Poem

Bring Back Our Girls. Audio Poem. Kwame Write Aido

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Kwame Write- Bring Back (w Iwan Gronert)Kwame Write- Bring Back (w Iwan Gronert)

 

Post by Poetry Life & Times.

kw2kw1
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kwame 1 Kwame11 kwamewrite 1

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BIO:

Strategic multidisciplinary event manager, poet/spoken word artist, blogger and content creator with the passion for writing; poetry, children’s literature and documentaries mostly. Kwame’s word art has earned him several online publications like http://www.artvilla.com/plt/thats-why-i-write-poem-kwame-write-aidoo/, http://www.kalaharireview.com/fictionpoetry/2013/6/25/not-just-dream.html and http://thejrshow.net/2014/03/06/motion-of-destiny/, , a nomination for International Best Amateur Poet by World Poetry Organisation in 2003, an award from the Scrabble Association of Ghana and the stage name “Write”. He believes that poetry is an underestimated tool for education, passing down history, entertainment and inspiration for/by his generation.

Born on the 25h of October, 1986, Charles “Kwame Write” Aidoo earned a BSc in Biochemistry and Biotechnology from Kwame Nkrumah University of Science & Technology in 2009, and currently runs Inkfluent; a poetry/writing event, record production and social media hub which produced Vocal Portraits I: https://soundcloud.com/vocalportraits; a spoken word compilation that brought together 3 continents and currently working again with spoken word artists across the globe on the soon to be released Vocal Portraits II. He also works as a co-ordinator of Ehalakasa; Ghana’s mother poetry movement/platform. A fufu addict though open to try new dishes, he’s learning to use a few instruments and languages.

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

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Burning on the Stiff Mast of her Bones. Sonnet. Poem. Luis Fores. Translated by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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Her body flamed like fiery wings
burning on the stiff mast of her bones,
whilst the nights were rendered to waltzes
by the sweet tame words of her kisses.

Now her womb fluctuates obsessive echoes,
echoes where once a life’s blood was lighten…
and that in the flesh of her day is frozen
now in her ruins, as the burden that weighs.

It was a female’s dream of its seed
of torrential moons upon the shores
lovingly healed the wounds of destiny.

She sows the word with its deed,
she loved with the love of spring waters,
drowning as thus her light and her way.

 
Translated from Luis Fores Quemando el duro mástil de sus huesos
by Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
Quemando el duro mástil de sus huesos

 
Quemando el duro mástil de sus huesos
un fuego de alas en su cuerpo ardía.
Y a una danza de noches se rendía
el dulce y dócil verbo de sus besos.

Su vientre ahora vacila ecos obsesos,
ecos de viva sangre que prendía…
Tan gélida es la carne hoy de su día
que todo es peso en ruina de sus pesos.

…Fuera semilla el sueño de la hembra
a la orilla de lunas torrenciales
que amando cierran llagas de destino.

Entraña de palabra que se siembra
amó con el amor de manantiales,
ahogando así la luz y su camino…


 
Luis Fores (España)

 

This sonnet together with its translation appeared in The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Exciting new sonnet anthology edited by Richard Vallance now available on Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF BN ID: 2940148833628 Publisher: FriesenPress Publication date: 11/20/2013 Sold by: Barnes & Noble
 

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Luis Fores (1960) is a poet, philosopher and arts anthropologist, as well as a devoted practitioner of plastic arts. He has completed practice and theory studies at the Escuela de Artes Imaginarias de Madrid (TAI), and in the Faculty of Arts at the Complutense University of Madrid. Following research in modern and contemporary arts, he achieved his Ph.D. in Philosophy of Art from the same University. In addition, he has achieved his Master in Arts Aesthetics and Theory, by the Autonomous University of Madrid and a Bachelor´s degree in Arts Anthropology by the Complutense University. He has worked in the fields of photography and design for both books and magazines. To his various creative activities, he adds poetry writing, arts theory and teaching as a philosophy professor. He has published essays (research) on arts and philosophy, as well as poetry collections and photography in Spanish and foreign publications.

 
WIN_20140415_213447
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.
 
robin@artvilla.com www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

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Series. Poems by Andres Fisher Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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CASTILLA X

i.
Grandes segadoras trabajan en los campos mientras aviones cruzan el cielo, lentamente, sobre ellos.

ii.
Las mismas montañas se alzan en lontananza sin embargo otros vehículos ruedan por los caminos.

iii.
Donde antes fue la bestia, hoy es el motor mientras el hombre es el mismo que siembra, cosecha y muere.
 
 
CASTILE X
 
i.
Large harvesters crop the fields as aeroplanes slowly cross the skies above them.

ii.
The same mountains rise in the distance even though other vehicles run the roads.

iii.
Where it was the beast before, now it’s the engine, whereas man, who sows, reaps and dies,
remains the same.
 
 
CASTILLA XI
 
i.
Campos de amapolas en los llanos de Castilla.

ii.
Como islas rojas en medio de la marea verde que los circunda.

iii.
Primavera muy lluviosa. Resplandece el llano en el trigo y los cultivos.

iv.
En las flores silvestres, que siguen creciendo junto a los castillos.
 
 
CASTILE XI
 
i.
Poppy fields on the plains of Castile.

ii.
Like red islands surrounded by a green tide.

iii.
A very rainy spring. The plains glisten through the wheat and crops.

iv.
As well as the wild flowers, that still grow beside the castles.
 
 
CASTILLA XII (*)
 
i.
Aun se siembra el trigo en los márgenes de la gran ciudad.

ii.
Que refulge y palpita, confundiendo sus luces con las del ocaso.

iii.
Ya no es la mano del hombre la que siega el trigo.

iv.
Que sin embargo sigue creciendo, enhiesto, en dirección al cielo.
____
A José Viñals, in memoriam.
 
 
CASTILE XII (*)
 
i.
Wheat is still sown on the outskirts of the big city.

ii.
Gleaming and palpitating it mixes its lights with dusk’s.

iii.
Now it’s no longer the hand of man that harvests the wheat.

iv.
That nevertheless still grows straight towards the sky.
_________
(*) To José Viñals, in memoriam
 
***
 
CASTILLA XIV
 
i.
Día nublado en el verano de Castilla:

ii.
inusual como los aviones, de los que ahora solo existe el sonido.

iii.
Gentes van y vienen por las plazas de los pueblos:

iv.
que languidecen o reviven, según desde donde se los mire.

CASTILE XIV.

i.
A cloudy day in the summer of Castile:

ii.
as unusual as the aeroplanes, whose sounds now only exist.

iii.
People come and go through the squares in the small towns:

iv.
that wilt or revive according to the point they’re observed from.
 
 
CASTILLA XV
 
i.
Aun pastan ovejas en los prados de Castilla.

ii.
Y en los campos de rastrojos, ya en la meseta o circundados por colinas.

iii.
Suenan los mismos cencerros que los castillos han oído desde nacer.

iv.
Que oyeron antes las ruinas romanas, hoy circundadas por los nuevos molinos de metal.
 
 
CASTILE XV

i.
Sheep still graze on the pastures of Castile.

ii.
And in the bundle stacked fields, whether on the flatlands or the surrounding hills.

iii.
The same sheep-bells heard by the castles ever since their birth still sound.

iv.
Heard before the Romans and their ruins now surrounded by new steel mills.
 
 
CASTILLA XVI
 
i.
La disciplina del cereal y del olivo dotando de su rigor a los campos de Castilla.

ii.
Las sierras no formando mares sino alzándose como cuchillos que dividen las llanuras.
 
 
CASTILE XVI
 
i.
The discipline of the cereal and the olive tree endowing the fields of Castile, its rigour.

ii.
Ridges not forming seas but rising like knives dividing the plains.
 
***
 
CASTILLA XIX
 
i.
Es invierno y nieva en las sierras de Castilla.

ii.
El manto blanco, sin embargo, no llega a cubrir el pardo que domina en el paisaje.

iii.
En el llano, no obstante, las cepas son apenas vestigios en la superficie de una gruesa capa blanca.

iv.
Y en la autopista, los quitanieves trabajan a destajo para abrir un solo carril.
 
 
CASTILE XIX
 
i.
It’s winter and it snows on the sierras of Castile.

ii.
It’s white shroud, however, fails to cover the grey that dominates the landscape.

iii.
On the plains though, stumps of vine remain as vestiges capped in a thick white .

iv.
And on the motorway, snow ploughs work without respite merely to open a single lane.
 
 
LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO IV
 
i.
Aun existe el ocaso en los espejos retrovisores.

ii.
Delante, la luna se alza sobre un cielo azul oscuro.

iii.
Es el mismo vehículo el que rueda por la autopista y la carretera comarcal.

iv.
Y el que conduce, a bordo del coche y de sí mismo.
 
 
THE ICE POEMS IV
 
i.
Dusk still exists in the rear view mirrors.

ii.
Moon is rising on a dark blue sky ahead.

iii.
It’s the same vehicle that rides the motorway and the byway.

iv.
As is the driver who boards both car and himself.
 
 
VARIACIONES SOBRE UN POEMA SIN TITULO DE DAMSI FIGUEROA.
 
i.
Tres toros blancos corrían por tu sueño.

ii.
Golpeaban tu mejilla con arena.

iii.
Florecían cardos en una pradera amarilla que llegaba hasta el mar.
 
 
VARIATIONS ON AN UNTITLED POEM OF DAMSI FIGUEROA
 
i.
Three white bulls ran through your dream.

ii.
Beating your cheek with sand.

iii.
Thistle bloomed in a yellow prairie ending in the sea.
 
 
AEROPUERTO
 
i.
Se incendia el cielo en los ventanales del aeropuerto.

ii.
Mientras, aviones van y vienen apareciendo y desapareciendo entre las nubes.

iii.
Autobuses, furgonetas y pequeños tractores bullen en las pistas.

iv.
Mientras, los viajeros caminan y desaparecen al entrar en las pasarelas.
 
 
AIRPORT
 
i.
Sky burns in the airport windows.

ii.
Meanwhile, planes go back and forth appearing and disappearing amidst the clouds.

iii.
Buses, trucks and small tractors bustle in the tracks.

iv.
Meanwhile, travellers walk and disappear entering the ramps.
 
 
AEROPUERTO I
 
i.
Cae la noche en los ventanales del aeropuerto.

ii.
Ahora los aviones son puntos luminosos en un cielo negro y uniforme.

iii.
Gentes y vehículos mantienen su actividad cíclica e interminable.

iv.
Mientras, los altavoces emiten mensajes no siempre comprensibles.
 
 
AIRPORT I
 
i.
Night falls in the airport windows.

ii.
Planes now are luminous spots in a dark and motionless sky.

iii.
People and vehicles maintain their cyclical and endless routine.

iv.
Meanwhile, speakers deliver not always understandable messages.
 
 
***
THE PICKAXE AND THE WORM (*)
 
The pickaxe can cut the worm but chooses not to do it, putting him gently aside.
 
(*) Almost from William Blake
 
***
 
 
Escenas. Scenes.
 
i.
Un hombre solitario, camina en línea recta mientras un incendio, a sus espaldas, calcina su presente;

su presente que se elonga, calcinado, mientras los pasos se repiten, rítmicamente, ajenos a toda sensación térmica o corporal.

i.
A solitary man proceeds in a straight line whilst a fire behind him burns to ashes his present,

a present that as it stretches is burnt to ashes, whilst his steps rhythmically repeat themselves, detached from any thermal or corporal sensation.

ii.
Una mujer, a lo lejos, realiza el trayecto mas lento entre el horizonte y las nubes de sus ojos;

nubes a medio camino entre el horizonte y la bruma, cerebral, que impregna de amarillo el espacio entre el horizonte y sus propios ojos.

ii.
A woman in the distance travels a slower trajectory between the horizon and the clouds in her eyes,

clouds halfway between the horizon and the cerebral haze which impregnates yellow space between the horizon and her own eyes.

iii.
La visión de un gato, absorto, tenso en la potencia que lo habita:

que dibuja una ventana en cada muro; que convierte en hipotenusa cada movimiento del gato, tenso, absorto en la visión de su propio movimiento.

A Juan Luis Martínez.

iii.
The cat’s vision, absorbed, tense in the power that inhabits him:

a vision that draws a window on each wall; and that turns into hypotenuse each movement of the cat, tense, absorbed in the vision of its own movement.

To Juan Luis Martinez.

iv.
Un automóvil, abandonado, viaja sin pausa por una larga carretera;

una costanera interminable por la que el automóvil vaga, ensimismado, con dos soles sobre el horizonte como testigos oculares.

iv.
An automobile, abandoned, travels non stop the long motorway:

an endless esplanade, where the automobile roams engrossed with two suns on the horizon as ocular witnesses.
 
 
Escenas 1 Scenes 1
 
i.
Un hombre, a la distancia, pareciera caminar en círculos mientras a su espalda, las huellas dibujan un trazado ortogonal:

trazado que se extiende, circular, mientras sus pasos se alejan, ajenos a toda intención geométrica o lineal.

i.
A man, in the distance, would seem to walk in circles, whilst at his back his tracks draw an orthogonal sketch:

a sketch that extends circularly as his steps walk away, oblivious to any geometrical or linear intention.

ii.
Una mujer, entre la bruma, pareciera dibujar el horizonte con sus pasos sobre la arena:

trayecto lineal, hipnótico, donde los ojos son un recuerdo borroso que tiñe de amarillo cuanto existe en la memoria.

ii.
A woman amidst the mist would seem to draw the horizon as if with her steps on the sand:

a hypnotic linear trajectory, where the eyes are a blurred memory tinting in a yellow haze all what can be remembered.

iii.
Un gato, absorto, se solaza con la visión de su propio movimiento.

desplazamiento lineal que elimina muros, obstáculos, oxidando en su fuerza cuanto se interpone entre el gato y su visión.

iii.
Absorbed, a cat takes pleasure in the vision of its own movements:

a linear displacement that eliminates walls and obstacles, oxidising in its strength,
all that stands between the cat and its vision.

iv.
Un barco, a la deriva, se deja adormecer por la trama rítmica de la marea:

secuencia de olas a medio camino entre la costanera y el horizonte, entre los que el barco agota sus posibilidades de existir.

iv.
Lulled by the rhythmic weavings of the tide, a boat drifts drowsily:

wave sequences, midway between the esplanade and the horizon, where the boat exhausts its possibilities to exist.
 
 
Escenas 2 Scenes. 2
 
i.
Un hombre, bajo la lluvia, camina sin detenerse hasta que el agua, gota a gota, moja su mirada:

mirada húmeda que ve cargado de amarillo el espeso cielo gris del centro del invierno

i.
In the rain a man walks non stop until the water drop by drop wets his gaze:

a wet gaze that sees charged by yellow the dense grey sky of the winter’s core.

ii.
Una mujer, bajo el cielo del invierno, no detiene sus pasos que la acercan a las nubes:

sucesión de nubes grises entre las que la mujer se detiene, con sus pies sobre la arena

ii.
A winter’s sky doesn’t stop a woman’s footsteps beneath bringing her closer to the clouds:

a succession of grey clouds that stay between the woman with her feet on the sand.

iii.
Un árbol, desnudo en el invierno, enseña al viento su estructura:

a un geómetra, que encuentra en ella el sentido de la vida.

iii.
Stripped by winter, a tree shows the wind its structure:

to a geometrician, who finds in it the meaning of life.

iv.
Las luces de su arboladura son los únicos puntos visibles de un barco, entre la niebla de la bahía:

luces que se confunden con las del tendido eléctrico de la ciudad, apenas unos metros mas arriba.

iv.
Rigging lights are the only visible points of a ship in the fog of a bay:

lights which get confused with a city’s electric lights suspended just a few meters above.
 
 
Escenas 3. Scenes. 3
 
i.
Un rostro, desvaneciéndose, aun conserva rasgos que lo vinculan a la especie:

pertenencia laxa, cuya disolución a la luz de la tarde pone en jaque a la especie, que lo ignora, embotada en su rutina.

A Foucault

i.
A fading face still retains traits that link it to its specie:

a lax belonging, whose late afternoon dissolution checkmates the specie, which, dulled by routine, it’s unaware of.

To Foucault

ii.
Los anos del hombre desintegrándose, espasmódicamente, mientras sus huellas se acercan a los dominios del arquetipo;

territorio geométrico, sin edad, que encanta la consciencia y troquela los anos del hombre.

ii.
The years of man disintegrate in spasms as his footsteps approach the domain of the archetype;

in an ageless geometrical territory delighting consciousness and indenting the years of man.

iii.
Una calle dando tumbos, ebria, entra en el vértigo de un viaje circular:

que desorienta a las puertas, psicoactivándolas, haciendo lineal el trayecto de pajeros y peces que deambulan por la calle, delirante, en el cenit del periplo

iii.
A street staggers along inebriated entering the vertigo of a circular journey:

disorientating, psychoactivating doorways, turning lineal the trajectories of birds and fish that roam the street deliriously in the zenith of the trip.

iv.
Un espejo, al fondo de un pasillo, es desbordado por los destellos de una imagen triangular;

triangulo equilátero, evanescente, que entrega su identidad al espejo aferrándose, difusamente, a un vago anhelo de eternidad.

A Borges

iv.
A mirror at the end of a corridor is overwhelmed by the glimmers of a triangular image;

an evanescent equilateral triangle surrendering its identity to the mirror clutching dimly a vague desire for eternity.

To Borges
 
 
LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO. THE ICE POEMS.
 
i.
El cielo solo existe en los espejos retrovisores. Delante, el asfalto se extiende sin fin aparente troquelado por el ritmo hipnótico del trazado discontinuo.

El sol es un detalle. Solo uno más para el que rueda por el asfalto mientras el cielo sigue existiendo únicamente en el cristal de los espejos.

i.
The sky only exists in the rear view mirrors. Ahead, the asphalt extends without apparent end indented by the hypnotic rhythm of the continual broken road lines.

The sun is a mere detail to he who rolls on the asphalt as the sky goes on existing only in the glass of the mirrors.

ii.
La carretera solo existe en la retina del viajero. Fuera, rueda y asfalto son una unidad que constituye en sí misma el movimiento.

El ojo reconoce apenas borrosas señales de ruta mientras la retina vaga por otros campos. Por otros áreas de la conciencia en movimiento.

ii.
The motorway only exists in the retina of the traveller; outside wheel and asphalt are a unit, which constitutes itself as the motion.

The eye recognises only blurred route signs, as the retina wanders in other fields, other areas of consciousness in motion.

iii.
El silencio sincopado del habitáculo de un coche define la existencia del conductor, cuya presencia otorga sentido a la maquina.

Un sentido que se entremezcla con el trazado discontinuo, con el sol que incide sobre el y con el conductor, definido entre el silencio y la sincopa.

iii.
The syncopated silence of the car’s compartment defines the existence of the driver, whose presence gives sense to the machine.

A sense that blends the continual broken road lines, the sun on them and the driver defined by silence and syncopation.

iv.
La mirada del conductor de un vehículo que rueda. Su extensión en un área delimitada por el horizonte y el trazado discontinuo.

Por el sol al fondo. Vórtice que define la existencia del conductor, de su mirada y la del vehículo que rueda.

iv.
The driver’s sight in a rolling vehicle, its range on the area marked by the horizon and the continual broken road lines;

by the sun, afar, a vortex that defines the driver’s existence, his sight and the rolling vehicle.

v.
El asfalto de la carretera como requisito necesario del movimiento. Su existencia
pétrea definiendo a un individuo.

Sujeto que viaja, insomne, consciente de deber su existencia al movimiento engendrado por la interacción del asfalto y de la rueda.

v.
The asphalt of a motorway being a necessary requirement for motion, whose stony surface defines an individual.

A sleepless subject, who travels aware it owes its existence to the motion engendered by the interaction of asphalt and wheel.

vi.
El movimiento de un vehículo solo existe entre el trazado discontinuo y el sol, que define la presencia de lo visible.

Movimiento materializado en la consciencia a través de la retina, en le que el sol troquela cuanto tiene posibilidad de existir.

vi.
The motion of a vehicle only exists between the continual broken lines and the sun defining the presence of what is visible.

A motion materialised in consciousness through the retina, in which the sun impresses all possibilities of existence.

vii.
La noción de un conductor y de una máquina. De su desplazamiento sobre el asfalto blando de una carretera.

Incisión de una marca en el asfalto. Huella que definirá la presencia de conductor, maquina, asfalto y carretera.

vii.
The concept of a driver and a machine. Their motion over the soft asphalt of the motorway.

Incision of a mark in the asphalt. A trace that will define the presence of the driver, machine, asphalt and motorway.

viii.
La mirada de un sujeto en movimiento sobre la luz, que materializa la presencia de lo real.

La conciencia del conductor que debe su existencia al movimiento y al sol: atravesado en el horizonte por el trazado discontinuo.

viii.
A subject’s sight in motion on light materialises the presence of the real.

The driver’s consciousness, which owes its existence to motion and the sun: crossed on the horizon by the continual broken road lines
 
 
VARIACIONES SOBRE FRAGMENTOS DE LA HISTORIA VERADERA DE LA CONQUISTA DE NUEVA ESPAñA, DE BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
 
VARIATIONS ON FRAGMENTS OF THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF NEW SPAIN BY BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO.

i.
Tanta vara y piedra y flecha nos arrojaban, señor, que todo el suelo estaba cubierto de ellas y aun el cielo oscurecían cuando peleábamos de día.

Y derrocaban nuestras murallas, señor, y aunque arremetiéramos reciamente matando treinta o cuarenta de ellos en cada embestida, tan enteros y con mas vigor que al principio acometían.

i.
So many spears, rocks and arrows they hurled at us, my liege, that the ground was covered and even the sky darkened by them as we fought throughout the day.

They knocked down our walls, my liege and though we retaliated stoutly killing thirty or forty at each onslaught, yet as a whole they stormed us with even more vigour than before.

ii.
Sesentiseis de los nuestros nos tomaron en aquel desbarate, señor, y nos herían a todos, tanto a los de a caballo como a los de pie.

Y veíamos como los subían a lo alto del gran templo para sacrificarlos, señor, y los ponían sobre unas piedras delgadas y con grandes navajones de pedernal, les aserraban los pechos y le sacaban los corazones bullentes para ofrecerlos a sus dioses, que allí tenían

ii.
Sixty six of us, they took from that disaster, my liege, both those on horseback and those on foot.

And we saw how they climbed to the top of their great temple to slaughter them, my liege, to lay them on thin stone slabs and with great flint shards sever their breast to draw forth their pulsing hearts as an offering to the Gods they had there.

iii.
Desde lo alto del templo, señor, hacían sonar un gran tambor que se oía en dos leguas, que tenia el sonido mas triste, como instrumento de los demonios:

Y venían muchos escuadrones a echarnos mano y cerraban con nosotros tan reciamente que no aprovechaban estocadas ni cuchilladas; ballestas ni escopetas y daban en nosotros, señor, llenos de heridas y corriéndonos la sangre.

iii.
From the top of the temple, my liege they made a great drum roll you could hear from two leagues, it had a most sad sound, as though an instrument of demons:

they came in many squads closing us in at hand so that neither neither slash nor thrust, shotgun nor crossbow was of avail, and so they struck us, my liege, full of wounds and running in our own blood.
 
***
 
andres fisher
 

Andres Fisher was born in Washington DC in 1963. At an early age he moved to Chile where he was raised. In 1990 he moved to Madrid, Spain, where he got his PhD and started publishing poetry and related work. Since 2004 he’s back in the US where he teaches at Appalachian State University, Boone, NC, and he still spends 2 or 3 months a year in Madrid. His last book of poetry is Series, collected poetry 1995-2010 (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica, 2010). In 2009 appeared his bilingual anthology of Haroldo de Campo’s poetry, Hambre de Forma (Ed. 27 letras, Madrid) and in 2010 Caballo en el Umbral, anthology of Jose Viñals’ poetry done collaboratively with Benito del Pliego (Ed. Regional de Extremadura, Mérida). In 2013 appeared Entremilenios (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica), a translation into Spanish of Haroldo de Campo’s posthumous book. Also in 2013 was released Círculo de Hueso, translations into Spanish of the poetry of Lew Welch (Varasek eds.) done with Benito del Pliego and recently in 2014, they have published Objetos y Retratos. Geografía, translations into Spanish of a sample of Gertrude Stein’s poetry (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica)

 
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Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com/ and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at PoetryLifeTimes

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Notes for a new Religion presented as a poem — A Little Girl of Long Ago by Joe Ruggier

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First issued in Lady Vancouver, 9 poems by Joe Ruggier, (1997), A little girl of long ago was re-issued in Lamplighter most Gracious, col­lected poems and selected prose, (1972-2009), in the original length of 2 pages — now expanded to 7. Baude­laire’s version of pacts with Satan con­ceals wicked humour directed against the hypoc­risy of So­ciety. The critics let him get away with it because it is both humorous and candid. The Devil is far more sensitive than human beings, to the Arts and to the insult he suffers: it is equally true that he is converting. You do not have a right to snap with an insult as you please not even a poor devil. You are not an Angel so privileged. The only pur­pose of this Author’s ver­sion of a pact with a devil is Salvation. His intentions are not even as tendentious as Baude­laire. All he is asking is that readers will judge him with an open mind and let him get away with it as the critics allow Baudelaire.

 

A little girl of long ago

a testament for True Religion, old and new

 

 A Wise Man sat upon the Seat of Honour

  in ancient China, and said unto His Daughter:

“I love you much, Beloved, heed what I say!

Know that before your birth I knew about thee,

that you have lived before and I have read

your work which in your last existence flourished,

and I, thy Padre, loved your terrible beauty,

the divinity concealed in your sorrowing spirit.

Knew also of your tragic end and how,

as a good Man sayeth to me, you went

down to the shades below, which made me weep,

My Love, tears that I would weep had my

own little child been lost. Heed what I say!

A little child thou art but you can read,

and when this book which earnt me fame I wrote

to celebrate my marriage vow, I said

these words to thee alone with all my heart,

though you forgotten were. In your spiritual

ear I whispered aery verse the lines

of which concealed my grief and secret love

and with my verse I tempted thee and made

with thee a pact that you my daughter shall

become and may one day rejoice as you

deserve, Thou beautiful, tragic, troubled spirit —

the only poor devil I ever made a pact with —

and never said unto a single soul

a single word within my bosom buried!

Know then, my little one, you’re old and wise

enough to be your mother’s Blessed Mother!

Let no one then teach you, my troubled Queen,

facts of your life which with my faltering verse

I have said unto you far better than

your teachers can.

 From years before Thy birth

 I felt for Thy misfortune sorrow intense

and painful, flesh torn from My flesh, without

relief from pain. I ask of Thee a favour:

feel for Thyself the pity and the sorrow

that I felt for Thee. Admire the beauty of

such overpowering, tragic pathos —

but save Thy dear Soul: Salvation is

egoism as God wanteth, Damnation not.

Love and untold riches shall be Thy portion

for bearing with Me the most cruel insult.

I am reborn just as Thou art. Kirin ’s

Incarnation is Kirin ’s Reincarnation.

He and His Mother chose each other just

like Me and Thee. I was choked and knowing not

how best to say it! I am poor as Lazarus,

but Thy reward is the Honour of Thy dreams —

a gift of beautiful imagination

to bring Thee Joy in Solitude, whenever

Thy Honour shall flash upon Thy inward eye —

and being a Genius at school, as Padre was.

The time shall come when I shall make Thee rich:

for suffering with Me the cruel insult

You deserve the Jackpot!

 Beloved Daughter, know

 that I have chosen Thee out of a Book

just as the great Kirin did choose His Mother,

two poor devils who could not be consoled

without each other! Were they not all of them

little children once upon a time?

no guile? nor malice in their eyes? misled

by the World? by untold temptations scatter’d?

by fast ones led away to endless ruin?

Thy brows with roses red forever crown’d,

I declare herewith the Reincarnation of

poor souls in need a dogma of the Faith

which with My Sacred Heart inscribe on Thine,

high, divine Priestess of future Culture,

around Whose Honour all the Creeds of Earth

have been united in one common effort

to win Mercy for all Mankind, though lost

throughout the Centuries — born again Christians

as Buddhists teach and Hindus, and the great

Confucius, through a dogma of Rebirth

as majestic as of Resurrection!

 

 

God loves dearly the faithful of old Religion

who live Its mourning and mortification

without making anyone insults too great to bear.

They did to Me, and I deserve truer Religion.

True Religion is pregnant with new Religion,

and new Religion calls all Mankind to Mercy —

save a fiend to win Thyself God’s Mercy!

Unless We have Compassion on the damned

nobody shall, and We may still be lost

and in despairing need for such a Miracle,

and no one heed Our hoarse, despairing cry,

and no one have Compassion on Us either.

To save Thy Soul save a poor devil, such as

Thou art; Thou art not Angel so privileged!

God may still abolish Hell forever. Instead

He may establish the Reincarnation of

poor souls in need as the alternative,

postpone the Judgment through a Faith like Plato’s,

and charge, perhaps, the bill for many lives,

demanding pact and truth of countless lovers —

just one more way of saying: “Purgatory!”

To say once more that God is not a sadist!

 

 

What do some Humans think they are? — to feel

so privileged, though they be not, as to make

some others demons just because their Padre,

because He loves them, gives them second birth,

because He wishes them a second chance?

Do not fear, gentle Daughter, I boast

a history just like Thine, and I accept

the Judgment with Thee in writing. Repent of all

the faults of Thy past Life. Real Glory

lieth in freedom from the cycle of

Rebirth. Pray for Salvation only. Pray

for Resurrection. Rebirth is but a Purgatory,

which God allows the worthy for real reasons only!

 

 

Only the wicked do not acknowledge Hell:

we must, if Truth, affirm its Truth! Rebirth

is but a viable alternative

for all poor Souls who need rehabilitation:

God is not a sadist! We all implore Him

to consider this well-made suggestion … that all

may be allowed to earn Salvation, proving

to God Himself how merciful they are!

 

 

No living Man or Woman is owned by Demons.

Let all Mankind take turns, with works of Art,

and with their Love, to save poor souls in need,

and save them well, one fiend at a time!

Old Faith and New vaunt equal power to save you:

God respects entirely your freedom to Choose!

Call it Thy own pro-choice Philosophy —

You have a right to choose the Child You bear,

but You must love and cure Her as I did,

or ‘twill be worse twice over for that poor Devil!

Prescribe Your wish to God Himself in prayer,

allowing God to offer You the Choice!

 

 

Be good to Thy poor devil. Devils care

for works of Art. They shall prove sensitive

to Thy creations, concerned as these should be

with the harsh blow They suffer. Help Them bear

Their insult with a well-intended honour,

to save their face and show them that You care —

and Thy reward shall be Salvation, Thine Own

and all You love, for all of Whom Thou shalt

win Mercy. Thou shalt become a beautiful

Artist, as Thy recompense for boasting heartfelt

Mercy, and shalt be paid with money made

of silver, gold, jewels and precious stones!

 

 

I have no evidence but intimations.

Throughout My sixty years, since early childhood,

My recollections brought Me but one Story.

I was a Poet in My native tongue,

most minor, though I took pride I was the first

to grace with verse My language. All My life

My Aunt encouraged Me, and I believed her

because I loved her — Conchita was her name.

But I lay dying and I told My Aunt:

“Surely You will give Me the honour, when

I’m gone, just as You did in Life!” She said:

“Do you not know how musical, how complex

the foreigner’s Art all is? What theories It

conceals between the lines? How can I give

the Honour to a Poet such as You?

John Anthony? You are too small for words!” It was

the Gospel Truth: John Anthony was most minor —

but all she did was to revenge herself

and stoke Me in My dying minute! She should

have left Me up to God — Who doth not hate Me!

I did not die well and I lost My Soul,

galled and bedeviled in My dying Hour,

and told the Gospel Truth with wrong intent,

but still recall Kirin , gently talking

to Me in Hell: “You suffered a gross injustice,

John Anthony, and I shall give Thee birth again.

I shall make Thee a Poet famous with

the foreigner, writing in another tongue —

a chance to save Thy Face and make the point

that Thou art capable, not as Auntie said!

protecting Thee from false compliments like hers!

Beware the Falsehood of parading as

great Artist if Thou be not the real thing!”

 

 

Though I was born again, incarnate just

like God, though but a poor, defenceless Babe,

My memories all fled and wiped out clear,

by Recollection of past Life deserted …

the Priests laughed up their sleeves at Me, saying:

“There is no other God but God, nor any

other true Religion except for Ours,

which states Reincarnation is not true,

and therefore We baptize this Child a fool,

and in top secrecy murdering his daemon,

and hold him up to scorn with aftertime

for claiming Reincarnation as his door to Fame!”

 

 

Figlia, Kirin’s Secret and His Beata Madre’s

hath blossomed in Our Heart like a blossoming Flower.

My Cause and Thine is just as any Priest’s:

a Man and a Woman deserve truer Religion –

their true Religion is bust who with true Religion

can only bust us! Scoundrels who, neither Saints

nor Artists, neither here nor there, still love

to dominate and lay it down as if

they were Church Doctors — but their skull is thick

and heart not tender: their true Religion alone

is beyond criticism, and any other

enjoys no sense in which it is true also!

 

 

Figlia, I was healing — with Thee against

My Heart, but Thou wert snatched out of My arms!

Figlia, a Woman has no right to fight

the Man who loves Her for their mutual Honour:

either You love Your Man sincerely, and He

shall honour You, or You may be sent packing

where Kirin Himself in Your past Life did send You!

 

 

 Figlia, the pact We made was crystal clear:

Thy Padre went to Hell to bring Thee back

upon His shoulders, on condition only

that Thou wilt save Thy Soul. He doth not wish

to go to Hell for Thee again. Salvation

is in good taste, but not Damnation. If

Thou wilt not save Thy Soul, We shall both lose

the argument, a pact with Satan gone sour

and not Our way, and Thou shalt but incur

Thy sorrowing, heartbroken Father’s deadly Wrath!

 

 

Know also, Thou tragic, sorrowing, troubled Spirit,

discussing facts of life is then for Thee

forbidden fruit, for in such trivial truths

much lying is and all things seem, and many

little ones like Thee have gone astray

by fast ones lost and slain, and been denied

the beautiful Sun, the terrible claire de la Lune,

and starlight shedding balm on secret Love,

by trivial truth incullionated. Forget it then,

My Beautiful! Touch not forbidden fruit!

Be happy with what you know and seek no more

save for the useful skills you learn at school;

and keep thy word same as thy Father did!

The eyes of little children, my Beloved:

the art-show there is all I wish to see –

Lady Aphrodite born from the Ocean;

professor visiting del al di là!

 

 

Drink of the good Honour which I have given,

My little one, whom I have given fame

for ever for the effect We both produced!

We were but two poor demons, but are not

the Bastard’s property, to snap in two

with insults as He pleases, though He was never

Angel so privileged! True though it may be

I was a poor devil, confounded in My thoughts,

I prayed with You and felt Compassion, and prayed

for Your Salvation: I was never ever

the real Satan! You are such a poor devil —

with a straight face, lecteur, which God Himself

gives All, that They may not be caught as long

as They admit! If anyone feels the need

to take revenge, let him pray to Saint Michael,

Whose privilege it is! Thy Padre wishes only

to give Thee Honour like the Queen of Heaven’s,

unique and unrepeatable with God’s Secret,

like Hers, but different from Hers. Strew on her

roses, roses, and never a spray of yew!

Woman I chose out of a Book: “salve

alla Regina vestita con il Sole!”

Thee and Thy Padre shall dine at Journey’s End

with Kirin and with His Madre, with a just revengaunce

upon the prime foundation of Heaven and Hell.

 

Copyright © Joe M Ruggier

26th February 1997 – 26th September 2013

JR-Portrait

Copyright © Joe M Ruggier 11th September 2000

portrait of Joe Ruggier executed by Vancouverite visual artist Virginia Quental (born in Brazil)

Joe M. Ruggier was born in Malta in 1956 and has written and published poetry in both Maltese and English.  He currently resides in Richmond, British Columbia, where he manages a small press, Multicultural Books.  Multicultural Books publishes poetry, poetry leaflets, sound recordings, fiction and literary fiction.

Joe Ruggier has sold over 20,000 books, many of them door-to-door, including over 10,000 books he wrote and published himself.  There are over 5,700 copies in print of his book Out of Blue Nothing.  Information on Joe M. Ruggier’s books, cassettes and poetry journal:

Intelligible Mystery (1985)
Out of Blue Nothing (1985) ISBN 0-9694933-0-4
The Voice of the Millions (1988)
In the Suburbs of Europe (1991)
Moods for Lovers (1993 ) Cassette
This Eternal Hubbub (1995)
regrets hopes regards and prayers … (1996)
Lady Vancouver (1997)
A Richer Blessing (1999 ) ISBN 0-9681948-3-4
The Poetry of George Borg Translated from the Maltese by Joe M. Ruggier (2000)
The Eclectic Muse, a poetry journal edited by Joe M. Ruggier

To order any of the above, please write or call first for availability and prices.  Please make checks payable to Joe Ruggier.

Multicultural Books
Suite 307
6311 Gilbert Road
Richmond, B.C., Canada V7C 3V7

Telephone:  (604) 277-3864

 

The HyperTexts

The Eclectic Muse

 

Managing Editor
Joe M. Ruggier

Board of Academic Consultants
Professor LeRoy D. Travis
S. Warren Stevenson (Professor Emeritus, UBC)

“There are many mansions in Parnassus!”

 

The Eclectic Muse has published poets and writers from Canada, Malta, the United Kingdom, the United States, and elsewhere. The Eclectic Muse publishes poetry and prose of various styles, but always reflects the passion of its Managing Editor, the acclaimed poet, essayist and critic Joe M. Ruggier. Mr. Ruggier’s passion is for poetry that sings and moves, for poetry that embraces rather than denies or defies the traditions of English poetry. If you believe as he does–that there is a revival of traditional poetry, and that the world is better place for it–we think you’ll find The Eclectic Muse well worth the price of a subscription.

***

robin@artvilla.com

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 

 

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Venus Cult. Poem by Jay Houska

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1465132_10200657370311496_1126369218_n

today’s sunrise was uploaded from a floppy disk,
and the wharf carried the same smell of fish
from the Mississippi,
decaying in splendor as their guts
replaced graffiti in the gulf.

it was an old Tuesday,
the kind where God hanged meat from the hooks of His Butcher Shop
and Eddie smoked his last cigar.

we, too, can marry, he said.

i recall the dawn of that day, tucked amongst the bricks
of the slaves’ quarters,
masked behind the draping ivy,
the lone bird of paradise that stood so proudly erect
in the gardens
of The Madame.

we were shipmates,
we were playboys.

the sun’s first rays elongated like a spirit
and soon the drapery was covered in light’s blood
like a shadow.

i am awake now.

//

it was true,
we were here to worship Venus;
her hands pale with indifference ,
her eyes

worried like the size
of Pompeii, the day that it
was swallowed.

beyond her stone, grey stare
she knows that we are biding time in this city
with whiskey and old cologne

overthrowing the holy men and scribes
who have long since traded their shrouds
for automatic weapons,

who have long since forgotten the scent
of Gethsemane,
her hollyhocks and poppy
breath.

instead, there is the stale putrid air
of fish, and the meth labs
down the road.

we were fools’ gold.

the lights of the neon strip bathed our faces in the
shameless glow that emits
from computer screens, late each night
when no one Else is
watching.

their faces contorted,
their bodies contorted,
all to the rhythm and
pulse

of the Venus Cult.

so sensuous, the way we staggered through the streets,
laughing with anchors tied to our limbs
and hearts,

each
so narrowly escaping.

——

Biography:

Born to a family of Bohemian poets in the outskirts of Chicago, Jay Houska is a poet, artist and photographer who explores the spiritual realm of art through themes of southern gothic Americana and Plath- like dreamscapes that cause the reader to immerse themselves in his own vision of the world. He plays the character in many of his poems, though often told from an outside, observant perspective, establishing his own mythology that anchors itself in his earlier works.

Houska’s poetry may be found in his published collection, “Sainthood” (2010), that features the life cycle of an era, and the lucid shadow of dreams in which it was lived. His sophomore effort, due in late 2014/ early 2015 sees the maturation of this initial collection through poems such as “Venus Cult,” who carries off the prophetic images cast in his 2009 work.

With over ten years of writing behind him, Houska attempts to delve deeper into his own aesthetics and publish pieces that are only driven by what he believes to be a manifest, spiritual pulse alive in every work that was meant to be written. Anything short of this nature is to be discarded, and left in the multitude of journals that litter his closets. The end product? A poem that has its own breathe and perspective, and is a living entity of its own.

  robin@artvilla.com
 editor@artvilla.com
 

 

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Haiku Poems Janet Kuypers

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“out”

spirits inside you
want to come out and scream their
story to the world

“of his thirst”

of my dead Scotsman,
they spoke of his drinking, but
never of his thirst.

“close”

death’s an animal
perched under your bed, waiting for
you to close your eyes

“floor”

Writhing on the floor,
bruised, she cried, begged for an end.
I had to kill her

“extinct”

when they go extinct
do we study the mistakes
or just study bones

“last”

But I have to drink
more. The burning doesn’t last
as long as you do.

“scorches”

Take the final swig.
It burns it’s way down your throat.
It scorches your tongue.

“organs”

I have to take showers,
scrub skin, rip out organs, to
rid myself of you

“choke”

Trapped, she felt a chill,
like a goose walked on her grave.
She chokes with his touch.

“explosions”
 
(bonus line haiku)
 
“H-bomb explosions”
 
reach temperatures as hot
as the first second
of the Universe

“fit”

amazing how much
of your life you can fit in
a single suitcase

“feel”

I feel nothing but
the intensity you feel.
Your thoughts cut my face.ant”

“Pant”

waves are crashing, and
the moon’s phases are changing
to a rhythmic pant.

“Civil”

a civil war is
raging in me, and I want
a revolution

“need”

I need to record
these things to remind myself
that I am alive

“kill”

they tried to kill me
but I survived. Lucky me.
But, what have I won

“John’s Mind”

human beings are
the only creatures with thought.
that’s why we have gods.

“run”

although I hate you
I’ll never let go, so you’ll
have to run faster

“mirror”

I look and see all
that you’ve affected. The world,
this house. The mirror.

“keep”

you work harder than
men for less pay, so keep up
the good work, ladies

“timing”

just when you feel hope,
then they take it, quickly. it’s
all in the timing

 
“Two Not Mute Haikus”
 
I
 
Just sit quietly.
Rapes, beatings, torture and pain.
We can beat you down.
 
II
 
You can’t be quiet.
Try to fight the world’s evils —
Even with just words.

“free”

I ain’t got money
and what do you mean to me
when nothing’s for free’

“groove”

Records? I’m vinyl.
Your needle’s been in my grooves;
through every ridge, pore.

“console”

canned condolences
were all I heard when I lost
the love of my life

“form”

if we’re cast in stone
I’d watch your form forever,
frozen by your side

“knowing”

fallen to my knees,
I can feel my chest cave in
knowing it’s my time

“oil”

flowers on the water
broke the oil seeping up from
the submarine grave

“cage”

this pain in my chest,
pounding, heaving, throbbing, like
it’s trapped, in a cage

“evil”

like cream in coffee,
evil explodes into a
mushroom cloud and spreads

“difference”

when putting same clothes
on angels and demons, you
can’t tell them apart

“blood”

left with you there, I
watched us become blood-
thirsty animals

“fog”

fog envelopes me
it’s a thick, powerful force
that doesn’t let go

“upturn”

with blurred eyes, hollow
upturned tortoise shells look like
battle casualties

***

Janet Kuypers 1

Janet Kuypers is a professional performance artist, and is a writer, an art director, webmaster and photographer. She was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister is even the reverend.

She sang with the acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase” and “Weeds and Flowers”, and on occasion she still performs in “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers has over 70 books published and close to 40 audio CD sets released, and is published in books, magazines and on the internet around thousands of times for her writing and art work in her professional career, has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, and has also appeared on television for poetry repeatedly.

She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups, and ran a monthly Podcast of her work for years, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (radio stations ran 2005-2009, and there are plans to start the radio stations again in 2011). She ran the Chaotic Radio show through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org (2006-2007). She has performed spoken word and music across the country – in the spring of 1998 she embarked on a national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 performed quarterly performance art. Starting in 2010 Janet Kuypers also hosts the weekly Chicago poetry open mic at the Cafe (http://www.chaoticarts.org/thecafe), where she also runs a weekly poetry podcast.

You can see video links and short poems as tweets at http://twitter.com/janetkuypers, and all of her book releases and video releases from the Cafe and her performance art shows can be seen at http://www.facebook.com/janetkuypers, but to ever learn more about her you can see her publishing organization, Scars Publications, on line at http://scars.tv, or you can learn about her at http://www.janetkuypers.com.

***

SPRING RITUALS. Poem. Steve de France.

by

Dogs baying, howling. Men in a jeep.
Drinking beer. Pointing guns.
Shrubs cracking under wheels.
I’d seen them earlier today. Sitting in
their jeep. Shooting squirrels out of
trees. Blew ’em all apart. But I ran
till the forest was quiet.

Resting here beside a clump of dead
branches I hear dogs baying. They’ve
found me. They’re close. I hear shells
rattling into rifle breaches, bolts
jamming shells into firing position.
I’m running again.
Behind me a bolt slams down,
the popping crack of a gun,
the side of the tree next to me explodes.

I run hard.
Run with all my strength.
I leap over my trail & crash into
tree cover. But the jeep is rattling,
jerking itself through underbrush behind
me.

When I hit the stream
the coldness of water tears breath from
me. I stop for a second to regain
direction. A 30 bore bullet smashes my
flank, it’s like being clipped by a
truck. I’m down, then up and running.
Over there,
I see my fields golden in the sunset,
it’s my spot. I have to try for it.
Wildly with total concentration,
I run
Over bushes, brush past trees, knock
branches down, in my thirst to escape.
I’m moving now. Flying over earth,
my mind afire with the pain in my flank.
Now breathing coming hard.
What’s this? A strange taste.
Choking. Blood in my throat.
The ground rushes toward me.
Something going down.
I’m on the ground.
Breathing blood & foam from my mouth.
More burning, body going numb.
laughter.

Try to get up. Can’t.

Someone standing next to me.
A boot rolls my head over.
Didja hit em?
Twice.
Dead?
Yeah, deader ‘an hell.

He didn’t hit me. He couldn’t have.
No.
I’m still running, still alive.
I see my spot now.
It’s here. Tall grass. That good smell.
So tall.
All the way up to my shoulders.
But I don’t remember it being
so dark.

little Steve

Steve De France is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in
America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary
publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales,
Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a
Pushcart Prize in Poetry in both 2002, 2003 & 2006. Recently, his
work has appeared in The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American
Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, Clean Sheets, Poetry Bay, The Yellow
Medicine Review and The Sun. In England he won a Reader’s Award in Orbis
Magazine for his poem “Hawks.” In the United States he won the Josh
Samuels’ Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem: “The Man Who
Loved Mermaids.” His play THE KILLER had it’s world premier at the
GARAGE THEATER in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has
received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his
writing. Most recently his poem “Gregor’s Wings” has been nominated
for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity.

***

  robin@artvilla.com
 editor@artvilla.com
 

 

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The Recirculation of the Minimal. Poem. Sonnet. R.W. Haynes.

by 

The name of the play was Don’t Say You’re Here
When You’re Not All There, and it starred, I believe,
Lillian Fish, King Kong, and Lassie, that year
Drawing raves, if memory serves to deceive,
But we didn’t go—there was something about a hat
Or a color, and then World War Three arrived
To gray our heads in weathering all of that,
But though that tempest bellowed, we survived,
And now we stand in line again to see
The same play, this time with Lash LaRue,
A washed-up whale, and Pauline Parlez-Vous,
Newly-dealt ghosts, clear cards where we
Read past and future, as though the present cared,
Or the future somehow knew, or the past had dared.

***
On the Savannah River 2013
***

R. W. Haynes has taught literature at Texas A&M International University since 1992. His recent interests include the early British sonnet, and he is completing a second book on the Texas playwright and screenwriter Horton Foote (1916-2009). In his poetry, Haynes seeks to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness without sounding any more dissonant notes than he has to. In fiction, he works toward grasping that part of the past which made its mark on his generation. He enjoys teaching drama, especially the Greeks, Ibsen, and Shakespeare, and he devoutly hopes for a stunning literary Renaissance in South Texas.

***

 
robin@artvilla.com

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