Conformal Mapping.Poem.Sonnet.Vera Rich(1936-2009)

 

 

I cannot come to you without a sleep,

And travelling through sleep, I cannot know

If through one firm continuum I go.

Night is an involution which may keep

 Strange secrets, map our plane from sphere to sphere,

 And though we travel post-stage, can we swear

 Nights in strange inns preserve invariant “there”

 And “thither”? One brief day embeds our “near”.

 So, meeting, can we claim a mundane path

 Maps me to you in spatial translation?

 Rise with the dawn – however swift we run,

 Time draws its radius around each hearth,

 And hence we meet, sped by night’s transformation

 Where children dream gold lands beyond the sun.

 

***

Vera Rich(1936-2009)

Educated at St Hilda’s College, Oxford and at Bedford College, London, Vera Rich, a respected science journalist and a tireless campaigner for human rights, was a fine poet. Her wits were quick, her memory prodigious and she had a wonderful sense of humour.

During the 1960’s she had three books of her own poems published, and founded the poetry magazine, Manifold. This ran with some success for 28 issues before publication was suspended in 1968, when Vera became Eastern European correspondent for the science magazine, Nature.

Once asked to translate some Ukrainian poems, she learned the language to do so. For the next three decades, she travelled extensively in eastern Europe, becoming the foremost translator of both Ukrainian and Belarusian poetry into English. She reported on the activities of dissident Soviet scientists, the Chernobyl disaster, psychiatric abuse and AIDS in the Soviet Union. Her anthology of Belarusian poetry, Like Water, Like Fire, published by UNESCO, was subsequently withdrawn under pressure from the Soviet Union.

Manifold, which she revived in 1998, regularly published foreign-language poetry with parallel text in Engtlish and, occasionally. foreign poetry untranslated. In 2006 Vera travelled to the Ukraine to receive the Ivan Franko Award for her 40 years service to the translation of Ukrainian poetry. While on a visit to the Ivan Franko Homestead she gave an emotional reading of Shevchenko’s poem “Testament”. On her next visit in 2007, she wore her medal, the Order of Princess Olha, which had been presented to her at the Ukrainian Embassy in London. Vera could fairly be described as a Ukrainian patriot, an unusual distinction for an Englishwoman.

In 2006 Vera underwent treatment for breast cancer. But she always insisted her illness was an inconvenient obstacle to her work. On 18 December 2009, her doctor advised her to go into hospital, but even then Vera gave priority to her translations. On 20 December, 2009, she died peacefully in her bed. She will be greatly missed, not least for her kindness and the support she gave to so many. Alan Flowers (UK)

 ***

This sonnet and bibliography is pre-published with the permission of the Editor-in-chief from:

Richard Vallance, editor-in-chief. The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire. Friesen Presse, Victoria, B.C., Canada. © 2013. approx. 240 pp. ISBN Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Price: $28.00 Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 Price: $18.00 e-Book: 978-1-4602-1702-3 Price: TBA

300 sonnets & ghazals in English, French, Spanish, German, Chinese & Persian.

30 sonnets in this anthology are to be pre-published by our permission in Poetry Life & Times (UK) which has exclusive sole rights prior to the publication of the anthology itself. Readers may also contact Richard Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at: vallance22@gmx.com for further information.http://vallance22.hpage.com/

 

 

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Winter Departure.Poem. Sonnet.Trina Gayon

 

The early light reflects the short gray hairs

among the brown, and still he’s just a boy

of twenty-five, who rises slowly, turns

to stare down at the bed where she coils

asleep, the dreamless sleep that only comes

on nights when he has filled her up with rain.

He brought it with him out of Dublin slums,

to blanket California hills in gray

soft shrouds. He waits for gold to turn to green.

He lingers over tea and toast until

he’s read the Times. Packing his bag to leave;

he has no ties to things that keep her still

 beneath their weight ― a job, this house, her car.

 It’s almost Christmas, and Ireland’s not so far.

 ***

Trina Gaynon is a graduate of the M.F.A. writing program at the University of San Francisco. She currently volunteers in Los Angeles with WriteGirl, providing workshops and mentors for young women in high school who are interested in writing, and works with a literacy program in her community. Recently, her poems have appeared in Natural Bridge, Runes, 26, Southeast Review and the anthology Bombshells: War Stories and Poems by Women on the Homefront and Yemassee. She says, “My deeply divided personality moves back and forth between writing sonnets, a way of exploring what I have to say, and more experimental work, a way of exploding into what I need to say.”

This sonnet is pre-published with the permission of the Editor-in-chief from:

Richard Vallance, editor-in-chief. The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire. Friesen Presse, Victoria, B.C., Canada. © 2013. approx. 240 pp. ISBN Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Price: $28.00 Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 Price: $18.00 e-Book: 978-1-4602-1702-3 Price: TBA

300 sonnets & ghazals in English, French, Spanish, German, Chinese & Persian.

30 sonnets in this anthology are to be pre-published by our permission in Poetry Life & Times (UK) which has exclusive sole rights prior to the publication of the anthology itself. Readers may also contact Richard Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at: vallance22@gmx.com for further information. http://vallance22.hpage.com/

 

 

 


 

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The Wife of Pain.Poem.Sonnet.Becca Menon

 

***

I’ve learned deceptiveness since he moved in:

How to distract him from a brutal rage or try

To trick his jealous need for all of my

Attention — yet defend him when I grin

Contentedly for loved-ones who suspect

 His secret violence; to take the blame

 For something that I’ve done or some neglect

 That sets him off, and hide the sticky shame

 I feel for letting him destroy my life.

 And while it never stops confounding me

 To realize that it’s true I am his wife,

 There’s one thing that I face with honesty:

 Because it was by illness we were wed,

 This demon, Pain, will always share my bed.

 ***

Becca Menon (1958― ) of New York City writes formal, often narrative poetry that makes use of both received and nonce forms. Her verse novel A Girl and Her Gods (2008) led poet Katha Pollitt to declare “No poet I know of writes anything like this ― Becca dances to a tune of her own Panpipes, and the reader follows, entranced,” while Herb Leibowitz, Editor of Parnassus, wrote that her “language is supple and nuanced {and} her sleight-of-hand as a story-teller keeps the reader from worry about what technical devices she uses;…” Poet Mark Rudman, editor of Pequod, noted that her poetry is “playful, philosophical, and subversive.” Also a translator and prize-winning author of nonsense, Becca has works appearing in numerous print and on-line journals, both nationally and internationally. To learn more, please visit BeccaBooks.com

***

This sonnet is pre-published with the permission of the Editor-in-chief from:

 Richard Vallance, editor-in-chief. The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire. Friesen Presse, Victoria, B.C., Canada. © 2013. approx. 240 pp. ISBN Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Price: $28.00 Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 Price: $18.00 e-Book: 978-1-4602-1702-3 Price: TBA

300 sonnets & ghazals in English, French, Spanish, German, Chinese & Persian.

30 sonnets in this anthology are to be pre-published by our permission in Poetry Life & Times (UK) which has exclusive sole rights prior to the publication of the anthology itself.


Readers may also contact Richard Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at: vallance22@gmx.com for further information.

http://vallance22.hpage.com/

 

 

 

 

 

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Coming to Terms. Sonnet. Poem. Catherine Chandler

***

I set aside my white smocked cotton blouse,

 my pants with the elastic belly panel.

The only music in the empty house

strains from a distant country western channel.

My breasts are weeping. I’ve been given leave –

a week in which to heal and convalesce.

I peel away the ceiling stars; unweave

the year I’d entered on your christening dress.

 I rearrange my premises – perverse

assumptions! – gather unripe figs; throw out

 the bloodied bedclothes; scour the universe

 in search of you. And God. And go about

 my business as my crooked smile displays

 the artful look of ordinary days.

 

***

Catherine Chandler

Catherine Chandler (1950 ― ), an American-born Canadian poet, teacher and translator and graduate of McGill University, is winner of the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award 2010, and nominee for six Pushcart Prizes, the Griffin Poetry Prize and the 2013 Poets’ Prize. She is the author of five books of poetry, the latest, Glad and Sorry Seasons, forthcoming from Biblioasis Press. Her poems, translations, essays, reviews, interviews and podcasts have been widely published in print and online books, journals and anthologies, including The Alabama Literary Review, Orbis, Quadrant, Iambs and Trochees, Measure, Able Muse, Raintown Review, Sonnetto Poesia and The Centrifugal Eye. Catherine writes sonnets because it is her way of trying, as she writes in her sonnet “Sonnet Love”, “to modulate unmanageable grief”. Her website, The Wonderful Boat, welcomes visitors at cathychandler.blogspot.com

“Coming to Terms” by Catherine Chandler, is the winner of the 2010 Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award. It now appears in The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire.

Some 300 sonnets and ghazals in English, French, Spanish,German and Farsi―publish at Friesen Press. Canada 2014. ISBN: Hard-cover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 eBook: 978-1-4602-1702-3. Available at Amazon & Barnes & Noble

 We urge readers of these sonnets in Poetry Life & Times  from The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant deses cendes to visit the site http://vallance22.hpage.com/

Readers may also contact Richard Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at: vallance22@gmx.com for further information.

 

 

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The Glue That Holds Us to the Canvas. A Poem by Jim Dunlap.

moi(1)

                                                     Jim Dunlap Author

***

Like sparks trailing

 from a million, billion fireflies,

 a single thought

 limns a trillion suns.

 

 From the first small bonfire

 flickering across four million years,

 whose light imprints itself

 upon the canvas backdrop

 of a feckless, barely cohesive Infinity,

 the matter of man, no more than

 the past, transmogrifies the future —

 denies the import of “real” or “black”

 or any other type of matter.

 

 Yet existing, it defines the local locus

 Of now and when and how and then.

 

 The freezing cold of space

 burns like energy

 backfiring on itself.

 Somewhere,

 celestial lightshows

 flare across parsecs

 of near emptiness.

 

 Liquid oxygen fuels

 the laboring lungs

 of multitudes,

 singing out the music of the spheres,

 maestros of a trillion symphonies,

 platelets in the lifeblood of the Universe.

 

 Like a Coriolis wave that imprints itself

 upon a formless sandstorm,

 a thought burns itself

 into the very fabric

 of Eternity,

 opens like

 a budding flower,

 and initiates

 its own realities.

 

***
Jim Dunlap’s poetry has been published extensively in print and online in the United States, England, France, India, Australia, Switzerland and New Zealand. His work has appeared in over 90 publications, including Potpourri, Candelabrum, Mobius, Poems Niedernasse, and the Paris/Atlantic. He was the co-editor of Sonnetto Poesia and is currently a Content Admin for Poetry Life & Times. www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes He is also the chief proofreader for the On Viewless Wings Anthologies, published out of Queensland, Australia. In the past, he was a resident poet on Poetry Life & Times and the newsletter editor for seven years with the Des Moines Area Writers’ Network.

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Filming ‘Blood Shot Silk’ – Deleted Scene (38-42) Poem. Christopher Barnes

 

Filming ‘Blood Shot Silk’ – Deleted Scene (38)

 

One frame inheriting another…

Blood on marble and white roses.

Stand-alone vampire crystallizes into a statue.

The nearest pall-bearer sucks air. Crushed urn.

 

 Froth overruns chapelry pews

Through a hinge-wrecked door –

 An ephemeral embodiment.

 

Filming ‘Blood Shot Silk’ – Deleted Scene (39)

 

 Take No. 7

 In rubescent lamé pyjamas.

 Sabrina Roper’s is a skin-deep part,

 Moulding exposed nerves

 In the screening room.

 A moon-buffed kiss on hand.

 His Satanic Majesty simpers.

Runaway violin a bedlamite tango…

Chimps neighing over the sobs of men…

 

Filming ‘Blood Shot Silk’ – Deleted Scene (40)

 

 The picture palace reviews

 May get off-the-beam

 About the overacting.

 Hold the focus,

 Instantaneous sunrise behind a shot –

 Costumes: the fantasia keeps time

 With a hue and cry.

 The limelit alehouse at dead of night.

 Our Stunt Co-ordinater isn’t exasperated

 By bee swarms in gusts,

 Nor the beg-hard grimace

 On Manola Dean’s hauled up face.

 

 Filming ‘Blood Shot Silk’ – Deleted Scene (41)

 

 Fuzz on Bevan’s palms

 Flaunted as the transom’s pegged.

 Simon, the Boom Operator, tips to the left.

 Cut to…billboard puffing the movie show ‘Nosferatu’.

 

 Camera 6 whirls to Sabrina Roper

 In the ruck of a bee-keepers net.

 A schnauzer piddles in floorboards.

 

 The relinquished rocking chair teeters

 Indicating tea, sandwiches

 And a twist-ragged Script Conference.

 

Filming ‘Blood Shot Silk’ – Deleted Scene (42)

 

 Smoke machine on a brae…

 A hog spews on moss.

 Effervescence in dirty sky.

 Disfigured colour sergeant gains time,

 Pulls out a smooth-bore.

 Snigger, incandescent flash.

 The dream is taking flesh.

 Drumroll on soundtrack – mental note.

 The regular steps of the fait accompli

 May be fair-weather, deleted.

 

 

 Christopher Barnes, UK. Some bio details…

 

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 partake 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.

 I also have a BBC web-page www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not work click on SECTION 28 on second site.

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.  In May I had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People’s Theatre why not take a look at their website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gallery/recent_exhbitions.htm

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…see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival  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.

 

 

 

 

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Beyond Me and You.Video.Poem.Robin Marchesi

 

Beyond You and Me

Beyond You and Me
 
 
Me
 
Robin Marchesi, born in 1951, began writing in his teens, much to the consternation of his mother,

the sister of Eric Hobsbawm, the historian.

In 1992 Cosmic Books published his first book entitled  “A B C Quest”.

In 1996 March Hare Press published “Kyoto Garden” and in 1999 “My Heart is As…”

ClockTowerBooks published his Poetic Novella, “A Small Journal of Heroin Addiction”, digitally, in 2000.

Charta Books published his latest work entitled “Poet of the Building Site”, about his time working with Barry Flanagan the Sculptor of Hares, in association with the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

He is presently working on an upcoming novel entitled “A Story Made of Stone.”
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 http://www.amazon.com/A-Small-Journal-Heroin-Addiction/product-reviews/0743300521

http://www.illywords.com/2011/09/down-the-rabbit-hole-a-glimpse-into-the-wonderland-of-barry-flanagan/


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Abandoned Church(Ballad of The Great War)Poem.Torre A. DeVito Translated from Iglesia Abandonada.Federico García Lorca

IGLESIA ABANDONADA
(BALADA DE LA GRAN GUERRA)

Yo tenía un hijo que se llamaba Juan.
Yo tenía un hijo.
Se perdió por los arcos un viernes de todos los muertos.
Lo vi jugar en las últimas escaleras de la misa
y echaba un cubito de hojalata en el corazón del sacerdote.
He golpeado los ataúdes. ¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo!
Saqué una pata de gallina por detrás de la luna y luego
comprendí que mi niña era un pez
por donde se alejan las carretas.
Yo tenía una niña.
Yo tenía un pez muerto bajo la ceniza de los incensarios.
Yo tenía un mar. ¿De qué? ¡Dios mío! ¡Un mar!
Subí a tocar las campanas, pero las frutas tenían gusanos
y las cerillas apagadas
se comían los trigos de la primavera.
Yo vi la transparente cigüeña de alcohol
mondar las negras cabezas de los soldados agonizantes
y vi las cabañas de goma
donde giraban las copas llenas de lágrimas.
En las anémonas del ofertorio to encontraré, ¡corazón mío!,
cuando el sacerdote levante la mula y el buey con sus fuertes brazos
para espantar los sapos nocturnos que rondan los helados paisajes del cáliz.
Yo tenía un hijo que era un gigante,
pero los muertos son más fuertes y saben devorar pedazos de cielo.
Si mi niño hubiera sido un oso,
yo no temería el siglo de los caimanes,
ni hubiese visto el mar amarrado a los árboles
para ser fornicado y herido por el tropel de los regimientos.
¡Si mi niño hubiera sido un oso!
Me envolveré sobre esta lona dura para no sentir el frío de los musgos.
Sé muy bien que me darán una manga o la corbata;
pero en el centro de la misa yo rompere el timón y entonces
vendrá a la piedra la locura de pingüinos y gaviotas
que harán decir a los que duermen y a los que cantan por las esquinas:
él tenía un hijo.
¡Un hijo! ¡Un hijo! ¡Un hijo
que no era más que suyo. porque era su hijo!
¡Su hijo! ¡Su hijo! ¡Su híjo!

 ***

The Abandoned Church
(A Ballad of The Great War)

Translated and further interpreted by Torre DeVito
from “IGLESIA ABANDONADA” by Federico García Lorca

I had a son who was named John.
I lost a son whom I look for in
the ruins of the church one All-Hallows eve.
I see him playing on the steps during a mass long since ended,
Dipping his little tin pail into the well of the priest’s heart.
I beat the coffins for my son (My son!) and cast
chicken bones during a full moon to try and understand

I had a vision that my little child was a fish
left where they move the vendor’s carts away.
I had a little child, a fish that died
in the ashes of incense burners.
And in my vision I was the sea. What? My God! A vast sea!

During his funeral I rang the bells,
but the bells have decayed like wormy fruit.
and I lit the candles, now devoured:
eaten like the spring wheat.

And in the wine, I saw the invisible reaper which
plucks the black heads of anguished soldiers:
in those trays with rubber housings
in which they pass around cups filled with tears.

Amongst the holy flowers of the offertory you will find my heart
when the priest raises the host like one who lifts
a mule or an ox with his strong arms. He does this to
scare away the toads that come out at night to haunt
the frozen landscape of the chalice.

I had a son who was a giant,
but the dead are stronger than the living
and they know how to devour pieces of heaven.

If my child was a bear,
I would not be afraid of the alligator’s stealth,
nor would I have seen the sea tied to the trees
to be ravished and trampled by regiments.
If my child was a bear!

I wrap my child in stiff fabric to dispel the cold of the mosses.
I know very well that I will get a sleeve or an armband;
but in the middle of the funeral I will break the rudder
we will drift to a rock in the sea – full of the madness of
penguins and seagulls, and it will cause those who sleep and
those who sing from the street-corners to cry:
He had a son. A son! A son!

I had a son! Not that he was more than my son,
but because he belongs to us all now, they cry:
Our son, our son, our son…

***

( http://www.tdevito.com )

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