Featured poets this month include Neil Ray, Ward Kelley, Charlotte Mair and Jan Sand.

Neil Ray sometimes writes prose poems that run on without carriage returns, as in "Moonlight On The Moccasin Run" (one of my favourites of his poems).

Many thanks to all contributors.

Neil Ray NEIL RAY is 44 years old, and lives in Fayetteville, North Carolina. He is married and has two children. He currently works in the floral industry, as a floral wholesaler. He graduated from Terry Sanford Senior High School in 1974. He attended Richmond Technical Institute, for one year, and then joined the US Air Force. He left the Air Force in 1979, and has recently worked at several jobs, until his current position, which he has held for the last seven years. Neil has a member of the Writer's Ink Guild since 1994, and is the editor of the Guild's newsletter, The Ink Pad. The newsletter has been in publication for the last three years, and is currently up to 750 copies, per issue. Neil Ray has been published in numerous anthologies: Meditations (Iliad Press, 1994), A Tapestry of Thoughts (Watermark Press, 1995), Homecoming (Old Mountain Press, 1999) and the local newspaper, Fayetteville Observer-Times. He currently has a chapbook out, "Quest…of the Plebeians" (FlamingHeart Productions, 1999). He has conducted workshops for the North Carolina Poetry Society, Poetry to the People, and several workshops at Hoke County Senior High, (Mrs. Timmins, Senior English), and at West Hoke Middle School, (Ms. Fazzio, Ms. Phillips, Ms. Curtis, Ms. Cannon, 8th grade English), Ms. Archambeau (7th grade English), and Ms. Byrd (6th grade English). He is the host of two open mike events in Fayetteville. "Java Jams" every Sunday night at the Coffee Scene, and "Poetic Expressions" every first Friday of the month, at Artistic X-pressions. Both located in Westwood Shopping Center. He will be hosting a new children's open mike event at Barnes and Noble, on the first Thursday of each month, and was requested by the North Carolina Poetry Society, to assist in the Awards Day presentations in May. He is the champion of the Fayetteville 2000 Poetry Slam Season. Neil is also the in coming chairman of The Membership Development and Projects Committee for the North Carolina Poetry Society. Says Neil: "...Although, I have no teaching background or certificates to say such. All of my school workshops have come at the request of the teachers themselves, after witnessing my performances at the open mikes, or some other literary event. I truly enjoy working with the kids, because, I can see something special burning in their eyes, during the presentation of the workshop, but it is the poetry writing at the end, that gives them the greatest pleasure. That makes it all worthwhile."

Moonlight On the Mocassin Run Neil D. Ray Copyright 1996 (Published in the Writer's Ink Guild Anthology, Homecoming, (Old Mountain Press, 1999) The message reads clear upon the diamond studded waters of Lake Boratone. The promise foretold by prophets are now whispers. Its aromatic breath bows marshgrass and waterlillies. The exotic dance of fireflies are performed in shadows, held in the grasp of mist blue fingers. While the symphony of cricket, toad, and nightbird, beguile the twisting currents moving through the shallows. Lovers cascade silhouettes upon heartbeats that lap a cappella to cuddling shores. Passion had a fragrance of jasmine and a color of smoke blue. Omnipotent are these over splendid auras and palliates of emotions. Here you will find the imagination of lovers and fools, sufficiently cloaked under the spell of a gypsy moon. And they receive the blessings of a thousand crane, who have reserved the priviledge of speaking with God, personally. Deliverance Neil D. Ray Copyright 1996 The baying of hounds penetrates the darkness--filling its air. A short respite concludes with the resignation of this sanctuary. Unseen hands grasp souvenirs of flesh and blood, while unstable legs traverse a treacherous path, winding endlessly across cerebral landscapes, which was at one time fertile ground. Short, painful breaths, in continual rhythm, accompany the dipping and dodging of swiftly moving shadows. Eyes gaze into the vast mystery seeking a reference point. Yet, not one star is willing to expose its celestial beacon, to one who desires to be lost, but prays to be found. Was there not a place called "Eden"? Did not someone speak of Utopia, or was it heaven in a foreign tongue? Was not the grass green? The sun warm and bright? The water cool and the earth young? Who spoke of these things? Where are they now? What became of Camelot? For there is nothing to bound the beast, nor the system which so amorously nurtured its development. Its ravenous appetite devours all resemblance of those memories and their fragile elements. Leaving only scraps. Tiny remnants of life as it was and was not. No longer are the voices familiar, but they are distant. A bittersweet salvation to nocturnal ambitions. Oh, to dream again, far from the confines of that melancholy room and its perverted isolation. To be awakened by subtle fragrances, that knock before sliding beneath the painted door. A silver, gray curtain rises slowly above the horizontal stage, and the revelations of one hundred or just one; Have come and gone a natural course, leaving a trail littered with numerous questions. While all evidence concerning that existence, were lost in currents of briskly flowing water. A Child's Room Neil D. Ray Copyright 1996 Lay down gently on the bed, face buried deep in a pillow, that still carries the fragrance. It adds substance to the weight of emotions, pressed tight against the covers, while hands clutch to hold on. Toys, books, furniture are in silent lament, of one who's existence is now a spirit, moving in the walls, looking down from the ceiling, walking softly across the floor. A soul finds peace in prayers, whispered like a breeze through an open window. And the door closed and locked, is always open to hearts that love and remember. When She Comes Around Neil D. Ray Copyright 1997 Subtle innocence radiates from her face, as waves rolling gently to vagabond shores Tiny ships sail in these emotional seas before slipping into secluded coves to anchor deep. Soothing sweet nectar flows from raspberry petals to procreate rivers and streams coursing over Sunday afternoon dreams, We drift on golden sprayed lakes, as darkness descends singing evening serenades Clear deep pools reflect sentimental notions of romantic castaways, portioned one touch away from paradise. There beneath the waterfall, cascading its blessings, is pure salvation. Sunday Morning Neil D. Ray Copyright 1999 As the sun rose slowly above the trees, white in the sky. You understood it to be a new beginning. Today, you are not concerned about food or dress. You do not require the assistance of others. Preparations for this journey begun long before the arrival of this star. You gather nothing. You bear no fear. You do not tarry with time, and its insignificance. You step onto this road, that you have built with faith and love, bound for a place that is eternal. Accepting your position in the heavens, you will watch us compose our own destinies. No longer weary. No longer troubled You are at peace, held within the sweet embrace, of he who creates all things magnificent. And you take your leave as the sun rises into the sky. In Loving Memory of My Grandmother - Bernice Melvin (1904-1999) V Neil D. Ray Copyright 1999 I write alluring poetry for you, past the kissing hour. From the depths of shadows emerge passionate phrases. Emphatic emotions refreshing dew for a morning flower Escalating visions perpetuate erotic hearts in exotic places. Daylight emancipates caricatures to tease and frustrate senses I am enticed by their tempestuous dance onto a simple floor The embrace reflective of impassioned lovers, amorous acquaintances. A kiss sweet aphrodisia, our palliates yearning for more I introduce your name to the wind, and pray it conveys my message. It is privilege to elements responding to the essence in the quill Thus again, I have given life to a romantic passage. As the parent encourages the child to do his will I affectionately return to the page again and again I make love to you with each stroke of my pen. XIV Neil D. Ray Copyright 1999 From her balcony, she laid still every frantic spirit Dancing upon the twisting, stage beneath her. A sensuous muse streams effortlessly from her fingertips Giving life to her world, with sincere, passionate strokes. Who would ever suspect God to be a woman, Living downtown in a third floor apartment where The players and the preachers, the socialites and the serfs, Are manifested in frames, of oil, water, and paste. She sips a vintage Chardonnay, which was given By a lover, that she accepts on occasion. Even now, he comes bearing gifts of affection That must endure as memories until his return. Unless she can capture him upon the canvas. Thus suspending him to this place. Nights Like This Neil D. Ray Copyright 1999 The snow decorated the Delaware countryside with an icing frosty white, and the dark gray pan promised more from the baker's hands. The large two story farmhouse had ninety-five years of stories in its walls, and the painful ones made its bones, creak and moan. Her moccasin covered feet slapped lightly on the hardwood floor, then muffled skips across that old sun flower printed rug. A late blooming flower child of the sixties, she had returned to ancestral haunts, sojourned by the specters of death, taxes and no where else to go. She could acknowledge that her life had gone full circle at least three times, the evidence seen in glossy eight by tens, of color and black and white. Shadows danced on the living room walls, to a melody played by flickering candles, four beats hard....four beats soft. The graying embers popped and hissed, as she stroked them to life, with the long, black poker; while enjoying the feel of its handle in her hand. A log is placed on the fire, and she returns to the Victorian sofa, where two white Persians, prowl for a place to lounge or just to be cuddled. Tonight, as with so many nights before, they are loyal and affectionate surrogates, for hearts drifting easily as the wind driven flakes, twisting past her window. Ten years after the fact, she could confidently admit that Colombian Red and homemade wine, was a splendid aphrodisiac or a soothing sedative....depending on the need. There will be no knocks at the door this evening, unless perhaps, the wind attempting to gain entrance....with its icy face pressed hard against the window panes. Later, as the moon and snow compliment each others presence in an illustrious promenade, and the large dark house begins to speak through shadows, She will share a place with two old friends, snuggled tightly in a heavy, patch quilt made by her great-grandmother, and so perfect for nights like this. neilray@hotmail.com

Charlotte Mair CHARLOTTE GAI MAIR is one of David Jackson's editors at Artvilla, and has designed and maintained Web pages for Elisha Porat, Charlotte's Web, Shoptillyadrop Virtual Mall, BarNone Coffeehouse. She is a former singer-musician ; born of Irish decent family named Coughlan , February 14/49, presently residing on the lower mainland of British Columbia, Canada. Always a fighter and very passionate by nature, she has never allowed her lifes circumstances to pull her down. It is in fact lifes journeys and episodes that have inspired this writer not to give up and to make known her love of life through her writing and poetic endeavors. In a period of two years almost 100 poems have been in various hard copy Antholigies, Newsletters, Newpapers and many websites in United Kingdom, Ireland and across the United States. ANTHOLOGIES: Poetic Voices of America - Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum W. Virginia, USA - 1999 *ISBN 0-923242-64-3 Crossroads - Iliad Press Sterling Heights - MI, USA - 1999 Feelings - Cader Publishing Sterling Heights - MI, USA - 1999 *ISBN 1-885206-69-0 President's Recognition for Literary Excellence, MI, USA - 2000 No Love Lost - Hidden Brook Press Toronto, Ontario, CD - 1999 No Love Lost II - Hidden Brook Press Toronto, Ontario CD - 2000 The Open Window - Hidden Brook Press Toronto, Ontario, CD - 1999 *ISBN 0-9699598-4-2 The Open Window II - Hidden Brook Press Toronto, Ontario, CD - 2000 Illuminations lll - Hidden Brook Press Toronto, Ontario, CD - 1999 Cherished Poems of the Western World - Famous Poets Hollywood, Ca, USA - /99 * ISBN 0-96414989 NEWSLETTERS: Wildlife Rescue Association of British Columbia Burnaby, BC, CD - 1999 * ISSN 1188-5106 Poemata - The Canadian Poetry Association Toronto, Ontario - 1999 * ISSN 1203-6595 NEWSPAPER: Choices Toronto, Ontario - 1999 * 107-3295-11 WEBSITES - Published on multilpe Websites including Canada & United States, Britain & Ireland - 1999 & 2000: Dublin Writer's Workshop, - Ireland Deep Underground - Alternative Poetry Site, U.K Poetry Repair - United States Lady In The Lake - Los Angelos, U.S.A. Above Ground Testing - Trenton, Ontario, Canada Survivor's Poetry Site SELF-PUBLISHED CHAPBOOK: The First Fifty Years. Authored and illustrated by Charlotte Gai Mair, Published by Charlotte Mair @ Hidden Brook Press, 412 - 701 King Street West, Toronto, Ontario, Canada - 1999 HONORABLE MENTIONS: The Reflection - The Spring 1998 Iliad Literary Awards Program Peace - The 1998 Nature Awards Program Message in the Sand - The 1998 Browning Awards Program Forget Me Not - The 1998 Longfellow Awards Program The First Fifty Years - Chapbook Competition 1998 BOOK REVIEWS: David Ingram - Channel 4 Talk Show Host, Book Reviewer *1999 Ward Kelley - Writer - Indianapolis , USA *2000 People's Poetry Newsletter - Toronto, Canada *2000 Recently-written Book review for Elisha Porat: http://www.artvilla.com/mair/poratrvw.htm TELEVISION INTERVIEW: Mike McCardell - Newsreporter, BCTV News, Channel 8, Burnaby, BC *1999

Ahhhh Life © Charlotte Gai Mair When life becomes the Springer show guess its time to turn the channel on that little square box meditate voice your opinion within gather waste no time running down lost highways that's where you lost your way to begin with Look into the light And when you see the Jones standing at the gates and you will Know that all the tea in you know where wont buy peace from you know who and that grand old house might as well be a shack for it creaks and moans and leaks and groans of self-indulged poison and that Lotus is nothin' but ol' tin Lizzy putt - puttin' down the streets of greed and want. Tunesmith © Charlotte Gai Mair When the day was young, the song flowed freely from her lips. In heart a fragile rose did bloom. Befall the angry rapids, swept by love, to steal a kiss of freedoms song from June. He was the music on the ocean of life, whispering on the wind to be, he was the wind, a feather floating along the lea of completeness; A distant cloud of dust, an endless entity. Alas, a sweet song eludes the tongue. Echoing songs now haunt a summer gone. A cloud of autumn mist has carried the tunesmith and stilled the ear for the lost arias song. In Dreams or Wake? © Charlotte Gai Mair Riding riding Galloping swiftly through the hollowness the vastness of my missing you My steed is strong and swift gallant in his fight Still reflecting armor blinds my way groping find my way? I call upon sanctioned rays of light to stop this gripping motion Stop demons tearing at my cloak wearing at my cloak, daring me take will as Seas roar connotations I war this pearl-scaled rogue Steal away from fire steal away Save this weakened maiden's heart from night. Skid Row Dance © Charlotte Gai Mair Wrinkled, jaundiced hands, clutch old brown bags slinking down streets in timeworn linen reeking absorbed old royal white greasy hair, half balding, missing teeth glassy hollow eyes stare straight onlookers glare distrust in humankind homeless nomads in gaunt spectacle beg while bustling traffic screeches horns onslaught shatter hush dowdy coat of grey, tattered, smelling of musty dust scraggily wire-haired terrier, barks to acknowledge lost trust while government liquor stores summon beckon him towards his quest, his lust Sun swelters on new day dawn in shanty town he should move on, a bench to lay for now to rest his dizzy, dry mouth, floating expectations of royally white no angels halo him in rest flashing cherry red paddy wagons, slowly edge men in blue, strutting cocky muscles nab old sots in self-preservation flailing wildly as billy club downs old sot drops sirens howl jungle skid dance is over for now till sober release form the old hoosegow! charlotte@artvilla.com

Ward Kelley WARD KELLEY is a 49 year old business executive with 3,600 people in the division reporting to him. In a sense, he maintains that the daimon that propels his occupation also propels his poetry. He tells me: "Gertrude Stein once said, "If Mr. Robert Frost is at all good as a poet, it is because he is a farmer -- really in his mind a farmer, I mean." "Am I a businessman who writes poetry, or a very minor poet successful at business? Who knows? But my daimon propelled me into such a good financial position that I could now quit my business dealings and comfortably write poetry the rest of my life . . . yet I am afraid to quit for fear my daimon will leave me, or my greed will taunt me for decades." Formerly Ward managed distribution centers in Pennsylvania, Ohio, California, Arizona and Illinois. He now lives with his wife outside of Indianapolis and is currently toiling with much determination on their second crop of children, having adopted four wonderful girls and fostered several others. Ward is new to publishing his work, but he has been fortunate enough to enjoy some initial successes, and has published 398 pieces since late '96. Current successes are: being nominated for the 1999 Pushcart; completing an interview with Israeli poet Elisha Porat (1996 winner of the Prime Minister Prize for Literature); being accepted by Rattle for the second time; Sunstone, Porcupine Literary Magazine; the Ezines Pif, 2River View, Oblique and Offcourse; and by print magazines Potpourri and Skylark -- each for the third time. He was also selected as the Featured Poet by the Ezine Seeker, and the Canadian Ezine, Pyrowords. OTHER LINKS Abraxis Ariga The Astrophysicist's Partner Speaks Calliope NOVELS Two novels, "Divine Murder" and "Keenly Alive, Tony," are represented by The Sternig & Byrne Literary Agency POEMS IN PRINT Of the 398 published pieces, some have found their way into: The GSU Review Limestone The Listening Eye The Lucid Stone Mad Poets Review The Old Red Kimono Porcupine Literary Magazine Potpourri Rattle River King Skylark Sulphur River Review Sunstone

Busily Boiling © Ward Kelley Gushers, like an effusion of sunlight, explosions of mirth, or the unexpected support from an adversary, penetrate the brain as willfully as a virus . . . there is a foreign thrust to these little germs that come busily boiling the already rippling waters of my mind . . . my mind, my mind, now there is the proper recipient for these little bugs, and I have prepared for this onslaught all my past lives; so I am ready for their ministrations, indeed I welcome my tiny friends and bring them quickly inside where I can dissect their miniscule alien minds, and there I find the kernels that I can roll like nearly invisible marbles, or seeds, yes seeds, across the furrows of my brain more like the plowing of a page, a page, the pure expanse of whiteness, of snow, where my little friends sprout and expand their leaves or words who go creeping outward, spreading across my purity, for I am, you know, as innocent of death as any newborn, any fetus; no, no, it's true, it's true, for each and every virus can tell you how a fascination with suicide can only take root in total disregard for death, and this then is the identity of my dual nature of a gusher. Artist's note: Sylvia Plath (1931-1963) American poet, published her first poem at the age of eight. Suicidal from a young age, she endured, at various times, electroshock and psychotherapy. She married the poet Ted Hughes, who went on to become England's poet laureate. The marriage lasted seven years, but failed when Hughes left her for another woman. Months later, Plath killed herself with cooking gas. In a macabre twist of irony, the woman for whom Hughes left Plath also gassed herself to death. Another poet-suicide, Anne Sexton, wrote of frequent drinking dates at the Ritz with Plath: "Often, very often, Sylvia and I would talk at length about our first suicides; at length, in detail, and in depth between the free potato chips. Suicide is, after all, the opposite of a poem." The Very Fiber © Ward Kelley I cannot seem to bring my body to the yes . . . what is there about this conspiracy of atoms that denies the embracing of the yes? My thoughts say yes, my spirit yearns to absorb the yes, but the very fiber of my heart pushes, pushes it away . . . there is no help, no eye, no pill strong enough to make my body see how the way to be is to not be. No, no, it says, I am too much me right now, now. Artist's note: Joseph Campbell (1904-1987) writes of a trip to India where he sought out the celebrated Hindu teacher, Sri Krishna Menon: "The teacher in this tradition always answers questions. He doesn't tell you anything you are not yet ready to hear. So I said, Yes, I have a question. Since in Hindu thinking everything in the universe is a manifestation of divinity itself, how should we say no to anything in the world? How should we say no to brutality, to stupidity, to vulgarity, to thoughtlessness? And he answered, 'For me and for you -- the way is to say yes'." Laboring in the Fields © Ward Kelley The memory of the soul is acute, but not the same as the memory of the mind; the two divulge in ways that are not readily real or apparent to our own wisdom who seeks to sift seeds of some importance from the wheat fields of our lives. The mind might try to recall an event to support some impression or opinion, then conclude here is a truth -- see the event shows us how I am correct; the soul discounts events and instead seeks out repetition of similar behaviors then concludes -- see, I am still me, or I am always me. In this way I am a thief who remarks at great luck or fortunate possessions, but in the end will go to some other jail, for I will always be a thief, one who invents complex schemes to seek out then grab the same seeds that others appear to find quite easily. Ward708@aol.com

Self-portrait by Jan Sand JAN SAND, poet and illustrator from New York, is a regular contributor to Poetry Life & Times. and the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments. A great deal of his work is about animals, or science fiction. 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.

DUETS WITH THE DEAD © Jan Sand I hear their small melodies Against the velvet black Of early morning hours. They orchestrate the undulations Of the hiss of rustling leaves. Sussurating tires on long and lonely highway drives Resonate with their songs. Their voices rise in my own throat To hear the rising past, Of places and events long gone. Sizzling thunderstorms that dropped their rains, Walked with flashing growls through the sky While my mother and my father And I stood in wait beneath the street awning of a store. The monochirps of a baby sparrow Couched upon a bed of cotton In a blue striped kitchen bowl. It prospered there to fly beneath a wall tapestry And, rescued again, paused upon the precipice Of our windowsill before its flight Into the forever of the past. These and other songs sing faintly From fortunate silences and my songs respond. TWENTY FOUR HOURS © Jan Sand The points of stars Carve the universe into my brain. The white ball moon Rolls across the pin pierced night. The stage of Earth Rocks to tip this dark wonder To the Sun That, like an angry housewife Scours away the black to blue. Steam puff clouds browse Across the sterile sky And fall in bloody crash To dark horizon To be hid beneath black shroud. THE CARE AND FEEDING OF POEMS © Jan Sand The phrase leaks out from The miasma of my thoughts, Bubbles up from roiling images Which beset my mind. Written down, it wriggles, Captured like a worm Imprisoned in a petri dish. Like DNA it seeks components To link, to extend. I try to nourish it with odd ideas. Sometimes it sickens, Sometimes it dies When it finds my offerings Indigestible. The best of them are voracious, Devouring everything in reach, Growing rhymes like warts, Howling, stamping their feet In relentless rhythms. Sometimes they bite. In the end, the healthy ones Walk away without a backward glance. AFLOAT © Jan Sand Cold, I am, and bloody tired To shovel shit and hay and fruit That these seasick beasts may be inspired To live and multiply, to graze and root In the world when dried. Many came. Many died. It was Shem who lost the unicorns. They were so shy. They lived exclusively on grapes. He is imperious, like most first borns. And he must have his wines. And then there were the apes. Those Neanderthals - we thought of them as beasts; They were not circumcised. They made good leopard feasts. The dragons simply were too huge. Their weight had caused the boat to list. And with that wind and this deluge We tossed them overboard. They won't be missed. Japheth did in the flying pigs. They were treyf. Noah's screams were loud enough to make me deaf. The dinosaurs bent the bars on their cages. They ate a lot, and how they stank! Growling, roaring, they'd bite each other in their rages. They were too much trouble , to be frank. Rattling their chains, breaking leg irons, We gave up and fed them to the lions. And there were those frightful things from outer space. They almost seemed intelligent, they spoke, But not Aramaic, just gabble. Their dispatch was no disgrace. And, also, we lost the elves, fairies, gnomes - all little folk. I just barely saved the dodo, and the passenger pigeon. We all prayed, but there are limits to religion. Finally, that's the way it goes. The work is lighter. The rain drums on. The wives are bored to tears. Noah keeps us in line. Discipline is tighter. He sings funny songs, quiets down our fears, Assures us all it will be over soon. I miss the Sun and yearn to see the Moon. jan_sand@hotmail.com

CHAPBOOK REVIEW: "A COLLECTION OF FOUR-LINE POEMS" By Andrew Belsey Published by The Llwynywll Press, Cardiff. ISBN 1-873840-00-4

Andrew Belsey was kind enough recently to send me a complimentary copy of this book, after I featured some of the four-line poems in a recent issue of Poetry Life & Times. I enjoyed reading it; it is a light-hearted book that one can dip into at random, opening it at any page - and find something amusing. The subjects of the poems include love, sex, death, time, joy and sadness. He compresses these subjects into four lines, always rhyming, often using the rhyme to add extra bite to the wry, sometimes dark humour and wit of the poems.

It was the humour I enjoyed most of all, as someone who uses rhyme and metre in humorous poems myself, I was impressed. Here are a couple of examples that particularly amused me: HOPE FOR US ALL If you want to be a poet But you haven't got the talent, Put your soul down on paper - It's a failure, true, but gallant. INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS Keep away from Russian girls, Russian girls have got big bums, Never tangle with Tamara For Tamara never comes. (With apologies to our women readers in the Ukraine.) The book was written during the years 1962 to 1999 and contains some touching and amusing snapshots of a life. Andrew Belsey was born in 1942 in Hilton on the edge of the East Anglian fenlands. He has lived in Kent, London, Newcastle upon Tyne, Leamington Spa, Cambridge and Cardiff, where, since 1973, he has taught philosophy at Cardiff University. Andrew Belsey's poems have appeared in a number of print and electronic journals, along with two booklets, Anaximander (Outposts Publications, 1974) and The Weeping Universe (Llwynywll Press, 2000). Anyone interested in buying this chapbook can contact Andrew Belsey at this email address: belsey@cardiff.ac.uk ...to find out his mailing address for cheques or International Money Orders. The book will be sent by return of post and will take approximately one week to arrive if sent to the USA from Wales, or a couple of days in the UK.

ELISHA PORAT: LATEST LINKS

If you like the poetry and stories of the eminent Israeli poet Elisah Porat, as I do, you will enjoy browsing through these links, which are some of the best places to find his work...

http://bostonreview.mit.edu/BR25.2/contents.html
http://www.enteract.com/~asgp/agd-poems/candypoem16.html
http://www.artvilla.com/mair/prtmenu.htm
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/6915/Elishacover.htm
http://www.geocities.com/~poetryrepairs/toc.html
http://www.tomifobia.com/lcc1.html
http://www.tomifobia.com/lcc1.html
http://www.poetshaven.com/poetry/134.shtml
http://www.sonatapub.com/porat.htm
http://www.the-manhattanite.com/2jews3immigrants_porat.htm
http://home.flash.net/~unlikely/porat.html
http://www.pifmagazine.com/2000/06/
http://hebrew.about.com/homework/hebrew/gi/dynamic/offsite.htm?site=http://artvilla.com/porat/
http://www.aceonline.com.au/~db/downunder/poems_20/elisha_babbles.html
http://lib.haifa.ac.il/www/subj/hebrew_lit/hebrew.html
poetnewsNov99.html
http://www.aa-design.com/idesign/outsiter/songs/elisha/elisha.htm http://www.ariga.com/visions/poetry/porat001.htm
http://www.artvilla.com/p1four.htm
http://www.literatura.co.il/porat.html
http://motherbird.com/elisha.html

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NEIL RAY (a Featured Poet this month) is Edtitor of THE INK PAD literary newsletter of The Writers' Ink Guild, in association with The Fayetville/Cumberland County Arts Council, Inc. Anyone wishing to receive (or contribute poetry to) this very informative newsletter can contact Neil Ray on neilray@hotmail.com - or find them online at http://www.theartscouncil.com/writersink/index.html

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DON McIVER's NEW WEBSITE

...Find it at http://www.donmciver.freeservers.com/.

Don McIver was also one of the Poets Of The Week on the Poetry Super Highway for the week June 26th-July 3rd - congratulations, Don!

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THE CAPRICORN INTERNATIONAL POETRY AND SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2000

Theme: An original Poem or Short Story.
No restriction to style, content or length.

Closing Date: 31st July 2000

1ST PRIZE: £100 AND PUBLICATION IN AN ANTHOLOGY

2ND & 3RD PRIZES: PUBLICATION IN AN ANTHOLOGY

Plus five additional runners-up prizes of publication in an anthology in the poetry category.
All winners will have their work published in an anthology and receive a complimentary copy.

Entry Fee: £3.00 Sterling (cheque - or money order outside UK)
per poem or short story, £1.00 4th poem and/or story and beyond

There is no limit to the number of entries submitted, provided each one is accompanied by the correct entry fee. Poems and short stories should be titled but not bear the author's name, that should be sent on a separate piece of paper with the author's address and list of titles. Entries may be typed or hand-written (provided they are legible. Cheques/money orders should be made out to The Capricorn International Poetry and Short Story Competition. Winners will be notified by 31st October, 2000.

Send entries, with the appropriate entry fee, to:

Deborah Tutton,
The Capricorn International Poetry and Short Story Competition,
17, West Lea Road,
Weston,
Bath BA1 3RL
England.

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Pinky, Wonderful! A British poetry website that communicates what the writer feels and makes me think and develop my own ideas. After all, poetry is really a branch of entertainment and we must connect with our audience. Loads of people are keen tell me how clever they are, mostly corporate executives. I don't need poets to do it. One thing though. Inspiration in Croydon? Oh well, I suppose inspiration is a very personal thing. Ian Thorpe argonaut@airtime.co.uk

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Mail me on: pinky@redcity.demon.co.uk with any poems, comments for the letters page, news about your poetry site, or forthcoming poetry events.

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