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Alexandra and Joseph, editors of OneLight* |
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| 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. |
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The Pandora Box
... and...
Fans of Norris cartoons: it has moved to the Resident Poets page: follow the link...
Please note our new guideline:
Best Regards,
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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.
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AMPARO ARROSPIDE (Co-editor)
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Song of Guantanamo Base © Amparo Arrospide, 2004 --(Co-Editor of Poetry Life and Times)
© All
poems by Amparo Arrospide, 2004-2006 |
![]() 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." |
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 |
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LELAND JAMIESON
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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 |
![]() RICHARD JAMES
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
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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.
© Richard James, 2006
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 |
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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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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:
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Byron in Hell
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 based on the art of Erte
© Michelle Mead, 2006
based on the art of Erte
For moongirls everywhere
who are allergic to the sun like me :)
based on the art of Erte
© All
poems by Michelle Mead, 2006 |
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