| April 2006 | Café Society's Poetry News Update |
| April 2006 | Café Society's Poetry News Update |
Margaret Atwood
by Amparo Arróspide B.A., M. Phil
with interview of Amparo Arróspide
Illustration left: "Orpheus" (1865) by Gustave Moreau
The mythological subject, as so often in M. A’s work, is completely recreated by her new approaches, where female characters come out of the shadows and step forward to the foreground to tell their own story, a story which usually replies to, counteracts and contrasts with the legendary (male) version. The poem “Eurydice” is told in the second person, by a voice which is tenderly addressing the heroine:
Again horror is an element of tragedy in the poem entitled “Owl Burning”, which resumes the thread of a series of poems about witch hunting. (3) “Owl Burning” is a brutal tale, being told by the executioner of an old peasant woman who has been denounced as a witch. Observers (in this case readers) are challenged by the furious rejection of the narrator herself (who turns into a collective “we” as spokesman for the community). After telling how they all got drunk when the old woman had been burnt to the bone, we are challenged by the last lines of the poem:
Thus both in “Owl Burning” and “A Conversation”, violence and death are accounted for by the environment, of which they are a part.
The poem “No Name” is apparently just another descriptive or narrative poem, almost pictorial through its lists of items, such as a door where the man rests, the kitchen where the female is standing, with a table, a chair , a fruit-bowl and a plate with loaves of bread. Yet this “still nature” turns into a nightmare:
Less involved in social criticism and therefore more suggestive and mysterious is the poem entitled “Night Poem”, where we are watched by our “true parents” who have crawled from a cold lake to foresee our future. This poem is narrated by the night parents themselves, those who are awaiting
[1. See Giovanni Boccaccio, “Genealogy of Pagan Gods”, Vth Book, Chapter XII]
by Sara Russell
This paper was originally published by Spanish literary journal “Especulo”, Madrid Complutense University, at its Web page (1999). Translations done during a subsidized stay at the Literary Translator´s House, Tarazona, Spain (1998-99).
Margaret Atwood, author of such a vast work comprising fiction, poetry and essays, is particularly well-known by Spanish readers for novels such as The Handmaid's Tale, Surfacing and many others, However, most of her poetry and works of criticism have not yet been translated into Spanish. I have selected nine poems, from Interlunar (1984), Two-Headed Poems (1978), True Stories (1981) as compiled under the anthologies “Poems, 1978-86” (1992) and Morning in the Burned House (1995). The selection has attempted to show an approach to mystery and horror, which in my opinion is characteristic of MA´s works as a whole. They are the following:
Eurydice............................................. INTERLUNAR
Orpheus (1)......................................... INTERLUNAR
Orpheus (2)......................................... INERLUNAR
Night Poem........................................ TWO-HEADED POEMS
Owl Burning........................................ MORNING IN THE BURNED HOUSE
A Conversation................................... TRUE STORIES
Letter From Persephone...................... INTERLUNAR
Metempsychosis................................ INTERLUNAR
No Name........................................... INTERLUNAR
A translation dilemma also arises through the lines “to sing is either praise/ or defiance”. Are they pointing at an irreconcilable antithesis, a disjunction of thought by which the two terms praise/defiance are given as opposites? They stand as equal terms in the last line “Praise IS defiance”, showing that M.A’s vision is prevailingly paradoxical in nature (2)
In “Eurydice” and the two poems entitled “Orpheus” (1 & 2), mystery arises from the chosen subject itself, ie life beyond the pagan hell or “Hades” where Orpheus stands for all poets, for poetical voice. Two lines are particularly revealing as an end to the last stanza:
[Unabridged poems together with their translation into Spanish: see Section II]...They have cut off both his hands
and soon they will tear
his head from his body in one burst
of furious refusal.
He foresees this. Yet he will go on
singing, and in praise.
To sing is either praise
or defiance. Praise is defiance.
Through the above lines, a poet is defined as a being who praises, therefore stands in defiance, despite world rejection and refusal, an individual who goes on singing in praise despite his foreseeing his own death (or sacrificial murder). The narration of the ancient myth is always helpful: Orpheus was indeed murdered by the Maenads, Bassarids who tore his head (later to be sent to Lesbos) from his body, during an orgiastic rite. It is also worth remembering that the name itself, Orpheus, means oraia phone, ie “the best voice”. (1)
That voice is also analyzing Eurydice’s relationship with Orpheus, through a kind of oracle structure, as an oracular counselor. “...O handful of gauze, little
bandage, handful of cold
air, it is not through him
you will get your freedom.”
Cultural, literary and pictorial references, both explicit and implicit, are very abundant in MA´s poetry. The description of Hell given by the three above-quoted poems is based on Orpheus’s underground dwelling, as told by Ovid, enriched by visions of paintings by Pre-Renaissance and Renaissance Italian painters. However, another mythological poem, “Letter from Persephone” is brought to our present world, and explicitly addressed to American housewives living in the 1940s. By showing pagan gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines, as our correspondents, so close to us and our own world, their symbolic power is reinforced and highlighted, recovered from arid academics and the solemnity of literary museums. Viewed as a reply to one another, “Eurydice” and “Orpheus” also recreate the subject of human perception and female/male relationships.“...He cannot believe without seeing,
and it’s dark here.
Go back, you whisper,
but he wants to be fed again
by you.”
Horror is only felt by us, readers/observers, who witness this expansion from ignorance and resentment, like another heart of darkness which does not belong to a single character and may not be assigned to a legendary tyrant in exile. Horror here is social horror, such as portrayed in the poem “A Conversation”, where through irony and sarcasm we are introduced to a vulgar situation which is horrific because of what is suggested, glimpsed at, through a smart conversation between a gentleman and his lady escorts. This poems ends in two lines ...She burned extremely, thick fat on fire.
Making grey screams. Giving back
to the air what she took when she shriveled us.
She might have saved herself
with her white owl’s voice
but we cut parts off her first
so she couldn’t fly.
The fingers, those are the wings.
We watched her smolder and got drunk after.
Her heart was the ember
we used to relight our stoves.
This is our culture,
no business of yours.
You have soft feet.
You don’t know what it’s like,
so close to bedrock.
which are the bored monologue of one of the ladies, a part of our world made up by sunglasses, sports shirts, tourist beaches and manufacturers of torture machines. Social horror is also the subject of the series of poems turning around poetry, particularly against women, such as “Torture”, “A Woman’s Issue” or “Notes Towards a Poem Which Can Never Be Written” (from True Stories,). “What could I do?
she said. Why was he at the party?”
Uncertainty is shown by that door which is neither closing to let the man come in or turn him outdoors nor opening to reveal whether the man is dead or alive. The protagonist of this poem is a very common woman, someone who has carried on a “blameless” life, who has no name either and could be a collective “us”, a female voice who is to state in “Romantic” (from Morning in the Burned House)“The door is half open
or half closed. It remains so
and you can’t wake up.”
The narrative plot within this poem (“No Name”) shows associations with well-known patterns of ghost stories, lovers returning from the grave, such as in Ambrose Bierce`s classic tale about a dead soldier, undoubtedly known by MA.“… Still, who’s taken in?
Every time?
Us, and our empty hands, the hands
of starving nurses.
It’s bullet holes we want to see in their skin,
scars, and the chance to touch them.”
Finally, let us mention a more symbolic poem belonging to a series (“Snake Poems”) where souls transmigrate to snake bodies: “Metempsychosis”.knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.
...though some tire soon of being born
over and over; for them there’s the breath
that shivers in the yellow grass,
a papery finger, half of a noose, a summons
to the dead river.
Notes:
[2. For a different approach, see Sherrill E. Grace, “Violent Duality: A Study of Margaret Atwood”, Montreal: Vehicle Press, 1978)].
[3. For example, “Harvest” from Interlunar, and also “Half-Hanged Mary” from Morning in the Burned House].
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| Dear Poets, Welcome to the April 2006 issue of Poetry Life & Times (For those of you reading this on a mirror site and not poetrylifeandtimes.com, click here). This is my last month as Editor. From the May issue the new Editors are Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arróspide. I would like to wish them a very warm welcome. I will carry on as a Resident Poet and continue with the Perils of Norris cartoon, along with other art projects.
This month we feature an article by Amparo Arrospide - Margaret Atwood: In The Heart of Darkness - with an accompanying interview with Amparo.
Richard Vallance and Jan Sand are also leaving us, but Richard will be starting up The Vallance Review Canada, to continue the work he began in Poetry Life & Times. An article featuring the best of The Vallance Review can be found under the usual Vallance Review link. Jan Sand will no longer be a Resident Poet, but will occasionally come back to appear in Featured Poets. This will allow him more time with his art and sculpture projects as well as his poetry.
We are very happy to welcome Michael R. Burch, Editor of HyperTexts, as a new Resident Poet. His work will appear every month.
Featured Poets include: Sally Bayley, Tom Riley, Helga Ross and Ryfkah.
Resident Poets feature Robin Ouzman Hislop, Richard Vallance, Michael Burch and Sara L. Russell. See below Featured Poets for the link to this page.
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In the Vallance Review for July 2005, Richard's Review No. 47 features
Fans of The Perils of Norris cartoon: You can 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!
My own poetry can be found 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.
My latest e-book: Worlds Inside The Head, is now available, featuring animated poetry pages, short stories, video & audio recitals, plus pages in PDF format. Click here to scroll down to the animated ad at the bottom of the page, and click the link to find out more.
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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,
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Richard Vallance reviews sonnets, both classic and modern. This is the last Vallance Review.
Featured Poets this month include Sally Bayley, Tom Riley, Helga Ross and Ryfkah. Many thanks to all contributors. See below Featured Poets for our Resident Poets' page link.
Click title below for this month's Vallance Review feature
Click here for a special farewell article from the Editor.
SALLY BAYLEY
TOM RILEY
Married twice; this one in it's 34th wonderful year. Two children: 29 and 30.
Leisure interests: Cruising under sail (current boat Europa 240). Writing: poetry, adult and childrens’ short stories, (some adult stories and poetry published). Reading: especially Patrick O’Brian. Cross-country walking. Music: 40s big bands, classics (choral, Wagner, Delius). Art: Art Noveau, Art Deco. Drinking: Lots of red wine.
HELGA ROSS
Helga loves the well-written word and loves to write her own; derives great pleasure from great literature, art and life, and the great outdoors. Her current environs, Newmarket, north of Toronto, produced and provided backdrop for the novels of a celebrated Canadian author of earlier generation, Mazo de la Roche.
Helga expresses herself through an eclectic writing repertoire of material, style and form. This last year, however, has been her literary turning point: She's 'discovered' poetry in a big way. Now, poetry is her passion and focus. Thanks to the example and encouragement of fellow Canadian, Poet/Sonneteer, Richard Vallance, she's keen to work with the Sonnet format.
For Helga, the theme is 'Passion' in the broadest sense.
She believes and illustrates in her writing: "The creative mind plays with the objects it loves".
Her poetic voice is playful, provocative, uplifting. Her serious pieces conclude on a positive note; reflect her approach to life.
Recent Accomplishments:
Prix Poesie's laissez-faire Faire Award, April 2004.
Poetry selections published in Sonnetto Poesia Vol.3 no.2 Spring 2004
RYFKAH
Emily Dickinson Descending the Stair
© Sally Bayley
Nothing
but the shape
of small movements in the darkness, furtive and quiet,
the rustling
of a crinoline bow at the back of a dress,
the smell of starch in the air, nervous hands at her hair.
Emily Dickinson is descending the stair.
I tried to put away my stare,
but my eyes were too large for her,
and she yelped as I held out my hand:
Icy fingers falling through mine,
trying to find a place to lock into –
a clutch she could hold.
Like a small child she hung there,
rocking herself back and forth
back and forth.
Peering past me, through the door,
she seemed pleased to see the snow
had begun to fall.
Going Mad
© Sally Bayley
Virginia Woolf did it
at least five times –
or so her husband says.
It always began with her heart:
a watch ticking too fast,
a watch wound too hard.
One day it exploded
leaving her in smithereens,
scattered along the banks of the Ouse,
remnants of her wellies
hanging like bats from the trees.
Her husband found her
floating pharonically
downstream –
a smile of blissful transparency
sealed to her mauve-tipped lips.
“This is what I always wanted, dear,
to float, head first,
downstream -
to swim with the minnows and the salmon,
to lie on a bed of weeds.
Don’t be sad.
Going mad involves
too much noise.
I love the soundlessness
of the breeze”.
Then lifting her arm to the sky,
she waves a strong and muscular
goodbye,
tilting her head to the setting sun,
tipping a nod to the stars.
When Joseph Threw Mary Off the Donkey
© Sally Bayley
When Joseph threw Mary off the donkey
she knew she was there to stay:
a small woman in blue
with nothing ahead
but the desert.
The sand,
an old whore
used to having her way,
opens long dark tunnels
around her ankles.
And her feet,
sanctioned to the tight pull
of dry lips,
carry her one hundred,
two hundred,
three hundred miles more.
The sun,
pillaging her years
casts sounds of darkness
down her ears.
And the wind,
viperous and lean
slips handfuls of grit
between her teeth
where curses thick as turpentine
spill into her sleep.
Mary is an angry woman:
white as snow
and vengeful as iron -
like the nails driven
through her hands and feet.
(You can still see their marks
when she turns blue).
You wouldn't know it
but she drinks,
long hard shots of gin
with lime serrated
around the edges
she used to reach
the stubborn dirt
between her toes.
Mary is an unforgiving woman -
she has walked too far upon sand
to play the virgin now.
One day she will know
the sweet taste of sacrifice -
blood, like wine,
whetting the blisters upon her lips.
Born Liverpool 4/12/27, "not quite dead yet" he says. Eleven years in two orphanages, then first job (6 months) clog maker and boot repairer Scotland Road, Liverpool; last job (40 years) with the Civil Aviation Authority, mostly installation of long-distance Radar, all over the place.
Education: basic elementary, but improved at Night School. Hooked on poetry and music at about aged 8 years.Escape To Silence (1944)
© Tom Riley
Steel footed horses spark the granite setts,
Asthmatic coughing from the Lime Street trains.
Aeolus shrieking down the alleyways,
Hit music bouncing from Whitechapel shops.
Gulls join the commercial Cacophony
As a Bartok symphony rapes the ears.
The clanging Trams swim on their robot legs
And motor horns descant the tinnituss.
People shout their nasal covalent bonds.
Rising inflections of Liverpool's streets
Carried away on the strengthening wind,
But softened by the intermittent rain.
Bill and I stand by our two wheeled Argo's,
Among the blackened building's sooty frowns:
Cold and anxious in our pedalling clothes.
For we are setting forth from Liverpool
With many muscle straining miles to go
Before we reach our Nirvana Cymru.
At 'Wagon's Roll!' we breast the Haymarket
And pay our three pence tithes to breach the dark
And noisy underworld beneath the streets,
Leading to subterranean Mersey ford.
Easy we glide the downward metalled slope
To Mersey Tunnel's roaring fumed nadir.
Now we know we have crossed the Rubicon
As youthful thighs battle the tarmacced hill,
Emerging soon to windy Birkenhead.
The din of commerce now one octave down.
We set our wheels to the New Chester Road
And Port Sunlight's, warm philanthropic charm.
Wind at our backs soon brings the Welsh cross-roads
And Bill sets the pace for crossing the Dee.
We enter Red Dragon land at Shotton
And face the gale's cold wet North-westerly.
Along the river road we pump our thighs
For flint, and Holywell, and Connah's Quay.
Truck load by truck laod always heading south,
The khaki lorries pass in noisy train.
Heading for June beachheads with obscene jest,
The cannon-fodder cargoes sing their way
To sharp mutilation or sudden death,
Or glory, with a tale to tell again.
At 'Point of Ayr' with thanks we face the east,
The easing gale now singing in our ear,
And head for towns of youthful holiday;
Prestatyn, Rhyl and Abergele sands.
Remembered well from childhood camping days
Of candy floss, and hang-dog donkey rides.
Sadly the once-bright beach-huts bang their doors,
Admonishing the strangers on the shore.
Deadly tank trap and rusty barbed wire,
Welcome for the importunate stranger
That may arrive in nineteen forty four.
We cheer each other for the rain has ceased.
Pushing our bikes up Colwyn Bay sea front,
A watery sun warms our tired legs.
We two alone now contemplate the sight,
Of silvered corrugations of the sea
Charging remorseless to their crashing end
On rocky footings of the Promenade.
Grateful free-wheel ride down into Conwy;
The north-west gale now a soft pleasant breeze.
We cross Telford's bridge, to the waiting arms
Of Conwy castle's sleeping Norman tow'rs,
Then point we our weary wheels to the south:
To the country of Owain Glyndwr
This the land of the Mabinogion.
The war shrieks and clash of sword on shield
Stilled now by the green cloak of dense forest.
Slow quiet Conwy river holds the field.
Grimly we set our pedals to the wheels,
We have the last ten weary miles to go.
Slowly we follow the quiet river;
Shadows gather in the late Spring twilight.
Tyn-y-groes, Tal-y-Bont and Dolgarrog
Pass in the hush of the gathering gloom.
After one hundred and ten weary miles,
The welcoming lights of Trefriw appear.
Bright lights; and Bill's kind friends bid us welcome,
Ask after our health, make pots of hot tea,
Set us to feast on fine Welsh country fare.
Later we chat and catch up with the news;
Then, as the warm kitchen fire flickers low,
We force our tired limbs to climb to our room.
Now in the warmth of my strange little bed
I yield to the dark palpable silence
And drift away and drift and drift........
- Carl Jung Pursuing Happiness
© Helga Ross, 2005
The odyssey that is my life leads me to the home I left
and I wonder at my surprise foresight,
never dreaming the dream I’d embarked upon
would bring me back where it began;
a cosmic orchestration not the plan.
Someone said you can’t go home again.
Though they weren’t there then,
they’re the seasoned streets
where my past and present meet;
“the end to which every labour tends,
of which every desire prompts the prosecution,
to be happy at home, the ultimate result of all ambition.” 1
I can’t believe I’m here and a new home near, again.
The old house hefty in memory,
modest by bricks and mortar measures;
the old neighborhood not as shabby as it should be
to the snob in me who fled
the painful and mundane parts of a sort-of poverty;
the shame, the shyness I assumed;
the Mountain Gardens highs all the lows overrode
from Parkway Drive, Rolling Meadows to Mountainside 2
for Metro’s 3 loftier hopes of finer things
on streets as tree-lined trimmed
as these saplings-turned-sentinels to dwarf their surrounds.
Now the sights and sounds are different and the same:
Sidewalk seams garbed rich greens;
the roads replete with silent echoes
of the growth pangs and enthusiasms
cum staccato at that stage;
like the kidding with the sibling for attention,
the quibblings grown-ups fashion,
the giggling that the facts of life induce,
the chatter, sobs, and laughter stamps of youth.
In a corner lot in the core more than fifty years before,
as more housing tracts transformed surrounding lands,
a postwar migration found its destination,
our family’s first place to call our own
in a blue collar world planted by Ford 4
in the days of the breadwinner for a time working-poor,
the brand-name milieu new and unadorned,
among fields and woods and streams to be explored,
the best playground in the world at my back door.
Wildlife lessons among fondest recollections;
best girlfriend ever, first boyfriend best there could be.
First love, first loss; mixed blessings;
most of the finest and worst ever happened to me.
And here I am in a brand new space overlooking the vicinity
where nobody’s here I know anymore, so far as I can see;
perhaps there never will be. Still, I’m beyond happy.
Half-a-lifetime of turbulence on a roundabout route
is an arduous trip to see who I could be --
--the arrival's worth it.
A seventh heaven I must have envisioned, it’s so perfect for me.
Embarked on a new chapter in an old story
I wrote a long time ago, the ending unbeknown
until I’ve lived to see.
1. Samuel Johnson: The Rambler #68 (November 10, 1750)
2. Street names
3. Toronto
4. Ford Motor Co. Oakville, Ontario
A Spider's Destiny (Shakespearean Sonnet)
© Helga Ross, 2004, 2006
He that is born to be hanged shall never be drowned.
~ Author Unknown
A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.
~ Jean de La Fontaine ..
Spied, a black spider beside the staircase,
I shied last night and fled to bed three flights,
hoping the creepy thing leaves my crawl space;
awaking to face remedy’s last rights:
Plot its meander for my peace of mind?
Its exile or murder as best I can?
Love for life’s hard to kill unless unkind;
for this Miss Moffet to be a hit man.
So, I’ll fetch a spade to corner and coax:
Come, comely critter along for a ride;
Stay, so this shovel-full reaches your folks
when flung beyond windows wonders outside.
But wait! What’s this, a bizarre twist of fate?
A bird swoops – just in time to take the bait!
© Helga Ross 2004, 2006
Chicken Fried Steak
© Ryfkah, 18th March, 2006
Unlike chicken fried steak
you are not tasteless
in need of salt and pepper
to cover the underlying oil
You are more like a bird
that glides into a cobalt sky
unfettered saturated with
seasoning and terrific taste
I yearn to cradle you in my nest
my heart's bosom
my soul's chamber
feed your mouth with my kisses
No wish for tangible substance
I feather our hands like wings
entwined in constant love
a contemplation at daybreak
a silhouette in the sunset
Ryfkah 3/18/06
Out of the Fire
© Ryfkah, 1st March, 2006
He sniggers tosses a baby
like a discarded doll in the air
His pistol fires into the target
repeatedly
We chant Next year
in Jerusalem Next year
over and over Freedom
from bondage We choose
life
She swings the baton
like a baseball bat
The other woman slumps
lifeless
A new moon smiles
to greet the new year
The shofar blares its ebulition
still
They slam the chamber door
We hover in our nakedness
Never forgive Never forget
Never again A shower spews
death
Light ignites fire
the Voice never ravaged
We kindle eight candles
Victory
____________________
Ryfkah's Latest Book News:
nzpoetsonline releases:
B l a c k m a i l P r e s s 1 5
"Foriegn Tongues"
nzpoetsonline.homestead.com
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AVAILABLE NOW - Sara Russell's new e-book on CD ROM: WORLDS INSIDE THE HEAD ISBN 1-878431-47-1 / Kedco Studios Inc., Las Vegas with poetry, short stories, videos, animations, music, wavs and 3D art throughout... Only $9.95 - CLICK HERE to find out more... or Mail us here at Poetry Life & Times.
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Photo © by Richard Vallance, 1993 (Northern Ontario)
Canadian Spirit Voices is now available from Kedco Studios Press (Las Vegas, Nevada, U.S.A.)... in a full multi-media CD book, consisting of poetry, prose, the essay, original MIDI music and plenty of splendid artistic illustrations. The CD-ROM book is the equivalent of a hard-copy book in excess of 500 pages!
For more detailed information on this book, please click here:poesieslaissezfaire.homestead.com.
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 | SONNETTO POESIA ISSN 1705-4524 (Canada) Vol. 4. no. 2 spring 2005 is going to print. Featured in our first ever print issue are several well-known contemporary sonneteers including Eric Linden, Joe Ruggier & Richard Vallance from Canada; Robin Ouzman Hislop and Sara Russell of the UK; and Sondra Ball, Esther Cameron, Jim Dunlap and Carrie Ann Thunell of the USA. Subscription rates are $4.00 per issue/ $10.00 per year = 4 issues/Quarterly in C$ or US$. |
laissezmoienpaix@coolgoose.ca
Please do not send your submissions inline in the body of your e-mail. We will contact you only in the event any of your sonnets are accepted for publication.
Richard Vallance,
Editor, SONNETTO POESIA ISSN 1705-4524
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THE PERILS OF NORRIS, #58 - Norris, still stuck in his dream of being eaten by a giant woman, tries to pass the time.....
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The Perils of Norris started in August 2000. To catch up on past episodes, click the links below.
The Perils of Norris Page 6 (Current adventure)
The Perils of Norris Page 5 (page 2 of earlier adventures)
The Perils of Norris Page 1 (early stories, start page)
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with poetry, articles or poetry news, by 20th April for the May 2006 issue.
