Poetry. Five Sonnets from Richard Vallance

Keats on his deathbed, Joseph Severn

Image: Keats on his Deathbed. Artist Joseph Severn.

I saw a sparrow

for Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

I saw a sparrow in the snow,
who hovered by a boy nearby;
It swayed a little to and fro,
small wonders they, small wonder why.

The boy, the flautist all alone
amidst the misty spruce around
where snow was so serenely sown,
played tremolo the fairest sound. 

The little sparrow lingered there,
the boy, the flautist of her soul;
Iʾll never tell wherever where
they warbled to attentive snow.

If anyone found a place so rare 
would there have been anyone there?
 

I found a soldier all too fair

for all the fallen in the war in the Ukraine

I found a soldier oh so fair,
an apparition in the vale;
oh there were reasons for despair
to see a face so ghastly pale.
 
I listened for the faintest breath,
a hint of colour on his lips,
but was confronted with a death
the setting sun could not eclipse.

I lingered there and wept a while;
the poppies seemed to mourn him too.
I heard a thunder from a mile,
where clouds assumed an ashen hew.

A wounded straggler passed me by;
oh how I feared he too would die!  


Listen oh listen!

Listen oh listen! ... the tanager trills!
... he arrays the blue spruce with feathers as light
as gossamer fronds the forest just thrills
to veil in his voice lost in the moonlight!
However whoever alights on this place
may find my tanagerʾs warbled refrains
leave en passant over teal leaves the trace
of whose emotions? ... whose tremolo strains?
Is this the rare moment April declares
the seasonʾs rife for my chanson, the song
the sunrise with cirrus so silently shares?
... only I, tanager, knew all along.
Were I the sole tanager of your desmesne,
well, Iʾd be voiced in your glass of champagne!


The poetry of Keats

Keats on his deathbed, Joseph Severn

John Keats on his death bed, by Joseph Severn

For W.T.

The poetry of Keats is replete with death:
an owl more ominous than a blue moon
had hooted sans merci til his final breath,
as he passed away in a fitful swoon
before the sky was flush with fading blue,
before ambrosial roses withered, strewn
before the autumn breeze all too wanly blew  
to the long-lost score of some mournful tune.
As if the nightingale could warble love
might I implore you if her song recalls
as quietly as would a cooing dove
our barren prayers before the wailing walls; 
  I too recall my all too cherished friend,
  who wasted away to an ill-timed end.


Huskies Mush!

I'll slide my sled from the frozen-in stream
towards the lake where snow rolls down me, blind;
me sled is all wedged in by me husky team,
whose hunger drives em wild with single mind.
They lunge, they'll lunge in vain. What? Can't break out.
Me lungs could bust with frost I'se just gulped in.
Me lips all blue, I'se stiff with icy doubt. 
Me dogs, all panicked, tangled, yelp chagrin;
I grits me teeth, jerk hard the sled, and hear
that cursed ice cave! “Come on! Bust loose!”, I yell,
“Mush!”, snaps the whip! Aw, we'se gotta break clear!
“We'se broken out!” Them huskies dash like hell.
Did we break loose? Those snapped up rapids yawn
behind us as we vanish, good as gone. 

 
 
 
 
Richard Vallance was a frequent contributor to the earlier issues of Poetry Life & Times, from 2001-2008, where several of his sonnets and rhymed poems appeared, and where he was the resident poetry critic of the Vallance Review, which featured reviews of sonnets and rhymed verse by some of the world’s most famous historical sonneteers and poets.
 
Richard Vallance has also been featured from time to time in more recent issues of Poetry Life & Times, Poetry Life and Times (artvilla.com), from 2012-2018.
 
He has also been published in several other international venues, among others: Decanto Poetry Magazine/Anthology (Sara Russell, ed.) – no longer in publication The Deronda Review, Neo/Victorian Cochlea, The Deronda Review – Home, Sonnetto Poesia ISSN 1705-4524 (25 quarterly issues) SEE:
Sonnetto poesia. | Bibliothèque et Archives Canada / Library and Archives Canada (worldcat.org)
 
Richard Vallance is also the Editor of a multilingual anthology of sonnets. The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phenix Renaissant de Ses Cendres – Anthology of Sonnets of the Early Third Millennium = Anthologie de Sonnets a: Vallance, Editor-In-Chief Richard: 9781460217016: Books – Amazon.ca

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Where Have all the Fishes Gone?& Further Poems by Fabrice B. Poussin

Where Have all the Fishes Gone?

Sitting atop the cliff overlooking
the ocean vast
we hold one another
in awe of its innumerable mysteries.

The sun sets calmly for us
rises with deft determination
on the other side
of a blue horizon.

Not a sound
emerges from the deep waters
clean of all lives that once were
ancestors some say to our kin.

Where have they all gone
why extinct so soon into fossils
imprints per chance left in the stone
that tell of so distant an evolution.


Welcome to the World of Nice

The world nearly came to an absolute stop when
the wizard suddenly halted his incantations
the fires he had set ablaze reflecting upon his pale brow.

For centuries he had roamed the planet
a weathered wand in his mummified grip
his face oozing with the harm he could cause.

Another in a glorious evening grace
ambled like royalty among the populace
sizing each one of her kin as a victim.

Tall above armies of humble servants
she made them dependent of every whim
she might have dreamed up in her solitary chambers.

She too paused when the child cried
for this Amazon who had never known pain
her frame near collapse she let go of her aim.

The thousands assembled for what they expected
was to be yet a list of grievances and threats
looked in amazement at these meek creatures.

Never had a soul caught a glimpse of pain
in the eyes of those unforgiving executioners
until the tear of a child fell upon their feet.

The giants stepped down from the pedestal
greeted by embraces never imagined of those
who still bore the scars of their millennial tortures.

While the poor wake in a pool of chagrin
no one knew the few in satin and pearl
could weep and fall to the yoke of a babe.


Suffering to Rest

She can tell the throb will persist
Into a night of pleasant slumber
feeling a tug at her secret fibers.

Contemplating the past hours
when glee echoed through the halls
attempts to calm still fail.

Into a slanted mirror an image
seeks to smile at this solemn reflection
subdued by the numbing liquid of her pain.

Docile as with every passing dawn
something has changed in the blood
shed again upon the dusk of a precious hour.

Soon again she will share her pleasure
when the day’s memories turn to dust
and her flesh finds rest in the thin night.

Hard to Be 

Merely standing hands upon the wooden rails
staring into a background of dense forest
he might find rest on a Sunday’s morn’ when

his thoughts quickly move to the millions
like him who contemplate the world
considering how little they can see he holds 

a cup of a dark brew in hand, early smoke in the other
his desperation grows as he longs
for the visions others cannot share and

he imagines so many there with him
gazing into the same surroundings 
their perception so different from his he

considers the one who inspires him 
if only he could be within her as she takes all in
become an intimate part of who she is for

he feels so much missing from his being
lost smaller than a speck of minute dust
while an infinity of interpretations exists yet

only this microcosm of the infinite belongs to him
so insignificant as he must remain until at last
he might be freed from this temporary prison and

become like all those before him
a piece of the universal puzzle
the matter of all that is the cosmos. 


Feeling the sounds.

Upon a saunter as is his common dominion
he pushes through the brush of a dense forest
after the storm left its gentle coat
on every living thing like a shroud of life.

Nothing speaks, everything rests yet
awaiting reassurance that it is safe again to be
and he continues, puzzled by the uncanny silence
looking for a sign that all is well still.

And there it is, a murmur brushes against his flesh
an eerie sensation of sound, of sight
of scent, touch and even taste
from whence it is born he cannot tell.

It must be her at last in the late hour
since darkness will soon prevail
and she always visits him in his sleep
when his dreams become real as the present.

She surrounds him with an infinite coat
made with all a soul can endure
he hears the voice of her wholeness speak
without a word, but it is to be eternal. 

 
 

 
 
Fabrice B. Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications. Most recently, his collection “In Absentia,” was published in August 2021 with Silver Bow Publishing.
 
 
 

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