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Editor's Letter, May 2006
| Dear Poets,
Welcome to the May 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 Beirn, editor of The Pagan Poetry Pages. Read more about their
e-zine and the ongoing Save Tara campaign. We are also including a
selection of Beirn's and other Pagan poems. Featured Poets include: Ann Busby,
Ian Thorpe, David Turner, Aurora Antonovic, Leland Jamieson. 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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Fans of The Perils of Norris cartoon:
You can read episode 70 at Resident Poets; and buy Norris merchandise for home and office, including apparel and stationery... Click here to visit the store at CafePress.com. More goodies will be added as soon! Sara Russel's own poetry can be found on AuthorsDen, these days. The links in the left-hand column of her pages include books and articles as well as poetry. Some of the articles give advice on making chapbooks, or finding publishers - and there is even an item on ghosts. UNDER CONSTRUCTION - Poetry Life & Times
section "La
caja de Pandora" (on an interactive format) : Poetry submissions should be in plain text 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. This increases the chance of inclusion, especially for late submissions. 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. Poets can submit previously-published work here. If another editor likes it, there's a chance we'll like it too. Best Regards,
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Featured Poets this month include Ann Busby, Ian Thorpe, David Turner, Aurora Antonovic, Leland Jamieson. Many thanks to all contributors. See below Featured Poets for our Resident Poets' page link.
ANN BUSBY |
Symphony in B Positive © Ann Busby Snowdrops in soprano, Spring’s early rite of birth, Crocus in crescendo, Gems bursting through the earth. Fortissimo forsythia, Baritone and brassy bright, Rallentando rhododendron, Mauves, cerises, reds and white. Prunus pianissimo, Soft, baby pink perfection, Camellias in contralto, Blousy, bold confection. Tall tulips in toccata Their proud libretto sing, Diminuendo daffodils Golden trumpeters of spring br> Supper with Satan © Ann Busby “You are invited to a candle-lit supper; Dress code optional, not interested in outward trappings of your mortal life, or the minutiae of your daily grind. No partner please! A supper tête à tête To review your misdemeanours ……..and your soul.” “Ah yes, my soul. But if, as the invitation states, ‘No Partner’, then perhaps, I should leave My Soul at home.” “No, dear child, come as one! I shall not pry. Indeed, I have no need. I know your inner thoughts desires hopes fears. So look upon me more ……as a friend - a confidant.” “Why me? Why now? Surely there are others more worthy of your interest?” “I have no truck with those already in my thrall! I want more of those like you Bah! Good, admirable souls who do not follow my temptations. You are scheduled in the current list of B’s So be prompt at 9 o’clock ……for a light grill.” “I must tender my apologies Satan. Tonight, I will be otherwise engaged in an intimate barbecue of my own. It’s a devil of a thing to ignite.” Pink Pyjamas © Ann Busby They were an impulse buy, a bargain in the sale; the only ones in large upon the half price rail. Peachy pink pyjamas, trimmed with fancy lace, satin, soft and slippery, so cool against her face. She twirled before the mirror, a blur in peachy pink; no one there to love her, to laugh, or share a drink. She waltzed with ghosts that held her, in spirits' tight enthral, barefoot on the carpet, alone with widow’s pall. On her left breast pocket, a tiny heart was sewn; she felt his touch at midnight, dancing on her own. Dawn (villanelle) © Ann Busby Day breaks, to the rasp of the seagulls’ cries, mewing and wheeling through the spume flecked gust, as the orb of the sun begins its rise. Cherry-blushed clouds, racing 'cross windswept skies, dance, bob and billow, as with youthful lust, day breaks, to the rasp of the seagulls’ cries. The sea, whispering tongues in breathless sighs, glows with tints of ochre, gold, red and rust, as the orb of the sun begins its rise. Bright stars fade, when light on his charger flies; as azure hands give Dawn her mighty thrust, day breaks, to the rasp of seagulls’ cries. Fishermen, salt caked lips and rheumy eyes, head for home, sharing silent, secret trust, as the orb of the sun begins its rise. It’s the circle of life that never dies; sure as ashes to ashes, dust to dust, day breaks to the rasp of the seagulls’ cries, as the orb of the sun begins its rise. © All poems by Ann Busby, 2006 |
IAN THORPE Ian Thorpe was a
management consultant until ill health
forced his early retirement. This enabled him to return to his first
love, writing. Ian's first articles, stories and poems were published
in the late 1960s but are he says, best forgotten. Since
returning to the keyboard after a fifteen |
Three Secrets (2005) © Ian Thorpe Three circles make a pathway
to my silver-circled lady, three journeys will bring me to her door. Five trees surround her bower where the cauldron of her power will contain her three great secrets evermore. Three rivers flowing to the one
pass through her spiral bastion, her pennant flies beyond the cold north wind. Five wading birds fly north to south, bearing five sharp spears of truth by which a fish to silver wheel is pinned. Three locks secure a chamber
guarded by nine warrior maidens. My lady's secrets are kept safe within and if you wish to understand first you must find her hidden land and there in darkness let your quest begin. Seek out the ancient, hidden
keys
among the groves of speaking trees, Rowan, Ash and Birch will lead the way. Learn everything they have to teach to bring the prize within your reach along the path from which you may not stray. And when the trees have said
their piece
all three locks will then release, the maidens will lay down their swords and yield three potions only to be shared by the muse and her loyal bard. The wisdom of the stones will be revealed. The standing stones signpost
the path
that leads into the spiral garth where the seventh veil of mystery will lift, there between the day and night, if the path you chose was right, the Silver Goddess will bestow her gift. Understanding of all things
is granted to each one who brings an open mind to Sidhe's hidden door, but the cauldron will grant only pain to those who seek its gift for gain while the worthy will fear darkness no more In 2005 I promised
someone that before the end of the
year I would reveal where and how to find the true Holy Grail.
This is it folks,
in the best tradition of
bards of the White Goddess the information is given in a very coded
way. To understand the messages in the poem link to Secrets Revealed
© Ian Thorpe Its windows smashed by vandals hands. Part of an age that came and went and left it as a monument. Where once the doors hung tall and wide a gaping hole now leads inside to where each empty, cavernuous floor remembers when, in years before hundreds came to work each day, hob - nails ringing through the gate mingling with the din of looms that echoes still in silent rooms where many weavers work worn hands worked the cloth that clothed the land. Just simple workmen they, and yet an empire was built on their sweat. They trusted when employers promised a means to live ‘til living passed, but the cotton trade outlived its day, the mill was closed, it did not pay. the looms were smashed and sold for scrap, the rest was auctioned lot by lot, but human surplus can't be sold. The workers were just told to go. Dismissed without a word of thanks and equipped to work at little else. A place once full of life had died and no one cared and no one tried to put the mill to any use. It stood and suffered time’s abuse, became a scar upon the changing face of the town that is its resting place. And now to walk among the ghosts and touch the shadows of the past is to walk within a history book, each page a humans lifetime's work. The stories of ten thousand lives are stored within this vast archive where dust has settled, rot set in and spiders weave instead of men Tantalus (2006) © Ian Thorpe A locked container full
of promises, vague hints
of pleasure in store should I contrive to satisfy. What bargain will you make, what price must I pay before I can be allowed to find the key. Tantalus, your wantonness taunts; your chastity infuriates. You give yourself so readily to one who disdains your gifts. I would treasure what he casts aside. And yet what I desire is withheld though partially revealed, locked ever in a tantalus. Tantalus:
A character in Greek myth...or; in my youth Grandad
Redfern had a tantalus, an antique device that displayed decanters
of whisky, brandy and rum They could only be removed however if
the device was opened with a key. |
AURORA
ANTONOVIC Aurora Antonovic is a Canadian
writer and visual artist, and the former editor and columnist for the now-defunct GT Times.
Her poetry has recently appeared in Adagio Verse Quarterly, Poetic Voices, Promise,
Black Mail Press, Above Ground Testing, and Poetry Super Highway. |
Quest © Aurora Antonovic, 2006 for
Jason Sanford Brown
the red planet is ruling the sky right now creating the perfect moment for space sailing: here a sphere, there a megacosm a galaxy of binary meter, cosmic analects, blazing ellipsis zero in with a parabolic reflector, decoct the cosmos, break down the galaxy, reveal the stars write your verse with a celestial-tipped pen, leave your fiery mark for all the world to see What He Wants a cobalt blue shirt with narrow stripes to bring out his eyes softly faded denims with whiskered creases in the front and soft puckers down the sides maroon boots shone to perfection with mustard-coloured laces a slight wedge to the heel a new image created by a new look to go with the new life showcased in the back of the Sears catalogue page 373 Houseguest Since when does he use towels with satin butterflies appliquéd on them? Pink perfumed soap shaped like hearts rest in a crystal dish on the counter, in the adjoining guest room are vases of my favourite flower, a bedspread in royal aubergine chenille that wasn’t here last time a basket of books—Shelley, Keats, Browning, from one who does not read poetry boxes of bon bons bottles of water so I don’t have to get up for a drink during the night Better than a five star hotel is my friend’s kindness to me which makes me never want to leave, but rather cocoon under the wine coloured goodness he’s laid out for me The Flower of Friendship He gave her orchids and red roses that were the colour of passion itself but what she longed for what she missed in the midst of the flurry and the colours and the vibrancy was yellow roses the flower of friendship La Fleur de L'amitié il lui a donné des orchidées et des roses rouges les couleur de la passion sans doutes mais ce qu'elle a désiré ardemment au milieu de l'émotion les couleurs et les tremblements était pour les roses jaunes la fleur de l'amitié © All poems by Aurora Antonovic, 2006 |
DAVID TURNER
a retired software engineer, also an ex-teacher, a lifelong poet,
a student of English literature, an avid croquet player
and interested in anything with an intellectual flavour -
philosophy, history, maths, music etc
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When I'm Sixty Four © David Turner, 2006 John Lennon was once asked What he would be doing When he was sixty four, And if he would still be writing pop songs And he said, "Yeah, Oi'll be writin' aboat what it's like To be sixty four!" Which was a very good answer really, Only He never got the chance So, you will have to put up with me, Which is all really just poetic licence Since I am actually Only fifty seven. Maybe in seven years time I will think differently about it all, But I don't think so, As I have decided that this will be my last poem Ever Since, in poetry for the last forty years, I have been railing against the world, Or trying to inspire it, Or trying to make people see that life should be more than Acquiring fast, expensive cars, designer bedrooms and haute couture clothes Or getting drunk and stuffed with Chicken Ticka Masala Or having as much sex as possible with as many partners as possible Or just plodding dully along eyes to the ground, And it hasn't made a blind bit of difference. There comes a point When you think I don't give a toss any more! A lifetime of reading the news And finally you realise - This is where I came in, The film has aleady gone round several times And it isn't getting any better, There is no point in watching any more or asking them to put on another reel Because it will just be the same, More of the same sound and fury. Best like Larkin to say, "I'll just get half drunk at night" And look forward to "The anaesthetic from which none come round." Only I don't read it like Larkin did, Because before I was here it was all right And being asleep seems just fine and dandy, So a big long sleep suits me fine And that is where I am heading and glad to. It is sitting here feeling driven / to write all these bloody words that is getting my goat, Especially when, as I said before, It is like shovelling shit in the cess pit And as fast as you shovel it out They shit the shit back in. As Whats Hisname Auden said, "Poetry makes nothing happen", Because the people that do make things happen Are just turds on legs, like that Tony Blair and George Bush Starting new wars and saying ,"God told me to do it," Or "God will say I was right in the end," As if the world had not had enough wars already, And none of them ever did any good Except adding to the sum total of human misery. If they had any sense, the whole pack of them, They would have listened to Bob Dylan Singing `With God on Our Side' And know that if God really was on our side He would be stopping the next war. Of course he never does get round to it And just carries on as usual Sitting around on his arse Waiting to see what the Big heads and arrogant bastards Who consider themselves excellent leadership material Because they have fought their way to the top of a writhing pile Of scratching cats, Backbiting bitches and Poisonous snakes, Will do next For the huddled masses of humanity. If this seems more like a rant than a nice John Lennon song Then you can blame that Romantic author Louis De Berniere For writing `Birds Without Wings' And coming to the right conclusion That individually humanity Are wonderfully funny, Often loving and generous, Even kind to a fault, But en masse, no better than a flock of sheep, Willing to follow the afore abused leaders Down to the edge of the nearest disaster And walk straight in, And that we would all be better off Jumping into the harbour and sinking down To end up as food for crabs rather Than expending all this energy Cavorting around On this great stage of fools, Where history is just the same page Over and over. © All poems by David Turner, 2006 |
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 most of his published formal poems, some with streaming audio,
under the title Needles in a Pinewood at www.geocities.com/lelandjamieson.
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.
|
From A Long Pig's Pen © Leland Jamieson, 2006 A fellow asked me once, “What makes you tick? Expressed in three words, neither more, nor less?” You’d think me home in my own bailiwick but I’d not thought it through, I must confess. No thoughts or feelings would stay put — I roped and hog-tied lots of them, but most dodged off my cagey pen, while others interloped. So I gave up the game of philosophe. The rods and cones of it came down to this: By letting go obsessive hot pursuit I drew myself away from that abyss to slanting light, capricious breezes, a route: Blank paper, meter, rhyme — so frangible — my three are seeing, making tangible. | Ape-Man Hybrid Ponders At Work © Leland Jamieson, 2006 A meditation based on Zecharia Sitchin’s Earth Chronicles I stoop at first, then hunker down and crawl on hands and knees, fists clutching pick and spade, through last night’s picked-out gold-ore I must haul to light — where it will be much under-weighed. My ore’s too little. So’s its yield in gold. In such deep darkness my eyes cannot see what’s ore, and what’s just rock — both wet and cold. My upset Masters never let me be. What Lords must they appease up in Big Blue? What’s ultraviolet? What’s an ozone hole? What is this problem with their Nibiru? Why’s gold the only thing they can extol? Enough. My mate’s warm arms extol delight, and in her cave I’ll pick my rest tonight. |
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