(i.)
Uptown
The newspaper makes me angry and I prepare myself
for a day of punching Nazis. I read about the local museum
being infiltrated by white supremacists and so I plan my day
around a visit uptown. My daughter asks me where we’re going and I tell her
we’re going to fuck some shit up.
I keep my eyes peeled for guys with shaved heads and swastika pins
combat boots and iron crosses but I don’t see any. Someone says
something kind of racist on the bus next to me and I look at them
but then they shut up as if they know what’s in my head.
(ii.)
After the Funeral
it’s become a contest of who knew first
who first found out how and when he or she died
who was closest, who has the best story. we get ugly
in our nostalgia, tread a difficult balance between
preserving the subject’s sudden sainthood
while expunging our most pointed, painful, awful memories
find some way to say we should have seen it coming
express surprise that it took so long.
afterwards, we each retreat to our private musings
on how if things had been different
it could have been any one of us
it should have been someone else. there’s a dark, uncertain target
over everyone we know now, ready to move on
who will be next.
Short bio: Holly Day (hollylday.blogspot.com) has been a writing instructor at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and Harvard Review, and her newest poetry collections are Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), The Tooth is the Largest Organ in the Human Body (Anaphora Literary Press), and Book of Beasts (Weasel Press).
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, 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)
Poetry Life & Times
Cameo In Deed – A Metric Poem by Sochukwu Ivye
Poet: Sochukwu Ivye
Bio: Sochukwu Ivye is a linguistic stylistician, a rhythmist and a distinctive metrist. A final-year student of English Language and Literature, he is particularly interested in English Language (as opposed to English Literature) topics. His work, The Great Cold, an epic poem, is the longest metrical poem by an African. Sochukwu hails from Isseke, an ancient Igbo town in Eastern Nigeria.
Editor’s remark: this work makes for a very long read, strictly for the connoisseurs.
Books in deed define your pet name for you
I well brook them for their station quite true
Do you make one thing of such depictions?
I see but made-up scenes lived like fictions
A well penned note, a far-famed actor’s role
or a gemstone, books outline, not your soul
My soul shall not rest boneless for its child,
your pet name, led and captured in the wild
Even if moments with you calmed me more
they left me, each time, with a heart of sore
Now, I should not learn why on our first day
my poor spirit caught cold under your sway
I could have seen what was in store for me,
but blindfolded, my eyes were not thus free
My mind is fraught with memories unclean,
like a frenzied boy’s eyes caught at a scene
I write to sweep my breast of your pictures,
and breathe thus freshly, eluding strictures
I should let all these saunter past my grasp
but they would dwell in me till my last gasp
As one of those all-youthful twilights came,
with mates, I sat and eased on all the same
The abrupt wind which threw in your figure
might have not longed to assess my vigour
I had found most of the street’s best ladies
I knew most but could win none or maybes
A call came; my heart and eyes led my legs,
and I went for you, although to some dregs
It did seem that I had made one cute move,
but if hours, days and years, after did prove
I heard none else, but listened for your ‘yes’
I was the leopard; you seemed as harmless
I led the thought that I had seen some gold
and beat the past, but there was the untold
There were times my feet even cried in pain
They had to take me to you, though, in vain
The first years nursed me like a newly born
Who would evoke the tales of the lovelorn?
Nothing felt frightful about how hearts halt
But, O heartache! Into wounds, you rub salt
Signs cried out to me; my senses sat numb
Omens played in my eyes; I just grew dumb
What would destroy my soul arose on time
You took no time to divulge this love-crime
How to meet your heart turned to my worry
If some thoughts met my mind, I was sorry
My warmth with you was a style of worship
To lure mates, the female display courtship
Everybody will say, “Some date themselves”
Well, who spare any hearts on any shelves?
My poise was fate-doomed: I left other girls
but because you dressed like a lot of pearls
I saw you when, at some girls else, I looked
in that all my care and lust you had hooked
My long search for the one came to an end,
but would fetch a verse I had never penned
A certain affaire caught our breaths to fare,
but no man who saw tomorrow would dare
I had to walk through some muddy love life
believing that such would win one the wife
You toyed with my rest and sullied my face,
thus that I could not lead myself with grace
Civil linguists say: no schwa, no triphthong
To merit a four-faced, what was my wrong?
My mates kept us and adorned your image,
because they were hopeful of our marriage
Friends at work, school and on the internet
did honour my Miss World and her vignette
All who wished me ill did not want you well
They won, to have met my right woman fell
You did cradle their traps to bring me down
How would I see but roam, about, a clown?
Whose only lover stabs them from behind?
Indulge me, how do they like the cut, blind?
One overreached oneself if one’s ship sank
as did mine, a short distance past the bank
I had once more begun to thrive, it seemed:
all my vows to you I could score redeemed
You well noticed how and lauded my nerve
but the base of your mind laid your reserve
To tag me new, my past knew less passion
but this foul-souled lust lent a new fashion
Your plots I did foil with some selfless acts
May I applaud your grins that read impacts
If you confessed your doubts about dating
you found me hungry for your love, waiting
I served kind judgement in will and in deed,
but saw not when I would bewail my breed
You did have my skin to breed some itches
and my waking brow to wear more stitches
I hoped that my silence smelt of most men
To your requests, my deeds echoed: Amen
You were well at it while you called me dad,
your longing and rightfully yours. How sad!
My groping heart did head for your kindred
Could it meet them in one year or hundred?
My nightmares unmasked overhanging ills,
but you dismissed them as offensive chills
To your dream men I took you, like a bridge
Who misreads you cannot repulse a midge
Except behind closed eyes, I was not yours
Until you felt hurt, past me shut your doors
You felt faceless to show me to your peers;
quick eyes saw: I was the prey all the years
I came out thus strongly despite your plots
to confess the fact: we must brave our lots
Do I miss your hugs I once scored faithful?
Or, your burning brow I did weigh graceful?
Now, for my blindness that still beheld love,
I must watch to tell the hawk from the dove
Now that yours of all lives is led four-faced,
who would still run into your likes in haste?
The eyes that see you have known a Judas
and must give heed to a snake in the grass
Knowledge is might but I loathe this lesson
Yet through you, my inner might did lessen
How you could sift nothing but rip my trust,
and ask to have it again, struck me trussed
I did pledge my trust, and met all my words;
your still small voice did fly away with birds
You had not come to plant or mend fences,
but to steal my heart and numb my senses
That ours was unknown to your confidants
blew me as my encounters with your aunts
We had struck as one, but you posed alone
scratching for wooers, moving on your own
We named our unborn, having built a home
An abode solely of steel, glass and chrome
Who builds a home and for a lifetime plans,
with a woman who does refuse her hands?
Fate struck me moneyless to clear my eyes
I saw one yet nailed downwardly crosswise
I was the one. Who could have believed all?
You did not stand me but fashioned my fall
To have dug my pit and feigned innocence,
you did shear me in deed of my sixth sense
I sought your face while I missed my wallet
If you feigned love, amounts left my pocket
Think that my ageing parent laid her health,
so that you would be with me, all by stealth
She peddled things to get me some money
You kept all and more. Were taps so runny?
If mom’s and my head abandoned your heft
you well did in deed not deem them so deft
My good mother, the marrow for my bones;
she dared all, just to build up my hormones
My eyes and mind were tried by some devil
I could not strive through but, weakly, revel
In your chasteness, the acts you titled fuss
you observed with your boys but denied us
You relished to hear but truths but well lied
You extolled me as meek but fed your pride
Your yes was but yes and your no sheer no
because your heart was a rock in the snow
I did most days bear guilts, could you ever?
All bent knees were mine, as you felt clever
The venom you fed me became some soup
Breaking out of us could not feign a swoop
I incurred more ache when you feigned pity
and shook at your plots sticking thus gritty
When I had smelt myself trapped in a maze
time past time failed me to defeat my craze
You were almost done with your fell intents
when you could pay no heed to my laments
I saw no hope as your heart failed to shake
I held my heart soft and faint for more ache
I watched us turn to walkway souls, quickly
All my labour forthwith crushed, thus sickly
I had marked the last of my love times past
but had yet to vanquish the spells you cast
Of the most foul-souled, the most silent are
If I was ruined, who would breed a memoir?
You chose Janus’ month to cast me to rout
but my God of doorways could lead me out
Could ceasing one’s life taste like a refuge?
The practice yet finds me as then and huge
I should gulp some drinks and submit inert
but something struck my dying deeply hurt
I saw my mother’s book of days half closed
In front of my heart, her face in tears posed
The dead parts of me made out of my form;
they stuck in wait for my breath to conform
Nothing else held the rest of me but mom’s
Her rheum of distress fell like barrel bombs
Had my landlord’s daughter not run to help,
who anywhere would take heed of my yelp?
Chika had but sought to succour my plight;
the whole of me, her nearness would ignite
I did predict that she would seize your seat;
having smelt your place, she called it a feat
Once again, my soul did meet one so loose
but she found me in your filth thus profuse
She would fall for a soul with no such work
and not when she had known many a quirk
She thought that I should not let you away;
I knew that she would see better, someday
She copied your looks and copied your gait
Not for her use; she is mirthful, but straight
How much more anguish did I have to feel?
Which suicide chart had I more to conceal?
For your foulness, what other grants had I?
Was there something else I did have to try?
Except you feigned them expecting returns
you had no care, but cast my balm to burns
I thought to myself that I had less strength,
if I could keep a sweetheart at arm’s length
I wondered what could render me thus foul
and shorn of wits, but now at myself scowl
I considered how tides would flow and ebb
Drowned in ill hopes, I was caught in a web
How you robbed me of my faith and reason
but filled your boys’ would rout any treason
It shook me while your voice within lay stiff
You must have killed her to enjoy your skiff
If I outlive these days, meet some soul else,
but like her less, shall we say our farewells?
While I pray that the well esteemed forgives
I fear that my scared soul beyond now lives
The leopard now mourns his meeting a linx
I could not see myself pull through this jinx
May all who follow closely mark your mode
and how you wrecked my spirits and abode
All that learn from the price that I have paid
shall meet the oncoming days, better made
I have loved. All who come after may watch
He that may wear love, my case is a swatch
Should I grow feeble and slump at this crux
all must deny more blood such state of flux
If anything slits my soul, some shame does
And through the space, I see but a dim fuzz
I howl in deed to think on these things ours
but placate my spent spirit, bearing flowers
How you could hurt and soothe like Cassio,
Shakespeare knew not the name as Cameo
Of your foul likes, our era should be cleared
to keep many from the collapse well feared
Your followers would with you be punished,
if they kept not from your path all-banished
Reap your will, get fat and gain all the world
From vivid eyes, bear your intent well furled
Win your admired and let his heart no crack
but then, may our days at no time turn back
May your breed never again know my heart,
whilst I bunch up my fragments flung apart.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, 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)
Sanitizer & Truth As A Pair Of Underwear – 2 Poems by Kushal Poddar
Sanitizer
The woman holds ‘This Area Has Been
Sanitized’, forgets to put it down.
The man wears a plague mask.
The woman’s one has an abstract.
A train leaves platform Seven somewhere.
I mean I do not know why I hear the track,
announcements, people rushing, waning,
gone, when nowhere near the restaurant
a station says Welcome and Goodbye at the same time.
Time uses the restroom. Piss looks like its blood-work.
The woman orders a salad that has everything
not devoured by the locusts. The man desires an ocean.
A waiter who keeps his distance shakes his head,
“That’s been banned from circulation since
they tested the fishmonger and found positive.
I use the fluids from my eyes to wash my hands.
More it stings more it feels decontaminated.
Truth As A Pair Of Underwear
“Truth be my underwear.”, she says
and slips out of her pairs;
silence stands by the rain
swollen window frame, naked;
the comforter feels wet as if
humidity too lacks any apparel.
I mistake the moon for a black cat;
moaning season, scratches on the wood,
aunt Helen goes missing albeit her medicine
remains as a reminder to the old age.
Truth, sniffed by this pervert, seems a
long forest lone black woman snakes into
when a white truck chases her.
I mistake silence for a tall tree; leaves rustling
a song only one who sold her soul can sing.
Kushal Poddar
Short bio-
Editor of ‘Words Surfacing’.
Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals’, ‘Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems‘ and ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’. Find and follow him https://www.amazon.com/Kushal-Poddar
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, 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)
The Lines are in turning mode. A Poem by Pijush Kanti Deb
Spondylotic Lines
stand face to face
keeping their eyes and hearts open
as if
they intent to intersect one another
touching
the epi-center of their pain and gain
assuming
the Sun and the other ancillaries are still
happy to be blind.
Alas!
Why the other Lines are not visible?
Why the equi-lines are repulsive?
The dreadful disease
keeps all the individual Lines
in turning mode
enabling them to watch only
the ever-hanging tongues
of their own flexible pencils.
Biography — Pijush Kanti Deb is an Indian poet more than 30with0 published poems published in more than 100 potry magazines and journals world -wide. Beneath the Shadow of a White Pigeon is his only poetry collection. He is an Associate Professor in Economics in Nagaland (India).
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, 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)
Olympic National Park: Nature’s Drama. A Poem by Sterling Warner
Drinking ice tea in the
Bogachiel Rain Forest,
relaxing in retirement,
observing the Salmon
run along the Skokomish,
bald & golden eagles soar
high above, wait for harbor
seals to capture fresh fish,
climb aboard wooden rafts,
& steal the slippery bright
pink prey for themselves or
possibly feed hungry eaglets.
Large driftwood logs
float down the river’s throat,
anchoring themselves
along the Hood Canal’s
warm salt water shoreline;
mosquitoes breed abundantly
while skittish bullfrogs
stridently soldier vociferous
appetites in concrete storm
drains—conduits emptying
into the sound—shielding them
from sharp-eyed predators
scouring sand & stone for food.
Sterling Warner’s Brief Biography
An author, poet, educator, Pushcart nominee, Sterling Warner’s poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Poetry Life and Times Artvilla.com, The Flatbush Review, Literary Yard, The Fib Review, Street Lit: Representing the Urban Landscape and The Atherton Review. Warner has published five collections of poetry: Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Rags and Feathers, Edges, and Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux. Also, in August 2020, he launched, Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories, his first collection of fiction.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, 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)
Crackhouses of Venice. A Poem by Richard L Weissman
And in memorizing this dream while still dreaming it,
so that upon instant of awakening
none of its texture shall be lost
of bringing her to contractual climax
and warm cloaking in her vulnerability
as the love songs turn
mid this sea of teen
that await their plastic straw turn
to coat
long back of their throats
with the numbing drip. drip
of the Mayan rock goddess cocaina
who lays in state
atop this fragmented mirror of truth
till the blue coats rush in
scattering old cabals to four corners
and one ends lost
in crack housed Venice
lumbering down danger streets
searching for Santa Monica Boulevard
and faintest hopes of home.
Bio:
Richard L Weissman has written fiction since 1987.
In 2000, his theatrical play, “The Healing” was selected by Abdingdon Theatre for a staged reading Off-Broadway.
Richard is the author of two Wiley Trading titles. His second book, Trade Like a Casino was selected as a Finalist for the 2012 Technical Analyst Book of the Year Award.
In 2016, Mr. Weissman completed his historical novel in the tradition of magical realism, “Generations”.
In 2020 his poem, “Mountain Bird and Loquat” was selected as the grand prize winner of the Florida Loquat Literary Festival.
In addition to hosting, “In Our Craft or Sullen Art” – a biweekly poetry radio talk show, Richard participates in live spoken word events throughout the U.S.
https://richard-weissman.com/
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, 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)
Horizontal Vision & Poems by Christopher Barnes
(i.) Horizontal Vision …barrows to-and-froed. Hagglers impressed, lurking. I corner nosegay oils, you earmark… * …tilt steamer on disengaged hob 10-15 minutes. Baste… * …check-up. Paramedic eurekas - something woefully awry – deduces tip-off… * …metro expired at Wallsend, bus green-lighted an hour to cloud-gather, you’d never essentially… (ii.) Earth …peachy-keen upbeat guitar seesawed your hips. Taffrail clover, dribble… * …rattle all footloose. Chip walnuts. Grease loaf tin… * …ventured into Bronx Flea Market, bisected dummy cornered into a pin-stripe… * …lick-and-promise miasma Overhauled drained instincts. Only traffic faded… (iii.) Fixations …in rag-order knee-highs yodelled, single-filing my alley. No cur whined… * …kibble, tooling rutty blade of mincer. Dissolve ½ oz… * …Pegasus’ foals vamoosed, so the knight… * …we quick-timed hours. An invisible… (iv.) Not Quite June …gabby-guts rooks air-cleared your nickname. Evening shade diffracted urgency… * …groundwork panade. Turn out as for béchamel, stargaze an hour… * …wolfed my quill.” “What shall I do?” “Take advantage of a crayon…” * …rule-breaking headaches spared, though we blethered all…
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.
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 ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
Autumn Fascination/ Fascinación de otoño Video Poems English/Spanish by Antonio Martínez Arboleda
Editor’s note: check the icons on the YouTube Videos to read texts
Green under siege
efficient blowing that pushed me to an end
of simultaneous lips
of seasons of perfected assonance
Now around a hiding sun
A brown agony
Scaffolding
made of arteries
transporting gravity to the top
The fall of the Roman Empire
Or the British
was harsher
but not neater.
When you try through your rustling
to talk to me about the time
that I set to you with my steps,
I find it very sweet and useless.
Why does your voice follow me,
but you stay behind stranded?
How can a loop be so straight?
What are you, but a new form of life
a sign
that defeat in the Natural World is always relative?
Today, you are masking the ground
where I keep dragging my roots
in contempt for the fallen.
And
despite the appearances
I still live
in a constant state of fascination
Fascinación de otoño
Un cerco fijado en torno al verdor,
efectivo soplo que me empuja a un fin
de labios simultáneos,
de estaciones que corrigen asonancia
Agonía marrón
Arterias como andamios
que transportan
la gravedad a lo alto
Más dura fue
la Caída del Imperio Romano
o del británico,
pero no más limpia.
Cuando intentas con tus chasquidos
hablarme tú
del tiempo que yo te marco
con mis pisadas,
me parece todo tan dulce e inútil.
Dime por qué me sigue tu voz
si tú te vas quedando atrás.
¿Cómo puede un bucle ser tan recto?
¿Qué eres,
sino una nueva forma de vida,
una señal
de que la derrota en el Mundo Natural
es siempre,
siempre, relativa?
En días como este,
enmascaras la tierra
por la que arrastro
con orgullo
mis raíces.
En fin,
a pesar de las apariencias,
continúo viviendo
en un estado constante de fascinación.
Antonio Martínez Arboleda:
Antonio (Tony Martin-Woods) started to write poetry for the public in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada, an online publication of political poetry. He runs the poetry evening Transforming with Poetry at Inkwell, in Leeds, and collaborates with 100 Thousands Poets for Change 100tpc.org/. Tony is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his real-life name, Antonio Martínez Arboleda at the University of Leeds. His project of digitisation of poetry, Ártemis, compiles more than 100 high quality videos of Spanish poets and other Open Educational Resources. http://www.artemispoesia.com/ .
He is the delegate in the UK of Crátera Revista de Crítica y Poesía Contemporánea , where he also publishes his work as translator from English into Spanish. He published his first volume of poetry in Spanish, Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess), in 2015, as a response to the Great Recession, particularly in Spain. His second book, Goddess Summons the Nation Paperback , Goddess Summons the Nation Kindle Edition , is a critique of the ideas of nation and capitalism, mainly in the British Brexit context. It incorporates voices of culprits, victims and heroes with mordacity and rhythm. It consists of 21 poems, 18 of which are originally written in English, available in print and kindle in Amazon and other platforms. Editor’s note: further information bio & academic activities can be found at this link: https://ahc.leeds.ac.uk/languages/staff/91/antonio-martinez-arboleda
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, 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)