September 2003Café Society's Poetry News Update
Do you have poetry news, announcements or comments? Mail me on the link at the bottom of this page. Also we now have a shop of cool PL&T and Norris merchandise - see link near cartoon... you read the ezine, why not buy the T shirt?
An Interview With

Victoria Chames

Editor and Founder of
Darkhorse Press and PoetryBridge

VICTORIA CHAMES'S BIO

I started Darkhorse Press to self-publish some poetry that I felt an inner responsibility to share. I chose a theme of practical spirituality for the site because I'm very interested in that. Then just for fun, and to practice the new skill I was learning (how to make a website even though you know very little about computers and nothing at all about HTML code) I started PoetryBridge, which is simply a friendly personal place where people can send their poems to be published/shared on the web. I think the internet is both wonderful and awful in the fact that absolutely anyone/everyone can share their thoughts and feelings with anyone/everyone who wants to hear or see them.

I've been an artist, a waitress, a wife, a photographer, a firefighter, a fashion model, a salesgirl at Macy's in the bathrobe department, a wanderer, a seeker, a flower-child, and a few other things, but none of them defined me; they just set the challenge of the hour; they just marked the places on the path.

I was born in North Carolina, grew up in Texas, got married and went to the East Coast where I lived the four loneliest years of my life. Got divorced, and eventually after a zig-zag trajectory that brought me through Michigan and Massachusetts and several midwestern states, I ended up on the California Coast like the Promised Land.

Through all of it, poetry was my therapy, my refuge, my small voice singing in the silence, and ultimately, my salvation.

Everyone should write. Everyone who lives. Even if nobody else ever sees it. It's really not for them that the gift is given; it's for you. The words tell the truth of you even when you cannot see it yourself. True poetry is intensely personal. It takes great courage to share it, but you must share it if you can.

THE INTERVIEW

Poetry L & T:When and why did you first start writing poetry, Victoria?

Victoria: In my early twenties. I got married and went to the East Coast where I knew no one, working two jobs to put my husband through grad school. That's what young women did then, especially southern women - handed over our lives to someone who hadn't a clue what to do with their own, let alone ours. It was a very lonely, barren, empty and joyless existence. I felt both trapped and abandoned. I started writing poetry without realizing it, because I had nowhere else to turn, no one else to tell. A slight shadow of melancholy still slips into my writing even today, although I am a very different person now. Stronger and wiser, but more compassionate too, I think.

Poetry L & T:Who are your favorite poets?

Victoria: Well let's see.The first ones that come to mind are Dylan Thomas, for sheer beauty, Robert Frost for his clear-eyed vision of profoundly simple truths. Edna St. Vincent Millay for her extraordinary passion. And a special favorite, someone I've often referred to as "America's greatest living poet" is the songwriter/musician Paul Simon. If you printed his lyrics in a book like verse, it would stand up magnificently well as poetry. He writes with stunning honesty and candor and he is certainly one of the most original writers in imagery.

The poet who has influenced my work the most is a rather obscure one, Wilfred Owen. He was a soldier and officer in World War-I, but his sensibility was very clearly and deeply that of a poet. He wrote about the horrors of mustard gas and barbed wire and foxholes and exploding shells, and yet he wrote it exquisitely with a voice that was uniquely beautiful. He wrote about the tragedy of war, and the fierce beauty of lives ended wrongly and too soon. He himself was killed at the font lines.

Wilfred Owen was one of the first to write in consonantal rhyme, instead of the vowel-end-rhyme of his predecessors and contemporaries. I loved that, and have been writing that way ever since. I love to let the music wander all through the lines, like he did. Not just at the ends. And the end rhymes are oblique instead of flat - like "grass/cross" or "soon/gone" or "care/here". The rhyme is subtle and not obvious.

Poetry L & T: As Founder and Editor of Dark Horse Press and Poetry Bridge, what style of poetry are you most likely to publish?

Victoria: Any style, really, if it appeals to me. I'm less interested in perfect-metered sing-song end-rhyme, but if it speaks a message that seems meaningful and honest, I can appreciate that. I don't really look at styles or genres, and probably wouldn't know one if I saw it. What I look for is poetry that says something. Starts here and goes somewhere, and has some sort of meaningful resolution. I dislike whining and sorrowful lamenting that never gets any better or expresses any positive progress of spirit. Wallowing in despair is what we have plenty of in this world. What else can you show me? And we absolutely do not publish anything that has obscene or pornographic words or themes.

Poetry L & T: The internet allows all kinds of poetry to be seen, as your bio points out... are there any kinds of poetry online which you find annoying?

Victoria: Oh God yes. As above (wallowing) and generally any very poor writing that has about as much real feeling as a McDonald's menu, and seems to have been put together with a crowbar and a plumber's wrench.

But some real gems can be found there, and new poets may be discovered even before they discover themselves. Poetry is a gift, and the internet, with its easy access to self publishing, and with sites like Poetry Life & Times, offers the potential for anyone to share their gifts with an enormously wider audience than they could ever have in traditional publishing.

Poetry L & T: Have there been any people or life events which you have found difficult, emotionally, to write poems about?

Victoria: I have certainly written about some emotionally difficult times and transitions, in fact, my poetry began as a sort of personal therapy that helped me get through those times. But I don't intentionally set out to write about anything. I just take what comes and go with it wherever it takes me. Usually, facing the feeling that's painful is also very releasing and spiritually empowering.

Poetry L & T:Your poem "The Honing Edge" is incredibly poignant. The lines of each stanza seem to have falling notes at the end, as in the voice of someone who feels depressed, perhaps because of how things change. I would be interested to know a little more about the background behind this poem... obviously only as much as you would wish to share...

Victoria: This was written prior to the breakup of an eight year loving relationship with someone whom I expected to be my partner for the rest of our lives. There were hints, almost literally "in the wind" but since this was a very strong love commitment, I guess I didn't want to see it. But the poem saw it, and so did you. That's what I mean when I say that poetry has been my most honest companion and my guide, and has often foretold what my mind was not ready for yet, to help me get ready.

Poetry L & T:Your poem "After Goodbye" ends with the memorable phrase:
"and sleep is
my only escape from
the absence of you."

...many people will identify with these words. Do you consciously strive for memorable endings, or is it something more instinctive?

Victoria: No, it's pure instinct. It's like God/the Universe giving its gift. I love this poem; it's so simple and clear and true. I was very grateful to receive it. Paul Simon said a thing in an interview when he was asked about how he writes songs. He replied "Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with a (new) song running through my head. I get up and get the guitar, and then I notice that I've bitten off all my fingernails. So I put the guitar away and go back to bed, and the song goes to somebody else that night."

Isn't that just so true! Songs, music, poetry - It's in the very air we breathe, waiting to be discovered. We don't really craft it; we discover it. I discover my poems that way. But there is also the need for readiness, for a lifetime or perhaps many lifetimes that finely tune the receiver.

Poetry L & T:Do you ever think that women are often more courageous in poetic self-disclosure than male poets?

Victoria: I think that most women are pretty courageous in everything. I know from experience that it takes great courage to be female in this world and yet spiritually survive and grow.

Poetry L & T:How would you most like your poetry to influence or affect your readers?

Victoria: I hope they will find something of themselves in my words, and know that whatever they have felt, they were not, and are not, alone. I'd like them to see what somebody else has survived and grown through, nobody special and heroic, just somebody like them.

Poetry L & T:How do you see the poet's role in the world today?

Victoria: The poet lives underground, mostly in secret. This is a hard time in history for true poets; there are few mentors and no Patrons of the Arts as there were in the Renaissance. Yet people still love poetry. It's not a snob literature; everyone can relate to the brevity, surprise, honesty and tenderness of poetry. People love to read it and love to write it. There is, by nature, a bit of the soul of the poet in every human being.

Poetry L & T:What is your main ambition for the future?

Victoria: I would like to publish most of my work. I'm no longer young, and I honestly feel an inner imperative and a sacred responsibility to share what I've been given.

Poetry L & T:Finally, Victoria, if a younger poet asked you for advice on how to improve and grow as a poet, what would you say?

Victoria: Don't try so hard. Poetry, like love, never comes from trying hard. Let it come as it will, let it be what it is. Receive it, polish it, but don't try to bend it too much. Above all be honest. Write with the absolute belief and certainty that no one on earth will ever see it. If you can do that, then your heart's truth, wisdom, joy, pain, and glory will pour out onto the page, and then you might really have something.

Poetry L & T:Thank you for the interview, Victoria.


Click here to read Victoria's poetry...



Editor's Letter, September 2003

Dear Poets,

Welcome to the September 2003 issue of Poetry Life & Times (For those of you reading this on a mirror site and not poetrylifeandtimes.com, click here).

This month's interview features Victoria Chames, founder and editor of Darkhorse Press and PoetryBridge.

Featured Poets this month include Liam Guilar, Ward Kelley, Bogdan Tiganov, Rochelle Hope Mehr, C.S. Snow, Richard Vallance and Jan Sand. Included with Liam Guilar's poems are two special MP3 poem downloads - you will be able to listen to his poetry performances with beautiful lute accompaniment.

The Vallance Review features some of the very weird tragi-comic poetry of The Potato of Terror, who has become something of an internet cult in recent years. You may be very moved, if only to run away! It is a review like no other...

Fans of The Perils of Norris cartoon: now you can buy Norris merchandise for home and office, including a stylish wall clock... Click here to visit the store, which is located at CafePress.com. More goodies will be added as soon as we design them! You can also buy merchandise with our Poetry Life & Times logo.

My own poetry can be found mainly on AuthorsDen, these days. The links in the left-hand column of my 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. Any comments on this issue or back issues can be emailed to me on the link at the bottom of the page. Announcements are always welcome (brief if possible), you can also promote poetry books here.

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. I 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,



Click title below for this month's Vallance Review feature

Richard Vallance reviews sonnets, both classic and modern.




Featured Poets this month include Liam Guilar, Ward Kelley, Bogdan Tiganov, Rochelle Hope Mehr, C.S. Snow, Richard Vallance and Jan Sand. Many thanks to all contributors.


LIAM GUILAR

Liam started writing poetry with a blunt pencil when he discovered that cat and mat rhymed. Somehow this is far more memorable than much else that happened at primary school. Thirty years later his first book of poetry, "The Poet's Confession" was published in Canberra by Ginninderrra press. He never bothered trying to get the poems published before that. He just assumed no one wanted to read them. Since then his poems have appeared in various places, though he is proudest of its selection for a book of world music, edited by Allan Allexander. (Apart from his excessive love of books my other main interest is acoustic music.)

Inspired by a childhood reading of Rider Haggard's She, he's traveled to places too obscure to make the Lonely Planet Travel Guides. (Coventry, Halesowen…) He is the only lute playing, kayaking medievalist known to have been "smuggled" across the Kazak border in an apple truck and "arrested and deported" from Samarkand. The story is on the Idaho State University Website: http://www.isu.edu/outdoor/dwbstart.htm.

Born in Coventry, England, Liam studied Medieval Literature and History at Birmingham University, and moved to Australia in 1986. He has a Masters Degree in Medieval Literature from the University of Queensland, and currently lives on the Gold Coast, where a version of himself is Head of English at a private girls school, a fact he often finds incomprehensible.

Liam Guilar's second collection of poetry "I'll Howl Before You Bury Me", published by Interactive Press, won the 2003 IP Picks Award for Poetry by a Queensland author.

Other Links:

Comrades, August 2001
Poetry Life & Times, October 2001

 
LADY MOONLIGHT
© Liam Guilar



Lady Moonlight
come the sunlight
you and I may cease to be.
So until our histories claim us
let me hold you close to me.

You’re the moonlit
midnight water;
you’re the night breeze on the sea.
Fragrant as the scent of jasmine,
let me hold you close to me.

With the morning
I must leave you.
There are people we must be.
So until the dawn comes fumbling
let me hold you close to me.


Download/Play MP3 recital of Lady Moonlight
(554KB. Turn up PC volume for this one, slightly quiet)



GRUFF MUGGIN
© Liam Guilar



This is the tale of Gruff Muggin the Pig
who was hired, “sight unseen”, for a Friday night gig
in the town of Dundrummin, not too far from here
a place which is famous for bikies and beer.

The Mayor of the town, a fat jolly bloke,
said to his council, “a pig in a poke
is something we just can’t afford I’m afraid”.
So they left for the cafe where Gruff Muggin played.
The mayor was unhappy, his counselors glum,
the café was quiet, there weren’t any drums.
They asked for an encore, they feared a disaster
but Gruff Muggin refused; he was eating his pasta.

Now the problem is simple, you should understand
when these people thought “music”, they also thought “band”:
a drummer, distortion, their idea of heaven,
was an amp with a dial that went on to eleven;
a sound that was noise, more noise and a beat
that bypassed your brain and went straight to your feet,
that made you feel young, alive and aggressive
made you wear your hat backwards
when you tried for “impressive”.

Gruff Muggin the Pig, the truth sad to tell,
thought this kind of music was musak from hell.
It sounded like steel being torn in a room
where jackhammers banged on a large metal tomb.
So imagine the horror that swept through the bar
when Gruff Muggin took out…his acoustic guitar.
He liked to play Purcell, he loved playing Bach.
Handel’s concertos he knew off by heart,
he could even do Dowland and loved gentle things
written for wood and fingers and strings.

Long haired and sweaty, tattooed and scarred
the bikers  stopped drinking in the Dundrummin bar.
Offended and outraged, they whistled and swore.
Gruff Muggin ignored them and played an encore.
They started to throw things, …not to kill, just to maim
but fortunately drink interfered with their aim.

I’d like to pretend that the crowd soon went quiet,
won over by Nonsuch, instead, a small riot
began to ferment in the Dundrummin bar
caused by a pig with an unplugged guitar.
When he’d done his first set, he paused for a rest,
and the cheers he received were ironic at best.
The landlord came over; in a whisper he said
“Son, go back on stage an’ I reckon you’re dead.
I’ll pay for both sets, don’t play any more
I hate seeing blood, it leaves stains on me floor.”
Gruff Muggin agreed, “If you’ll answer one question
Can you tell me exactly what is a Lead Zeppelin?”

He went to the car park. He got to his car,
where two big bad bikies, all tattooed and scarred
leered at Gruff Muggin and leant on his door.
“I’ve never heard nuffink quite like that before.
Them dances you played, the tunes they were sweet
I was umming along and a-tappin me feet
So I’m gonna get married, and I’ll pay you a grand
If you’ll play the music instead of a band
I can talk wiv de Mrs, I can laugh wiv me friends.”
And that, patient people, is almost the end

Gruff Muggin, drove home, trying hard not to laugh;
a grand, and big bikies gavotting to Bach.

In the town of Dundrummin, whenever it’s quiet
they fondly recall their Friday night riot,
and the landlord’s decided he don’t need no band
they can smash a few bottles and throw a few cans.
At first all the people said he was insane
but now, they admit, the sound is the same


Note From Liam:
Gruff Muggin the pig is my friend Allan Alexander 
and the cloth eared rhymes are deliberate.



UNEXPECTED VISITORS
© Liam Guilar



1.

This bitter cold recalls the smell
of thick fog burning in the winter sun,
The wicker work of hedges binding
fallow fields with frost bound folds,
The air so cold it burnt the lungs.
Somewhere near Coombe we trudged in line
behind the youth club leader.
For private reasons which I can’t recall
he was determined we would walk until we dropped.
The cold does not invoke
that winter night in Birmingham
when the glow of an electric fire
cast shadows on her unexpected smile.


2.

An unexpected smile ignites the night.
A poem flares and dies before
this sudden miracle of clothes
abandoned on her bedroom floor.
The drunkards in the street below
call out to someone passing by
“show us yer arse”, “hey touch yer toes”
“bend down”, “you dropped sumfink”
Fast footsteps on the pavement
flee a harsher world.
Beyond the warm glow of the fire
a poem flares and dies.



THE VETERAN
© Liam Guilar



Returning from crusade
we found our lives had broken.
Familiar as the rain, the people
who had cheered us on our way,
now flinched as we rode past.

The dances I had known
from childhood, now seemed dull
their final flourish, false.
In that other dance,
once debts were paid to lust
and absence, stranded by
a stranger in a mildewed bed,
I lay awake and listened
as the wind smashed rain
against the roof , shadows
like assassins as the walls closed in,
I saw again the spare pure line
of desert, taut as the wail
of a reed pipe
carving a waning moon.



IN AN ABANDONED RATTAN POACHER'S CAMP
(for Fatchance Paddlers everywhere)
© Liam Guilar



The rattan poachers know the river.
Fear has a name: “Eight Drops”, “Mahaba”.
But still they go downstream.
You’ll find a rattan bundle splintered on the rocks
weeks of hard work wiped out in a second.
A tree ripped out, a century of growth
smoothed by the water then discarded
on the beach. A broken body bobbing,
rag doll in the eddy, fingers twitching
in the current,  reaching for the bundle.
Who lives, what dies, whose rattan makes it to the road
the river cannot care. And we intend to go downstream.

Here in the rattan poachers’ camp,
stripped to commitment,
we watch our fire fade.
Beyond the friendly space
it carves out of  rainforest dark
fears worry at the edges.

“Downstream?” “Three days.” “Mahaba?” “It’s a six *
One is easy, six used to be considered un-runnable.“
“Eight Drops?” “They’re only four to five.”
“And if it rains?” “Straight up the mountain, son.
We hack a trail and haul our gear out to the top.
A track up there leads back to where we were.”

The river only knows one word: “downstream”
It twists and writhes. A grey stain on the night
its sibilance, as monstrous as malevolent,
drowns out the conversation. These are my friends.
My choices and my history have brought me here
to this familiar moment in the journey,
when fear masquerades as common sense.

We know we cannot win or lose
against the river’s blind persistence.
We know we may not make it to the road.
We also know the only way to fail is by refusing to begin.
The rattan poachers know the river does not care
And so do we.


[* On the International River Grading System, 
the difficulty of a rapid is rated on a scale of one to six.]
(Lariang river, Sulawesi, July 2002)


* Extra MP3 performance from Liam! 
Contraditions click here to download.
(This is louder than "Lady Moonlight" - adjust volume.)

WARD KELLEY

Ward Kelley has seen more than 1500 of his poems appear in journals world wide. He is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee whose publication credits include such journals as: Plainsongs, Another Chicago Magazine, Rattle, Midstream, Zuzu's Petals, Ginger Hill, Sunstone, Pif, Whetstone, Melic Review, Poetry Life & Times, Thunder Sandwich, Potpourri and Skylark. He was the recipient of the Nassau Review Poetry Award for 2001. Kelley is the author of two paperbacks: "histories of souls," a poetry collection, and "Divine Murder," a novel; he also has an epic poem, "comedy incarnate" on CD and CD ROM.

Quote from Ward:
As for me, I'm a 52 year old business executive with 3,600 people in the division reporting to me. I only mention this because in a sense the daimon that propels my occupation also propels my poetry. For instance, 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." So in my mind am I a businessman who writes poetry, or a very minor poet successful at business? Who knows? Yet I tread carefully with this balance for fear my daimon will leave me, or my greed will taunt me for decades.

Formerly I managed distribution centers in Pennsylvania, Ohio, California, Arizona and Illinois. My wife and I now live outside of Indianapolis and are currently toiling with much determination on our second crop of children, having adopted four wonderful girls and fostered several others.

Of the 1162 published pieces, some have found their way into:



PRINT MAGAZINES:

Another Chicago Magazine
Ginger Hill
The GSU Review    
Limestone   
The Listening Eye 
The Lucid Stone
Mad Poets Review
Midstream
Nassau Review 
The Old Red Kimono
Plainsongs
Porcupine Literary Magazine 
Potpourri
Rattle 
River King
Skylark 
Spillway
Sulphur River Review
Sunstone


INTERNET:

Adirondack Review
The Animist
Ariga 
Big Bridge
Facets
Lynx: poetry from Bath
Melic Review
Oblique
Offcourse
The Paumanok Review 
Pif
Poetry Life & Times
Poetry Magazine.Com 
Pulse
Pyrowords 
Renaissance
The Rose & Thorn 
San Francisco Salvo
Savoy
Sonata
Thunder Sandwich
2River View
Unlikely Stories
Zuzu's Petals 



    WEIGHTLESS THOUGHTS OF MEANING
© Ward Kelley

    

The eye, the specter in the eye,
round, inverted, carved on the brain

with knives of light, this information
consisting of weightless recognition.

An ear, the rustling of air waves,
wavering, flowing to abrupt sounds,

the abrasion of follicles, little hairs
who arrest the pulse of purity, a noise.

And then the mind, the smallest electric
charge goes crashing through the gates

of history, both singular and rippling in the ocean
of thoughts that is the accumulation of our race . . .

our lives, created by weightless thoughts of meaning, 
great or small, depend only on our own judgments.



THE KEY IS FORMED
© Ward Kelley

    

We are all given the courage to breathe,
all granted the fortitude to go forth each 
day and aspire to something a little bit

more than what we already possess. We
are all granted more courage than that,
though, given more than what we can

measure in ourselves, and this is perhaps
the nature of courage: its hidden reservoir
can only be tapped when we force ourselves

to attempt something we doubt, or a thing
we fear; the key is formed from our very risk.
We are all given the courage to breathe.



WE, WHO HAVE IT
© Ward Kelley

    

From the ash of creation, the pumice
of inspiration, came both gods and
humans, mixed up in the realization

they could not at first distinguish
each other . . . gods were those who
suffered only mentally, while humans

were much happier though mortal, until
we learned the anguish of the mind. Soon
we no longer needed our gods, and this

is how doubt was born inside this flesh
who should have always yearned for
divinity. But minds yearn for immortality

and the only way we can approximate such
is through mental suffering. We, who have
the flesh the gods crave, are not content with it.



WITHIN THE BULLETS OF TIME
© Ward Kelley

    

Each day we live, we are busy writing the details
of how we want to die, but each hour of our lives
we are intent on describing how we would attain

all that we desire in life. Each minute is spent strictly
on what our body dictates -- food, sleep, excretion,
and sometimes sex. The art is in the seconds, for here

we must quickly insert a slapdash of love into the all
of what confronts our flesh and minds in this machine-
gun attack of time aimed at the very hearts of our souls.



STRETCHING MUSCLES
© Ward Kelley

    

When you stretched your body unreservedly
on the bed or sofa, you always made certain
I could notice you, and there were animal

movements to your muscles. Your thighs
wanted to pounce as though my body were
an animal of truth that -- if ever captured --

would give you a knowledge possessed by
no one else. Yet your arms appeared ready
to take flight, certain there were snares about

to capture you and take your life. Then your
eyes could exhibit both these traits of hunger
and escape, and this is a look only women can

give, one of allure and flee within the same glance:
it means they are ready to exchange what they hold
secret. In the end I had no truth for you, but could

only think of ways to try to capture your body. It
was useless, of course, and when we parted you
hinted how the best of secrets never exchange.



WORDS ARE AN AFFRONT TO BEAUTY
© Ward Kelley

    

My soul has lost its olfactory powers, but not
its sight, so I can still see the opulent curves
of your female soul. Yet I can no longer smell

the moods of your heart, so I am left a man
unclear about what all these coils desire; it's
a peril, since once you do not know what

a woman desires, you are lost. Asking her does
no good, in fact it harms you because it is surely
an admission that your soul has miscued; besides

even if she answers, it will not be the truth, for
the essence of a woman lies in her beauty's ability
to emote what she wants without the use of words.

Words are an affront to beauty, for beauty lives to be
touched, and the man who knows how to touch without
the use of hands or words is one who will be loved

throughout his life and past his death. My soul has
lost its power to smell your heart, but I must be quiet
about this loss; perhaps I can better develop other senses.







    

        




BOGDAN TIGANOV


I am originally from Braila, Romania but I live in
London, UK.  I am a student of English Literature at
Kingston University and hoping to become some sort of
travel writer.  I enjoy music and films and hope to
incorporate these in my life.  I have published some
poems in some magazines but I can’t remember what the
magazines are called.  My work is showcased mainly at
the following site:
www.authorsden.com/bogdantiganov/
 
 


you are more than a poem
© Bogdan Tiganov



I still have you 
on my lips
I still have you
in my mouth
light traces
slight reminders
enough to keep me going

I want to grab you
as much as I can
find out
as much as I can
who you are
you are more than a poem
or anything else



never really had the time
© Bogdan Tiganov



never really missed him
as you would
someone you loved

never really had the time
for love
but there’s always time
for hate

never really wondered
about his life
and his perception
it takes all day
to view mine

what strange living we’ve had
if you can call it living
how idiotic
the destruction



the white stag
© Bogdan Tiganov



the white stag
feasts on the rubbish

don’t waste your time
on fastfood and drink!
you are too beautiful 
for our wretchedness!

oh and don’t hit me
as my spine is made of Shakespeare

and Bambi
move your eyes
they’re making me weak
and I know that already



Frida don’t come again
© Bogdan Tiganov



I circle round this creature
this creature
truly believes
that it's more arrogant
than me

I say ‘don’t you realise
that you’re invading my universe?’

it laughs and I feel drunk
it speaks but I’m hysterical
‘it’s not your universe
you foolish boy!’

it has a point
but I will not give in
‘the universe shakes
when I write
but nobody listens
to the greatest writer
of them all’
this triumpth is a failure

it stares at me
like I’m meat
meat for it to devour
‘you’re still too young
you need more time
and my work
has more vision than yours
I paint with emotion
I paint with heart
and without heart
and what do you do?
your common words
on blank paper
that you lay down fast
you think that’s great!
you’re deluding yourself
look at your genes
your father
made the same mistake’

I feel 
that
this monster
is winning all
arguments
‘and you’re better
with your careful
brushstrokes
from the wrist
and your obsessive
tears
and your pain
who cares 
about your pain?
or my pain?
don’t you realise
that they don’t
understand?’

it grins at me
‘understand
understand
understand
you and your understanding
you want to be
understood
and then what
will
you
do?’

I stop
and focus
on my palms
‘I do not wish
to be understood
I don’t want anything
I just need
some 
money’

‘and what will you
do 
with this money?’

I point my finger
‘shut up
you’re no better
and this is my
poem
and I will
end it
with my own words’

but it holds me
from ending
‘just a moment
they will wonder
if you can only write
small poems
but tell me now
can you even write?’

I’m blushing
but that’s not a problem
if we’ve come this far
‘don’t worry about me
we’re selfish
I know
or don’t know
ha!
I can paint too
I could and I would
you’ll see
you can’t write
as well
as I can paint!’

‘are you sure?’

‘no’

it closes the gap on me
and I feel
its warmth
its humanity
its tender voice ‘we’re so
silly we’re
so natural’

I sigh ‘surely you must go now’

it dances away
mesmerising
but 
it still has
something
to say
‘you
had 
your
last 
word’

yes







    

        
ROCHELLE HOPE MEHR

Rochelle Hope Mehr lives in New Jersey (USA).  Her poetry has appeared 
inThe Stone Soup Anthology, Lucidity, Offerings, The Sidewalk's End, 
Poetism (Poem of the Day) and other publications. 


See also these back-issues of
 Poetry Life & Times

(Featured Poets section):

November 2001

December 2000




                                

        
LOOK
© Rochelle Hope Mehr



The beginning of wisdom may have come
When I realized
That there is nothing in this world
That can make me happy.

The end of wisdom is to prove
That happiness lies
Not in this world
But in this poem.



SACCHARIN
© Rochelle Hope Mehr



It all started when my mother said,
"I have a wonderful surprise for you."
I waited all day until she unwrapped the present at night
And put on Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake."

So disappointed was I by the saccharin sentimentality
I never realized my true affinity with the dark Russian soul.
I really should have - my grandfather-from-Odessa drank
His tea hot from a large glass.
We had a tin saccharin container which I used to open.  I'd marvel at 
its contents
And watch him plop saccharin pills into his tea.
He'd crack walnuts open with his bare hands.
No nutcracker for him.
I never could get over it.
He seemed so strong.

What does this have to do with Tchaikovsky
Who loved Mozart but whose music sounds nothing
Like Mozart's?
With Swan Lake, which ends as
Bitterly as saccharin?
With Beauty, which starts off with such promise
And, once dissipated, rings tinny in the ear?



SPIRIT
© Rochelle Hope Mehr



A poem is an elusive thing.
You grab one end
And try to pull the string
And are caught unawares
By its beetling sting.

The heart that beats
In its own lair --
Conscious by day,
At night, unaware --
Is glory a-wing...



The Uncertainty Principle
© Rochelle Hope Mehr



When I got sick
And had to leave school
I felt humiliated.

I had lost my mind.
I could not focus on my work.
This was a humiliation

For so much of my self-worth
Was determined by how well
I did at school.

If two and three no longer made five
How could I have a future
How could I have a life

If things no longer added up,
No longer made sense?
Still, I longed for some encouragement,

A kind word from someone that somehow
Someday I'd be myself again.
Therapists offered theories.

Therapists assigned blame.
This week to Mom.
The next, to Dad.

I "always wanted to be in control."
Then, I was "too impulsive."
Farther and farther I slid

From myself.
I wondered why
This guy I had known

Never called.
Was I so far from
The realm of the acceptable?

What had made me
Acceptable before?
Was I more sure of myself?

Is uncertainty so unattractive?
I keep asking myself the question
Even today

Knowing in my heart
That the closer I come
To gauging my own worth

The farther away
You recede...



METAPHYSICS
© Rochelle Hope Mehr



I don't know anything about quality or worth.
About the weightiness of a stream of thought.
What is the poundage required to weigh down the trawl?
To secure certainty?
To dam infinity?
To flood the gates?
What does it take?

I threw a pebble into the stream.
The waters parted -
The piranha cut into my dream.

Whose flesh are they devouring?
Who oars this trireme?






            



Click here for September 2003 Featured Poets page 2 --> link for second half of featured poets....



       
 











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