the Leopoldo Panero, Premio Ciudad de Irún, and Premio Galliana, among other literary prizes. Aguirre is married to the poet Félix Grande and is the mother of poet Guadalupe Grande. From "NANAS PARA DORMIR DESPERDICIOS"
LULLABIES TO LULL THROWN AWAYS
by FRANCISCA AGUIRRE
Translated by Amparo Arrospíde & Robin Ouzman Hislop ***
NANA DE LAS SOBRAS A Esperanza y Manuel Rico Vaya
canción la de las sobras, eso sí que era una nana para dormir el hambre. Vaya canción aquella que cantaba mi abuela con aquella voz que era la voz de la misericordia disfrazada de voz angelical. Porque la voz de mi abuela nos cantaba la canción de las sobras. Y nosotras, que no conocíamos el pan, cantábamos con ella que las sobras de pan eran sagradas, las sobras de pan nunca se tiran. Siempre recordaré su hermosa voz cantando aquella nana mientras el hambre nos dormía.
LULLABY FOR LEFTOVERS To Esperanza and Manuel Rico Well, a leftovers song, that truly was a lullaby to lull hunger to sleep. Wow, that song my grandmother sang with a voice that was the voice of mercy disguised as the voice of an angel. Because my grandmother´s voice sang for us the leftovers song. And we, who did not know bread, sang together with her that bread leftovers were holy, bread leftovers shall never be thrown away. I will always remember her beautiful voice singing that lullaby while hunger lulled us to sleep. ** NANA DE LAS HOJAS CAÍDAS A Marián Hierro Casi todo lo que se pierde tiene música, una música oculta, inolvidable. Pero las hojas, esas criaturas parlanchinas que son la voz de nuestros árboles, tienen, como la luz, el agua y las libélulas una nana secreta y soñadora. Lo que se pierde, siempre nos deja un rastro misterioso y cantarín. Las hojas verdes o doradas cantan su desamparo mientras juegan al corro. Cantan mientras los árboles las llaman como llaman las madres a sus hijos sabiendo que es inútil, que han crecido y que se han ido a recorrer el mundo. **** LULLABY FOR FALLEN LEAVES To Marián Hierro Almost everything which is lost has a music, a hidden, unforgettable music. But leaves, those chattering creatures who are the voices of our trees have -- like light, water and dragonflies -- a secret dreamy lullaby. That which is lost to us, always leaves the mysterious trace of its song. Green or golden leaves sing of their neglect as they dance their ring a ring of roses. They sing while trees call to them as mothers do calling their children knowing it is futile, as they have grown up and left to travel the world over. ** NANA DE LAS CARTAS VIEJAS Tienen el olor desvalido del abandono y el tono macilento del silencio. Son desperdicios de la memoria, residuos de dolor, y hay que cantarles muy bajito para que no despierten de su letargo. En ocasiones las manos se tropiezan con ellas y el pulso se acelera porque notamos que las palabras como si fueran mariposas quieren bailar delante de nosotros y volver a contarnos el secreto que duerme entre sus páginas. Son las abandonadas, los residuos de un tiempo de desdicha, relatan pormenores de un combate y al rozarlas oímos el tristísimo andar de los presos en los penales. ** LULLABY FOR OLD LETTERS They give off the helpless smell of neglectfulness and the emaciated tone of silence. They are memory´s cast offs, residues of pain and should be sung to in a low croon so as not to awaken them from their lethargy. Sometimes your hands chance upon them and your pulse races because we realize that words wish to dance before us as if they were butterflies and tell us again the secret sleeping inside their pages. They are the neglected, the remnants of unhappy times, recounting the details of a struggle and as we brush them we hear the saddest steps of prisoners in jails. ** NANA DEL HUMO La nana del humo tiene muchos detractores, casi nadie quiere cantarla. Muchos dicen que el humo los ahoga, otros piensan que eso de dormir al humo no les da buena espina, que tiene algo de gafe. El humo no resulta de fiar: en cuanto asoma su perfil oscuro todo son malas conjeturas: se nos está quemando el bosque, aquella casa debe de estar ardiendo. El humo es un extraño desperdicio, tiene muy mala prensa. Es un abandonado, es un incomprendido; casi nadie recuerda que el humo es un vocero, un triste avisador de lo que se nos avecina. Y por eso, cuando lo escucho vocear con impotencia yo le canto la nana del silencio para que no se sienta solo. ** LULLABY FOR SMOKE The lullaby for smoke doesn´t get many supporters, almost nobody wants to sing its song. Many say smoke stifles them, others think to lull smoke to sleep makes them queasy, that it´s a bit of a jinx. Smoke is not trustworthy: as soon as it rears its dark head it conjures up conjectures -- a forest fire, a house burning down. Smoke is a weird remain, it´s got bad reports. It´s a reject, it´s a misunderstood thing; almost nobody remembers smoke is a herald, a sad forwarner of what looms over us. That´s why, when I hear it calling out helplessly, I sing to it the lullaby for silence so that it doesn´t feel so lonely. *** Translators: Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, Hormigas en Diáspora and Jaccuzzi, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals
Peg has gone back to Winnipeg
She was short and thin
and her husband was tall and corpulent
They were like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera
except they weren’t creative
They were retired administrators
who thought they were smarter than everyone else
Peg and her corpulent husband were part of a group
until they alienated everyone with their
overweening sense of superiority
which of course masked a sense of inferiority
which everyone understood
and felt compassion for
until their obnoxiousness
become too much too tolerate
They refused to play cards
one of the group’s foundation activities
They intimated that playing cards was a pastime
So gradually they were pushed out of the group
They were thought of with distaste and/or disdain
Members of the group remained polite to them
but nothing more
When Peg’s corpulent husband
had a heart attack and died
Peg went back to Winnipeg
where she’d spent her childhood by a lake
in an unpainted farmhouse
with her aunt
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including quite a few in POETRY LIFE AND TIMES. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a Print Edition . To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (Leeds University) .
An Unpaused Hour
Nine tings chase sanity.
Our guru twiddles
A crow’s sequined wings.
Passions jump off wheezes,
Dashed at the holdall’s flames.
Breath-sucks gyrate the room.
A Jagger-lipped ox
Smirks in its float-bowl.
The lampstand’s crimsoning.
“Quirks,” underbreaths our tiddly guru,
“Aren’t without their suns”.
Our guru tub-thumps Ouija learning
Into an atom that coggles.
The rubber shark’s dulceting
“Mack The Knife”.
The Ground Of Being’s egohood
High-muckety, we TLC our sanctified protocols.
Financial Break, No Cheques
This megacosm flumps –
An undisplayable apparition.
We’re diluted by marvelment.
The journey’s butt is an oblivion-fresh
That coaxes dust
In the attic of our mind fuzz.
Our guru belches –
A pixie’s stage whisper.
The Mediator’s Art
You’ve unfolded these Vanity Fair bodies
Spanning into destiny’s lap.
Poppycock has no improving.
Thighs of our guru’s apostles
Shall be gunked
By Dolly, the sponge-puff mermaid.
Xanadu’s here, well-earthed.
In 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology ‘Titles Are Bitches’. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle’s famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and I partook in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
On Saturday 16Th August 2003 I read at the Edinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty’s Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University, including a film piece by the artist Predrag Pajdic in which I read my poem On Brenkley St. The event was funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bio-science Centre at Newcastle’s Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children’s literature building.
The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem “The Holiday I Never Had”, I can be heard reading it on www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=18456
REVIEWS: I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called ‘A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot’ for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem… On September 4 2010, I read at the Callander Poetry Weekend hosted by Poetry Scotland. I have also written Art Criticism for Peel and Combustus Magazines. I was involved in The Creative Engagement In Research Programme Research Constellation exhibitions of writing and photography which showed in London (march 13 2012) and Edinburgh (July 4 2013)
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals