poet – Page 39 – Poetry Life and Times

A Convoluted Nightmare. Poem by Christie-Luke Jones

October 28, 2020June 4, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Outside; friendly voices float atop the yawn of falling beams. A distance stretches out between us, a steel door 3000 decibels thick.
Blackened corridors are softly inhaled by a downy quilt of smoke and ash. Grotesque lions tear at my silhouette until a red-faced, podgy little boy is all that remains. Death longs to pick my soul from between hideous tombstone molars. One final attempt at escape, one last glimpse into the frightful false mirror.

A young woman showers next to me. Her limitless eyes scan my thoughts with clarity of intent, enough to melt the mask right off my face. The way the shampoo glides over her hips will haunt me on some far-off day, when everything else becomes unrecognisable. She turns, smiles her bludgeoning smile and motions for me to touch her. Naked and terrifying. And she wants me inside her. But I’m only ten years old; my fragile head spools anxiously at the thought. And I look awful, although clearly she doesn’t think so. But I do, I always do, then all at once I vanish down the plug hole.

Florida. I’ve never been, but here I am. A space shuttle is parked by a palm-lined boulevard, behind are vast hotels with M.C. Escher-like staircases. I stand accused, of adultery no less. I rush around covering my tracks, erasing evidence and conjuring up alibis. My decade-old clothes are wet through with panic. I climb aboard an aeroplane like no other, a retro-futuristic Concorde of unfathomable origin. My loved ones occupy the seats around me, all share the same painfully disappointed countenance. We depart, with dreams of one day waking up.

Christie-Luke Jones is a poet, fiction writer and actor from Oxfordshire, England. Christie-Luke’s writing is strongly influenced by the Gallic blood that courses through his veins, as well as his interest in the more macabre aspects of the human condition. To see more of his work, visit

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Secret Blaspheme. Poem by Monsoor Ali

June 7, 2016June 4, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Her words are frantic and free

wrapping around my mind like a rollercoaster of warm refreshing air

a whirlwind of excitement and love

a swirling living thing

That penetrates my senses

Like a blade through soft flesh

Yet painless and intoxicating

She feeds my imagination with bold expressions of lust and bravery

And stories of passion and pain

And I become hypnotized by her

sweet sounds and girlish gestures

Such a heavy magic this is

This perfect seduction

This ancient power she wields over me

As I become a slave to her will

A fiend

A hopeless addict

Overwhelmed by desire till it hurts

Longing for a touch, a taste

A moment

I am lost in a labyrinth of emotion

Like a child

A lame without her near

Crushed by her absence

Drowning in her presence

Overwhelmed by just her

I forget God

Monsoor Ali, born and raised Washingtonian, is a multi media artist specializing in literature, graphic design, and music and film production. Born in 1977, he has been writing poetry and songs for nearly 25 years. He is an advocate and activist for homeless peoples, victims of child and domestic abuse, and civil rights. M. Ali is a father of 4 and has lived on both the East and West coast as well as the Midwest, having produced music and indie films for hundreds of artists around the country. He currently resides in Washington DC and is working on his 1st book of poetry.

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Ghost Orchid. Poem by George Moore

August 5, 2016June 4, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

My world is overly large,
while among the southern vines
lies a universe within an ear.
River stamen with carpel rafts
on white waterfall tongues
drifting toward the sea
of the pollinareum.

The year punctuates beauty
as a single wave, carrying no
human meaning. Even its name,
Polyradicion, belongs to another time.
I lift a leaf to see into its secret
and disappear into the
stillness of its jungle.

A giant Sphinx moth orbits
this solar system, praying
to its nightly gods. Its rings,
like Saturn’s, are fixed
against a blackgreen eternity.
Its ovaries, seed-thick with time,
fall soundless into the void.

Out of which flourishes
a walking petal, a child suspended
on a swing, a center that cannot
be known. The flower may
long for speech, a visual radicalism,
its slender arms reach around
the world it does not greet.

Its longing separates us
forever, for we are different creatures
of a single species. It’s loneliness
is never held up against a day
where night does not cover it.
Its longing is annual, endless
but brief.

I’ve published poems in the Atlantic, Poetry, Colorado Review, and recently, or forthcoming, in Stand, Arc, and Antigonish Review. My most recent collections are Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FutureCycle 2016), Children’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015), and The Hermits of Dingle (FutureCycle 2013). After many years of teaching with the University of Colorado, Boulder, I am presently living on the south shore of Nova Scotia in a small lobster fishing village.

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Tangerine Ecstasy.Poem by Ken Allan Dronsfield

June 4, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

A reddish Sun rises
another day dawns
destiny rides beyond
winged dreams smile.

Whispers of promises
eyes covered in gold
feasting candied souls
a twilight now foreseen.

The harbingers of doom
strolling through time.
Exhaling a dark mist
losing it all to rhyme.

Iced Appletine drinks
an alcohol laden smile;
licking sour lemon drops
or sweet cherry limes.

Blissfully waking yawn
in the castle of fantasy
Patterns of blazing sky
sweet Tangerine Ecstasy.

Bio: Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet and Author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, playing guitar and time with his cats Merlin and Willa.

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Cathartic Eclipse. A Video Poem by Anca Mihaela

May 20, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Please note after this particular you tube video poem by Anca
there follows a series of her excellently crafted film work in
which further of her video poems feature, but the typescript only
to this particular video poem Cathartic Eclipse is shown below.
Editor’s Note.

I witnessed the death of the universe…
Tumbling, crushing, spinning
in the maddening chaos
of the spiral Time!

Eternity… ceased to exist,
Time… was no more,
my soul ripped asunder
the stars… show no more!

Pleading internally
I succumb my farewells,
emptied my concavities,
ashes of solitude reminded me
of quixotic moments
dismissed involuntarily

you were oblivious to my presence
gazing emptily a brimming space,
surreality became my twisted fate
and no transition left for immortality!

My world is hushed
And I crave for volumes of light
in this glaring darkness of hope
succumbing throes
of cacophonous silence
cocooned in webs of deceit
awaiting the promised resurrection.

In these nights of forgetfulness
my poetry still bleeds inside me
in this realm there is an aeonic distance
between my Soul… and your Heart!…

“Anca-Mihaela Bruma strives to continuously challenge and change the world we live in by means of art, and it is by breaking away from old traditions that she invigorates the art world in pursuit of a new emotional intellect. It is central to her own belief that it is her duty to empower, motivate, inspire, educate and heal. The awakening of the latent gifts we all perhaps unknowingly possess is also central to her quest.

In an astute and complex combination of art forms, Anca enhances the essence of poetry, bringing it to another level, creating a higher, more aesthetic literary culture where creativity and logic abide in harmony. This, she succeeds in doing through the symphonic audio-visualizations which have become her distinctive trademark, where visual is visionary, mystical weds mathematical, and lyrical flirts with musical.

Although Anca rebelled against formal education as a child, she could not rebel against the artist that was burgeoning within. From an early age she was able to intuitively perceive transformation in all things, and thus she started to nurture an impulsive desire to be somehow part of this transformation. Later, this urge would lead to her pursuing a rigorous program of independent study which would include literature, philosophy, art, and history.

It is her belief that through ART she can transform and enhance human consciousness.

Anca seeks to restore poetry to public culture by engaging the imagination of her ‘reader-listeners’ in a way that encourages them to use critical analysis of the experiential, performative, and creative vectors which run through her visual poetry.

She endeavors to enrich human consciousness or, at the very least, protect intrinsic values from depredation. Where art would at times seem to create opposition to the natural forces of time and morality, Anca helps us make sense of, even come to terms with the oblivion stretching before us.

( by James Cairns, Anca’s co-editor, literary advocate ad translator of her poems)

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The Mole. A Poem by Ananya S Guha

May 20, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

I hate to say it
but the mole on my nose
is only an architecture of disdain
pure contempt for Grecian looks
and ultra
violets have broken into unmusical
songs, I have a hand for blasphemy
for those in exile ( in oblivion)
but the mole gives intrepid warmth
to a less than humane heart
a heart that mocks at love
and sees in body lust
philanderer of hope, testimony
coming back to the mole, the nose itches
in radical protest against human faces
of dignity.revolt then, you reprobates
crush the sinner’s dying plea of resurrection.
the mole looks blacker, wilder and the body
warms.

Ananya S Guha has been born and brought up in Shillong, India and works in India’s National Open University, the Indira Gandhi National Open University. His poems in English have been published world wide. He also writes for newspapers and magazines/ web zines on matters ranging from society and politics to education. He holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding. He edits the poetry column of The Thumb Print Magazine, and has published seven collections of poetry.

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Japanese Spirit. A Poem by Tatjana Debeljački

May 19, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Forest Spirit is the master of woods and beasts, the shepherd whose stock consists of deer, roes and rabbits, which are looked after by wolves or lynxes. His cheeks are blue, his eyes are green, and his beard is long and green. Sometimes he covers himself with furs, and some of the legends depict him as wearing a mask and having horns. His left shoe is always on his right foot, he buckles his sheepskin on the wrong side. He does not have a shadow, his blood is blue. He is looking at something else. I don’t know what. Maybe soul? His look is blunt and his pupils are small. I kissed him in the neck, exactly the place where the Adam’s Apple is. * * * If you were living just across and if I were a tree In that yard, I’d delight you with fruit, I’ll be watered with your glimpse, just look at me in ardor,

I’d bear the sweetest fruit for YOU.

Tatjana Debeljački, born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Writes poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. Member of Association of Writers of Serbia – UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia – HDS Serbia, HUSCG – Montenegro and HDPR, Croatia. A member of Writers’ Association Poeta, Belgrade since 2008, member of Croatian Writers’ Association- HKD Croatia since 2009 and a member of Poetry Society ‘Antun Ivanošić’ Osijek since 2011, and a member of “World Haiku Association“ – 2011, Japan. Union of Yugoslav Writers in Homeland and Immigration – Belgrade, Literary Club Yesenin Belgrade. Member of Writers’ Club “Miroslav – Mika Antić” – Inđija 2013, Writers’ Association “Branko Miljković“ – Niš 2014, and a member of Japan Universal Poets Association (JUNPA). 2013. “Poetic Bridge: AMA-HASHI (天橋） Up to now, she has published four collections of poetry: “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS “, published by ART – Užice in 1996; collection of poems “YOURS“, published by Narodna knjiga Belgrade in 2003; collection of haiku poetry “VOLCANO”, published by Lotos from Valjevo in 2004. A CD book “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS” published by ART in 2005, bilingual SR-EN with music, AH-EH-IH-OH-UH, published by Poeta, Belgrade in 2008.”HIŠA IZ STEKLA” was translated into Slovenian and published by Banatski kulturni centar – Malo Miloševo, in 2013 and also into English, “A House Made of Glass” published by »Hammer & Anvil Books» – American, in2013. Her poetry and haiku have been translated into several languages.

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In Bed. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop.

April 24, 2016April 23, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

The homestead El Caserio i Bizkerre lodged upon the wall

has a large gable’s end symmetry, slightly

skew whiff in the canvass that encompasses it. I wonder if

she’s painted herself from within to without

Where she stands now, a cut out dark silhouette, on a patch

before the facade of splotches, daubs of windows

doors, heraldry shields, terraces, hatches. Two doors, right side

sharp, left a blur but can i enter, what will i see

She knows she’s concealed from me?

what will i find, dusty jars, a winding stairway, creaking

floorboards, a chest of drawers, which i will open

to secret treasures, but no, i am without with her dark silhouette.

What is that luminous blob suspended above

her head by almost invisible silvery strands of arms embedding it?

All in the foreground, the sharp, the blur, paths

to each door, blotches of rockery, smudged plants, dollops

Of green lawn. Overhead, a red angle roof, in the sharp, crows

swarm in a blue sky, where it blurs, branches

stretch to entangle, notch the gable corner in weird distortion.

Beside this painting is another, a naked Madonna

A faceless oval she kneels, arms clasped behind her sleek black

parted hair, her armpits bared to reveal the taut

of her breasts, her curves in orange & gold dust.

Is it she who waits behind these doors?

When night falls the sea is a distant death

is The Bed that is a Tree hewn from the stump

of an olive tree, drilled as a bed

post, as a mould for the rest, around which the chamber

Was built, waiting for us to enter?

She is more beautiful than her painter & we know it

but perhaps if we enter together

the splashes of paint will be softer than our creaking bones.

* In Bed. Italics. The Bed that is a Tree. Kim Lansky. Italics. The Odyssy. Book xxxiiv.

Robin Ouzman Hislop, born UK, a reader in philosophy & religions, has travelled extensively throughout his lifetime but now lives in semi- retirement as a TEFL teacher and translator in Spain & the UK.

Robin was editor of the 12 year running on-line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. In 2013 he joined with Dave Jackson as co-editor at Artvilla.com, where he presently edits Poetry Life & Times, Artvilla.com, Motherbird.com.

He’s been previously published in a variety of international magazines, later publications including Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N. Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes (thepoeticbond.com) and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (a recently published international Anthology of Sonnets). His last publication is a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk available at all main online tributaries

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