(October 2002) Page 2
(October 2002) Page 2
 RICHARD VALLANCE Richard Vallance was born in Guelph, southern Ontario, Canada, on March 11th., 1945, and currently resides in Ottawa, the nations capital. A graduate of Sir Wilfred Laurier University, Waterloon, Ontario (H.B.A. 1968) and the University of Western Ontario, London, Ontario (M.L.S., 1975), Richard is a professional University librarian, now on disability pension. Richards career as a librarian reached its zenith in October, 1983, when he won the prestigious Data Courier Award for Excellence in Online Papers ($1,000 U.S.), in Chicago, Illinois. However, progressively aggravated alcoholism eventually forced him to retire prematurely, in September, 1991. Fortunately, Richard ceased drinking altogether in 1992, and has been sober now for a decade. While he did write some poetry during his "wet years", alcoholism severely blunted his inspiration. Creativity only truly blossomed in 1995. Since that time, he has written over 1,500 poems, most of them Sonnets, though he also specializes in both Haiku and the stricter, more traditional Japanese Hokku verse form. He has also composed numerous so-called "free verse" poems, and has published one book of poetry: A Quilt of Sonnets: Forty Four Familiar Poems. Ottawa: Providence Road Press, 1998. 56 pp. ISBN 1-896243-7-x. [National Library of Canada] Richard has been published on numerous occasions on some of the worlds best known poetry E-Zines, including, Poetry Life and Times (UK) and Autumn Leaves (USA). He also maintains his own bilingual international E-Zine, Poetry in Emotion la posie smouvoir and will soon be the editor of a new international Sonnet E-Zine, Sonnetto Poesia. Richard is the Poetry Reviewer for Poetry Life and Times. Anyone, who writes poetry for Poetry and Life and Times, is cordially invited to submit any poem of 20 lines or LESS for consideration for review to: Richard also moderates numerous Poetry Discussion Groups, the most notable of which are: 1. Describe Adonis [Shakespeares Sonnet 53] 120 members. Yahoos largest Sonnet poetry group by far. Here are posted historical sonnets, commentaries on sonnet writing, and sonnets by members: 2. Kawasaki Zen Haiku 90 members. Yahoos 3rd. Largest Haiku-Hokku poetry group, featuring links to historical Haiku Web Sites, examples of historical Haiku by such illustrious composers as Basho, Buson and Issa, and Haiku/Hokku posted by members, in any language they like: 3. Iliassia [Homers Iliad]. 61 members. Discussion group focussing on Homers Iliad, both in the original "Epic" Greek and in translation. Includes a repertoire archive of pictures, paintings, archaeological sites and cartographic information + maps: My Carousel Home Page is: Poesie's laissez-faire Foire
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
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March 2002 - Nominee for |
3 Poems in Honour of my Mother,
Agnes Watson Vallance Janke
(1917-1997)
THISTLE FROM THE HEATHER © Richard Vallance, August 30th., 1997 For you, my Mother, on the occasionIf lowland bird were ever thee, you flashed across the nether sea and sought long along brisk shores your thistle from the heather.
You'd nestled us with fragile wings,
Still, when at last your last
Fair hummingbird, you've crossed
Alone, alone the wind bends leaves
* This poem was engraved on my Mother's urn
Tetrameter
The harvest days of summer brimmed
She's leaning on her kitchen's bay
Under lindens green, by their coral sea, she might wait, under amber leaves while seasons passed, for his return (you see) or April's rains might come and flood her eaves or she might shed like tears, to underscore what sights her mind remembered from the mist, the same in which she'd seen him off to war, and where they'd once embraced, but hadn't kissed: because (you see) that war was World War II, where in her garden white carnations grew for all her troubles: know she loved them well but never half as well as his tanned face hers loved, or had his kisses cast a spell to last? Now, she asks, "I feel out of place."
(“Some viewers may be offended”)
Should I imagine you, my sailor, far,
Pray (tell me why) you haven’t called me (yet)?
The phone hangs mute on its knurled teakwood post;
“For all I know, you’ve drowned!” You bother sigh?
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 Jan Sand in New York
Recently Jan was published by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press, on their latest CD ROM e-book, "A Way With Words (Poetry Real and Surreal), which also includes complete books by Dale Houstman, Sara L. Russell and Keith Gabriel Hendricks. Jan's illustrated book on the CD is called "Wild Figments And Odd Conjectures", which is also sold separately, in a limited-edition "single" CD. To see an illustrated article about Jan's poems, visit the November '98 issue of Poetry Life & Times, and scroll down past the Editor's Letter. He also has his own poetry pages on Charlotte's Web at Artvilla.
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THE VISIT © Jan Sand Death came in and sat himself, Adjusted his black tie. “I could,” he said, “arrange this thing But, maybe -“, then, a sigh. “Maybe you could help me out. This can be difficult. There are many ways to do the job, With, of course the same result.” “Gosh”, I said, “you know the work. I’m just an amateur. And frankly, I’d be much relieved If you’d - but I’m not sure. If you’d just go away And occupy yourself With other people somewhere else. Put my case up on a shelf.” “Aah yes.”, he said, and touched his head, “The concept isn’t new. Frequently I’ve heard this said By many more than you. But, see here, my reputation Wouldn’t do too well If I’d let you off the hook - What is that smell” “I’m cooking up spaghetti sauce”, I glanced back at the stove. “I wonder -“ and he raised a brow. “Oh, there’s plenty here of course. Why don’t you join me now. With a smile he assented. After a plate, quite impressed, “You’ve a way”, he commented, “With well done sauce and pasta." ”That’s OK”, I said, “come by anytime. As long”, I said,” as you push me down the roster.” “No problem,” Death replied, “I’d hardly do away With such good cooking, dinner was delicious.” I saw him off , he gave a wave. My future seemed auspicious. I’m ready now, these days, With tomato sauce on simmer. I much prefer a happy meal To something somewhat grimmer.
The nouns, like ladies of the night, Modify rear ends to signify Approach or departure or the height Above, or on, where they lie To do their work. The verbs decline With even regularity, although With very little sign “P”s transform to “v”s, or go Somewhere else. They disappear. While “k”s and “t”s in other ways Dull down to “d”s or, it’s clear, Like spectres moving into days, Are gone in toto from perception. “We” is “me” and “they” is “he” And woe is me in this direction. I’m grateful that it seems to be That Finns can easily distinguish That speech with me is best in English.
Her reading promised views into Algonquin’s legendary crew. Robert Benchley, T.H.White, Perelman’s insane insight, Contact with that fey disturber Of the sexes, Jimmy Thurber, This took place in the fifties When those literary nifties Still rang clear from the New Yorker. Ogden Nash was still a corker. She looked old up on the stage, That lady filled with comic rage. But then we’d hoped for exposition Of our world, deep in perdition And she emitted quiet mumbles Where we’d hoped for cosmic rumbles. Oh Dorothy! What could be starker Than this dissembled Dotty Parker? “Perhaps she’s sick, maybe drunk.” Our expectations sadly sunk She faded off the stage display And we, downhearted, walked away.
To apprehend seeds apprehension. The roots explore the pain And pain is where nutrition abides. The stems, the branches and the leaves Seek light, delight in thick odors Of human excrement, of sweat, Gallons of tears, pools of piss, Pulsating fountains of semen, And blood to drown half the world. Curiosity is snake to bite the soul, A snake that intertwines all shapes, That burrows deep beneath thick color To spring upon the innocent That knowledge may release its venom To fracture all surfaces, Cracking bones, smearing dreams In viscous patches to obscure And dissolve all rules Fragment regulations that new-born chaos May infect and fertilize the world
One must always consider one’s self. This is the quiet point from which All disturbances arise. To be realistic, The external is the center. Perception is peripheral. Nevertheless, since we fabricate by collage, A thunderstorm, a feather, and the scent of sea Is enough to make a world. Enwrapping all is outside human capability. The bundle is too bulky And will break your back. So, we collect. Each with a shopping cart full of rags, Here a bone from a pterosaur, green bottles, A few empty tin cans, two clear glass marbles, The photo of a child, the dried leaf of a fern. And - if you are assiduous and realistic, A small, rusted, locked, steel box Full of concentrated pain. Listening closely, one can hear Faint screams.
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and my Father,
Louis Charles George Janke
(1920-1986)