Poetry Life and Times~Sara Russell, Michael Burch, Robin

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ROBIN OUZMAN
HISLOP
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Robin Ouzman's Hinterland 2000, first book of (Trilogy) In Memoria.

~Just Suibhne So:

~After the Cave, the Comet: Read here the full text

~Least Assuages Revisited

~Blue Corn, 2002

Selected from The Orc Poems collection

Suibhne’s Exile

You see the world to fragments fall
Or rather furl as if about to whirl
A jig saw with a crack in its wall
You bound to mirror, door & hall

Outside there’s nothing left but war
Pieces of you splattered on the shore
Where the straight line is drawn to
Redefine by comparison the horizon

Or by any metaphor of comparison
This world as but a fragment of information
A fricative fractured fractional fiction
Or nothing at all but the writing on the wall.

‘And then is heard no more…*

It’s a new moon tonight, so exciting, Nov 17.
No, I didn’t pen on this year’s Samhain.
Now it’s the beautiful game, permutation,
The grand slam & I want Russia to win,*
Do or die tonight & there’s the irretrievable
Irreversible, irrevocable consequences on
Climate change & phased in & out it’s all
Come about to this happy hippie appellation
Who struts and frets his hour upon ,*

A crowd roars with but one whine
On the blood of nothingness at a whim.
Mono man at the end of the line,
In the dead spit image of alternation,
Face the music, where you began, Fin

*i.
Completes the line, *iii.
* ii.

Russia v Israel qualifiers for the European Cup tournament
The possibility that UK is still a contender as a qualifier
Depends on Israel defeating Russia, when this poem was written,
It is a joke, actually Israel won, so UK is still in with a chance
& of course a great deal of expense.

*iii. A line from WS’s, “ Macbeth’s death speech” in floating comma.

Quarantine

Bird flue mutates
To the human
In our island prison
The world looks on
We are too late

What’s left of reason
You who gape at us
As we run amok
No flock this havoc
Despair our chaos

How did we go wrong
Gods & Goddesses
Come with the Titans
Wars of Cronus
Who turned away from us

Failed creatures of their sport
To an earth now split apart
To a hand that pens
Separation framed in nothingness
Now writes in dust.

Whales

A molten vortex turns sliding scales
To deep space ice comet snails
A fossilised bug in zodiacal dust phases
To die on the floes the blue whale sails
On the waves, on the waves, on the waves

Orc Underground

Façade, farce, mask, force,
Everywhere human sickness,
Thought police patrol space,
Disseminate the limits suspicious.
Driven underground you face
Exile, an outlaw in every place.
In this sad genre, world of lies,
False cares, cheats & deceits.

Yet I have passed your guards
Concealed minions behind clouds
Even beyond the coastline to rise.
I have bust your policed skies,
Why should I now watch them run?
Only curse what you have done.

ROBIN OUZMAN HISLOP: Born UK. Childhood in Lyme Regis & Poole Dorset. Lived Scotland & Scandinavia, The East & Spain. He now lives in Sheffield, South Yorkshire, UK. He appeared in the Dawn Millenium & Crystal Dawn Anthologies published by Kedco Studios. When he first joined the world wide net he abandoned his previous poet performance career, mostly had in Spain and often as bilingual joint translation recitals. His collected works now appear in Poetry Life and Times every month, so far Hinterland 2000 and Blue Corn 2002 have appared. Next comes After the Cave the Comet 2004, Just Suibhne So, Least Assuages Revistited & Hunters Moon 2006. The entire collection will be available in the epic form 2 Trilogies In Memoria. He started as resident poet with Poetry Life & Times in March 2005 & took over its editorship together with Spanish poetess Amparo Arrospide from Sara Russell in May 2006.

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SARA

RUSSELL

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"Me" Time
Sara L. Russell, 21/11/07

The transcendental rivers of the mind
Through tributary streams of aimlessness
Transport us to the haven of mankind:
The Sea of Universal Consciousness.

Unfocused as life's purpose often seems,
Between order and chaos, earth and sky,
That ocean's siren song plays in our dreams
And we may hear it, if we only try.

So let the silent waters carry me
Out of the rigours of this mortal plane
Into the light realm of serenity;
Let shattered hope become entire again.

Herein is where the spirit levitates;
The door is locked, the bubble bath awaits.

Darcy’s Dreams of Longbourn
Sara L. Russell, 27/11/07 00:17

How far is it to Longbourn, now the leaves
Are turning to the reds of auburn hair?
Now webs sparkle with frost over the eaves
And still I linger here, while she is there?

Her scatty sisters giggle in the hall,
Her mother nags the chickens, by the stream,
I thought I carved her name into the wall,
I thought I went to Longbourn in a dream.

How far is it to Longbourn, now the spring
Has turned my mind to thoughts of love again?
How might I be forgiven in one thing -
To love too much, albeit love in vain?

Summer blooms out of spring’s departing breath,
And all the air whispers “Elizabeth”.

SARA RUSSELL Poet, cartoonist and short story writer. Founder of Poetry Life & Times. Newsgroup signature was originally 'Pinky Andrexa, Last Of The Cyber Vixen Poets From Outer Space'. Won Internet Arts Award from Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press. Runner-up in Capricorn International Love Poetry competition 1998. Her website Poetry Life & Times recently won the Alpha Poets' Poetic Eyes web award. Won Poet of the Week in the Poetry For Thought group (The Globe groups) for the week April 28-May 4th, 2001, with the poem "If You Were Mine". Inducted into The Poets' Hall of Fame, 2001, and included in its anthology for that year.
5 illustrated e-books published by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press (most recent first): Worlds Inside The Head, Quickies, Spiders And Gliders, A Way With Words (in collaboration with four other poets) and Pinky's Little Book of Shadows.Also published in several Kedco e-book anthologies and Forward Press bound book anthologies.

The Perils of Norris Cartoon by Sara Russell has moved to its own gallery here... don't miss cute Norris misadventures!

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MICHAEL BURCH

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Epitaph for a Child of Darfur

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

America's Riches

Balboa's dream
was bitter folly–
no El Dorado near, nor far,
though seas beguiled
and rivers smiled
from beds of gold and silver ore.

Drake retreated
rich with plunder
as Incan fled Conquistador.

Aztecs died
when Spaniards lied,
then slew them for an ingot more.

The pilgrims came
and died or lived
in fealty to an oath they swore,
and bought with pain
the wealth of grain
that made them rich though they were poor.

Apache blood,
Comanche tears
were shed and yet they went to war;
they fought for land,
for freedom's claim.
These were Her riches, and still are.

At Cædmon’s Grave

“Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon’s verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker’s ghoulish yet evocative Dracula.

At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,

while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound

of Carroll, Stoker and of Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
–perhaps by God, perhaps by need–

to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cædmon’s ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.

Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.

MICHAEL R. BURCH is the editor of The HyperTexts where he has published the work of three Pulitzer Prize nominees and recent winners of the T. S. Eliot, Richard Wilbur and Howard Nemerov awards. He has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and his work has appeared over 450 times in literary journals and sundry publications in the USA, England, Scotland, Canada, Australia, South Africa and India, including The Chariton Review, Poetry Magazine, Verse, Poet Lore, Unlikely Stories, Light Quarterly, Writer’s Digest – The Year’s Best Writing 2003, The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003, The Lyric, ByLine, Icon and Nebo.
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Two Poems; Two People Portraits
by

HELGA ROSS
(above, with Sherman)

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Artist Self-Portrait: People Watcher. Pardon me!

"She was a perfect lady - just sat in her seat and stared.”
~Eudora Welty (American writer, 1909-2001)

“It’s the way to educate your eyes. Stare. Pry, listen, eavesdrop.
Die knowing something. You are not here long.”
~Walker Evans (American photographer 1903-1975)

The Portrait Poetry:

Not What You See

Art is not what you see but what you make others see. ~Edgar Degas

I’m sick of love, the sight of you ill-timed,
and seasoned enough to mind the folly,
so if I seem to stare, assume eye rhyme
is all it is, a practice in theory.
As imperfect a rhyme as ‘love’ and ‘move’
has a logic that’s purely aesthetic;
poetic on the page. What does it prove,
in person, the linkage is kinetic?
Someone mentions you’re attached—colors too—
reds change hue in proximity to blue;
but red’s as red as married isn’t dead;
as I write you, bestseller in my head.

I wouldn’t worry; it isn’t germaine;
What are the chances I’ll see you again?

Black & White Sketch in Colour

Inspired by: Big Ideas—TVO.org lecture November 17, 2007:
"How Race is Performed Among Mixed Race Women" by Minelle Mahtani.
Reminded me, the lovely mulatto lady I saw one evening, dining, in Chattanooga, TN.

Sade: Kiss of Life lyrics:
“When I lay eyes on you
Ay ay ay
You wrapped me up in
the colour of love…”

Creamy linen-skinned, in a certain light,
doesn’t mean self-perceived, and seen as white,
by whites; and blacks count caramel a slight.
A mixed-race woman—is something not quite right?

You’d wonder, too—what sort of exotic?
And she can’t help but see everyone stares,
into one’s own notion of erotic,
for her to disown, or hate that she cares.

And here am I, compelled to do the same—
by the tilt of her eyes, long heavy hair,
bod’ to the bone showing no trace of blame—
the insult to her dignity, I dare.

Well she’s right to mind—why would I do it?
Seldom, I’ve seen someone so exquisite!

© Helga Ross 2007

Canadian poet, HELGA ROSS loves the well-written word and loves to write her own; derives great pleasure from great literature, art and life, and the great outdoors. Everything old is new again in 2005 – She’s moved back to her old home town, Burlington, Ontario, after half a lifetime--for a new start. "You can't go home again" so they say -- She shall see. Helga expresses herself through an eclectic writing repertoire of material, style and form. 2004, however, was her literary turning point: She 'discovered' poetry in a big way. Now, poetry is her passion and focus, particularly Sonnet forms, though not exclusively. 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". - Carl Jung
Her poetic voice is playful, provocative, uplifting. Her serious pieces conclude on a positive note; reflect her approach to life: "Love. Fall in love and stay in love. Write only what you love, and love what you write. The key word is love. You have to get up in the morning and write something you love, something to live for." — Ray Bradbury On the key to success
Recent Accomplishments: Prix Poesie's laissez-faire Faire Award, April 2004. Poetry selections published in Sonnetto Poesia Vol.3 no.2 Spring 2004; Vol.4 no.4 Autumn 2005; Vol. 5 no.2 Spring 2006.