July 2006
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alexandrandjoseph
An Interview With

Alexandra and Joseph, editors of OneLight*


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Click Here For Section II: Interview with Alexandra and Joseph, editors of OneLight*, and some poems


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Editor's Letter, July 2006


Dear Poets,

Welcome to the July 2006 issue of Poetry Life & Times (For those of you reading this on a mirror site and not poetrylifeandtimes.com, click here).

This month we feature an  interview with Alexandra and Joseph, editors of OneLight*. We are also including a selection of their poems. ).

Featured Poets include: Ian Thorpe, Barbary Chaapel, Michelle Mead, Leland Jamieson, Amparo Arrospide (our co-editor) and Richard James.

Resident Poets feature Robin Ouzman Hislop, Michael Burch, Helga Ross and Sara L. Russell. See below Featured Poets for the link to this page.

robineditor

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The Pandora Box


NEW: Literary Reviews on our Pandora Box: Paul Williams on a poem by Philip Larkin

... and...


NEW: Introducing Unquiet Desperation and editor Michael Drabble

Read them and enjoy!

Fans of Norris cartoons: it has moved to the Resident Poets page: follow the link...


Any comments on this issue or back issues can be emailed to us on the link at the bottom of the page. Announcements are always welcome (brief if possible), you can also promote poetry books here.

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Please note our new guideline:
Poetry submissions for this site should be original works, otherwise they won't be considered for  publication.

They should be in plain text either as attachment to an email (*.rtf or *.doc) or  in the body of an email, with a small jpeg author picture attached, also a bio, with the URLs of any ezines mentioned, so that they can be shown as links . Pictures are best at a maximum of 520 pixels across, otherwise they take ages to arrive by email, especially in bitmap or TIFF format. We recommend that poets click the submissions link on our main page, for full guidelines, and please, always use a spellchecker.


Best Regards, robinsignature


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iconfeatured

Featured Poets this month include:  Ian Thorpe, Barbary Chaapel, Michelle Mead, Lee Jamieson, Amparo Arrospide and Richard James.
 Many thanks to all contributors.
See below Featured Poets for our Resident Poets' page link.





amparoarrospide



AMPARO ARROSPIDE (Co-editor)


Under her pen-name Amparo Arróspide, several links give more details and allow extensive reading of her works in e-zines such as The Barcelona Review, Wakan, El Otro Mensual (Eon), Especulo...





Song of Guantanamo Base

© Amparo Arrospide, 2004 --(Co-Editor of Poetry Life and Times)


We have come back from hell
Back from Guantanamo Base

We were tortured night & day
Back in Guantanamo Base

Till our eyes dropped from their sockets
and our hearts missed their beats
as time melted in eternity
Back in Guantanamo Base

Which awful crime had we committed?
No one answered no one said
no one near no one human
Back in Guantanamo Base

Still we prayed in utter silence
Back in Guantanamo Base

Could not touch nor feel
Could not walk nor smell
Could nothing but pray
Back in Guantanamo Base

How we cried in utter darkness
In our bright red overalls
No one near no one human
Back in Guantanamo Base

In those cells or senseless shells
as time melted in eternity
no one answered no one near
Damned in Guantanamo Base

Were you made of flesh or stone?
Were you human, was this Earth?
Executioners passed by
Back in Guantanamo Base...

Some returned alive and kicking
Out of Guantanamo Base
But we're dead and still remember:
Damned be Guantanamo Base
________________


NB: First published by Sheffield Indymedia
On 23.10.2004


R.I.P. MATILDA
© Amparo Arrospide, 2006



Requiescat in Pacem, dear Matilda/
To revive and flourish Some Other Time/
Dream of Us who always dreamt of You/
Let's sleep in oblivion for a While/

It was a summer solstice in two thousand and six/
The day they came with laws on their hands/
To get things right --they said. To fix/
Your demolition As it was planned;/

Your funeral will be held in Days/
But we rejoice 'coz you'll never Die/
Neither in June, July nor May/
So requiescat, Matilda, say goodbye/

To the good old nights when songs and play/
Were all your nurture, Mum;/
Let me weave flowers in your Hair/
Let me arrange your Hairbun./


NB: The above was dedicated to Matilda, Social Centre to be demolished; formerly located at 111 Matilda Street, Sheffield, South Yorkshire




On A Man Who Devoted Himself To Revolution
© Amparo Arrospide, 2006



Call it a bipolar personality or a Narcissus’ syndrome:
It is a worm eating me from inside out
This need to draw attention to myself
In endless pursuit of freedom but I'm trapped
Bored to the bone by the burden of the self
Relentlessly needing to be fed

To placate my great loss. I can’t stop
Hating and loving Her, whose love was already lost
When I was born, I know, long time ago
Before this thirst that can’t be quenched
Before this endless pursuit where I lay
Down like a dog whilst standing up

How to unburden me, release me from beyond
When dogs are barking after my trail
And once again I rise, believe me, fresh,
Euphoric from the ecstatic window which reflects

This very face that I have learnt to love
And hate, like She who was the cause
Of remarkable Seed to Grow and Grow
To become me, a babe in times forlorn,

So when I reach the farthest shore
In a pendulum-like oscillation
I let these tears run down my cheeks
As I have strived to let my joy take flight

But tears sometimes turn into fists
Or turns and twists of unknown paths
Dark lands where my urges are rejected
By those whose love I long for most,
By those who like myself trod on this Earth
Eaten by a Worm from Inside out.



© All poems by Amparo Arrospide, 2004-2006






ianthorpephoto

IAN THORPE

A happy child but a late developer, Ian Thorpe was born at quite an advanced age and remembers nothing more for several years. One morning he awoke and was aware of being in a large white room. The blinds were drawn but the furniture was real. A note pinned to the wall said XYZZY. "I've only got your word for that" Ian replied and the note threw itself in a waste paper bin. This experience convinced Ian that his destiny was to become a writer. He immediately composed his first poem "Ode to a Milkman."

Seriously, Ian has been away some time but is back with this selection from a work in progress based on what he calls "single source myths," the mythology of India, Arabia and Celtic Europe

 



Derby Day

© Ian Thorpe (2006)



Do not go gentle into the home straight,
The others are coming up like express trains
Go faster, donkey, the winning post's in sight.

Two furlongs out I was counting ill - gotten gains
and thinking about very big drinks tonight.
but the jockey was too gentle on the reins.

Caught on the line, it does not seem right,
my horse led from the start and staked his claims,
but in the end lack of stamina was his plight.

The first two horses, I forget their names,
both timed their final surge just right.
Horse raging can be the most cruel of games.

Dylan Thomas ran a good race but did not quite
have that turn of foot to fulfil his trainers aims,
though the marging of defeat was only slight

Still and each way bet at twenty fives is alright.
Sometimes it pays to back horses by their names
and Dylan Thomas carried a poet's bet round Epsom's tight
and undulating track and finished in the frame.



N.B. Yes, I backed Dylan Thomas in the Derby, £10 each way (win and place)  at 25 to 1 (quarter the odds for a place) not a great result but not bad -  and I got an easy post out of it.

 
The Making And Unmaking Dance

© Ian Thorpe (2006)



 
Humankind has  to get back to the rhythm of the Cosmos.
                                                                  D. H. Lawrence
 
 
In midsummer’s solstice rite
light triumphs over dark.
The sun-king in his glorious prime
climbs to his highest mark.
In turn the darkness will advance,
begin another round of dance
across the celestial arc.
 
Within rhythm’s easy fluxion
destruction is prescribed.
All things come to reduction,
from corruption all things rise.,
To the beat of a joyous reel
the endless turning of the wheel
binds that which all things comprise.
 
Written in night sky the reasons
seasons must turn in their dance.
Unmaking old and making new,
few permutations left to chance.
All things have their opposite,
thus may all life procreate
and perpetuate the sequence.
 
Now for this cycle’s generation
consummation is the goal.
Partners move, station to station
in formation around the pole.
Every egg and seed and spore
carries within its living core
a unique segment of the whole.
 

NB: The Making and Unmaking Dance is a summer solstice poem which will eventually form part of my cosmos cycle “The Eightfold Year.” I do know of certain pagan traditions which hold a ceremony called The Making and Unmaking Dance but my use of it as a title here is a bit of poetic licence. I do not know if it is actually a summer solstice rite. (As a poet it is not always wise to constrict oneself within literal interpretations.) At this time of year, as the sun passes its apex and begins the decline a few minutes in any garden will confirm that pollenating is in full spate while a careless walk through a secluded stretch of woodland is likely to disturb a human couple joined in their exclusive pollenation rite. All living things want to get in on this act. There are so many legends, parables, and folk tales attached to the summer solstice it would be futile to list any in a brief note such as this. The essence of them all is that as one cycle begins to wind down the seeds of the next are being sown.


Firuza Let Your Hair Fall Free

© Ian Thorpe (2006)


Firuza, you and me are living like shadows,
hiding our love from the sun's pure light.
I want to walk with you in summer meadows
and hold your body close all through the night.
You wear that hijab like a slave wears chains
although you are the child of a western land,
I see you naked in the twilight of my bedroom,
but out in the street I dare not hold your hand.
     Firuza let your hair fall free,
     your beauty is something that the world should see.
     You father and your brothers
     are sworn to spill my blood,
     Firuza come away with me.
 
The time has come for us to break away,
we will lose ourselves in the city's crowds,
live someplace where people's minds are free
and love cannot be smothered by religion's shroud.
There has to be a way to a better future,
Don't want our children's lives torn by prejudice.
No one should live in fear of a persecutor
who in the name of God denies justice
     Firuza let you hair fall free,
     you know we are each other's destiny.
     Your father and your brothers
     are sworn to spill my blood.
     Firuza come away with me.
 
 



© All poems by Ian Thorpe, 2006
 

lelandjamiesonphoto



LELAND JAMIESON


Leland Jamieson, a performing arts center manager for most of his working life, is retired and lives in East Hampton, Connecticut, USA. His recent and forthcoming work appears in *Bellowing Ark, Blue Unicorn, Candelabrum, Raintown Review* and *3rd* Muse. He has gathered many of his published formal poems, some with streaming audio, under the title *Needles in a Pinewood* . He is hawking a longer book manuscript by the same title. Major influences on his work, after Shakespeare, of course, are Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, William Stafford, and Timothy Steele.




Father Of The Groom

© by Leland Jamieson, 2006




In memory of G.M.P., 1900-1979.
Christmas, 1956.

Our parents like each other, get so high
my Mom insists that Papa let her tie
on him his gram’s old yellowed linen bonnet
(sometimes “the moment” seems to be right on it).

Genetics sculpted his bones with his gram’s.
He glances at his grandma’s portrait, hams
it up, and he could take her place in gilt —
above the fireplace, hanging at a lilt.
.


Codger And Crone Do-Si-Do

©by Leland Jamieson




What blood-rich knowledge throbs his frame,
pumped myriad miles astride this Earth?
What mystifying cryptic aim
has urged it on, in its slim berth?

What frayed and caged thing called the heart
can quest so hard against her breast —
bone pressed by mindfulness — and smart
so on a separation’s jest?

Might be Non-Local Mind makes light
their marrow-strides against the grain
of gravity — each blood cell’s site
inviting Feeling: “Come, and reign.”

Codger and crone attend the dance,
each in a cool, hypnotic trance.


Orthodoxies

©by Leland Jamieson




 

A meditation based in part on Zecharia Sitchin’s Earth Chronicles.


When my faint Inner Eye is not too dense,
and revels in a night sky’s bright array,
I do believe Divine Intelligence —
Creator of All — makes galaxies obey
great laws of physics I can’t hope to weigh:
What is that distant dying star’s black hole . . . ?
What is that fine-tuned cosmic barcarolle?

And when my Inner Eye seeks excellence
close up, it relishes the heart’s deep ways.
It, too, believes Divine Intelligence
prevails — makes hormones its habitués,
gives neurotransmitters their A-OKs.
(They’re quicker, keener than these human hands,
than arms embracing — and, each understands.)

If Inner Eye could see with full Sixth Sense,
and oft-spooked heart feel safe, what might they say?
Perhaps they’d say Divine Intelligence
best shows Itself direct, not through moiré
laid down back in the Anunnaki’s day,
now seen in “Born-Agains” who’re so up tight
with drumming orthodox each proselyte.




© All poems by Leland Jamieson, 2006


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richardjames


RICHARD JAMES

Richard James is an Australian-born poet who currently resides in the West Country in England. Since 1997 his poems have appeared in numerous poetry magazines, both online and in print. His poetry has been described as visionary and highly visual, Romantic and imaginative. Richard James has published several books of poetry himself, details of which can be found on his author’s webpage

  Richard James finds his inspiration in life itself; life, both wonderful and terrible, fills him with awe for the mystery at the centre of things. For a number of years now, James has been editing the quarterly online poetry magazine ANCIENT HEART MAGAZINE, (ISSN 1742-6049). Many new and promising poets have seen their work published in this magazine which seems to have a loyal following already. The first ever Ancient Heart Magazine Anthology is now available

This unique publication features poems that appeared in the 2005 volume of the magazine.

 Richard James has recently been working on a volume of collected poems



Grail Lust
© Richard James, 2006



A beauty I had never seen
Entered my mind, at once, between,
That tranquil sleep and waking up;
A picture of a silver cup
 
Beyond the reach of many
Trophy of a quest uncanny,
A test for knights of old,
The cauldron and the alchemist’s gold
 
Brilliant transformation
Denial of temptation,
A striving for a higher state,
The opening, twin-pillared gate
 
The study of one’s deepest soul
The chalice at the end, my goal,
And sleepless nights ahead,
I knew I would be surely led
 
By my divine connection
And in my recollection,
All elements were present,
The cup stood at the crescent
 
Of the hill I had to climb.




Fate Content to Be

© Richard James, 2006



Sweetness was not measured in lifetimes spent

Roving around pools of divine nectar,

Or even in distant glimmers barely visible to keenest eagle eyes;

Tender feathers ruffled by instantaneous grand love.

 

Kindness was not envisaged as anything remotely resembling the merest glee,

And bountiful presence of august benevolence, perched on top of mirth.

No silentish whispers dared attempt to convey some fraction of the essence

Of what on earth indeed it was we told ourselves we were looking for here.

 

Love was what stumbled upon us and decided to rest a while,

Kindness the smile that welcomed this tacit fate, prepared and thus

Sweetness was the night of precious union, bound in endless garlands,

Weaved by life itself, made light by all that ever was.




Afterglow

© Richard James, 2006



Sleep-talked my way through ever-changing mind moods
self; elated at living, breathing and
feeling golden blood-creatures soar
through artery highways and broncheal byways,
ever faster, lighter and
lightheadedly bold..

Told my stories to the night
whispered at the moon,
clear silver disc, crimson-rimmed
stark omen tensions.

Grand illusions of the blissful kind
tied my soul to the star-filled firmament,
a glowing string of after-thoughts,
noughts and crosses on a cosmic blackboard,
night school, and we down here,
hardly ever paying attention.


   

© All poems by Richard James, 2006








barbarychaapel



BARBARY CHAAPEL



Barbary Chaapel was born in the mountains of West
Virginia. She walked 250 miles with her aunt and uncle
at age three to Painesville, Ohio where her uncle
found work. It was here that the daily sound of a fog
horn on Lake Erie shaped her future. Later in life she
and her husband, Bill, spent nearly a decade cruising
and living aboard their beloved sailboat, Snow Goose.
Eventually they returned to the mountains of her
birth, where she now
writes.
Her book, NO NAME HARBOR,
POETRY OF BARBARY CHAAPEL 
may be viewed at
http://barbarychaapel.eveusa.com


Tour of Duty, VA Hospital

©Barbary Chaapel, 2006




Everyone is moving like they hurt,
The shambling, the rolling legless.
A sea of insignia caps bobbing along:

WW2 with pressed pants and wives,
Korea guys with tattoos, long hair
On Nam men, Gulf and Iraq guys,
Fresh-shocked from the kill.

Once in awhile an exclaimed,
Hey, how ya doin buddy?
And, They're takin me down the road,
But they're not strong enough
To throw in the dirt yet.

You in Nam?
Yeah, in country.
A sign on the wall says
Save a vet, wash your hands.

At the PX she says,
Have a good day, honey.
Tread lightly.


Does The Lighthouse Shine For You 

The answer lies deep.
 
Fresnel eye searching the night
Over living water: pauses, grace notes,
Profundo bass, the fog horn.
 
Taste brine.  Oars dip as you pull mightily to shore
Toward warmth and kindness.
 
Sweetness whelms  as you cross the bar,
Make rough landfall amongst rocks and jetsam,
 
Crawl ancient, carved steps
Home, to the keeper.

 




To Be Him





When he arises,
I roll onto his side of the bed.
Look over at me.
 
     See the shoulder he's kissed
     Two thousand times,  honey
     On the lips that praise him.
 
     Turquoise eyes, shades drawn
     Reflect the sum of a whole
     Lifetime lived.
 
     This woman with whom he will end,
     This woman he kept leaving,
     Now his Rosetta Stone.
 
I return to myself across the chasm,
Dreaming,
Always there when he returns.






Road of Silk Sand




Ribboning through our springtime.
Pink blossoms fall thick and fast on the wind.
Bells on the flock, music in the meadow.
 
Sun-hot sand sifts through bare toes.
My brother and I play near the tall hemlock,
Innocent as robins, the price not yet paid;
 
No clouds scud across our child brows.
Little dump trucks haul sand over there
And back again.  Granny draws water
 
From the well in the side yard.  Grandpa Warner
Cups his ear to radio baseball.  We don't know
I'm in the future looking back at this moment.
 
We both think we're safe as turtles in their boxes.
 





© All poems by Barbary Chaapel, 2006

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michellemead


MICHELLE MEAD

Michelle Mead, of Wappingers Falls, New York, is an editor of Artless and Naked magazine and editor of an excellent childrens magazine, Whimsey.. Michelle graduated high school and chose to travel as her further education, claiming, "...I think travel is one of the best educators in the world." Her journeys included multiple trips to England and France. Michelle writes short stories, novellas and novels, although the states that poetry is "half of what I write, a quarter of what I read and I share it often. Some of the poets whom have inspired Ms Mead are Langston Hughes, Jim Morrison, Christina Rossetti, Wilfred Owen and Lord Byron. Michelle's poetic interpretations of some of the paintings by Erte especially delighted  all who read her work. "Being a poet, It doesn't make me a better person, it makes me a more balanced person."


Michelle  Mead's work:


Palace Poets (poetrypalacegiftshop.biz)
is a collection of poetry chapbooks that can be bought online through the above web address. My chapbook, "Moongirls and Nightdreams," was published in 2003. "Whimsy" (www.writewhimsy.net) is a free magazine dedicated to
children's literature.
I co-edit, write book reviews and poetry,
interview writers and illustrators and occasionally will illustrate a piece (one cover) for the magazine. We have interviewed authors such as Da Chen, Pete Perry and Charles Smith, and illustrators such as Alison Jay and James Ransome.  We were featured in Barnes & Noble's insiders magazine, as well as in the Poughkeepsie Journal. We are linked to Barnes & Noble through our website. I also created, edited and distributed a literary magazine of my own locally for many years (before I became ill)  called "Artless & Naked." This was an uncensored and edgy zine. I am currently working on a rewrite for a young readers novel about a boy who saw his father shoot his mother and them himself, and no longer speaks. He befriends two local homeless people and the craziest girl in town and discovers the real meaning of family is not necessarily the ones who are in your four walls. I had this novel critiqued by
Kelly Going, winner of the Michael Printz award for her teen novel, "Fat Kid Rules the World," and in the first draft stage, she said that I should definately get it published.





Byron in Hell


© Michelle Mead, 2005




She walks in tragedy
like the dead,
of empty tombs and sad demise,
and all that's worst
of misery and pain,
meets in her anger and her lies:
thus hardened to that coldest dark,
which Hell to feverish night denies.

One worm the more, one day the less,
Had half devoured this nameless corpse,
With dirt in every raven tress,
So harshly abandoned on her face,
Where thoughts darkly, cruelly express,
How evil, how awful,
their dwelling-place.

And on that brain, and o'er that brow,
So young, so slow,
yet with mad intent,
The grins that slice,
The blood that flows,
And tell of days in destruction spent,
A soul rotting from the depths below,
A man whose mind is murder-bent.



NB: This was from an exercise in a poetry book where you have to take a classic poem and write it opposite of its meaning, so I chose Byron's "She Walks in Beauty," as I love Byron- what can I say, I have a thing for englishmen who are "mad, bad and dangerous to know", just ask Andy ;)..



The Wave

© Michelle Mead, 2006


based on the art of Erte


Circle, circle,
whoosh!
I am free again-
I lift my eyes,
up to the skies,
and hide my lips
to you-

Circle, circle,
whoosh!
I can touch the sun-
my fingers stretch,
to reach your rays,
that yellow up
the day-

Circle, circle,
whoosh!
I am washed away-
blue waves
of these midnight skies
tipped with silver dreams,
push and push,
until it seems,
the sea and I are one


________________



Fireflies

© Michelle Mead, 2006




based on the art of Erte




For moongirls everywhere
who are allergic to the sun
like me :)


Moon girl,
don't you know,
the creatures have come home?

Moon girl,
hold on tight,
and let them fly so free,
scatter light,
all through the night,
between the blackened trees.

Moon girl,
stretch yourself,
so high,
on your sweet tiptoes,
stand so strong,
stand so long,
until the
fireflies
go.




Fall -2


© Michelle Mead, 2006




based on the art of Erte


I spread
winter through
my opened fingers,
long strands
of ice in the
copper of
my hair.

Oh, mirror,
do not lie
and tell me
I have more time
still left-

this bit of fur
barely warms me now,
and my train of
autumn leaves,
those ripe grapes,
all mourn for the
drooping branches
outside my window.

Oh, blue skies,
do not lie
and tell me
you don't see
the fall,

one after another,
pieces of my beauty,
and this harvest
hanging over my head,
cannot shield me
from the coming
snow.



© All poems by Michelle Mead, 2006


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